Chapter XXXV: Canto XXV (4)

“The history of this animal used to be a subject of conversation among the Indians, especially when in the woods a-hunting. I have also heard them say to their children when crying: ‘Hush! the naked bear will hear you, be upon you, and devour you.’”

Page 266. _Where the Falls of Minnehaha, etc._

“The scenery about Fort Snelling is rich in beauty. The Falls of St. Anthony are familiar to travellers, and to readers of Indian sketches. Between the fort and these falls are the ‘Little Falls,’ forty feet in height, on a stream that empties into the Mississippi. The Indians call them Mine-hah-hah, or ‘laughing waters.’”—MRS. EASTMAN’S _Dacotah, or Legends of the Sioux_, Introd. p. ii.

Page 283. _Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo._

A description of the _Grand Sable_, or great sand-dunes of Lake Superior, is given in Foster and Witney’s _Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land District_, Part ii. p. 131.

“The Grand Sable possesses a scenic interest little inferior to that of the Pictured Rocks. The explorer passes abruptly from a coast of consolidated sand to one of loose materials; and although in the one case the cliffs are less precipitous, yet in the other they attain a higher altitude. He sees before him a long reach of coast, resembling a vast sand-bank, more than three hundred and fifty feet in height, without a trace of vegetation. Ascending to the top, rounded hillocks of blown sand are observed, with occasional clumps of trees, standing out like oases in the desert.”

Page 284. _Onaway! Awake, beloved!_

The original of this song may be found in Littell’s _Living Age_, vol. XXV. p. 45.

Page 285. _Or the Red Swan floating, flying._

The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan may be found in Schoolcraft’s _Algic Researches_, vol. ii. p. 9. Three brothers were hunting on a wager to see who would bring home the first game.

“They were to shoot no other animal,” so the legend says, “but such as each was in the habit of killing. They set out different ways; Odjibwa, the youngest, had not gone far before he saw a bear, an animal he was not to kill by the agreement. He followed him close, and drove an arrow through him, which brought him to the ground. Although contrary to the bet, he immediately commenced skinning him, when suddenly something red tinged all the air around him. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps deceived; but without effect, for the red hue continued. At length he heard a strange noise at a distance. It first appeared like a human voice, but after following the sound for some distance, he reached the shores of a lake, and soon saw the object he was looking for. At a distance out on the lake sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage glittered in the sun, and who would now and then make the same noise he had heard. He was within long bow-shot, and, pulling the arrow from the bow-string up to his ear, took deliberate aim and shot. The arrow took no effect; and he shot and shot again till his quiver was empty. Still the swan remained, moving round and round, stretching its long neck and dipping its bill into the water, as if heedless of the arrows shot at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all his own and his brother’s arrows, and shot them all away. He then stood and gazed at the beautiful bird. While standing, he remembered his brother’s saying that in their deceased father’s medicine-sack were three magic arrows. Off he started, his anxiety to kill the swan overcoming all scruples. At any other time he would have deemed it sacrilege to open his father’s medicine-sack; but now he hastily seized the three arrows and ran back, leaving the other contents of the sack scattered over the lodge. The swan was still there. He shot the first arrow with great precision, and came very near it. The second came still closer; as he took the last arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, drawing it up with vigour, saw it pass through the neck of the swan a little above the breast. Still it did not prevent the bird from flying off, which it did, however, at first slowly, flapping its wings and rising gradually into the air, and then flying off towards the sinking of the sun.”—Pp. 10-12.

Page 288. _When I think of my beloved._

The original of this song may be found in _Oneóta_, p. 15.

Page 289. _Sing the mysteries of Mondamin._

The Indians hold the maize, or Indian corn, in great veneration. “They esteem it so important and divine a grain,” says Schoolcraft, “that their story-tellers invented various tales, in which this idea is symbolized under the form of a special gift from the Great Spirit. The Odjibwa-Algonquins, who called it Mondá-min, that is, the Spirit’s grain or berry, have a pretty story of this kind, in which the stalk in full tassel is represented as descending from the sky, under the guise of a handsome youth, in answer to the prayers of a young man at his fast of virility, or coming to manhood.

“It is well known that corn-planting, and corn-gathering, at least among all the still _uncolonized_ tribes, are left entirely to the females and children, and a few superannuated old men. It is not generally known, perhaps, that this labour is not compulsory, and that it is assumed by the females as a just equivalent, in their view, for the onerous and continuous labour of the other sex, in providing meats, and skins for clothing, by the chase, and in defending their villages against their enemies, and keeping intruders off their territories. A good Indian housewife deems this part of her prerogative, and prides herself to have a store of corn to exercise her hospitality, or duly honour her husband’s hospitality in the entertainment of the lodge guests.”—_Oneóta_, p. 82.

