THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain Some old frontier town of Flanders. Up and down the dreary camp, In great boots of Spanish leather, Thus as to and fro they went, Over upland and through hollow, Yes, it was a swallow's nest, Built, of clay and hair of horses, Mane or tale, or dragoon's crest, Found on hedge-rows east and west, After skirmish of the forces. Then an old Hidalgo said, As he twirled his grey mustachio, Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, Half in anger, half in shame, IN THE CHURCHYARD IN the village churchyard she lies, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor At her feet and at her head Was she a lady of high degree, The richest and rarest of all dowers? AT CAMBRIDGE. Who shall tell us? No one speaks; By those who are sleeping at her Hereafter?-And do you think to look To find her failings, faults, and errors! * Macho is Spanish for mule. THE TWO ANGELS. Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. Their attitude and aspect were the same, Alike their features and their robes of white; I saw them pause on their celestial way; I recognized the nameless agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled or haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again. The door I opened to my heavenly guest, And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice; And, knowing whatsoe'er He sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, My errand is not Death, but Life," he said; And, ere I answered, passing out of sight, On his celestial embassy he sped. 'Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features, fair and thin; Lo! He looks back from the departing cloud. IN the Valley of the Vire OLIVER BASSELIN. Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer, And beneath the window-sill, On the stone, These words alone: "Oliver Basselin lived here." Find an answer in each heart: Of this green earth Opening on the narrow street, In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. Sat the monks in lonely cells, Found other chimes, Gone are all the barons bold, Gone are all the knights and squires, Remains to fame, From those mouldering days of old! But the poet's memory here Of the landscape makes a part; That ancient mill, THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves, Silent beside the never-silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down. The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long mysterious Exodus of Death. And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, The very names recorded here are strange, Of foreign accent, and of different climes; Alvares and Rivera interchange With Abraham and Jacob of old times. "Blessed be God! for he created Death!" The mourner said, "and Death is rest and peace;" Then added, in the certainty of faith, "And giveth Life that never more shall cease.' Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. Gone are the living, but the dead remain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, Drove o'er the sea-that desert desolate- They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, All their lives long, with the unleavened bread The wasting famine of the heart they fed, And slaked its thirst with Marah of their tear Anathema maranatha! was the cry That rang from town to town, from street to street; At every gate the accursed Mordecai Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet. Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, And yet unshaken as the continent. For in the background figures vague and vast And thus for ever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, Till life became a Legend of the Dead. But ah! what once has been shall be no more! VICTOR GALBRAITH. UNDER the walls of Monterey In the mist of the morning damp and grey, Victor Galbraith!" Forth he came, with a martial tread; He who so well the bugle played, Victor Galbraith! He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, Victor Galbraith! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith. |