The Justice wrote The words down in a book, and then Continued, as he raised his pen: "She is; and hath a mass been said For the salvation of her soul?
Come, speak the truth! confess the whole!" The cobbler without pause replied: "Of mass or prayer there was no need; For at the moment when she died Her soul was with the glorified!" And from his pocket with all speed He drew the priestly title-deed, And prayed the Justice he would read.
The Justice read, amused, amazed; And as he read his mirth increased; At times his shaggy brows he raised, Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, Now archly at the angry Priest.
"From all excesses, sins, and crimes Thou hast committed in past times Thee I absolve! And furthermore, Purified from all earthly taints, To the communion of the Saints And to the sacraments restore! All stains of weakness, and all trace Of shame and censure I efface; Remit the pains thou shouldst endure, And make thee innocent and pure, So that in dying, unto thee The gates of heaven shall open be! Though long thou livest, yet this grace Until the moment of thy death Unchangeable continueth!" Then said he to the Priest: "I find This document is duly signed Brother John Tetzel, his own hand.
At all tribunals in the land In evidence it may be used; Therefore acquitted is the accused." Then to the cobbler turned: "My friend, Pray tell me, didst thou ever read Reynard the Fox ?"--"O yes, indeed!"-- "I thought so.

Don't forget the end." INTERLUDE "What was the end?
I am ashamed Not to remember Reynard's fate; I have not read the book of late; Was he not hanged ?" the Poet said.
The Student gravely shook his head, And answered: "You exaggerate.
There was a tournament proclaimed, And Reynard fought with Isegrim The Wolf, and having vanquished him, Rose to high honor in the State, And Keeper of the Seals was named!" At this the gay Sicilian laughed: "Fight fire with fire, and craft with craft; Successful cunning seems to be The moral of your tale," said he.
"Mine had a better, and the Jew's Had none at all, that I could see; His aim was only to amuse." Meanwhile from out its ebon case His violin the Minstrel drew, And having tuned its strings anew, Now held it close in his embrace, And poising in his outstretched hand The bow, like a magician's wand, He paused, and said, with beaming face: "Last night my story was too long; To-day I give you but a song, An old tradition of the North; But first, to put you in the mood, I will a little while prelude, And from this instrument draw forth Something by way of overture." He played; at first the tones were pure And tender as a summer night, The full moon climbing to her height, The sob and ripple of the seas, The flapping of an idle sail; And then by sudden and sharp degrees The multiplied, wild harmonies Freshened and burst into a gale; A tempest howling through the dark, A crash as of some shipwrecked bark.
A loud and melancholy wail.
Such was the prelude to the tale Told by the Minstrel; and at times He paused amid its varying rhymes, And at each pause again broke in The music of his violin, With tones of sweetness or of fear, Movements of trouble or of calm, Creating their own atmosphere; As sitting in a church we hear Between the verses of the psalm The organ playing soft and clear, Or thundering on the startled ear.
THE MUSICIAN'S TALE THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN I At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, Within the sandy bar, At sunset of a summer's day, Ready for sea, at anchor lay The good ship Valdemar.
The sunbeams danced upon the waves, And played along her side; And through the cabin windows streamed In ripples of golden light, that seemed The ripple of the tide.
There sat the captain with his friends, Old skippers brown and hale, Who smoked and grumbled o'er their grog, And talked of iceberg and of fog, Of calm and storm and gale.
And one was spinning a sailor's yarn About Klaboterman, The Kobold of the sea; a spright Invisible to mortal sight, Who o'er the rigging ran.
Sometimes he hammered in the hold, Sometimes upon the mast, Sometimes abeam, sometimes abaft, Or at the bows he sang and laughed, And made all tight and fast.
He helped the sailors at their work, And toiled with jovial din; He helped them hoist and reef the sails, He helped them stow the casks and bales, And heave the anchor in.
But woe unto the lazy louts, The idlers of the crew; Them to torment was his delight, And worry them by day and night, And pinch them black and blue.
And woe to him whose mortal eyes Klaboterman behold.
It is a certain sign of death!-- The cabin-boy here held his breath, He felt his blood run cold.
II The jolly skipper paused awhile, And then again began; "There is a Spectre Ship," quoth he, "A ship of the Dead that sails the sea, And is called the Carmilhan.