Page 289. _Thus the fields shall be more fruitful._

“A singular proof of this belief, in both sexes, of the mysterious influence of the steps of a woman on the vegetable and insect creation, is found in an ancient custom, which was related to me, respecting corn-planting. It was the practice of the hunter’s wife, when the field of corn had been planted, to choose the first dark or over-clouded evening to perform a secret circuit, _sans habilement_, around the field. For this purpose she slipped out of the lodge in the evening, unobserved, to some obscure nook, where she completely disrobed. Then, taking her matchecota, or principal garment, in one hand, she dragged it around the field. This was thought to ensure a prolific crop, and to prevent the assaults of insects and worms upon the grain. It was supposed they could not creep over the charmed line.”—_Oneóta_, p. 83.

Page 290. _With his prisoner-string he bound him._

“These cords,” says Mr. Tanner, “are made of the bark of the elm-tree, by boiling and then immersing it in cold water.... The leader of a war party commonly carries several fastened about his waist, and if, in the course of the fight, any one of his young men takes a prisoner, it is his duty to bring him immediately to the chief, to be tied, and the latter is responsible for his safe-keeping.”—_Narrative of Captivity and Adventures_, p. 412.

Page 291. _Wagemin, the thief of corn-fields.
Paimosaid, the skulking robber._

“If one of the young female huskers finds a red ear of corn, it is typical of a brave admirer, and is regarded as a fitting present to some young warrior. But if the ear be _crooked_, and tapering to a point, no matter what colour, the whole circle is set in a roar, and _wa-ge-min_ is the word shouted aloud. It is the symbol of a thief in the corn-field. It is considered as the image of an old man stooping as he enters the lot. Had the chisel of Praxiteles been employed to produce this image, it could not more vividly bring to the minds of the merry group the idea of a pilferer of their favourite mondámin....

“The literal meaning of the term is, a mass, or crooked ear of grain; but the ear of corn so called, is a conventional type of a little old man pilfering ears of corn in a corn-field. It is in this manner that a single word or term, in these curious languages, becomes the fruitful parent of many ideas. And we can thus perceive why it is that the word wa-ge-min is alone competent to excite merriment in the husking circle.

“This term is taken as the basis of the cereal chores, or corn-song, as sung by the Northern Algonquin tribes. It is coupled with the phrase _Paimosaid_, a permutative form of the Indian substantive, made from the verb _pimp-o-sa_, to walk. Its literal meaning is, _he who walks_, or _the walker_; but the ideas conveyed by it are, he who walks by night to pilfer corn. It offers, therefore, a kind of parallelism in expression to the preceding term.”—_Oneóta_, p. 254.

Page 296. _Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces._

This game of the Bowl is the principal game of hazard among the Northern tribes of Indians. Mr. Schoolcraft gives a particular account of it in _Oneóta_, p. 85. “This game,” he says, “is very fascinating to some portions of the Indians. They stake at it their ornaments, weapons, clothing, canoes, horses, everything, in fact, they possess; and have been known, it is said, to set up their wives and children, and even to forfeit their own liberty. Of such desperate stakes I have seen no examples, nor do I think the game itself in common use. It is rather confined to certain persons, who hold the relative rank of gamblers in Indian society—men who are not noted as hunters or warriors, or steady providers for their families. Among these are persons who bear the term of _Ienadizze-wug_, that is, wanderers about the country, braggadocios, or fops. It can hardly be classed with the popular games of amusenent, by which skill and dexterity are acquired. I have generally found the chiefs and graver men of the tribes, who encouraged the young men to play ball, and are sure to be present at the customary sports, to witness, and sanction, and applaud them, speak lightly and disparagingly of this game of hazard. Yet it cannot be denied that some of the chiefs, distinguished in war and the chase, at the West, can be referred to as lending their example to its fascinating power.”

See also his _History, Condition, and Prospects of the Indian Tribes_, Part ii. p. 72.

Page 302. _To the Pictured Rocks of Sandstone._

The reader will find a long description of the Pictured Rocks in Foster and Whitney’s _Report on the Geology of the Lake Superior Land District_, Part ii. p. 124. From this I make the following extract:—

“The Pictured Rocks may be described, in general terms, as a series of sandstone bluffs extending along the shore of Lake Superior for about five miles, and rising in most places vertically from the water, without any beach at the base, to a height varying from fifty to nearly two hundred feet. Were they simply a line of cliffs, they might not, so far as relates to height or extent, be worthy of a rank among great natural curiosities, although such an assemblage of rocky strata, washed by the waves of the great lake, would not, under any circumstances, be destitute of grandeur. To the voyager coasting along their base in his frail canoe, they would at all times be an object of dread; the recoil of the surf, the rock-bound coast, affording for miles no place of refuge—the lowering sky, the rising wind—all these would excite his apprehension, and induce him to ply a vigorous oar until the dreaded wall was passed. But in the Pictured Rocks there are two features which communicate to the scenery a wonderful and almost unique character. These are, first, the curious manner in which the cliffs have been excavated and worn away by the action of the lake, which for centuries has dashed an ocean-like surf against their base; and second, the equally curious manner in which large portions of the surface have been coloured by bands of brilliant hues.

