Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13)
Page 70
As on through the night he rode
And gazed at the fateful stars,
That were shining overhead; 25
But smote his steed with his staff,
And smiled to himself, and said:
“This is the time to laugh.”
In the middle of the night,
In a halt of the hurrying flight, 30
There came a Scribe of the King
Wearing his signet ring,
And said in a voice severe:
“This is the first dark blot
On thy name, George Castriot! 35
Alas! why art thou here,
And the army of Amurath slain,
And left on the battle plain?”
And Iskander answered and said:
“They lie on the bloody sod 40
By the hoofs of horses trod;
But this was the decree
Of the watchers overhead;
For the war belongeth to God,
And in battle who are we, 45
Who are we, that shall withstand
The wind of his lifted hand?”
Then he bade them bind with chains
This man of books and brains;
And the Scribe said: “What misdeed 50
Have I done, that, without need,
Thou doest to me this thing?”
And Iskander answering
Said unto him: “Not one
Misdeed to me hast thou done; 55
But for fear that thou shouldst run
And hide thyself from me,
Have I done this unto thee.
“Now write me a writing, O Scribe,
And a blessing be on thy tribe! 60
A writing sealed with thy ring,
To King Amurath’s Pasha
In the city of Croia,
The city moated and walled,
That he surrender the same 65
In the name of my master, the King;
For what is writ in his name
Can never be recalled.”
And the Scribe bowed low in dread,
And unto Iskander said: 70
“Allah is great and just,
But we are as ashes and dust;
How shall I do this thing,
When I know that my guilty head
Will be forfeit to the King?” 75
Then swift as a shooting star
The curved and shining blade
Of Iskander’s scimetar
From its sheath, with jewels bright,
Shot, as he thundered: “Write!” 80
And the trembling Scribe obeyed,
And wrote in the fitful glare
Of the bivouac fire apart,
With the chill of the midnight air
On his forehead white and bare, 85
And the chill of death in his heart.
Then again Iskander cried:
“Now follow whither I ride,
For here thou must not stay.
Thou shalt be as my dearest friend, 90
And honors without end
Shall surround thee on every side,
And attend thee night and day.”
But the sullen Scribe replied:
“Our pathways here divide; 95
Mine leadeth not thy way.”
And even as he spoke
Fell a sudden scimetar stroke,
When no one else was near;
And the Scribe sank to the ground, 100
As a stone, pushed from the brink
Of a black pool, might sink
With a sob and disappear;
And no one saw the deed;
And in the stillness around 105
No sound was heard but the sound
Of the hoofs of Iskander’s steed,
As forward he sprang with a bound.
Then onward he rode and afar,
With scarce three hundred men, 110
Through river and forest and fen,
O’er the mountains of Argentar;
And his heart was merry within,
When he crossed the river Drin,
And saw in the gleam of the morn 115
The White Castle Ak-Hissar,
The city Croia called,
The city moated and walled,
The city where he was born, —
And above it the morning star. 120
Then his trumpeters in the van
On their silver bugles blew,
And in crowds about him ran
Albanian and Turkoman,
That the sound together drew. 125
And he feasted with his friends,
And when they were warm with wine,
He said: “O friends of mine,
Behold what fortune sends,
And what the fates design! 130
King Amurath commands
That my father’s wide domain,
This city and all its lands,
Shall be given to me again.”
Then to the Castle White 135
He rode in regal state,
And entered in at the gate
In all his arms bedight,
And gave to the Pasha
Who ruled in Croia 140
The writing of the King,
Sealed with his signet ring.
And the Pasha bowed his head,
And after a silence said:
“Allah is just and great! 145
I yield to the will divine,
The city and lands are thine;
Who shall contend with fate?”
Anon from the castle walls
The crescent banner falls, 150
And the crowd beholds instead,
Like a portent in the sky,
Iskander’s banner fly,
The Black Eagle with double head;
And a shout ascends on high, 155
For men’s souls are tired of the Turks,
And their wicked ways and works,
That have made of Ak-Hissar
A city of the plague;
And the loud, exultant cry 160
That echoes wide and far
Is: “Long live Scanderbeg!”
