Classic Poem

What light illumes the eagle's ken,
And flames his breast with Freedom's rage,
The first wild daring instant when
He soars beyond his broken cage!

How glows the lion's eye of fire,
Brighter than lit with midnight ire,
The moment when he sees the bar
Half drawn that leaves the door ajar!
How proudly he exalts his mane
That first hour on the open plain!

When from the winter's captive hold
The young spring takes the freedom won,
While all his fetters crystal cold
Melt like a vision in the sun: —

Then every river, brook, and rill
Feels its deep heart with pleasure thrill;
Then sing the birds, and every tree
Waves its gay hands for jollity.

What joy, my own dear land, was thine,
What pleasure filled thy breast of sorrow,
As if the heart were pulsing wine; —
What glorious sunshine filled the noon
That cloudless, jubilant day in June
Which said, " The foe will leave to-morrow! "

" To-morrow! " every glad eye-glance
To that sweet music seemed to dance:
Youth spread the shout from first to last,
And Age new vigor seemed to borrow,
And stranger-faces, as they passed,
Looked that masonic word, " To-morrow! "

The happy country heard afar
The answer of its long desires;
Swift sped the news from hill to hill,
O'er plain and valley wandering still,
As if on every mountain-bar
Was lit the flame of signal-fires.

And there were eyes in Berkley Hall,
That, bright before, were now more bright, —
Young breasts that in their rise and fall
Were thrilled with uncontrolled delight.
Yet there beneath the Berkley roof
Were looks that angered at the proof. —
Dark, sullen brows, which seemed to say
The morn would bring a hateful day.
'Twas hard to see the old reins slip
From out their doting monarch's grip;
And so, to nerve them for the worst,
The purple flask must cheer the hour,
That they at least might slake their thirst
For wine, if not for tyrant power.

" To-morrow, Colonel, you depart: "
This was the greeting of Sir Hugh.
" Believe me when I say my heart
Is sad to part with such as you.
I hoped ere this — but hopes are vain:
There is a higher. Wisdom rules: —
Though wise his ways, they are not plain:
'Tis strange, and yet He sometimes deigns
To give an empire's guiding reins
Into the hardy hands of fools: —
I hoped ere this — that hope at least
Holds good, and shall not be denied —
To see my family-board increased,
To see my daughter at your side
A lovely and contented bride.

How stands your glass? The room is dim
Methinks the twilight settles soon,
In spite of the long days of June;
And yonder rises the red moon,
As if wine flushed her golden brim.
So flush your glass; for wine, in truth,
Which sparkles in these founts of ours,
Is that perpetual Spring of Youth
Which Ponce de Leon strove, forsooth,
To find within the land of flowers.
Then never let our spirits sink,
Though Time and Fate their worst pursue,
While at the bacchanalian brink
Our hearts their courage may renew.

Ay, courage, — 'tis the soldier's word:
The hour is brighter than it seems;
To-day, even while you stood deterred,
I caught from hope some clearer gleams.

Did you not notice, when we came,
And after my first warm embrace,
How flushed her cheek and eye with flame
When she looked up and saw your face?
I felt her little wild heart leap,
That moment, in my clasping hand;
For Love, when he would safely keep
His head in secret hiding deep,
Is but an ostrich in the sand.

What though her look no hope awakes,
Repelling with disdainful eye,
'Tis but the course the salmon takes,
In scornful distance pausing shy;
Just when you think your toil is vain,
And when he chiefly shows disdain,
With sudden whirl he takes the fly!
What though her mien conceals the spell,
Believe me, friend, she loves you well.

Who spoke? Who dared to give the lie?
Ho, Steward! lights! "
The lights were brought,
And every secret hiding-place
Was peered into with angry face.
The furious searching furnished naught
To meet his pistol's ready rage,
Except a parrot in his cage:
Yes, surely 'twas that silly bird
Who uttered the obnoxious word.
They laughed, and sat: the wine must serve
To smooth again the ruffled nerve.