“It is from the latter circumstance that the name by which these cliffs are known to the American traveller is derived; while that applied to them by the French voyageurs (‘Les Portails’) is derived from the former, and by far the most striking peculiarity.

“The term _Pictured Rocks_ has been in use for a great length of time; but when it was first applied, we have been unable to discover. It would seem that the first travellers were more impressed with the novel and striking distribution of colours on the surface than with the astonishing variety of form into which the cliffs themselves have been worn....

“Our voyageurs had many legends to relate of the pranks of the _Menni-bojou_ in these caverns, and, in answer to our inquiries, seemed disposed to fabricate stories without end of the achievements of this Indian deity.”

Page 311. _Towards the sun his hands were lifted._

In this manner, and with such salutations, was Father Marquette received by the Illinois. See his _Voyages et Découvertes_, section v.

Page 434. _Like imperial Charlemagne._

During his lifetime he did not disdain, says Montesquieu, “to sell the eggs from the farm-yards of his domains, and the superfluous vegetables of his gardens; while he distributed among his people the wealth of the Lombards and the immense treasures of the Huns.”

Page 529. _Coplas de Manrique._

Don Jorge Manrique, the author of this poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his history of Spain, makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; and speaks of him as “a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young; and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame.” He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cañavete, in the year 1479.

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Parades and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclès; but according to the poem of his son, in Ocaña. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, “Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn.” This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on—calm, dignified, and majestic.

This poem of Manrique is a great favourite in Spain. No less than four poetic glosses, or running commentaries upon it, have been published, no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. It is known as the _Glosa del Cartujo_. There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda.

* * * * *

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author’s pocket after his death on the field of battle:—

“O World! so few the years we live,
Would that the life which thou dost give
Were life indeed!
Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast,
Our happiest hour is when at last
The soul is freed.

“Our days are covered o’er with grief,
And sorrows neither few nor brief
Veil all in gloom;
Left desolate of real good,
Within this cheerless solitude
No pleasures bloom.

“Thy pilgrimage begins in tears,
And ends in bitter doubts and fears,
Or dark despair;
Midway so many toils appear,
That he who lingers longest here
Knows most of care.

“Thy goods are bought with many a groan,
By the hot sweat of toil alone,
And weary hearts;
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe,
But with a lingering step and slow
Its form departs.”

Page 546. _A Christmas Carol._

The following description of Christmas in Burgundy is from M. Fertiault’s _Coup d’œil sur les Noels en Bourgogne_, prefixed to the Paris edition of _Les Noels Bourguignons de la Monnoye_ (_Gui Barozai_), 1842:—

“Every year, at the approach of Advent, people refresh their memories, clear their throats, and begin preluding, in the long evenings by the fireside, those carols whose invariable and eternal theme is the coming of the Messiah. They take from old closets, pamphlets, little collections begrimed with dust and smoke, to which the press, and sometimes the pen, has consigned these songs; and as soon as the first Sunday of Advent sounds, they gossip, they gad about, they sit together by the fireside, sometimes at one house, sometimes at another, taking turns in paying for the chestnuts and white wine, but singing with one common voice the grotesque praises of the _Little Jesus_. There are very few villages even, which, during all the evenings of Advent, do not hear some of these curious canticles shouted in their streets, to the nasal drone of bagpipes. In this case the minstrel comes as a reinforcement to the singers at the fireside; he brings and adds his dose of joy (spontaneous or mercenary, it matters little which) to the joy which breathes around the hearthstone; and when the voices vibrate and resound, one voice more is always welcome. There, it is not the purity of the notes which makes the concert, but the quantity—_non qualitas sed quantitas_; then (to finish at once with the ministrel), when the Saviour has at length been born in the manger, and the beautiful Christmas-eve is passed, the rustic piper makes his round among the houses, where every one compliments and thanks him, and, moreover, gives him in a small coin the price of the shrill notes with which he has enlivened the evening entertainments.

