Chapter XIII: Introduction (11)

To servile salutations runs;
But either to the clasping vine
Does the supporting poplar wed,
Or with his pruning-hook disjoin
Unbearing branches from their head,
And grafts more happy in their stead;
Or climbing to a hilly steep,
He views his buds in vales afar,
Or shears his overburden’d sheep,
Or mead for cooling drink prepares
Of virgin honey in the jars;
Or, in the now declining year,
When beauteous Autumn rears his head,
He joys to pull the ripen’d pear
And clust’ring grapes, with purple spread.
Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,
Or on the matted grass, he lies;
No god of Sleep he need invoke;
The stream that o’er the pebble flies,
With gentle slumber crowns his eyes,
The wind that whistles through the sprays
Maintains the concert of the song;
And hidden birds, with native lays,
The golden sleep prolong.
But when the blast of winter blows,
And hoary frost invests the year,
Into the naked woods he goes,
And seeks the tusky boar to near,
With well-mouthed hounds and pointed spear!
Or spreads his subtile nets from sight,
With twinkling glasses to betray
The larks that in the meshes light;
Or makes the fearful bear his prey.
Amidst his harmless, easy joys,
No anxious care invades his health,
Nor love his peace of mind destroys,
Nor wicked avarice of wealth.
But if a chaste and pleasing wife,
To business of his life,
Divides with him his household care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the swift Apulian’s bride,
Sunburnt and swarthy though she be,
Will fire for winter nights provide,
And—without noise—will oversee

His children and his family;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and over-labored, home;
If she in pens his flock will fold,
And then produce her dairy store,
With wine to drive away the cold,
And unbought dainties for the poor;
Not oysters of the Lucrine lake
My sober appetite would wish,
Nor turbot, or the foreign fish
That rolling tempests overtake,
And hither waft the costly dish.
Not heathpoult, or the rarer bird,
Which Phasis or Ionia yields,
More pleasing morsels would afford
Than the fat olives of my fields;
Than shards or mallows for the pot,
That keep the loosened body sound;
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot
To the just guardian of my ground.
Amidst these feasts of happy swains,
The jolly shepherd smiles to see
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleased as he,
To view his oxen sweating smoke,
Bear on their necks the loosen’d yoke;
To look upon his menial crew,
That sit around his cheerful hearth,
And bodies spent in toil renew
With wholesome food and country mirth.

This Alphius said within himself,
Resolv’d to leave the wicked town,
And live retir’d upon his own,
He call’d his money in;
But the prevailing love of pelf,
Soon split him on the former shelf—
He put it out again.
_Translation of_ DRYDEN.

LETTER OF SIR THOMAS MORE TO HIS WIFE.

Mistress Alice, in my most heartywise I recommend me to you. And whereas I am informed by my son Heron of the loss of our barns and our neighbours’ also, with all the corn that was therein; albeit (saving God’s

pleasure) it is great pity of so much good corn lost; yet since it has liked him to send us such a chance, we must and are bounden, not only to be content, but also to be glad of his visitation. He sent us all that we have lost; and since he hath by such a chance taken it away again, his pleasure be fulfilled! Let us never grudge thereat, but take it in good worth, and heartily thank him, as well for adversity as for prosperity. And peradventure we have more cause to thank him for our loss than for our winning, for his wisdom better seeth what is good for us than we do ourselves. Therefore, I pray you be of good cheer, and take all the household with you to church, and there thank God, both for that he has given us, and for that he has taken from us, and for that he hath left us; which, if it please him, he can increase when he will, and if it please him to leave us yet less, at his pleasure be it!

