But as soon as the noble savage heard That a bounty was offered for this gay bird, He wanted to slay him out of hand, And bring in his beautiful scalp for a show, Like the glossy head of a kite or crow, Until he was made to understand They wanted the bird alive, not dead;Then he followed him whithersoever he fled, Through forest and field, and hunted him down, And brought him prisoner into the town.
Alas! it was a rueful sight, To see this melancholy knight In such a dismal and hapless case;His hat deformed by stain and dent, His plumage broken, his doublet rent, His beard and flowing locks forlorn, Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn, His boots with dust and mire besprent;But dignified in his disgrace, And wearing an unblushing face.
And thus before the magistrate He stood to hear the doom of fate.
In vain he strove with wonted ease To modify and extenuate His evil deeds in church and state, For gone was now his power to please;And his pompous words had no more weight Than feathers flying in the breeze.
With suavity equal to his own The governor lent a patient ear To the speech evasive and highflown, In which he endeavored to make clear That colonial laws were too severe When applied to a gallant cavalier, A gentleman born, and so well known, And accustomed to move in a higher sphere.
All this the Puritan governor heard, And deigned in answer never a word;But in summary manner shipped away, In a vessel that sailed from Salem bay, This splendid and famous cavalier, With his Rupert hat and his popery, To Merry England over the sea, As being unmeet to inhabit here.
Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir Christopher, Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, The first who furnished this barren land With apples of Sodom and ropes of sand.
FINALE
These are the tales those merry guests Told to each other, well or ill;Like summer birds that lift their crests Above the borders of their nests And twitter, and again are still.
These are the tales, or new or old, In idle moments idly told;Flowers of the field with petals thin, Lilies that neither toil nor spin, And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse Hung in the parlor of the inn Beneath the sign of the Red Horse.
And still, reluctant to retire, The friends sat talking by the fire And watched the smouldering embers burn To ashes, and flash up again Into a momentary glow, Lingering like them when forced to go, And going when they would remain;For on the morrow they must turn Their faces homeward, and the pain Of parting touched with its unrest A tender nerve in every breast.
But sleep at last the victory won;
They must be stirring with the sun, And drowsily good night they said, And went still gossiping to bed, And left the parlor wrapped in gloom.
The only live thing in the room Was the old clock, that in its pace Kept time with the revolving spheres And constellations in their flight, And struck with its uplifted mace The dark, unconscious hours of night, To senseless and unlistening ears.
Uprose the sun; and every guest, Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed For journeying home and city-ward;The old stage-coach was at the door, With horses harnessed, long before The sunshine reached the withered sward Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar Murmured: "Farewell forevermore.""Farewell!" the portly Landlord cried;
"Farewell!" the parting guests replied, But little thought that nevermore Their feet would pass that threshold o'er;That nevermore together there Would they assemble, free from care, To hear the oaks' mysterious roar, And breathe the wholesome country air.
Where are they now? What lands and skies Paint pictures in their friendly eyes?
What hope deludes, what promise cheers, What pleasant voices fill their ears?
Two are beyond the salt sea waves, And three already in their graves.
Perchance the living still may look Into the pages of this book, And see the days of long ago Floating and fleeting to and fro, As in the well-remembered brook They saw the inverted landscape gleam, And their own faces like a dream Look up upon them from below.
FLOWER-DE-LUCE
FLOWER-DE-LUCE
Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, Or solitary mere, Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers Its waters to the weir!
Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and worry Of spindle and of loom, And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry And rushing of the flame.
Born in the purple, born to joy and pleasance, Thou dost not toil nor spin, But makest glad and radiant with thy presence The meadow and the lin.
The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping banner, And round thee throng and run The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor, The outlaws of the sun.
The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, And tilts against the field, And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent With steel-blue mail and shield.
Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest, Who, armed with golden rod And winged with the celestial azure, bearest The message of some God.
Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded cities Hauntest the sylvan streams, Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties That come to us as dreams.
O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river Linger to kiss thy feet!
O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever The world more fair and sweet.
PALINGENESIS
I lay upon the headland-height, and listened To the incessant sobbing of the sea In caverns under me, And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened, Until the rolling meadows of amethyst Melted away in mist.
Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started;For round about me all the sunny capes Seemed peopled with the shapes Of those whom I had known in days departed, Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams On faces seen in dreams.
A moment only, and the light and glory Faded away, and the disconsolate shore Stood lonely as before;And the wild-roses of the promontory Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed Their petals of pale red.