It was thus Iskander came
Once more unto his own;
And the tidings, like the flame 165
Of a conflagration blown
By the winds of summer, ran,
Till the land was in a blaze,
And the cities far and near,
Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir, 170
In his Book of the Words of the Days,
“Were taken as a man
Would take the tip of his ear.”
The Spanish Jew’s Second Tale: Interlude
“NOW that is after my own heart,”
The Poet cried; “one understands
Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg,
Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg,
And skilled in every warlike art, 5
Riding through his Albanian lands,
And following the auspicious star
That shone for him o’er Ak-Hissar.”
The Theologian added here
His word of praise not less sincere, 10
Although he ended with a jibe;
“The hero of romance and song
Was born,” he said, “to right the wrong;
And I approve; but all the same
That bit of treason with the Scribe 15
Adds nothing to your hero’s fame.”
The Student praised the good old times,
And liked the canter of the rhymes,
That had a hoofbeat in their sound;
But longed some further word to hear 20
Of the old chronicler Ben Meir,
And where his volume might be found.
The tall Musician walked the room
With folded arms and gleaming eyes,
As if he saw the Vikings rise, 25
Gigantic shadows in the gloom;
And much he talked of their emprise
&n
bsp; And meteors seen in Northern skies,
And Heimdal’s horn, and day of doom.
But the Sicilian laughed again; 30
“This is the time to laugh,” he said,
For the whole story he well knew
Was an invention of the Jew,
Spun from the cobwebs in his brain,
And of the same bright scarlet thread 35
As was the Tale of Kambalu.
Only the Landlord spake no word;
‘T was doubtful whether he had heard
The tale at all, so full of care
Was he of his impending fate, 40
That, like the sword of Damocles,
Above his head hung blank and bare,
Suspended by a single hair,
So that he could not sit at ease,
But sighed and looked disconsolate, 45
And shifted restless in his chair,
Revolving how he might evade
The blow of the descending blade.
The Student came to his relief
By saying in his easy way 50
To the Musician: “Calm your grief,
My fair Apollo of the North,
Balder the Beautiful and so forth;
Although your magic lyre or lute
With broken strings is lying mute, 55
Still you can tell some doleful tale
Of shipwreck in a midnight gale,
Or something of the kind to suit
The mood that we are in to-night
For what is marvellous and strange; 60
So give your nimble fancy range,
And we will follow in its flight.”
But the Musician shook his head;
“No tale I tell to-night,” he said,
“While my poor instrument lies there, 65
Even as a child with vacant stare
Lies in its little coffin dead.”
Yet, being urged, he said at last:
“There comes to me out of the Past
A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild, 70
Singing a song almost divine,
And with a tear in every line;
An ancient ballad, that my nurse
Sang to me when I was a child,
In accents tender as the verse; 75
And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiled
While singing it, to see arise
The look of wonder in my eyes,
And feel my heart with terror beat.
This simple ballad I retain 80
Clearly imprinted on my brain,
And as a tale will now repeat.”
The Musician’s Tale
The Mother’s Ghost
SVEND DYRING he rideth adown the glade;
I myself was young!
There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid;
Fair words gladden so many a heart.
Together were they for seven years, 5
And together children six were theirs.
Then came Death abroad through the land,
And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.
Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade,
And again hath he wooed him another maid. 10
He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a bride,
But she was bitter and full of pride.
When she came driving into the yard,
There stood the six children weeping so hard.
There stood the small children with sorrowful heart; 15
From before her feet she thrust them apart.
She gave to them neither ale nor bread;
“Ye shall suffer hunger and hate,” she said.
She took from them their quilts of blue,
And said: “Ye shall lie on the straw we strew.” 20
She took from them the great waxlight:
“Now ye shall lie in the dark at night.”