I pray you to make some good onsearch what my poor neighbours have lost, and bid them make no thought therefor; for, if I should not leave myself a spoon, there shall no poor neighbour of mine bear no loss by my chance, happened in my house. I pray you be, with my children and your household, merry in God; and devise somewhat with your friends what way were best to take, for provision to be made for corn for our household, and for seed this year coming, if we think it good that we keep the ground still in our hands. And whether we think it good that we so shall do or not, yet I think it were not best suddenly thus to leave it all up, and to put away our folk from our farm, till we have somewhat advised us thereon. Howbeit, if we have more now than ye shall need, and which can get them other masters, ye may then discharge us of them. But I would not that any man were suddenly sent away, he wot not whither.

At my coming hither, I perceived none other but that I should tarry still with the king’s grace. But now I shall, I think, because of this chance, get leave this next week to come home and see you, and then shall we farther devise together upon all things, what order shall be best to take.

And thus as heartily fare you well, with all our children, as ye can wish. At Woodstock, the third day of September, by the hand of

THOMAS MORE, 1480–1535.

PEASANT PAVO.

SWEDISH.

Mid the high bleak moors of Saarijärvis,
On a sterile farm, lived peasant Pavo,
And its poor soil tilled with care untiring,
Trusting to the Lord to send the increase.
Here he lived with wife and little children,

With them of sweat-earned bread partaking.
Dikes he dug, and plowed his land and sowed it.
Spring-time came, and now the melting snow-drifts
Drenched the fields, and half the young crop perished;
Summer came, and the descending hail-storms
Dashed the early ears down, half destroying;
Autumn came, and frosts the remnant blasted.
Pavo’s wife she tore her hair, and spake thus:
“Pavo, Pavo! man the most unhappy,
Take thy staff; by God we are forsaken;
Hard it is to beg, to starve is harder!”
Pavo took her hand, and thus he answered:
“God doth try his servant, not forsake him;
Bread made half of bark must now suffice us!
I will dig the dikes of two-fold deepness;
But from God will I await the increase!”
She made bread of corn and bark together;
He dug lower dikes with double labor,
Sold his sheep, and purchased rye and sowed it.
Spring-time came, again the melting snow-drifts
Drenched the fields, and half the young crop perished;
Summer came, and the descending hail-storms
Dashed the early ears down, half destroying;
Autumn came, and frosts the remnant blasted.
Pavo’s wife she smote her breast, exclaiming:
“Pavo, Pavo! man the most unhappy,
Let us die, for God hath us forsaken:
Hard it is to die, to live is harder!”
Pavo took her hand, and thus he answered:
“God doth try his servant, not forsake him;
Bread made half of bark must still suffice us!
I will dig the dikes of double deepness;
But from Heaven I will expect the increase!”
She made bread of corn and bark together;
He dug lower dikes with double labor,
Sold his cattle, purchased rye and sowed it.
Spring-time came, but now the melting snow-drifts
Left the young crops in the fields uninjured;
Summer came, but the descending hail-storms
Dashed not down the rich ears, naught destroying;
Autumn came, and saw, by frosts unblighted,
Wave the golden harvest for the reaper.
Then fell Pavo on his knees, thus speaking:
“God hath only tried us, not forsaken!”
On her knees his wife fell, and thus said she:

“God hath only tried us, not forsaken!”
And then gladly spake she to her husband:
“Pavo, Pavo! take with joy the sickle,
We may now make glad our hearts with plenty,
Now may throw away the bark unsavory,
And bake rich, sweet bread of rye-meal only!”
Pavo took her hand in his, and answered:
“Woman, woman! ’tis but sent to try us,
If we will have pity on the sufferer.
Mix thou bark with corn even as aforetime,
Frosts have killed the harvest of our neighbor.”
_Translation of_ MRS. HOWITT. JOHANN LUDWIG RUNEBERG.

COUNTRY LIFE.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Happy the man who has the town escaped!
To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,
The shining pebbles preach
Virtue’s and wisdom’s lore.

The whispering grove a holy temple is
To him, where God draws nigher to his soul;
Each verdant sod a shrine
Whereby he kneels to Heaven.

The nightingale on him sings slumber down—
The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,
When shines the lovely red
Of morning through the trees.

