Classic Poem

My friend abruptly closed the book:
I felt as one who long had sailed
Gazing with anxious landward look, —
Who, just as the fair port is hailed,
And the rough prow goes dipping in,
Suddenly hears the anchor's din,
And, lo! the ship is at full stand:
There move the people on the land,
And there are voices from the beach,
But mournfully all out of reach.

My face the crowding questions wore:
He said, " A little patience yet,
And soon the landing skiff and oar
Your feet upon the shore shall set. "
Then at the sinking fire his hands
Gathered and piled the sundered brands,
Until the hearth was re-illumed: —
" 'Tis thus, " he said, " the story stands: —
A fallen end or two demands
To be regathered and consumed.

How goes the wine? 'Tis rare and old:
Or do you taste the earthly mould?
Some seasons past, while men of mine
Were hollowing out an ample space
To give our hothouse-wall its base,
I stood to watch them bravely delve
And see they followed well the line,
When suddenly to its very helve
The pick went in with crush and crash,
Spattering all with a purple splash;
And when withdrawn — oh, murderous sign! —
'Twas bathed in the streaming blood of wine.
How it came there to you is plain,
And this brings up Sir Hugh again.
'Tis said that on that night of pain
He rushed into the moonlit air,
And sped for hours he knew not where,
Through fields and woods, by the river's brim,
With two sad phantoms following him; —
How once, just as he thought he saw
The crowning horror of his awe,
The murdered stripling in his path
Rise with confronting eyes of wrath,
He reeled and staggered, fainted, fell,
And lay at the feet of a sentinel;
And when he awoke, and the horrid mists
From off his aching brow were blown,
He found himself within the town,
Among the guards of the royalists.

He recognized the hand of Fate;
And, after writing a hurried scrawl,
Giving his daughter Berkley Hall
And his blessing with the broad estate,
He boarded a ship, and felt more free
While bidding adieu to river and bay;
But his heart was withering day by day,
And at last they buried him far at sea.

The lovers? Ah, more sweet the lay
Should be which sings of those so dear:
It is not long since, old and gray,
My sainted parents passed from here.

If 'twere not that the fire is low,
And chanticleer awakes to throw
His midnight signal on the air.
A sacred scene should newly glow
Of that beloved and loving pair.

My mother's favorite seat was there,
And this my father's high-backed chair;
How clearly comes the long-gone scene
When I a child sat here between!

One night, — I well recall the hour, —
Just when our second war was past,
The winds were howling o'er the tower,
The snow its gulfy deluge poured,
And up the chimney like a blast
The flame from off the hickory roared,
Against the outer door a blow
Sounded like a blacksmith's sledge,
And, waiting no further privilege,
Entered, it seemed, the Prince of Snow, —
A veteran of giant height,
With wild locks like his garments white.
The heavy stamping and the beat,
Which piled a drift within the hall,
Rang through the house, and wakened all
The echoes to announce his feet.
So thick the cloud he scattered wide,
And so majestic was the fling,
He seemed a very arctic king
Throwing his furry robe aside.

My sire, awakened by the stir,
Gazed through the door with shaded eyes,
Puzzled a moment with vague surprise;
But when he saw that giant size
And heard the voice of bluff replies,
He knew and welcomed the Wagoner.

Had you beheld him stride the floor.
You ne'er had guessed how many a score
Of years had blown their changeful air
Through those wild locks to whiten there.

We offered him this cushioned seat;
He took yon great oak chair instead, —
It felt more saddle-like, he said, —
And flung him down with wide-spread feet.

" 'Tis seventy years, " he cried, " or more,
Since first I backed a good, stout steed;
And though to-day with as fearless speed
I rode as in the days of yore,
I know that wild, free course is o'er.

It boots not to prolong the strife:
That brave, old-fashioned, cheery life
Is ended. My contented grip
Resigns at last the guiding reins:
No more my bells o'er hills and plains
Shall ring, as once, through these domains.
And therefore I have brought my whip,
To hang it up in Berkley Hall,
To see it grace yon antlers tall
Which hold those old swords on the wall,
The rusty weapons of Sir Hugh:
The honor is its well-earned due. "

We welcomed him with hearty will;
And wished him many bright years still,
Then brought the wine — we knew the sort-
And brimmed a goblet with old port.
Through the red cup he gazed a while,
In musing, with a strange, sad smile.

" Good Uncle Ralph, " my mother sighed,
Dropping the embroidery in her lap,
" One question I have often tried
To solve; and yet, through some mishap,
It seems conjecture wandered wide:
But you, I think, can solve for me
Poor Nora's mournful history. "
'
The old man looked at her a space,
Looked vaguely in her upturned face,
As if endeavoring to recall
The far scenes of the past, and said, —
" For her sake you should know it all,
For my sake too, when I am dead;
But first, my friends, let me make clear
The reason I to-night am here.