"A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, In tempests she appears; And before the gale, or against the gale, She sails without a rag of sail, Without a helmsman steers.
"She haunts the Atlantic north and south, But mostly the mid-sea, Where three great rocks rise bleak and bare Like furnace-chimneys in the air, And are called the Chimneys Three.
"And ill betide the luckless ship That meets the Carmilhan; Over her decks the seas will leap, She must go down into the deep, And perish mouse and man." The captain of the Valdemar Laughed loud with merry heart.
"I should like to see this ship," said he; "I should like to find these Chimneys Three, That are marked down in the chart.
"I have sailed right over the spot," he said "With a good stiff breeze behind, When the sea was blue, and the sky was clear,-- You can follow my course by these pinholes here,-- And never a rock could find." And then he swore a dreadful oath, He swore by the Kingdoms Three, That, should he meet the Carmilhan, He would run her down, although he ran Right into Eternity! All this, while passing to and fro, The cabin-boy had heard; He lingered at the door to hear, And drank in all with greedy ear, And pondered every word.
He was a simple country lad, But of a roving mind.
"O, it must be like heaven," thought he, "Those far-off foreign lands to see, And fortune seek and find!" But in the fo'castle, when he heard The mariners blaspheme, He thought of home, he thought of God, And his mother under the churchyard sod, And wished it were a dream.
One friend on board that ship had he; 'T was the Klaboterman, Who saw the Bible in his chest, And made a sign upon his breast, All evil things to ban.
III The cabin windows have grown blank As eyeballs of the dead; No more the glancing sunbeams burn On the gilt letters of the stern, But on the figure-head; On Valdemar Victorious, Who looketh with disdain To see his image in the tide Dismembered float from side to side, And reunite again.
"It is the wind," those skippers said, "That swings the vessel so; It is the wind; it freshens fast, 'T is time to say farewell at last 'T is time for us to go." They shook the captain by the hand, "Goodluck! goodluck!" they cried; Each face was like the setting sun, As, broad and red, they one by one Went o'er the vessel's side.
The sun went down, the full moon rose, Serene o'er field and flood; And all the winding creeks and bays And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze, The sky was red as blood.
The southwest wind blew fresh and fair, As fair as wind could be; Bound for Odessa, o'er the bar, With all sail set, the Valdemar Went proudly out to sea.
The lovely moon climbs up the sky As one who walks in dreams; A tower of marble in her light, A wall of black, a wall of white, The stately vessel seems.
Low down upon the sandy coast The lights begin to burn; And now, uplifted high in air, They kindle with a fiercer glare, And now drop far astern.
The dawn appears, the land is gone, The sea is all around; Then on each hand low hills of sand Emerge and form another land; She steereth through the Sound.
Through Kattegat and Skager-rack She flitteth like a ghost; By day and night, by night and day, She bounds, she flies upon her way Along the English coast.
Cape Finisterre is drawing near, Cape Finisterre is past; Into the open ocean stream She floats, the vision of a dream Too beautiful to last.
Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet There is no land in sight; The liquid planets overhead Burn brighter now the moon is dead, And longer stays the night.
IV And now along the horizon's edge Mountains of cloud uprose, Black as with forests underneath, Above their sharp and jagged teeth Were white as drifted snows.
Unseen behind them sank the sun, But flushed each snowy peak A little while with rosy light That faded slowly from the sight As blushes from the cheek.
Black grew the sky,--all black, all black; The clouds were everywhere; There was a feeling of suspense In nature, a mysterious sense Of terror in the air.
And all on board the Valdemar Was still as still could be; Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled, As ever and anon she rolled, And lurched into the sea.
The captain up and down the deck Went striding to and fro; Now watched the compass at the wheel, Now lifted up his hand to feel Which way the wind might blow.
And now he looked up at the sails, And now upon the deep; In every fibre of his frame He felt the storm before it came, He had no thought of sleep.
Eight bells! and suddenly abaft, With a great rush of rain, Making the ocean white with spume, In darkness like the day of doom, On came the hurricane.
The lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, And rent the sky in two; A jagged flame, a single jet Of white fire, like a bayonet That pierced the eyeballs through.