“More or less, until Christmas-eve, all goes on in this way among our devout singers, with the difference of some gallons of wine or some hundreds of chestnuts. But this famous eve once come, the scale is pitched upon a higher key; the closing evening must be a memorable one. The toilet is begun at nightfall; then comes the hour of supper, admonishing divers appetites; and groups, as numerous as possible, are formed, to take together this comfortable evening repast. The supper finished, a circle gathers around the hearth, which is arranged and set in order this evening after a particular fashion, and which at a later hour of the night is to become the object of special interest to the children. On the burning brands an enormous log has been placed. This log assuredly does not change its nature, but it changes its name during this evening; it is called the _Suche_ (the Yule-log). ‘Look you,’ say they to the children, ‘if you are good this evening, Noël’ (for with children one must always personify) ‘will rain down sugar-plums in the night.’ And the children sit demurely, keeping as quiet as their turbulent little natures will permit. The groups of older persons, not always as orderly as the children, seize this good opportunity to surrender themselves with merry hearts and boisterous voices to the chanted worship of the miraculous Noël. For this final solemnity they have kept the most powerful, the most enthusiastic, the most electrifying carols. Noël! Noël! Noël! This magic word resounds on all sides; it seasons every sauce; it is served up with every course. Of the thousands of canticles which are heard on this famous eve, ninety-nine in a hundred begin and end with this word; which is, one may say, their Alpha and Omega, their crown and footstool.”

Page 546. _The blind girl of Castèl-Cuillè._

The following description of Jasmin’s person and way of life is taken from the graphic pages of _Béarn and the Pyrenees_, by Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming pen has done so much to illustrate the French provinces and their literature:—

“At the entrance of the promenade du Gravier is a row of small houses—some _cafés_, others shops, the indication of which is a painted cloth, placed across the way, with the owner’s name in bright gold letters, in the manner of the arcades in the streets, and their announcements. One of the most glaring of these was, we observed, a bright blue flag, bordered with gold; on which, in large gold letters, appeared the name of ‘Jasmin, coiffeur.’ We entered, and were welcomed by a smiling, dark-eyed woman, who informed us that her husband was busy at that moment, dressing a customer’s hair, but he was desirous to receive us, and begged we would walk into his parlour at the back of the shop.

* * * * *

“She exhibited to us a laurel crown of gold, of delicate workmanship, sent from the city of Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to the poet; who will probably one day take his place in the _capitoul_. Next came a golden cup, with an inscription in his honour, given by the citizens of Auch; a gold watch, chain, and seals, sent by the king, Louis Philippe; an emerald ring, worn and presented by the lamented Duke of Orleans; a pearl pin, by the graceful Duchess, who, on the poet’s visit to Paris, accompanied by his son, received him in the words he puts into the mouth of Henri Quatre:—

‘Brabes Gascous!
A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre;
Benès! benès! cy plazé de bous beyre;
Aproucha bous!’

A fine service of linen, the offering of the town of Pau, after its citizens had given fêtes in his honour, and loaded him with caresses and praises; and nicknacks and jewels of all descriptions, offered to him by lady-ambassadresses and great lords; English ‘misses’ and ‘miladis;’ and French and foreigners of all nations who did or did not understand Gascon.

“All this, though startling, was not convincing; Jasmin, the barber, might only be a fashion, a _furore_, a caprice, after all; and it was evident that he knew how to get up a scene well. When we had become nearly tired of looking over these tributes to his genius, the door opened, and the poet himself appeared. His manner was free and unembarrassed, well-bred, and lively; he received our compliments naturally, and like one accustomed to homage; said he was ill, and unfortunately too hoarse to read anything to us, or should have been delighted to do so. He spoke with a broad Gascon accent, and very rapidly and eloquently; ran over the story of his successes; told us that his grandfather had been a beggar, and all his family very poor; that he was now as rich as he wished to be; his son placed in a good position at Nantes; then showed us his son’s picture, and spoke of his disposition, to which his brisk little wife added that, though no fool, he had not his father’s genius, to which truth Jasmin assented as a matter of course. I told him of having seen mention made of him in an English review; which he said had been sent him by Lord Durham, who had paid him a visit: and I then spoke of ‘Mi cal mouri’ as known to me. This was enough to make him forget his hoarseness and every other evil: it would never do for me to imagine that that little song was his best composition; it was merely his first; he must try to read to me a little of ‘L’Abuglo,’ a few verses of ‘Françonnette.’ ‘You will be charmed,’ said he; ‘but if I were well, and you would give me the pleasure of your company for some time, if you were not merely running through Agen, I would kill you with weeping—I would make you die with distress for my poor Margarido—my pretty Françonnette!’

