While gallant Sir Christopher, all so gay, Being forewarned, through the postern gate
Of his castle wall had tripped away, And was keeping a little holiday In the forests, that bounded his estate.
Then as a trusty squire and true The marshal searched the castle through, Not crediting what the lady said; Searched from cellar to garret in vain, And, finding no knight, came out again And arrested the golden damsel instead, And bore her in triumph into the town, While from her eyes the tears rolled down On the sweet alyssum and columbine, That she held in her fingers white and fine.
The governor's heart was moved to see So fair a creature caught within The snares of Satan and of sin, And read her a little homily On the folly and wickedness of the lives Of women, half cousins and half wives; But, seeing that naught his words availed, He sent her away in a ship that sailed For Merry England over the sea, To the other two wives in the old countree, To search her further, since he had failed To come at the heart of the mystery.
Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered away
Through pathless woods for a month and a day,
Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at night With the noble savage, who took delight In his feathered hat and his velvet vest, His gun and his rapier and the rest. 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
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 high-flown, In which he endeavoured 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 Christo pher,
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre,
The first who furnished this barren land With apples of Sodom and ropes of sand
No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks The silence of the summer day, As by the loveliest of all lakes I while the idle hours away.
I pace the leafy colonnade, Where level branches of the plane Above me weave a roof of shade Impervious to the sun and rain. At times a sudden rush of air Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, And gleams of sunlight toss and flare Like torches down the path I tread.
By Somariva's garden gate
I make the marble stairs my seat; And hear the water, as I wait,
Lapping the steps beneath my feet.
The undulation sinks and swells Along the stony parapets; And far away the floating bells Tinkle upon the fisher's nets.
Silent and slow, by tower and town, The freighted barges come and go; Their pendent shadows gliding down, By town and tower submerged below.
The hills sweep upward from the shore, With villas scatter'd one by one Upon their wooded spurs, and lower Bellaggio blazing in the sun.
And dimly seen, a tangled mass
Of walls and woods, of light and shade, Stands beck'ning up the Stelvio Varenna with its wide cascade.
I ask myself, Is this a dream? Will it all vanish into air? Is there a land of such supreme And perfect beauty anywhere?
Sweet vision! Do not fade away; Linger until my heart shall take Into itself the summer day
And all the beauty of the lake.
Linger until upon my brain
Is stamp'd an image of the scene; Then fade into the air again
And be as if thou hadst not been.
THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE.
TADDEO Gaddi built me. I am old;
Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold Beneath me, as it struggles, I behold
Its glistening scales. Twice hath it overthrown My kindred and companions. Me alone
It moveth not, but is by me controll'd.
I can remember when the Medici
Were driven from Florence; longer still ago The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf. Horence adorns me with her jewelry; And when I think that Michael Angelo Hath lean'd on me, I glory in myself.
CHARLES SUMNER.
GARLANDS upon his grave,
And flowers upon his hearse; And to thy tender heart and brave, The tribute of this verse.
His was the troubled life,
The conflict and the pain;
The griefs, the bitterness of strife, The honour without stain.
Like Winkelried, he took
Into his manly breast
The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke A path for the oppress'd;
Then from the fatal field,
Upon a nation's heart,
Borne like a warrior on his shield!
So should the brave depart.
Death takes us by surprise, And stays our hurrying feet;
The great design unfinish'd lies, Our lives are incomplete.
But in the dark unknown, Perfect their circles seem, Even as a bridge's arch of stone Is rounded in the stream.
Alike are life and death When life in death survives, And the interrupted breath Inspires a thousand lives.
Were a star quench'd on high, For ages would its light,
Still travelling downward from the sky, Shine on our mortal sight.
So when a great man dies,
For years beyond our ken,
The light he leaves behind him lies
Upon the paths of men.
BEAUTIFUL valley, through whose verdant meads Unheard the Garigliano glides along,- The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, The river taciturn of classic song!
The Land of Labour and the Land of Rest, Where medieval towns are white on all The hill sides, and where every mountain crest Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall!
There is Alagna, there Pope Boniface
Was dragg'd with contumely from his throne; Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgrace
The Pontiff's only, or in part thine own?
There is Ceprano, where a renegade
Was each Apulian as great Dante saith, When Manfred, by his men-at-arms betray'd, Spurr'd on to Benevento and to death.
There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town, Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light Still hovers o'er his birthplace, like the crown Of splendour over cities seen at night.
Doubled the splendour is, that in its streets
The angelic Doctor as a schoolboy play'd, And dream'd perhaps the dreams that he repeats In ponderous folios for scholastics made.
And there, uplifted like a passing cloud, That pauses on a mountain summit high, Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud
And venerable walls against the sky.
Well I remember how on foot I climb'd The stony pathway leading to its gate: Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed; Below, the dark'ning town grew desolate. Well I remember the low arch and dark, The court-yard with its well, the terrace wide, From which, far down, diminish'd to a park, The valley veil'd in mist was dim descried. The day was dying, and with feeble hands Caress'd the mountain tops; the vales between Darken'd; the river in the meadow-lands
Sheath'd itself as a sword and was not seen.
The silence of the place was like a sleep,
So full of rest it seem'd; each passing tread Was a reverberation from the deep
Recesses of the ages that are dead.
For more than thirteen centuries ago Benedict, fleeing from the gates of Rome, A youth disgusted with its vice and woe, Sought in these mountain solitudes a home.
He founded here his Convent and his Rule Of prayer and work, and counted work as prayer. His pen became a clarion, and his school
Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air.
What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores The illuminated manuscripts that lay Torn and neglected on the dusty floors?
Boccaccio was a novelist, a child
Of fancy and of fiction at the best; This the urbane librarian said and smiled, Incredulous as at some idle jest.
Upon such themes as these with one young friar I sat conversing late into the night, Till in its cavernous chimney the wood fire Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite.
And then translated in my convent cell, Myself yet not myself in dreams I lay; And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, Started from sleep; already it was day.
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