" To prove, my friend, my words sincere,
I have the paper ready here. "
Thus spake Sir Hugh. " It only waits
For the contracting names and dates:
'Tis quickly done. There, mine secures
The seal; and now, my friend, for yours.
By Jove! your pen flies o'er the word
With all the flourish of a sword!

The maiden's name? Ah, never doubt:
That with the rest shall soon appear.
Ho, Steward, seek your mistress out
And bid her to attend me here! "
In Berkley's breast resolve was stern,
For in his proud parental heart,
Remembering with what willing art
Her favor took the patriots' part,
He felt a deep resentment burn.
Although he loved her fondly still,
Yet, though all else should be denied,
She should not set her rebel will
Against this last hope of his pride:
It may be that the flush of wine
Gave vigor to his fixed design.
Young Esther came: her eye was bright
As if 'twere brimmed with love's own light;
Then flowed her maiden accents clear,
" What would you, father? I am here. "

" A trifling service, " he replied; —
There was a strangeness in the tone
Which turned her inmost heart to stone: —
" Before these written names are dried,
Let yours be drying at their side. "

With wondering countenance advanced,
Her eye across the paper glanced;
Her visage showed a lightning-blight, —
The color from her cheek was blown,
As when from off some festal height
The fierce bolt strikes the banner down.

Before her flashed the ready quill,
The black blood waiting at the point;
Across her swept a deathly chill
That agued every sinking joint:
A very statue, mute and white,
She stood, till came the order, " Write! "

" Nay, father: any thing but this, —
If 'twere to die at your command! "
He answered, " My sole order is
To write! The pen is in your hand! "

'Twas there; for he had placed it there, —
He seized her by the slender wrist. —
" Oh, help! " she cried.
" Nay, to assist
In your rebellion who shall dare? "
He answered firmly, at the word,
Tapping his pistol and his sword.

Her hand was on the paper prest:
Both watched it with their anxious ken;
The blood was curdling in her breast.
A deadly pallor veiled her mien,
The room swam round in darkness, — when
An iron hand was thrust between,
Which snatched and crushed the crackling pen!

Three paces back, with shuddering reel,
All started, in their horror dumb;
Their tongues even as their hearts were numb;
For there a voiceless form of steel
Stood glowering as with threatening will;
For, though the visor close was down,
The very iron seemed to frown,
The clenching gauntlet grasping still
The crumpled remnant of the quill.
Within the waning light and gloom
To giant size it seemed to loom:
Such necromantic power has fright
To give to objects double height.

While now the gazers stood aghast,
The form, with slow and backward pace,
Confronting still with iron face,
Retiring, reached the throne at last
Where stood the maiden's harp of gold.
Still paler grew the lights and dim, —
Or so the frighted fancy told, —
While phantom lustre seemed to swim
About that form so ghostly grim;
And, just behind, the moon's broad rim
Seemed to the very casement rolled,
A spectral chariot waiting him:
The gazers' blood ran doubly cold
And palsied every limb.

But stranger still it was to see
The form slow sinking on one knee,
Upon the harp's enthroning stand,
While in his stretching arms he took
The frame, whose chords in terror shook
Ere scarce they felt the iron hand.

Slow o'er the strings the gauntlets stole: —
(That gloves of steel showed little skill
In answering to the player's will,
Such audience would scarcely wonder;) —
But, with a strange, weird music still,
That wailed above, then rumbled under,
He played as 'twere a funeral dole
Chanted by distant winds and thunder;
And when from out the helmet broke
The words in many a dying close,
It seemed as if a cavern spoke
The burden of long-hidden woes.

SONG .

I.

A shade has crossed the hill, Sir Hugh,
A shade has crossed the lawn;
And where its phantom feet have gone,
So lightly were they pressed thereon,
They did not brush the evening dew,
Sir Hugh,
They did not brush the dew.

II.

A gloom is on your house, Sir Hugh,
Your sire frowns on the wall, —
Where frown those painted shadows all,
Now pale and shuddering o'er your fall:
The last of all the name are you,
Sir Hugh,
The last of all are you.

III.

Your royal cause is lost, Sir Hugh;
Your king recoils aghast;
His day of tyrant power is past:
Of all his friends you are the last,
Last of your cause and name are you,
Sir Hugh,
The last of all are you.