Then all around was dark again, And blacker than before; But in that single flash of light He had beheld a fearful sight, And thought of the oath he swore.
For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead, The ghostly Carmilhan! Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare, And on her bowsprit, poised in air, Sat the Klaboterman.
Her crew of ghosts was all on deck Or clambering up the shrouds; The boatswain's whistle, the captain's hail, Were like the piping of the gale, And thunder in the clouds.
And close behind the Carmilhan There rose up from the sea, As from a foundered ship of stone, Three bare and splintered masts alone: They were the Chimneys Three.
And onward dashed the Valdemar And leaped into the dark; A denser mist, a colder blast, A little shudder, and she had passed Right through the Phantom Bark.
She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk, But cleft it unaware; As when, careering to her nest, The sea-gull severs with her breast The unresisting air.
Again the lightning flashed; again They saw the Carmilhan, Whole as before in hull and spar; But now on board of the Valdemar Stood the Klaboterman.
And they all knew their doom was sealed; They knew that death was near; Some prayed who never prayed before, And some they wept, and some they swore, And some were mute with fear.
Then suddenly there came a shock, And louder than wind or sea A cry burst from the crew on deck, As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless wreck, Upon the Chimneys Three.
The storm and night were passed, the light To streak the east began; The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, Survived the wreck, and only he, To tell of the Carmilhan.
INTERLUDE When the long murmur of applause That greeted the Musician's lay Had slowly buzzed itself away, And the long talk of Spectre Ships That followed died upon their lips And came unto a natural pause, "These tales you tell are one and all Of the Old World," the Poet said, "Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, Dead leaves that rustle as they fall; Let me present you in their stead Something of our New England earth, A tale which, though of no great worth, Has still this merit, that it yields A certain freshness of the fields, A sweetness as of home-made bread." The Student answered: "Be discreet; For if the flour be fresh and sound, And if the bread be light and sweet, Who careth in what mill 't was ground, Or of what oven felt the heat, Unless, as old Cervantes said, You are looking after better bread Than any that is made of wheat?
You know that people nowadays To what is old give little praise; All must be new in prose and verse: They want hot bread, or something worse, Fresh every morning, and half baked; The wholesome bread of yesterday, Too stale for them, is thrown away, Nor is their thirst with water slaked.
As oft we see the sky in May Threaten to rain, and yet not rain, The Poet's face, before so gay, Was clouded with a look of pain, But suddenly brightened up again; And without further let or stay He told his tale of yesterday.
THE POET'S TALE LADY WENTWORTH.
One hundred years ago, and something more, In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door, Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking nine.
Above her head, resplendent on the sign, The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, Her cap, her bodice, her white folded arms, And half resolved, though he was past his prime, And rather damaged by the lapse of time, To fall down at her feet and to declare The passion that had driven him to despair.
For from his lofty station he had seen Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle-green, Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four in hand, Down the long lane, and out into the land, And knew that he was far upon the way To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay! Just then the meditations of the Earl Were interrupted by a little girl, Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders bare, A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, A creature men would worship and adore, Though now in mean habiliments she bore A pail of water, dripping, through the street And bathing, as she went her naked feet.
It was a pretty picture, full of grace,-- The slender form, the delicate, thin face; The swaying motion, as she hurried by; The shining feet, the laughter in her eye, That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and glanced, As in her pail the shifting sunbeam danced: And with uncommon feelings of delight The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight.
Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard her say These words, or thought he did, as plain as day: "O Martha Hilton! Fie! how dare you go About the town half dressed, and looking so!" At which the gypsy laughed, and straight replied: "No matter how I look; I yet shall ride In my own chariot, ma'am." And on the child The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, As with her heavy burden she passed on, Looked back, then turned the corner, and was gone.
What next, upon that memorable day, Arrested his attention was a gay And brilliant equipage, that flashed and spun, The silver harness glittering in the sun, Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, Pounding the saddles as they rose and sank, While all alone within the chariot sat A portly person with three-cornered hat, A crimson velvet coat, head high in air, Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered hair, And diamond buckles sparkling at his knees, Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease.
Onward the pageant swept, and as it passed, Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and fast; For this was Governor Wentworth, driving down To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, Where his Great House stood looking out to sea, A goodly place, where it was good to be.