In the evening late they cried with cold;
The mother heard it under the mould.
The woman heard it the earth below: 25
“To my little children I must go.”
She standeth before the Lord of all:
“And may I go to my children small?”
She prayed him so long, and would not cease,
Until he bade her depart in peace. 30
“At cock-crow thou shalt return again;
Longer thou shalt not there remain!”
She girded up her sorrowful bones,
And rifted the walls and the marble stones.
As through the village she flitted by, 35
The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky.
When she came to the castle gate,
There stood her eldest daughter in wait.
“Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine?
How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?” 40
“Never art thou mother of mine,
For my mother was both fair and fine.
“My mother was white, with cheeks of red,
But thou art pale, and like to the dead.”
“How should I be fair and fine? 45
I have been dead; pale cheeks are mine.
“How should I be white and red,
So long, so long have I been dead?”
When she came in at the chamber door,
There stood the small children weeping sore. 50
One she braided, another she brushed,
The third she lifted, the fourth she hushed.
The fifth she took on her lap and pressed,
As if she would suckle it at her breast.
Then to her eldest daughter said she, 55
“Do thou bid Svend Dyring come hither to me.”
Into the chamber when he came
She spake to him in anger and shame.
“I left behind me both ale and bread;
My children hunger and are not fed. 60
“I left behind me quilts of blue;
My children lie on the straw ye strew.
“I left behind me the great waxlight;
My children lie in the dark at night.
“If I come again unto your hall, 65
As cruel a fate shall you befall!
“Now crows the cock with feathers red;
Back to the earth must all the dead.
“Now crows the cock with feathers swart;
The gates of heaven fly wide apart. 70
“Now crows the cock with feathers white;
I can abide no longer to-night.”
Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail,
They gave the children bread and ale.
Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, 75
They feared lest the dead were on their way.
Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bark,
I myself was young!
They feared the dead out there in the dark.
Fair words gladden so many a heart. 80
The Musician’s Tale: Interlude
TOUCHED by the pathos of these rhymes,
The Theologian said: “All praise
Be to the ballads of old times
And to the bards of simple ways,
Who walked with Nature hand in hand, 5
Whose country was their Holy Land,
Whose singing robes were homespun brown
From looms of their own native town,
Which they were not ashamed to wear,
And not of silk or sendal gay, 10
Nor decked with fanciful array
Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer.”
To whom the Student answered; “Yes;
All praise and honor! I confess
That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed, 15
Are wholesome and nutritious food,
But not enough for all our needs;
Poets — the best of them — are birds
Of passage; where their instinct leads
They range abroad for thoughts and words, 20
And from all climes bring home the seeds
That germinate in flowers or weeds.
They are not fowls in barnyards born
To cackle o’er a grain of corn;
And, if you shut the horizon down 25
To the small limits of their town,
What do you do but degrade your bard
Till he at last becomes as one
Who thinks the all-encircling sun
Rises and sets in his back yard?” 30
The Theologian said again:
“It may be so; yet I maintain
That what is native still is best,
And little care I for the rest.
‘T is a long story; time would fail 35
To tell it, and the hour is late;
We will not waste it in debate,
But listen to our Landlord’s tale.”
And thus the sword of Damocles
Descending not by slow degrees, 40
But suddenly, on the Landlord fell,
Who blushing, and with much demur
And many vain apologies,
Plucking up heart, began to tell
The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher. 45
The Landlord’s Tale
The Rhyme of Sir Christopher
IT was Sir Christopher Gardiner,
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre,
From Merry England over the sea,
Who stepped upon this continent
As if his august presence lent 5
A glory to the colony.
You should have seen him in the street
Of the little Boston of Winthrop’s time,
His rapier dangling at his feet,
Doublet and hose and boots complete, 10
Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume,
Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume,
Luxuriant curls and air sublime,
And superior manners now obsolete!
He had a way of saying things 15
That made one think of courts and kings,
And lords and ladies of high degree;
So that not having been at court
Seemed something very little short