IV.

The last of all are you, Sir Hugh,
Echoes the owl aloof, —
The last of all, — upon the roof
The whippoorwill prolongs the proof: —
Adieu to Berkley Hall, — adieu,
Sir Hugh,
To Berkley Hall adieu.

" Behold! Sir Hugh, be not dismayed!"
The suitor cried, and drew his blade.
" Do you not see it is the same
Who boldly to our tourney came
A rough, unbidden guest and foe?
I have not yet forgiven the blow:
Though it were years, in twice the gloom
I still would know that helm and plume. "

Through Berkley's brain the lightning sped,
And, casting round his glances quick,
Sir Hugh the empty niche espied;
Then, with an angry laugh, he cried,
" A trick! By Heaven! a rebel trick! "
And scarcely had the words been said,
The room was blinded with a flash:
The iron vision forward sprung,
And reeled the frighted group among;
And now the floor received the crash
Of one who falls in armor dead.
Alas! if there was aught within
But ghost, to brave that bolt of lead,
That shining breastplate was too thin!

The door, by sudden fury thrust,
Swung wide, and hurrying men strode in,
And one, whose voice was like a gust,
Cried, " Wherefore all this murderous din? "
Then, following Sir Hugh's wild stare,
He saw the fallen armor there,
And saw from out the iron seam
A mortal tide of crimson stream.
With hurried stride he crossed the floor,
And knelt beside the pool of gore,
With rapid hand the visor threw,
And started backward at the view:
One look told all, — no need of more: —
From out its sheath his weapon flew.

" Behold, " he cried, " O wretch, behold
The murderous work your hand has done!
Ay, stare upon that visage cold,
And recognize, mad fool, your son!
But, while there's strength within this hand
And steel of vengeance in this brand,
Your heart shall pour a stream as good,
Even though I shed a brother's blood! "

That moment he had forward sprung,
But Esther on his right arm flung
Her form, and there she pleading clung.

Then stood Sir Hugh as one who seems
Chained amid horrid nightmare-dreams;
Though fain to fly the sight of gore,
His feet were frozen to the floor.

At length he stammered, still with stare
Fixed on the pallid visage there.
" A lie! — a lie! I had no son,
And surely never such a one! "

To which the other cried again,
" Thy son, proud fool, and son of her
Whose noble heart by you was slain, —
O cold and double murderer! "

Still staring with unmoving eye,
He said, — or rather seemed to sigh, —
" I never killed her: if she died,
It was not here — — "
" Your bitter pride
Struck at her heart, until her brain
By many a cold, proud word was slain! "
The wagoner answered; and the taunt
At last awoke the Berkley blood.

" Who dares, " he cried, in furious mood,
" Thus in my face such words to flaunt?
And who art thou, who ne'er before
Save once, a rude, unwelcome guest,
Was known to enter at my door?
What rebel thou, whose coward breast
Dares breathe the insult uttered now! "

" Pray, not so fast, " the other cried.
" A moment clear your clouded brow,
And let your memory allow
I am not one to be defied!
That picture there may well attest
Whose courage ever was the best,
And which it was who quaked with fear
The moment danger came too near.
I scorned you even as a child,
Proud, cold, and selfish as you were;
A younger brother, oft reviled,
I would not be your pensioner,
And so I left you to yourself,
With all your boasted pride and pelf.

" A rebel! — nay, let that foul name
Flush your own coward cheek with shame:
'Tis ye are black Rebellion's knaves,
Traitors to Freedom and to God,
Who dare upon this sacred sod
Exalt the slave-compelling rod,
Being slaves yourselves, to make us slaves!