Then he admires thee in the plain, O God!
In the ascending pomp of dawning day—
Thee in the glorious sun—
The worm—the budding branch.

Where coolness gushes in the waving grass,
Or o’er the flowers, streams, and fountains rests;
Inhales the breath of prime,
The gentle airs of eve.

His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun,
And play and hop, incites to sweeter rest
Than golden halls of state
Or beds of down afford.

To him the plumy-people sporting chirp,
Chatter, and whistle, on his basket perch,
And from his quiet hand
Pick crumbs, or peas, or grains.

Oft wanders he alone, and thinks on death;
And in the village church-yard by the graves
Sits, and beholds the cross—
Death’s waving garland there.

The stone beneath the elders, where a text
Of Scripture teaches joyfully to die—
And with his scythe stands Death—
An angel, too, with palms.

Happy the man who thus hath 'scaped the town!
Him did an angel bless when he was born—
The cradle of the boy
With flowers celestial strewed.
_Translation of_ C. T. BROOKS. LUDWIG HOLTY.

SCENE IN AN AMERICAN FOREST.

FROM A LETTER OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD TO THE DUCHESS OF LEINSTER.

ST. JOHN’S, NEW BRUNSWICK, _July 8, 1788_.

MY DEAREST MOTHER—Here I am, after a very long and fatiguing journey. I had no idea of what it was; it was more like a campaign than anything else, except in one material point, that of having no danger. I should have enjoyed it most completely but for the musquitoes, but they took off a great deal of my pleasure; the millions of them are dreadful; if it had not been for this inconvenience, my journey would have been delightful. The country is almost all in a state of nature, as well as its inhabitants. There are four sorts of these—the Indians, the French, the old English settlers, and now the refugees from other parts of America; the last seem the most civilized. The old settlers are almost as wild as Indians, but lead a very comfortable life; they are all farmers, and live entirely within themselves. * * * I came by a settlement along one of the rivers, which was all the work of one pair; the old man was seventy-two, the old lady seventy; they had been there thirty years; they came there with one cow, three children, and one servant; there was not a being within sixty miles of them. The first year they lived mostly on milk and marsh leaves; the second year they contrived to purchase a bull by the produce of their moose skins and fish; from this time they got on very well; and there are now five sons and a daughter, all settled in different farms along the

river for the space of twenty miles, and all living comfortably and at ease. The old pair live alone in the little old cabin they first settled in, two miles from any of their children; their little spot of ground is cultivated by these children, and they are supplied with so much butter, grain, meal, etc., from each child, according to the share he got of the land, so that the old folks have nothing to do but to mind their house, which is a kind of inn they keep, more for the sake of the company of the few travelers there are than for gain. I was obliged to stay a day with the old people, on account of the tides, which did not answer for going up the river till next morning. It was, I think, as odd and pleasant a day, in its way, as ever I passed. I wish I could describe it to you, but I can not; you must only help it out with your own imagination. Conceive, dearest mother, arriving about twelve o’clock in a hot day, at a little cabin upon the side of a rapid river, the banks all covered with wood, not a house in sight, and there finding a little, clean, tidy woman spinning, with an old man, of the same appearance, weeding salad. We had come for ten miles up the river without seeing any thing but woods. The old pair, on our arrival, got as active as if only five-and-twenty, the gentleman getting wood and water, the lady frying eggs and bacon, both talking a great deal, telling their story, as I mentioned before, how they had been there thirty years, and how their children were settled, and, when either’s back was turned, remarking how old the other had grown; at the same time all kindness, all cheerfulness, and love to each other. The contrast of all this, which had passed during the day, with the quietness of the evening, when the spirits of the old people had a little subsided and began to wear off with the day, and with the fatigue of their little work, sitting quietly at their door, on the same spot they had lived in thirty years together; the contented thoughtfulness of their countenances, which was increased by their age and the solitary life they had led; the wild quietness of the place—not a living creature or habitation to be seen—and me, Tony, and our guide, sitting with them, all on one log; the difference of the scene I had left—the immense way I had to get from this corner of the world to any thing I loved—the difference of the life I should lead from that of this old pair, perhaps at their age discontented, disappointed, and miserable, wishing for power—my dearest mother, if it was not for you, I believe I never should go home, at least I thought so at that moment. However, here I am with my regiment, up at six in the morning doing all sorts of right things, and liking it very much, determined to go home next spring, and live with you a great deal. Employment keeps up my spirits, and I shall have more every day. I own I often think how happy I should be with G——, in some of the spots I see; and envied every young farmer I met whom I saw sitting down with a young wife whom he was going to work to maintain. I believe these thoughts made my journey pleasanter than it otherwise would have been; but I don’t give way to them here. Dearest mother, I sometimes hope it will all end well; but shall not think any more of it till I hear from England. * * * * * * *