“He caught up two copies of his book from a pile lying on the table, and making us sit close to him, he pointed out the French translation on one side, which he told us to follow, while he read in Gascon. He began in a rich soft voice, and as he advanced, the surprise of Hamlet on hearing the player-king recite the disasters of Hecuba was but a type of ours, to find ourselves carried away by the spell of his enthusiasm. His eyes swam in tears; he became pale and red; he trembled; he recovered himself; his face was now joyous, now exulting, gay, jocose; in fact, he was twenty actors in one; he rang the changes from Rachel to Bouffé; and he finished by delighting us, besides beguiling us of our tears, and overwhelming us with astonishment.

“He would have been a treasure on the stage; for he is still, though his first youth is past, remarkably good-looking and striking; with black, sparkling eyes of intense expression; a fine ruddy complexion; a countenance of wondrous mobility; a good figure, and action full of fire and grace; he has handsome hands, which he uses with infinite effect; and, on the whole, he is the best actor of the kind I ever saw. I could now quite understand what a troubadour or _jongleur_ might be, and I look upon Jasmin as a revived specimen of that extinct race. Such as he is might have been Gaucelm Faidit, of Avignon, the friend of Cœur de Lion, who lamented the death of the hero in such moving strains; such might have been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang the praises of Queen Elinore’s beauty; such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on his own Garonne; such the wild Vidal; certain it is that none of these troubadours of old could more move, by their singing or reciting, than Jasmin, in whom all their long-smothered fire and traditional magic seem re-illumined.

“We found we had stayed hours instead of minutes with the poet; but he would not hear of any apology—only regretted that his voice was so out of tune, in consequence of a violent cold, under which he was really labouring, and hoped to see us again. He told us our countrywomen of Pau had laden him with kindness and attention, and spoke with such enthusiasm of the beauty of certain ‘misses,’ that I feared his little wife would feel somewhat piqued; but, on the contrary, she stood by, smiling and happy, and enjoying the stories of his triumphs. I remarked that he had restored the poetry of the troubadours; asked him if he knew their songs; and said he was worthy to stand at their head. ‘I am, indeed, a troubadour,’ said he with energy; ‘but I am far beyond them all; they were but beginners; they never composed a poem like my Françonnette! there are no poets in France now—there cannot be; the language does not admit of it; where is the fire, the spirit, the expression, the tenderness, the force of the Gascon? French is but the ladder to reach the first floor of Gascon—how can you get up to a height except by a ladder?’

* * * * *

“I returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees of some months, and renewed my acquaintance with Jasmin and his dark-eyed wife. I did not expect that I should be recognised; but the moment I entered the little shop I was hailed as an old friend. ‘Ah!’ cried Jasmin, ‘enfin la violà encore!’ I could not but be flattered by this recollection, but soon found it was less on my own account that I was thus welcomed, than because a circumstance had occurred to the poet which he thought I could perhaps explain. He produced several French newspapers, in which he pointed out to me an article headed, ‘Jasmin à Londres;’ being a translation of certain notices of himself, which had appeared in a leading English literary journal. He had, he said, been informed of the honour done him by numerous friends, and assured me his fame had been much spread by this means; and he was so delighted on the occasion, that he had resolved to learn English, in order that he might judge of the translations from his works, which, he had been told, were well done. I enjoyed his surprise, while I informed him I knew who was the reviewer and translator; and explained the reason for the verses giving pleasure in an English dress to be the superior simplicity of the English language over modern French, for which he has a great contempt, as unfitted for lyrical composition. He inquired of me respecting Burns, to whom he had been likened; and begged me to tell him something of Moore. The delight of himself and his wife was amusing, at having discovered a secret which had puzzled them so long.

“He had a thousand things to tell me; in particular, that he had only the day before received a letter from the Duchess of Orleans, informing him that she had ordered a medal of her late husband to be struck, the first of which would be sent to him: she also announced to him the agreeable news of the king having granted him a pension of a thousand francs. He smiled and wept by turns, as he told all this; and declared, much as he was elated at the possession of a sum which made him a rich man for life, the kindness of the duchess gratified him even more.

“He then made us sit down while he read us two new poems; both charming and full of grace and _naïveté_; and one very affecting, being an address to the king, alluding to the death of his son. As he read, his wife stood by, and, fearing we did not quite comprehend his language, she made a remark to that effect: to which he answered, impatiently, ‘Nonsense—don’t you see they are in tears?’ This was unanswerable; and we were allowed to hear the poem to the end; and I certainly never listened to anything more feelingly and energetically delivered.

