A WIND came up out of the sea, It hailed the ships, and cried, 'Sail on, It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, It shouted through the belfry-tower, 10 IN the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain. Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare, Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock. 10 Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron; Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion, Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window; Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives 1 Priscilla's reply to John Alden was a well-known tradition before Longfellow took up the story. Longfellow himself, and also the poet Bryant, were descendants of John and Priscilla Alden. For the details of colonial life, Longfellow followed especially Elliott's History of New England, which he read in 1857. (Life, vol. ii, pp. 328-329.) Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, 'Not Angles, but Angels.' Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower. 20 Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth. 'Look at these arms,' he said, the warlike weapons that hang here Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection ! This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate, Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish; Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish 30 Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.' Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing: Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet; He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!' 6 Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling: 'See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging; That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage; So I take care of my arms, as you of your inkhorn. pens and your Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, 42 the Mayflower ! Out of the Latin_translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible. Musing a momont before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort, Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans, Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians. Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin, Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the 80 battle was hottest. Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, Busily writing epistles important, to go by the Mayflower, Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing! Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla ! Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla ! II LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP NOTHING was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain, Green above her is growing the field of Reading the marvellous words and achieve ments of Julius Cæsar. After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards, A wonderful man Heavily on the page: was this Cæsar ! You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow writing his memoirs.' 'Truly,' continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other, Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cæsar! Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it. Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after; Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered; He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded; Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus ! 20 Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders, When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too, And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together There was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier, Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains, Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns; Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons; So he won the day, the battle of somethingor-other. That's what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done, You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!' Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret, Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla! Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket, Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth: 'When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you. 40 Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!' Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention: 'Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.' Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases: "T is not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it; Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary; 50 Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship; Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming, Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying, Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven, Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla Holds in my desolate life the place which Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions, Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning; I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language, Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden.' 70 When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn stripling, All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered, Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness, Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom, Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning, Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered: 'Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it; If you would have it well done, repeating your maxim, - I am only You must do it yourself, you must not leave THE LOVER'S ERRAND So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure, Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom. All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel, Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean! |