While throbs a heart, — while Heaven is just, —
While on the banner of our trust
One star remains to fight beneath,
No blade of ours shall seek its sheath,
No cannon hold its direful breath,
Till on the bitter field of death
The bold enslaver bites the dust.
Already, even as pictured there,
The joy has oft been mine to take
In this good grasp the tyrant snake
And fling him writhing in despair. "

" My brother, thou? " Sir Hugh replied,
The while the wagoner's form he eyed,
Scanning in scorn, from head to foot,
The patriot's rough and rustic suit.
" 'Tis false! No Berkley scion yet
His high-born lineage could forget,
To wear such rude and menial form
And be the thing which thou art now! " —
He spake, and back recoiled a pace
Before the anger of that face:
He dared no further brook the storm
Which gathered on that threatening brow.
But now his troubled eye again
Was cast upon the stripling slain,
And, with a look which strove in vain
To hide the doubt within his brain,
He cried, " 'Tis false! No blood of mine
E'er wandered vagrant through the land;
No Berkley son would raise a hand
In honor of the rebel line!
No child of mine — — "
His speech was stayed:
He glared upon the trembling maid.
" Well mayst thou tremble! " he resumed,
" And sink with burning shame consumed,
Whose recreant heart and rebel eye
Now give our loyal blood the lie!
'Tis thou, with disobedience long,
This sad and direful scene hast wrought, —
Firing the youth with rebel thought
And filling his soul with rebel song;
But that shall end! " And, at the word,
Across the harp he flashed his sword
And severed every trembling chord.

" Strike on! " — this was the wagoner's taunt: —
" Such courage ever was your vaunt:
With no more stripling sons to kill,
On other innocents wreak your fill! "

" Still mus, I hear? " Sir Hugh replied,
" Are my assertions all denied?
The boy was never son of mine,
Though harbored long beneath my roof:
In shades condemned, or realms divine,
That truant woman's wandering ghost
No Berkley offspring dares to boast: —
I challenge every proof! "

The wagoner turned, and whispered, " Hark!
What newer misery thrills the dark?
What voice is that approaching near?
Sir Hugh! — Sir Hugh! — look up and hear! "

Thus as he spoke, a mournful air
Seemed winding down the shadowy stair,
Still nearing and more near; and soon
The words came clearly with the tune.

SONG .

I.

Oh, cold was the bridegroom,
All frozen with pride:
He first slew her lover,
Then made her his bride.

II.

Beneath a green willow,
And under a stone,
They buried her lover,
And left her alone.

III.

With naught but the bridegroom's
Proud breast for her head,
Oh, how could she live when
Her lover was dead?

IV.

Her body they buried
Beside the church-wall;
Her ghost with the bridegroom
Sat up in the hall: —

V.

Sat up at his table,
Lay down in his bed: —
Oh, cold was the bridegroom, —
But colder the dead!

The singer entered. Was it a ghost,
Or sleeper walking unaware?
Her large eyes, as in revery lost,
Bent forward their unearthly stare;
Wild o'er her shoulders fell her hair;
Her face was like her garments white;
Her thin hands bore a wavering light,
Which shed a pale and mournful glare
Across those features of despair.

Still forward walked that form of awe,
As if her wide eyes nothing saw,
Until, in middle of the room,
The centre of that scene of gloom,
She cast a slow, dull glance around,
And looked as she had nothing found:
Across their very faces past
Those eyes to which all seemed a blank,
Till on the floor her glance was cast;
And there, as that look was her last,
She gazed upon those features white;
From out her fingers dropt the light,
And on the armored breast she sank.

It needed but that last wild gust
Of grief to blow from Nora's frame
Life's low, unsteady, flickering flame,
And leave it dark and soulless dust.

" Sir Hugh! — Sir Hugh! " He was not there:
Sir Hugh was gone, they knew not where.

But there the haughty suitor stood,
His bright sword flashing in his hand,
As if the keen, defying brand
His nuptial claim should still make good.
This saw the wagoner, as he laid
On Edgar's arm the fainting maid;
And, ere the soldier was aware,
He stood without a weapon there:
His sword was in the patriot's hold,
Who with a look of scorn surveyed
The face so lately flushed and bold;
Then, with contemptuous movement fleet,
Across his knee he snapped the blade,
And flung it at the wearer's feet,
And now, the wide door pointing through.
Exclaimed, with sad but threatening brow,
" Depart! The place is sacred now:
Go, follow thou Sir Hugh! "