EDWARD FITZGERALD, 1763–1798.

]

SONG.

See, O see!
How every tree,
Every bower,
Every flower,
A new life gives to others’ joys,
While that I
Grief-stricken lie,
Nor can meet
With any sweet
But what faster mine destroys.
What are all the senses’ pleasures,
When the mind has lost all measures?

Hear, O hear!
How sweet and clear
The nightingale
And water’s fall
In concert join for others’ ear,
While to me,
For harmony,
Every air
Echoes despair,
And every drop provokes a tear.
What are all the senses’ pleasures,
When the soul has lost all measures?
GEORGE DIGBY, _Earl of Bristol_, 1612–1676.

SONG.

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content; The quiet mind is richer than a crown; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent; The poor estate scorns Fortune’s angry frowns; Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbors quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride or care,

The mean that 'grees with country music best, The sweet consort of mirth and music’s fare, Obscured life sets down a type of bliss; A mind content both crown and kingdom is. ROBERT GREEN, 1550–1592.

BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

1725.

Far from our debtors; no Dublin letters;
Not seen by our betters.

PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

A companion with news; a great want of shoes; Eat lean meat or choose; a church without pews; Our horses away; no straw, oats, or hay; December in May; our boys run away; all servants at play! JONATHAN SWIFT, 1667–1728.

XXIV.
=Wind and Cloud=

A STORM IN AUTUMN.

FROM THE LATIN OF VIRGIL.

Why should I mark each storm and starry sign,
When milder suns in autumn swift decline?
Or what new cares await the vernal hour,
When spring descends in many a driving shower,
While bristle into ear the bearded plains,
And the green stalk distends its milky grains?
E’en in mid autumn, while the jocund hind
Bade the gay field the gather’d harvest bind,
Oft have I seen the war of winds contend,
And prone on earth th’ infuriate storm descend—
Waste, far and wide, and by the roots uptorn,
The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne!
While in dark eddies, as the whirlwind past,
The straw and stubble flew before the blast.

Column on column prest in close array,
Dark tempests thicken o’er the watery way.
Heaven poured in torrents, rushes on the plain,
And with wide deluge sweeps the floating grain;
The dikes o’erflow, the flooded channels roar,
Vexed ocean’s foaming billows rock the shore:
The Thunderer, thron’d in clouds, with darkness crown’d,
Bares his red arm, and flashes lightnings round.
The beasts are fled; earth rocks from pole to pole—
Fear walks the world, and bows th’ astonished soul;
Jove rides with fiery bolt Ceraunia’s brow,
Or Athos blazing 'mid eternal snow.
The tempest darkens, blasts redoubled rave,
Smite the hoarse wood, and lash the howling wave.
_Translation of_ W. SOTHEBY.

TO THE RAINBOW.