It was a pleasant mansion, an abode Near and yet hidden from the great high-road, Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, Baronial and colonial in its style; Gables and dormer-windows everywhere, And stacks of chimneys rising high in air,-- Pandaean pipes, on which all winds that blew Made mournful music the whole winter through.
Within, unwonted splendors met the eye, Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry; Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs Revelled and roared the Christmas fires of logs; Doors opening into darkness unawares, Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs; And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture names.
Such was the mansion where the great man dwelt.
A widower and childless; and he felt The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom, That like a presence haunted ever room; For though not given to weakness, he could feel The pain of wounds, that ache because they heal.
The years came and the years went,--seven in all, And passed in cloud and sunshine o'er the Hall; The dawns their splendor through its chambers shed, The sunsets flushed its western windows red; The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the rain; Its woodlands were in leaf and bare again; Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs bloomed and died, In the broad river ebbed and flowed the tide, Ships went to sea, and ships came home from sea, And the slow years sailed by and ceased to be.
And all these years had Martha Hilton served In the Great House, not wholly unobserved: By day, by night, the silver crescent grew, Though hidden by clouds, her light still shining through; A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine, A servant who made service seem divine! Through her each room was fair to look upon; The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone, The very knocker on the outer door, If she but passed, was brighter than before.
And now the ceaseless turning of the mill Of Time, that never for an hour stands still, Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birthday, And powdered his brown hair with silver-gray.
The robin, the forerunner of the spring, The bluebird with his jocund carolling, The restless swallows building in the eaves, The golden buttercups, the grass, the leaves, The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, All welcomed this majestic holiday! He gave a splendid banquet served on plate, Such as became the Governor of the State, Who represented England and the King, And was magnificent in everything.
He had invited all his friends and peers,-- The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the Lears, The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the rest; For why repeat the name of every guest?
But I must mention one, in bands and gown, The rector there, the Reverend Arthur Brown Of the Established Church; with smiling face He sat beside the Governor and said grace; And then the feast went on, as others do, But ended as none other I e'er knew.
When they had drunk the King, with many a cheer, The Governor whispered in a servant's ear, Who disappeared and presently there stood Within the room, in perfect womanhood, A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, Youthful and beautiful, and simply dressed.
Can this be Martha Hilton?
It must be! Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she! Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years, How ladylike, how queenlike she appears; The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by Is Dian now in all her majesty! Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there, Until the Governor, rising from his chair, Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down, And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown: "This is my birthday: it shall likewise be My wedding-day; and you shall marry me!" The listening guests were greatly mystified, None more so than the rector, who replied: "Marry you?
Yes, that were a pleasant task, Your Excellency; but to whom?
I ask." The Governor answered: "To this lady here" And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw near.
She came and stood, all blushes, at his side.
The rector paused.

The impatient Governor cried: "This is the lady; do you hesitate?
Then I command you as Chief Magistrate." The rector read the service loud and clear: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here," And so on to the end.

At his command On the fourth finger of her fair left hand The Governor placed the ring; and that was all: Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall! INTERLUDE.
Well pleased the audience heard the tale.
The Theologian said: "Indeed, To praise you there is little need; One almost hears the farmers flail Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail A certain freshness, as you said, And sweetness as of home-made bread.
But not less sweet and not less fresh Are many legends that I know, Writ by the monks of long-ago, Who loved to mortify the flesh, So that the soul might purer grow, And rise to a diviner state; And one of these--perhaps of all Most beautiful--I now recall, And with permission will narrate; Hoping thereby to make amends For that grim tragedy of mine, As strong and black as Spanish wine, I told last night, and wish almost It had remained untold, my friends; For Torquemada's awful ghost Came to me in the dreams I dreamed, And in the darkness glared and gleamed Like a great lighthouse on the coast." The Student laughing said: "Far more Like to some dismal fire of bale Flaring portentous on a hill; Or torches lighted on a shore By wreckers in a midnight gale.
No matter; be it as you will, Only go forward with your tale." THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL "Hads't thou stayed, I must have fled!" That is what the Vision said.
In his chamber all alone, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Prayed the Monk in deep contrition For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater self-denial In temptation and in trial; It was noonday by the dial, And the Monk was all alone.