“We had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain us, and, in the course of it, he told me that he had been by some accused of vanity. ‘O,’ he rejoined, ‘what would you have? I am a child of nature, and cannot conceal my feelings; the only difference between me and a man of refinement is, that he knows how to conceal his vanity and exultation at success, which I let everybody see.’”—_Béarn and the Pyrenees_, i. 369 _et seq._

Page 600. _Nils Juel._

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder Wessel a Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received the popular title of Tordenskiold, or _Thundershield_. In childhood he was a tailor’s apprentice, and rose to his higher rank before the age of twenty-eight, when he was killed in a duel.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

PAGE
A blind man is a poor man, 589
A cold, uninterrupted rain, 392
A fleet with flags arrayed, 492
A handful of red sand, from the hot clime, 151
A little bird in the air, 374
A millstone and the human heart, 589
A mist was driving down the British Channel, 462
A strain of music closed the tale, 380
A wind came up out of the sea, 475
A youth, light-hearted and content, 598
After a day of cloud and wind and rain, 447
Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, 446
Ah Love, 87
Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me, 148
All are architects of Fate, 150
All day has the battle raged, 378
All houses wherein men have lived and died, 463
All praised the Legend more or less, 412
All the old gods are dead, 369
Am I a king, that I should call my own, 500
An angel with a radiant face, 559
An old man in a lodge within a park, 441
And King Olaf heard the cry, 359
And now, behold! as at the approach of morning, 538
And now I sit and muse on what may be, 445
And then the blue-eyed Norseman told, 358
And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing, 440
Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 586
As a fond mother when the day is o’er, 438
As one who walking in a forest sees, 445
As one who, walking in the twilight gloom, 139
As the birds come in the spring, 504
As the dim twilight shrouds, 525
As unto the bow the cord is, 279
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 482
At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town, 394
At Drontheim, Olaf the king, 371
At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 403
At the foot of the mountain height, 561

Baron Castine of St. Castine, 412
Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 425
Beautiful valley through whose verdant meads, 485
Behold! a giant am I!, 509
Bell! thou soundest merrily, 594
Bent like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 112
Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 20
Between the dark and the daylight, 481
Beware! the Israelite of old, who tore, 23
Black are the moors before Kazan, 605
Black shadows fall, 460
Blind Bartimeus at the gates, 28
Build me straight, O worthy master, 140
Burn, O evening hearth, and waken, 429
But yesterday these few and hoary sheaves, 537
By his evening fire the artist, 156
By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 311
By yon still river, where the wave, 525

Can it be the sun descending, 285
Christ to the young man said, “Yet one thing more”, 155
Clear fount of light, my native land on high, 536
Come! old friend! sit down and listen, 52
Come to me, O ye children, 478

Dark is the morning with mist, 508
Dead he lay among his books, 506
Dear child! how radiant on thy mother’s knee, 39
Dost thou see on the rampart’s height, 494
Down from yon distant mountain height, 605
Downward through the evening twilight, 261

Even as a bird, ’mid the belovèd leaves, 541
Even as the Blessèd, at the final summons, 540

Far and wide among the nations, 303
Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains, 131
Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim, 28
For thee was a house built, 571
Forms of saints and kings are standing, 585
Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and
scarlet, 335
Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 273
Four limpid lakes—four Naiades, 502
Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day, 118
From this high portal, where upsprings, 570
Full of wrath was Hiawatha, 299

Garlands upon his grave, 485
Gentle Spring!—in sunshine clad, 553
Give me of your bark, O Birch-Tree, 272
Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas, 47
God sent his messenger the rain, 249
God sent his Singers upon earth, 154
Good night, good night, beloved, 85

Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled, 410
Hast thou seen that lordly castle?, 595
Hasten, hasten, O ye spirits, 157
Have I dreamed? or was it real, 479
Have you read in the Talmud of old, 479
He ended: and a kind of spell, 353
He is dead, the beautiful youth, 430
He is gone to the desert land, 603
Hence away, begone, begone, 554
Here in a little rustic hermitage, 441
Here lies the gentle humourist, who died, 438
Here rest the weary oar!—soft airs, 524
Honour be to Mudjekeewis!, 258
How beautiful is the rain!, 44
How beautiful it was that one bright day, 427
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!, 508
How I started up in the night, in the night, 599
How many lives, made beautiful and sweet, 434
How much of my young heart, O Spain, 493
How strange it seems! these Hebrews in their graves, 467
How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers, 436
How they so softly rest, 594