Beside the old churchyard to-day
The surly sexton crossed my way
He glared at me with sidelong leer,
And flung his spade across the wall.
Just then a hurrying team drew near:
The horses, wagon, bells, and all
(Believe me, 'twas a marvellous sign)
Seemed like the very ghosts of mine;
The driver — for once I held my breath,
To see the flash
Of his maniac lash —
Was a rattling skeleton, grim and tall;
His shout was the hollow shout of Death!
My team, with many a plunge and rear,
Went mad, then stood like frighted deer,
While I sat like a girl aghast,
Until that awful wagoner passed;
And when I looked behind, 'twas gone,
And we were in the road alone.

Think not that superstitious fright
Could cheat my ear or mock my sight;
Although the calendar counts me old,
My heart is as the youngest bold.
Brave Percy, when his charger stood
First on the field of Brandywine,
Beheld, in clear, prophetic mood,
The spot which should receive his blood;
He saw his form's distinct outline
Stretched on the sod, — his steed, in fright
Dashing riderless through the fight;
Then instantly he galloped on,
And sought the fate he could not shun.

It is a bitter night; the cold
For the first time now makes me old:
Another cup of this warm wine
Perchance will give the blood a start,
And thaw the chill about my heart,
And clear this hazy brain of mine. "

Again his vague eye scanned the glass,
As if he saw old memories pass
In many a long and wavering line;
And, as he held the glowing cup
Between him and the lamp-light up,
The color of the deep wine threw
Across his face a purple hue:
I could but shudder where I stood,
It looked so like a dash of blood.

At last he spoke in under-tone, —
" Those grand old times are past and gone;
But, Esther, " — here his eye grew bright
With something of its former light, —
" Do you remember how of old
Around our cause your numbers rolled?
I ever loved a fiery song;
But there was something in your voice
Which made the listener's heart rejoice,
His eye of courage burn more bright,
And filled him with a fierce delight
That did not to the words belong:
To hear again such music sung
Would make a veteran heart grow young. "

My mother's cheek turned somewhat red
To hear the praise so bluffly said;
It seemed to bring the vanished days
What time her song was used to praise.
She looked, and smiled, and shook her head,
And said her voice had lost its power,
Her singing summer-day had sped,
And she was in her autumn bower;
The water of a spring-time brook
Makes plenteous music through the land,
But surely 'twas an idle look
Which sought it in October's sand;
Her harp, too, since that night of pain
Had never known its chords again.

But still within her secret breast
She thought to humor him were best:
What though her voice had somewhat failed,
His aged ear, so long assailed
By Winter, could not be o'er nice, —
The sense so long inured to storm
Might deem the cadence still was warm,
Nor note its chill of autumn ice: —
And thus, to please an old man's whim,
With folded hands, she sang to him.

SONG .

I.

When sailed our swift eagle
O'er valley and highland,
The foe, like a sea-gull,
Fled back to his island —
Fled back to his king-land,
His home in the ocean, —
The white cliffs of England,
His pride and devotion.

II.

Now peace and contentment
Fill cottage and manor;
No star of resentment
Is lit on our banner.
Our cannon is sleeping
The port-shadows under;
The spell in its keeping
Let naught break asunder.

III.

The impotent taunt let
Go by, — the wind brings it;
But not the red gauntlet,
No matter who flings it.
Who palters and falters,
Ne'er hearken his story,
But strike for your altars,
For Freedom and Glory.

" Nay, never say, " the old man cried,
" Your voice is like a brooklet dried;
But rather say 'tis filled again,
O'erflowing with the autumn rain.

It carries me back, both brain and heart,
As if a gale swept o'er the scroll;
I see the storied past unroll;
And now, methinks, I may impart
Something of Nora and the child.

My memory is a restive colt,
Stubborn at times, contrary, wild,
At the wrong moment apt to bolt;
But wine upon an old man's lip,
To such a steed, is spur and whip. "

Then laughed he his accustomed laugh,
That shook the glasses on the board,
And, with a long and breathless quaff,
The wine across his lip was poured:
The goblet dropt from out his hold,
And crashed to fragments on the floor;
Slow sank his chin, slow drooped his lid,
His heavy hands beside him slid;
He slept, — ay, slept, — but breathed no more
And left the story still untold.

As when some monarch of the trees,
Which held so long defiant state
Against the lightning and the gale,
O'erborne at last by its own weight,
While laughing in the passing breeze,
Falls prone in the astonished vale, —
So fell our grand old Hercules.