The old house by the lindens Stood silent in the shade, And on the gravelled pathway The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows Wide open to the air;But the faces of the children, They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog Was standing by the door;He looked for his little playmates, Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens, They played not in the hall;But shadow, and silence, and sadness Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches, With sweet, familiar tone;But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me, He could not understand Why closer in mine, ah! closer, I pressed his warm, soft hand!
KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland 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.
So sat they once at Christmas, And bade the goblet pass;In their beards the red wine glistened Like dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to Christ the Lord, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, Who had preached his holy word.
They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore, And as soon as the horn was empty They remembered one Saint more.
And the reader droned from the pulpit Like the murmur of many bees, The legend of good Saint Guthlac, And Saint Basil's homilies;Till the great bells of the convent, From their prison in the tower, Guthlac and Bartholomaeus, Proclaimed the midnight hour.
And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the Abbot bowed his head, And the flamelets flapped and flickered, But the Abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more!"
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.
'T was 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,--
Woke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing wood;And therefrom he carved an image, And he saw that it was good.
O thou sculptor, painter, poet!
Take this lesson to thy heart:
That is best which lieth nearest;
Shape from that thy work of art.
PEGASUS IN POUND
Once into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's winged steed.
It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.
Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim;'T was the daily call to labor, Not a triumph meant for him.
Not the less he saw the landscape, In its gleaming vapor veiled;Not the less he breathed the odors That the dying leaves exhaled.
Thus, upon the village common, By the school-boys he was found;And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound.
Then the sombre village crier, 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 vapors 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 Sounded from its dark abode, And, from out a neighboring farm-yard Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.
Then, with nostrils wide distended, Breaking from his iron chain, And unfolding far his pinions, To those stars he soared again.
On the morrow, when the village Woke to all its toil and care, Lo! the strange steed had departed, And they knew not when nor where.
But they found, upon the greensward Where his straggling 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.
TEGNER'S DRAPA
I heard a voice, that cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!"And through the misty air Passed like the mournful cry Of sunward sailing cranes.
I saw the pallid corpse Of the dead sun Borne through the Northern sky.
Blasts from Niffelheim Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed.
And the voice forever cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead!"And died away Through the dreary night, In accents of despair.
Balder the Beautiful, God of the summer sun, Fairest of all the Gods!
Light from his forehead beamed, Runes were upon his tongue, As on the warrior's sword.
All things in earth and air Bound were by magic spell Never to do him harm;Even the plants and stones;
All save the mistletoe, The sacred mistletoe!
Hoeder, the blind old God, Whose feet are shod with silence, Pierced through that gentle breast With his sharp spear, by fraud Made of the mistletoe, The accursed mistletoe!
They laid him in his ship, With horse and harness, As on a funeral pyre.
Odin placed A ring upon his finger, And whispered in his ear.
They launched the burning ship!
It floated far away Over the misty sea, Till like the sun it seemed, Sinking beneath the waves.
