Classic Poem

Proud Berkley, while his arm was placed
Around his daughter's slender waist,
As up the lawn they swiftly paced,
Called loudly to his men in haste
To make the outer gates secure,
To bar and lock the stable-door,
Then loose the iron kennel-check
From off the savage mastiff's neck.

But scarce their feet had pressed the floor
Beside the open entrance-door,
When still he heard the revelling din
Of some who drank and laughed within.
Then cried the host, in gayer strain,
" It seems some lingering guests remain,
To praise those old Burgundian casks
Or compliment the Rhenish flasks.
This suits me well. I'll bid them stay
And revel till the break of day;
For where such manly mirth is made
No rebel band will dare invade. "

He paced the hall like a generous host,
And laughed to hear the loud uproar,
Then cried, as he swung the festive door.
" Fill up, my friends, to a loyal toast!
Fill high! " — but, at the sight revealed,
Some sudden paces backward reeled,
Like a stunned warrior on the field,
And stood a moment dumb and lost,
Like one who meets a midnight ghost.
Then stammered, " If my sight be true,
This is an honor scarcely due.
To what may I ascribe, strange sirs,
The presence of such visitors? "

" To what, " cried one, with the voice of a gale
That laughs through an Alleghanian pine,
" But to drink your health in good red wine
Till its hue returns to your cheek so pale? "
And then the dozen sturdy men
Laughed, and brimmed their cups again,
And drained them to the hearty toast
Of Berkley Manor and its host.

'Twas hard to see his dear old wines,
The heart's blood of the noblest vines,
Poured by a rough and sunburnt hand
To nourish the souls of a rebel band.
He heard the very wine's heart throb
As it flowed from the flask with a sigh and a sob;
The bubbles that wept around each rim
Looked with imploring eyes at him.

Then swelled that gusty voice once more,
As the speaker rose full six feet four: —
" That loyal toast you left unsaid,
To spare your breath, I propose instead;
And let the craven, who dares, resist
To drink the toast of a loyalist! "

Sir Hugh a moment felt relieved:
That word, — perchance he had been deceived;
They surely could no rebels be
Who proffered toasts to loyalty.
A goblet into his hand was thrust,
Brimming and dripping, and drink he must.

" Here's to our royal governors,
And every man who such prefers!
May Heaven on their advancement smile
In their speedy return to their native isle! "

Before his sense the words explained,
The lifted cup was wellnigh drained.
Then burst the intruders' laughter-roar,
While stood the host with bewildered brain
They rose and bowed, and said no more,
And now behind them slammed the door:
He heard them descend the river-lane
With laugh and song, and all was o'er.
They had come like a sudden burst of rain,
And, like a gust, withdrew again, —
Their voices dying beyond the lawn,
Like rumbling clouds when the storm is gone.

Then in chagrin he dashed the glass
Down to the floor, a shattered mass,
And glared thereon, till, laughing, came,
Queen of the keys, the brave house-dame, —
A woman tall and somewhat sere.
But, like October, calm and clear;
Her dark eye still retained its ray,
Her hair its gloss, though touched with gray.
She cried, " You had strange guests to-night,
And such not often you invite:
Did but the world know who were here,
Yours would a rebel name appear. "

To which Sir Hugh, with anger red,
" May a thousand plagues light on each head!
I cannot guess what men they be:
I only know they drank my wine; —
Would they might hang, a scarecrow line,
On the next lightning-blasted tree! "

Hulda replied, " Unless I err,
I heard a voice I have heard before:
Each tone of his is a clinging burr,
That from the memory will not stir. —
Though it is full ten years, or more,
Since last I heard his laughter-roar,
Or his great stride along the floor,
I would know, though twice as long it were,
Ringbolt, the wilful wagoner. "

Then, in silence and in gloom,
The proud man passed to his private room,
And paced the floor, in spirit vexed,
With dusky fancies sore perplexed, —
Thought of his daughter, thought of his pride,
And of a hundred things beside.
But soon o'er his soul of turbulence
The quiet stole, and soothed the sense,
As silence with its hand at last
Smooths the pool where the storm has passed.