I am the God Thor, 359
I enter, and I see thee in the gloom, 436
I have read, in some old marvellous tale, 13
I hear along our street, 560
I heard a brooklet gushing, 593
I heard a voice that cried, 153
I heard the bells on Christmas Day, 432
I heard the trailing garments of the night, 8
I know a maiden fair to see, 594
I lay upon the headland height, and listened, 426
I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, 570
I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze, 437
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls, 27
I sat by my window one night, 527
I saw, as in a dream sublime, 43
I see amidst the fields of Ayr, 505
I shot an arrow into the air, 50
I stand again on the familiar shore, 444
I stand beneath the tree, whose branches shade, 441
I stood on the bridge at midnight, 45
I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide arch, 3
I thought before your tale began, 399
I thought this pen would arise, 504
I trust that somewhere and somehow, 399
If it e’er happen that the Poem Sacred, 548
If perhaps these rhymes of mine, 589
If thou art sleeping, maiden, 103
In broad daylight, and at noon, 470
In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp, 21
In his chamber, weak and dying, 38
In his lodge beside a river, 308
In Mather’s _Magnalia Christi_, 461
In Ocean’s wide domains, 23
In St. Luke’s Gospel we are told, 503
In that building, long and low, 472
In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware’s
waters, 135
In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 107
In the ancient town of Bruges, 30
In the convent of Drontheim, 379
In the heroic days when Ferdinand, 381
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown, 30
In the old churchyard of his native town, 500
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, 314
In the valley of the Pegintz, where across broad meadow-lands, 35
In the Valley of the Vire, 466
In the village churchyard she lies, 465
In those days, said Hiawatha, 291
In those days the Evil Spirits, 293
Intelligence and courtesy are not always combined, 589
Into the city of Kambalu, 397
Into the darkness and the hush of night, 442
Into the open air John Alden, perplexed, 322
Into the Silent Land, 590
Is it so far from thee, 501
It was Einar Tamberskelver, 378
It was fifty years ago, 476
It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, 421
It was the month of May. Far down the beautiful River, 123
It was the schooner _Hesperus_, 17
It was the season, when through all the land, 386
Italy! Italy! thou who’rt doomed to wear, 552

Joy and Temperance and Repose, 588
Just above yon sandy bar, 149
Just in the grey of the dawn as the mists uprose from the
meadows, 325

King Christian stood by the lofty mast, 599

Labour with what zeal we will, 483
Laugh of the mountain!—lyre of bird and tree!, 535
Leafless are the trees; their purple branches, 473
Let nothing disturb thee, 535
Like two cathedral towers these stately pines, 443
Listen, my children, and you shall hear, 341
Live I, so live I, 589
Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, 435
Longing already to search in and round, 539
Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care, 536
Loud he sang the Psalm of David, 24
Loud the angry wind was wailing, 370
Loudly the sailors cheered, 375
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine, 554
Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, 589

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, 32
Manlike is it to fall into sin, 589
Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pré, 122
Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily
northward, 331
Month after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the
merchants, 333
Most beautiful, most gentle! Yet how lost, 522
Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, 495
Much it behoveth, 573
My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery, 569
My way is on the bright blue sea, 29

Near to the bank of the river, o’ershadowed by oaks, from whose
branches, 126
Never stoops the soaring vulture, 304
Night rests in beauty on Mont Alto, 520
Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face, 439
No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks, 484
Northward over Drontheim, 374
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the
stripling, 316
Now from all King Olaf’s farms, 363
Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and
longer, 110
Now Time throws off his cloak again, 555
“_Nunc plaudite_” the Student cried, 419

O Cæsar, we who are about to die, 447
O company elect to the Great Supper, 544
O curfew of the setting Sun! O Bells of Lynn, 428
O gift of God! O perfect day, 480
O hemlock-tree! O hemlock-tree! how faithful are thy branches, 586
O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended, 591
O let the soul her slumbers break, 529
O little feet! that such long years, 483
O Lord! that seest, from yonder starry height, 536
O lovely river of Yvette!, 498
O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped, 437
O River of Yesterday, with current swift, 440
O star of morning and of liberty, 437
O the long and dreary Winter!, 306
O traveller, stay thy weary feet, 515
O weathercock on the village spire, 508
O’er all the hill-tops, 595
Of Edenhall the youthful lord, 597
Of Prometheus, how undaunted, 459
Oft have I seen at some cathedral door, 436
Often I think of the beautiful town, 470
Olaf the King, one summer morn, 366
Olger the Dane and Desiderio, 423
On King Olaf’s bridal night, 368
On St. Bavon’s tower, commanding, 499
On sunny slope and beechen swell, 5
On the cross the dying Saviour, 588
On the green little isle of Inchkenneth, 499
On the grey sea-sands, 376
On the Mountains of the Prairie, 256
On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 276
Once into a quiet village, 152
Once more, once more, Inarimé, 491
Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 464
Once upon Iceland’s solitary strand, 444
One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 338
One day, Haroun Al Raschid read, 496
One hundred years ago, and something more, 406
One summer morning when the sun was hot, 345
Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might, 560
Othere, the old sea-captain, 477
Our God a tower of strength is he, 251
Out of childhood into manhood, 264
Out of the bosom of the Air, 484