Loveliest of the meteor train, Girdle of the summer rain— Finger of the dews of air, Glowing vision, fleet as fair; While the evening shower retires, Kindle thy unhurting fires, And among the meadows near, Thy refulgent pillar rear; Or amid the dark-blue cloud, High thine orbed glories shroud; Or the moisten’d hills between, Bent in mighty arch be seen; Through whose sparkling portals wide, Fiends of storm and darkness ride.

Like Cheerfulness, thou art wont to gaze Always on the brightest blaze; Canst from setting suns deduce Varied gleams and sprightly hues; And on low’ring gloom imprint Smiling streaks of gayest tint. R. SOUTHEY, 1774–1850.

THE WINDY NIGHT.

Alow and aloof,
Over the roof,
How the midnight tempests howl!
With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune
Of wolves that bay at the desert moon;
Or whistle and shriek
Through limbs that creek,
“Tu-who! Tu-whit!”
They cry and flit,
“Tu-whit! Tu-who!” like the solemn owl!

Alow and aloof,
Over the roof,
Sweep the moaning winds amain,
And wildly dash
The elm and ash,
Clattering on the window sash,
With a clatter and patter,
Like hail and rain,
That well might shatter
The dusky pane!

Alow and aloof,
Over the roof,
How the tempests swell and roar!
Though no foot is astir,
Though the cat and the cur
Lie dozing along the kitchen floor;
There are feet of air
On every stair!
Through every hall—
Through each gusty door,
There’s a jostle and bustle,
With a silken rustle,
Like the meeting of guests at a festival!

Alow and aloof,
Over the roof,
How the stormy tempests swell!
And make the vane
On the spire complain—
They heave at the steeple with might and main,

And burst and sweep
Into the belfry, on the bell!
They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well,
That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep,
And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell!
T. B. READ.

A SHOWER.

FROM COWPER’S LETTERS.

It has pleased God to give us rain, without which this part of our country, at least, must soon have become a desert. The meadows have been parched to a January brown, and we have foddered our cattle for some time, as in winter. The goodness and power of God are never, I believe, so universally acknowledged as at the end of a long drought. Man is naturally a self-sufficient animal, and in all concerns that seem to lie within the sphere of his own ability thinks little or not at all of the need he always has of protection and furtherance from above. But he is sensible that the clouds will not assemble at his bidding; and that, though the clouds assemble, they will not fall in showers because he commands them. When, therefore, at last the blessing descends, you shall hear even in the streets the most irreligious and thoughtless with one voice exclaim, “Thank God!” confessing themselves indebted to his favor, and willing, at least so far as words go, to give Him the glory. I can hardly doubt, therefore, that the earth is sometimes parched, and the crops endangered, in order that the multitude may not want a memento to whom they owe them, nor absolutely forget the power on which all depend for all things.

_Letter to_ S. ROSE, ESQ., _June 23, 1788_. W. COWPER, 1731–1800.

TO THE RAINBOW.

* * * * *

When o’er the green undeluged Earth,
Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine,
How came the World’s gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow luster smiled
O’er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang,

On earth deliver’d from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye
Unraptur’d greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet’s theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshen’d fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O’er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror’d in the Ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
TH. CAMPBELL, 1777–1844.

THE HURRICANE.

I had left the village of Shawaney, situated on the banks of the Ohio, on my return to Henderson, which is also situated on the banks of the same beautiful stream. The weather was pleasant, and I thought not warmer than usual at that season. My horse was jogging quietly along, and my thoughts were for once, at least, in the course of my life, entirely engaged in commercial speculations. I had forded Highland Creek, and was on the eve of entering a tract of bottom-land, or valley that lay between it and Canoe Creek, when on a sudden I remarked a great difference in the aspect of the heavens. A hazy thickness had overspread the country, and I for some time expected an earthquake, but my horse exhibited no propensity to stop and prepare for such an occurrence. I had nearly arrived at the verge of the valley, when I thought fit to stop near a brook, and dismounted to quench the thirst which had come upon me.