Suddenly, as if it lightened, An unwonted splendor brightened All within him and without him In that narrow cell of stone; And he saw the Blessed Vision Of our Lord, with light Elysian Like a vesture wrapped about him, Like a garment round him thrown.
Not as crucified and slain, Not in agonies of pain, Not with bleeding hands and feet, Did the Monk his Master see; But as in the village street, In the house or harvest-field, Halt and lame and blind he healed, When he walked in Galilee.
In an attitude imploring, Hands upon his bosom crossed, Wondering, worshipping, adoring, Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.
Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, Who am I, that thus thou deignest To reveal thyself to me?
Who am I, that from the centre Of thy glory thou shouldst enter This poor cell, my guest to be?
Then amid his exaltation, Loud the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor With persistent iteration He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour When alike in shine or shower, Winter's cold or summer's heat, To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame, All the beggars of the street, For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood; And their almoner was he Who upon his bended knee, Rapt in silent ecstasy Of divinest self-surrender, Saw the Vision and the Splendor.
Deep distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration; Should he go, or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent gate, Till the Vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest, Slight this visitant celestial, For a crowd of ragged, bestial Beggars at the convent gate?
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast Whispered, audible and clear As if to the outward ear: "Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the rest!" Straightway to his feet he started, And with longing look intent On the Blessed Vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went.
At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close, And of feet that pass them by; Grown familiar with disfavor, Grown familiar with the savor Of the bread by which men die! But to-day, they knew not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent sate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see; And the inward voice was saying: "Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of mine and lowest, That thou doest unto me!" Unto me! but had the Vision Come to him in beggar's clothing, Come a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision, And have turned away with loathing.
Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Towards his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling.
But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door, For the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said, "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!" INTERLUDE.
All praised the Legend more or less; Some liked the moral, some the verse; Some thought it better, and some worse Than other legends of the past; Until, with ill-concealed distress At all their cavilling, at last The Theologian gravely said: "The Spanish proverb, then, is right; Consult your friends on what you do, And one will say that it is white, And others say that it is red." And "Amen!" quoth the Spanish Jew.
"Six stories told! We must have seven, A cluster like the Pleiades, And lo! it happens, as with these, That one is missing from our heaven.
Where is the Landlord?
Bring him here; Let the Lost Pleiad reappear." Thus the Sicilian cried, and went Forthwith to seek his missing star, But did not find him in the bar, A place that landlords most frequent, Nor yet beside the kitchen fire, Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall; It was in vain to ask or call, There were no tidings of the Squire.
So he came back with downcast head, Exclaiming: "Well, our bashful host Hath surely given up the ghost.
Another proverb says the dead Can tell no tales; and that is true.
It follows, then, that one of you Must tell a story in his stead.
You must," he to the Student said, "Who know so many of the best, And tell them better than the rest." Straight by these flattering words beguiled, The Student, happy as a child When he is called a little man, Assumed the double task imposed, And without more ado unclosed His smiling lips, and thus began.
THE STUDENT'S SECOND TALE THE BARON OF ST.

CASTINE Baron Castine of St.Castine Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees, And sailed across the western seas.
When he went away from his fair demesne The birds were building, the woods were green; And now the winds of winter blow Round the turrets of the old chateau, The birds are silent and unseen, The leaves lie dead in the ravine, And the Pyrenees are white with snow.
His father, lonely, old, and gray, Sits by the fireside day by day, Thinking ever one thought of care; Through the southern windows, narrow and tall, The sun shines into the ancient hall, And makes a glory round his hair.
The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair, Groans in his sleep as if in pain Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again, So silent is it everywhere,-- So silent you can hear the mouse Run and rummage along the beams Behind the wainscot of the wall; And the old man rouses from his dreams, And wanders restless through the house, As if he heard strange voices call.
His footsteps echo along the floor Of a distant passage, and pause awhile; He is standing by an open door Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, Into the room of his absent son.
There is the bed on which he lay, There are the pictures bright and gay, Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas; There are his powder-flask and gun, And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan; The chair by the window where he sat, With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat, Looking out on the Pyrenees, Looking out on Mount Marbore And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan.
Ah me! he turns away and sighs; There is a mist before his eyes.
