SONNET ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKSPEARE. O PRECIOUS evenings! all too swiftly sped! Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, And giving tongues unto the silent dead! How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, The rarest essence of all human thought! To be interpreted by such a voice! Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms In half-articulate speech; These have passed over it, or may have passed! Now in this crystal tower Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, It counts the passing hour. And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand; Before my dreamy eye Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, Its unimpeded sky. And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, Dilates into a column high and vast, The column and its broader shadow run, Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain; BIRDS OF PASSAGE. BLACK shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall 'Against the southern sky; And from the realms Of the shadowy elms A tide-like darkness overwhelms And everywhere A warm, soft vapour fills the air, Of the star-lit night, Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere. THE OPEN WINDOW. But shadow, and silence, and sadness, The birds sang in the branches, With sweet, familiar tone; Will be heard in dreams alone! I pressed his warm, soft hand! PEGASUS IN POUND. Piped the quails from shocks and And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves. Not a triumph meant for him. By the school-boys he was found, Ringing loud his brazen bell, Wandered down the street proclaiming There was an estray to sell. And the curious country people, Rich and poor, and young and old, Came in haste to see this wondrous Winged steed, with mane of gold. Thus the day passed, and the evening Fell, with vapours cold and dim; But it brought no food nor shelter, Brought no straw nor stall, for him. Patiently, and still expectant, Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars; Till at length the bell at midnight But they found, upon the greensward Where his struggling hoofs had trod, Pure and bright, a fountain flowing From the hoof-marks in the sod. From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound. GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 'Twas an image of the Virgin That had tasked his utmost skill; But, alas! his fair ideal Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant Eastern island Had the precious wood been brought; Day and night the anxious master At his toil untiring wrought; Till, discouraged and desponding, Sat he now in shadows deep, And the day's humiliation Found oblivion in sleep. Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! From the burning brand of oak Shape the thought that stirs within thee!" And the startled artist woke,- And therefrom he carved an image, KING WITLAF'S DRINKING- WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, His drinking-horn bequeathed,That, whenever they sat at their revels, And drank from the golden bowl, They might remember the donor, And breathe a prayer for his soul. . 141 So sat they once at Christmas, They drank to Christ the Lord, Till the great bells of the convent, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the Abbot bowed his head, He clutched the golden bowl, The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more!" TEGNER'S DRAPA. I HEARD a voice that cried, And through the misty air Borne through the Northern sky. Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed. And the voice for ever cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!" 142 And died away Through the dreary night, A ring upon his finger, They launched the burning ship! Till like the sun it seemed, Build it again, Fairer than before! Ye fathers of the new race, Feed upon morning dew, Sing the new Song of Love! The law of force is dead! The law of love prevails! Thor, the thunderer, Shall rule the earth no more, No more, with threats, Challenge the meek Christ. Sing no more, O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls! Of the days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood! THE SINGERS. GOD sent his singers upon earth streams, Playing the music of our dreams. The second, with a bearded face, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. "These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright SUSPIRIA. TAKE them, O Death! and bear away Take them, O great Eternity! Our little life is but a gust, HYMN FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION. CHRIST to the young man said: "Yet If thou wouldst perfect be, And his invisible hands to-day have been And evermore beside him on his way To make the scene more fair; O holy trust! O endless sense of rest; To lay his head upon the Saviour's THE GOLDEN LEGEND. THE old Legenda Aurea, or Golden Legend, was originally written in Latin, in the thirteenth century, by Jacobus de Voragine, a Dominican friar, who afterwards became Archbishop of Genoa, and died in 1292. He called his book simply "Legends of the Saints." The epithet of Golden was given it by his admirers; for, as Wynkin de Worde says, " Like as passeth gold in value all other metals, so this Legend exceedeth all other books." But Edward Leigh, in much distress of mind, calls it "a book written by a man of a leaden heart for the basenesse of the errours, that are without wit or reason, and of a brazen forehead, for his impudent boldnesse in reporting things so fabulous and incredible." This work, the great text-book of the legendary lore of the Middle Ages, was translated into French in the fourteenth century by Jean de Vignay, and in the fifteenth into English by William Caxton. It has lately been made more accessible by a new French translation: La Légende Dorée, traduite du Latin, par M. G. B. Paris, 1850. There is a copy of the original, with the Gesta Longobardorum appended, in the Harvard College Library, Cambridge, printed at Strasburg, 1496. The title-page is wanting; and the volume begins with the Tabula Legendorum. I have called this poem the Golden Legend, because the story upon which it is founded seems to me to surpass all other legends in beauty and significance. It exhibits, amid the corruptions of the Middle Ages, the virtue of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice, and the power of Faith, Hope, and Charity, sufficient for all the exigencies of life and death. The story is told, and perhaps invented, by Hartmann von der Aue, a Minnesinger of the twelfth century. The original may be found in Mailáth's Altdeutsche Gedichte, with a modern German version. is another in Marbach's Volksbücher, No. 32. There |