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come, 577
Pleasant it was, when woods were green, 7
Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré, 115
Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine, 443

Quand les astres de Noël, 431
Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft, 361

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read, 352
River! that in silence windest, 27
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane, 254
Round Autumn’s mouldering urn, 519

Safe at anchor in Drontheim Bay, 373
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, 460
St. Botolph’s Town! Hither across the plains, 442
See, the fire is sinking low, 429
She dwells by great Kenhawa’s side, 21
Shepherd! who with thine amorous, sylvan song, 535
Short of stature, large of limb, 368
Should you ask me, whence these stories?, 255
Simon Danz has come home again, 488
Sing! O song of Hiawatha, 289
Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 600
Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest, 513
Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round, 439
So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, 318
Solemnly, mournfully, 48
Somewhat back from the village street, 53
Soon as the story reached its end, 351
Southward with fleet of ice, 147
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 11
Speak! speak! thou fearful guest, 15
Spring is coming, birds are twittering, 574
Stars of the summer night, 59
Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest, 492
Steer, bold mariner, on! albeit witlings deride thee, 606
Still through Egypt’s desert places, 512
“Strike the sails!” King Olaf said, 377
Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father’s face, 553
Sweet the memory is to me, 487

Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old, 551
Take them, O Death! and bear away, 155
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 9
The Ages come and go, 253
The archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, 556
The battle is fought and won, 419
The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 490
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary, 25
The day is done, and the darkness, 51
The day is ending, 54
The guests were loud, the ale was strong, 364
The hour was late; the fire burned low, 392
The Landlord ended thus his tale, 344
The lights are out, and gone are all the guests, 445
The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, 446
The night is come, but not too soon, 11
The old house by the lindens, 155
The pages of thy book I read, 20
The picture fades; as at a village fair, 445
The rising moon has hid the stars, 26
The rivers rush into the sea, 592
The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 146
The sea hath its pearls, 590
The shades of night were falling fast, 46
The Slaver in the broad lagoon, 22
The sun is bright, the air is clear, 25
The tide rises, the tide falls, 511
The twilight is sad and cloudy, 145
The works of human artifice soon tire, 537
There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 5
There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 10
There is no flock, however watched and tended, 149
There sat one day in quiet, 593
There was a time when I was very small, 602
These words the poet heard in Paradise, 517
They made the warrior’s grave beside, 526
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 33
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the
hemlocks, 106
This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 34
This song of mine, 474
Thora of Rimol! hide me! hide me, 360
Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, 372
Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud, 438
Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, 434
Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, 557
Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower, 443
Thou that from the heaven’s art, 595
Though the mills of God grind slowly, 589
Three Kings came riding from far away, 496
Three miles extended around the fields of the homestead; on three
sides, 573
Three Silences there are; the first of speech, 442
Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, 386
Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, 328
Thus sang the Potter at his task, 454
Thus then, much care-worn, 571
’Tis late at night, and in the realm of sleep, 435
To gallop off to town post-haste, 555
To noble heart Love doth for shelter fly, 552
Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn round and round, 454
Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, 435
’Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 595
Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 465
Two good friends had Hiawatha, 270

Under a spreading chestnut-tree, 26
Under Mount Etna he lies, 481
Under the walls of Monterey, 469
Until we meet again! That is the meaning, 510
Up soared the lark into the air, 489

Viswamitra the magician, 496
Vogelweid the Minnesinger, 50

Warm and still is the summer night, 491
We sat within the farm-house old, 145
Welcome, my old friend, 49
Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing, 604
Well pleased the audience heard the tale, 410
What an image of peace and rest, 507
What phantom is this, that appears, 503
What say the Bells of San Blas, 516
What was the end? I am ashamed, 402
When by night the frogs are croaking, 589
When descends on the Atlantic, 51
When first in ancient time from Jubal’s tongue, 518
When Mazáran, the magician, 498
When the dying flame of day, 4
When the hours of Day are numbered, 9
When the long murmur of applause, 406
When the summer harvest was gathered in, 37
When the warm sun, that brings, 1
When winter winds are piercing chill, 4
Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, 476
Where, from the eye of day, 528
Whereunto is money good?, 588
Whilom Love was like a fire, 589
White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest, 439
Whither, thou turbid wave, 591
Who love would seek, 596
Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, 514
Will then, du Perrier, thy sorrow be eternal, 558
With favouring winds, o’er sunlit seas, 511
With what a glory comes and goes the year, 2
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, 153

Ye voices, that arose, 14
Yes, the Year is growing old, 13
Yes, well your story pleads the cause, 396
Yet not in vain. O River of Yesterday, 440
You shall hear how Hiawatha, 267
You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 282, 296
You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos, 55

THE END.

MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH,
PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY’S STATIONERY OFFICE.