At night whatever the weather be, Wind or rain or starry heaven, Just as the clock is striking seven, Those who look from the windows see The village Curate, with lantern and maid, Come through the gateway from the park And cross the courtyard damp and dark,-- A ring of light in a ring of shade.
And now at the old man's side he stands, His voice is cheery, his heart expands, He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze Of the fire of fagots, about old days, And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde, And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond, And what they did, and what they said, When they heard his Eminence was dead.
And after a pause the old man says, His mind still coming back again To the one sad thought that haunts his brain, "Are there any tidings from over sea?
Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me ?" And the Curate answers, looking down, Harmless and docile as a lamb, "Young blood! young blood! It must so be!" And draws from the pocket of his gown A handkerchief like an oriflamb, And wipes his spectacles, and they play Their little game of lansquenet In silence for an hour or so, Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear From the village lying asleep below, And across the courtyard, into the dark Of the winding pathway in the park, Curate and lantern disappear, And darkness reigns in the old chateau.
The ship has come back from over sea, She has been signalled from below, And into the harbor of Bordeaux She sails with her gallant company.
But among them is nowhere seen The brave young Baron of St.Castine; He hath tarried behind, I ween, In the beautiful land of Acadie! And the father paces to and fro Through the chambers of the old chateau, Waiting, waiting to hear the hum Of wheels on the road that runs below, Of servants hurrying here and there, The voice in the courtyard, the step on the stair, Waiting for some one who doth not come! But letters there are, which the old man reads To the Curate, when he comes at night Word by word, as an acolyte Repeats his prayers and tells his beads; Letters full of the rolling sea, Full of a young man's joy to be Abroad in the world, alone and free; Full of adventures and wonderful scenes Of hunting the deer through forests vast In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast; Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines; Of Madocawando the Indian chief, And his daughters, glorious as queens, And beautiful beyond belief; And so soft the tones of their native tongue, The words are not spoken, they are sung! And the Curate listens, and smiling says: "Ah yes, dear friend! in our young days We should have liked to hunt the deer All day amid those forest scenes, And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines; But now it is better sitting here Within four walls, and without the fear Of losing our hearts to Indian queens; For man is fire and woman is tow, And the Somebody comes and begins to blow." Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise Shines in the father's gentle eyes, As fire-light on a window-pane Glimmers and vanishes again; But naught he answers; he only sighs, And for a moment bows his head; Then, as their custom is, they play Their little gain of lansquenet, And another day is with the dead.
Another day, and many a day And many a week and month depart, When a fatal letter wings its way Across the sea, like a bird of prey, And strikes and tears the old man's heart.
Lo! the young Baron of St.Castine, Swift as the wind is, and as wild, Has married a dusky Tarratine, Has married Madocawando's child! The letter drops from the father's hand; Though the sinews of his heart are wrung, He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, No malediction falls from his tongue; But his stately figure, erect and grand, Bends and sinks like a column of sand In the whirlwind of his great despair.
Dying, yes, dying! His latest breath Of parley at the door of death Is a blessing on his wayward son.
Lower and lower on his breast Sinks his gray head; he is at rest; No longer he waits for any one; For many a year the old chateau Lies tenantless and desolate; Rank grasses in the courtyard grow, About its gables caws the crow; Only the porter at the gate Is left to guard it, and to wait The coming of the rightful heir; No other life or sound is there; No more the Curate comes at night, No more is seen the unsteady light, Threading the alleys of the park; The windows of the hall are dark, The chambers dreary, cold, and bare! At length, at last, when the winter is past, And birds are building, and woods are green, With flying skirts is the Curate seen Speeding along the woodland way, Humming gayly, "No day is so long But it comes at last to vesper-song." He stops at the porter's lodge to say That at last the Baron of St.Castine Is coming home with his Indian queen, Is coming without a week's delay; And all the house must be swept and clean, And all things set in good array! And the solemn porter shakes his head; And the answer he makes is: "Lackaday! We will see, as the blind man said!" Alert since first the day began, The cock upon the village church Looks northward from his airy perch, As if beyond the ken of man To see the ships come sailing on, And pass the isle of Oleron, And pass the Tower of Cordouan.
In the church below is cold in clay The heart that would have leaped for joy-- O tender heart of truth and trust!-- To see the coming of that day; In the church below the lips are dust; Dust are the hands, and dust the feet, That would have been so swift to meet The coming of that wayward boy.