But hark! — was it the rising wind
Swinging the boughs on the window-blind?
Or chimney-swallows come anew,
And talking in the sooty cavern,
Conversing as room-mate travellers do
Ere they go to sleep in a wayside tavern?
Or was it some burglarious crew,
With many a stealthy gouge and scratch,
Working their way from screw to screw,
Mining around the bolt and latch,
With jar and sereech, by sure degrees,
Or torturing locks with skeleton keys?

His heart beat loud: he spake no word,
But seized two pistols and a sword;
With cautious hand he oped the door, —
It creaked as it never creaked before, —
Then descended the stair; in his soul he vowed
He never knew them to crack so loud.

At every step he seemed to hear
The noises more distinct and near;
Now at the pistol-pans he tapped,
And cocked the flints. — how loud they snapped! —
Then followed the sounds with breathless care,
Here encountered a table, and there a chair,
Till it seemed as if to retard his pace
Each article had changed its place.

The wave of every curtain's fold
Now made his trembling heart less bold,
Lest, issuing from the midnight air,
His phantom bride should meet him there,
With wild mysterious eyes to peer
Into his shuddering soul of fear.

But now he gained the parlor-door
The noise was louder than before, —
A strange, mad music, — a grate, — a jar, —
Like a maniac trying to tune a guitar.
By inch and by inch, he opened the door,
Saw long phantom windows stretch over the floor.
Made by the moon, and in the full flood,
Up at the end where the golden harp stood,
Beheld — and his heart strangely thrilled at the sight —
The cause of the noises, the source of his fright.

He gazed with anger mixed with joy,
As he beheld the marvellous boy, —
Anger at the fears unbounded,
Joy that they had proved unfounded:
One long relieving breath he drew,
Then gazed with silent, steadfast view.

Close to the harp the urchin prest
And clasped it fondly to his breast,
Then softly o'er his fingers stirred,
To wake the tones he late had heard;
Now stopped among the bass perplexed,
Then tried the tinkling treble next;
Now over all his wild hands sped,
And then, despairing, he shook his head;
His large eyes wondering, seemed to say
The music had gone with the maid away.

Then he arose, with puzzled air,
And gazed upon the pictures there,
Marvelling much that such things were,
All so alive, and yet no stir:
And now he climbed into the niche
Where stood the suit of armor rich,
With golden tracery embossed,
And gazed on it in wonder lost,
From head to foot, with searching scan,
Surveyed the marvellous iron man;
Then, with a hand that nothing feared,
The visor carefully upreared, —
While Berkley saw, with a shudder of dread,
The horrid yawn of that iron head, —
Looked calmly in, and nothing saw,
Then closed it, having felt no awe.

Methinks to the angel of Peace 'twould be
A charmed and sacred sight to see
A child by an offcast coat of war,
Who dreamed not what 'twas fashioned for.
Heaven send the time when bloody Mars
Shall only be known among the stars,
And his armor, with its thousand scars,
In a niche, as a curious thing, be bound,
And peered into, and nothing found!

Oh, would some sweet bird of the South
Might build in every cannon's mouth,
Till the only sound from its rusty throat
Should be the wren's or the bluebird's note,
That doves might find a safe resort
In the embrasures of every fort!

Again to the harp the urchin passed,
And sat him down, subdued and tame,
And seeming overweighed at last,
He leaned against the golden frame;
His black hair drooped along the strings
Like a fainting night-bird's wings;
A long sigh heaved his tired breast,
And slumber soothed him into rest.

There, like a spirit bright and good,
The guardian moon above him stood:
She kissed his cheeks, caressed his hair,
And filled with happy dreams the air,
Till the smile which o'er his features strayed
The pleasure at his heart betrayed.

Sir Hugh approached the sleeping child,
And stood with wondering thoughts beguiled.
How beautiful the picture there! —
The gold harp propping the weary head,
The flashing cords, the shadowy hair,
And over all the moonshine shed!

That slumbering face, it touched his heart,
And bade the puzzled memories start;
He had seen it in a dream before, —
A dream long gone to come no more.

To keep the weary sleeper warm,
He spread a mantle where he lay,
And pressed it softly round his form,
Then turned with noiseless feet away,
And left him there to dream at large,
The shadows' and the white moon's charge.