At night the front of the old chateau Is a blaze of light above and below; There's a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street, A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet, Bells are ringing, and horns are blown, And the Baron hath come again to his own.
The Curate is waiting in the hall, Most eager and alive of all To welcome the Baron and Baroness; But his mind is full of vague distress, For he hath read in Jesuit books Of those children of the wilderness, And now, good, simple man! he looks To see a painted savage stride Into the room, with shoulders bare, And eagle feathers in her hair, And around her a robe of panther's hide.
Instead, he beholds with secret shame A form of beauty undefined, A loveliness with out a name, Not of degree, but more of kind; Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, But a new mingling of them all.
Yes, beautiful beyond belief, Transfigured and transfused, he sees The lady of the Pyrenees, The daughter of the Indian chief.
Beneath the shadow of her hair The gold-bronze color of the skin Seems lighted by a fire within, As when a burst of sunlight shines Beneath a sombre grove of pines,-- A dusky splendor in the air.
The two small hands, that now are pressed In his, seem made to be caressed, They lie so warm and soft and still, Like birds half hidden in a nest, Trustful, and innocent of ill.
And ah! he cannot believe his ears When her melodious voice he hears Speaking his native Gascon tongue; The words she utters seem to be Part of some poem of Goudouli, They are not spoken, they are sung! And the Baron smiles, and says, "You see, I told you but the simple truth; Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!" Down in the village day by day The people gossip in their way, And stare to see the Baroness pass On Sunday morning to early Mass; And when she kneeleth down to pray, They wonder, and whisper together, and say, "Surely this is no heathen lass!" And in course of time they learn to bless The Baron and the Baroness.
And in course of time the Curate learns A secret so dreadful, that by turns He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns.
The Baron at confession hath said, That though this woman be his wife, He bath wed her as the Indians wed, He hath bought her for a gun and a knife! And the Curate replies: "O profligate, O Prodigal Son! return once more To the open arms and the open door Of the Church, or ever it be too late.
Thank God, thy father did not live To see what he could not forgive; On thee, so reckless and perverse, He left his blessing, not his curse.
But the nearer the dawn the darker the night, And by going wrong all things come right; Things have been mended that were worse, And the worse, the nearer they are to mend.
For the sake of the living and the dead, Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, And all things come to a happy end." O sun, that followest the night, In yon blue sky, serene and pure, And pourest thine impartial light Alike on mountain and on moor, Pause for a moment in thy course, And bless the bridegroom and the bride! O Gave, that from thy hidden source In you mysterious mountain-side Pursuest thy wandering way alone, And leaping down its steps of stone, Along the meadow-lands demure Stealest away to the Adour, Pause for a moment in thy course To bless the bridegroom and the bride! The choir is singing the matin song, The doors of the church are opened wide, The people crowd, and press, and throng To see the bridegroom and the bride.
They enter and pass along the nave; They stand upon the father's grave; The bells are ringing soft and slow; The living above and the dead below Give their blessing on one and twain; The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain, The birds are building, the leaves are green, And Baron Castine of St.Castine Hath come at last to his own again.
FINALE "Nunc plaudite!" the Student cried, When he had finished; "now applaud, As Roman actors used to say At the conclusion of a play"; And rose, and spread his hands abroad, And smiling bowed from side to side, As one who bears the palm away.
And generous was the applause and loud, But less for him than for the sun, That even as the tale was done Burst from its canopy of cloud, And lit the landscape with the blaze Of afternoon on autumn days, And filled the room with light, and made The fire of logs a painted shade.
A sudden wind from out the west Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill; The windows rattled with the blast, The oak-trees shouted as it passed, And straight, as if by fear possessed, The cloud encampment on the hill Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent Vanished into the firmament, And down the valley fled amain The rear of the retreating rain.
Only far up in the blue sky A mass of clouds, like drifted snow Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, Was heaped together, vast and high, On which a shattered rainbow hung, Not rising like the ruined arch Of some aerial aqueduct, But like a roseate garland plucked From an Olympian god, and flung Aside in his triumphal march.
Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, Like birds escaping from a snare, Like school-boys at the hour of play, All left at once the pent-up room, And rushed into the open air; And no more tales were told that day..