I was leaning on my knees, with my lips about to touch the water,

when, from my proximity to the earth, I heard a distant murmuring sound of an extraordinary nature; I drank, however, and as I rose on my feet, looked toward the southwest, where I observed a yellowish, oval spot, the appearance of which was quite new to me. Little time was left me for consideration, as the next moment a smart breeze began to agitate the taller trees. It increased to an unexpected height, and already the smaller branches and twigs were seen falling in a slanting direction toward the ground. Two minutes had scarcely elapsed, when the whole forest before me was in fearful motion. Here and there, where one tree pressed against another, a creaking noise was produced, similar to that occasioned by the violent gusts which sometimes sweep over the country. Turning instinctively toward the direction from which the wind blew, I saw, to my great astonishment, that the noblest trees of the forest bent their lofty heads for a while, and, unable to stand against the blast, were falling into pieces. First, the branches were broken off with a crackling noise; then went the upper part of the massy trunks, and in many places whole trees of gigantic size were falling entire to the ground. So rapid was the progress of the storm, that before I could think of taking measures to insure my safety, the hurricane was passing opposite to the place where I stood. Never can I forget the scene which at that moment presented itself. The tops of the trees were seen moving in the strangest manner, in the central current of the tempest, which carried along with it a mingled mass of twigs and foliage, that completely obscured the view. Some of the largest trees were seen bending and writhing under the gale; others suddenly snapped across, and many, after a momentary resistance, fell uprooted to the earth. The mass of branches, twigs, foliage, and dust that moved through the air, was whirled onward like a cloud of feathers, and, on passing, disclosed a wide space filled with fallen trees, naked stumps, and heaps of shapeless ruins, which marked the path of the tempest. This space was about a fourth of a mile in breadth, and to my imagination resembled the dried-up bed of the Mississippi, with its thousands of _planters_ and _sawyers_ strewed in the sand, and inclined in various degrees. The horrible noise resembled that of the great cataracts of Niagara; and as it howled along in the track of the desolating tempest, produced a feeling in my mind which it is impossible to describe.

The principal force of the hurricane was now over, although millions of twigs and small branches, that had been brought from a great distance, were seen following the blast, as if drawn onward by some mysterious power. They even floated in the air for some hours after, as if supported by the thick mass of dust that rose high above the ground. The sky had now a greenish, lurid hue, and an extremely disagreeable sulphureous odor was diffused in the atmosphere. I waited in amazement, having sustained no material injury, until nature at length resumed her wonted aspect. For some moments I felt undetermined whether I should return to Morgantown, or attempt to force my way through the wrecks of the tempest. My business, however, being of an urgent nature, I ventured into the path of the storm, and after encountering innumerable difficulties, succeeded in crossing it. I was obliged to lead my horse by the bridle to enable him to leap over the fallen trees, while I scrambled over or under them in the best way I could—at times so hemmed in by the broken tops and tangled branches, as almost to become desperate. On arriving at my house, I gave an account of what I had seen, when, to my surprise, I was told there had been very little wind in the neighborhood, although in the streets and gardens many branches and twigs had fallen in a manner which excited great surprise.

]

* * * The valley is yet a desolate place, overgrown with briers and bushes, thickly entangled amid the tops and trunks of the fallen trees, and is the resort of ravenous animals, to which they betake themselves, when pursued by man, or after they have committed their depredations on the farms of the surrounding district. I have crossed the path of the storm at a distance of a hundred miles from the spot where I witnessed its fury, and again four hundred miles farther off, in the State of Ohio. Lastly, I observed traces of its ravages on the summits of the mountains connected with the Great Pine Forest of Pennsylvania, three hundred miles beyond the place last mentioned. In all these different parts it appeared to me not to have exceeded a quarter of a mile in breadth.

J. J. AUDUBON.

THE RAINBOW.

A rainbow and the sun breaking through cloud. Discourage not yourselves, although you see The weather black, and storms prolonged be. What though it fiercely rains and thunders loud, Behold there is a rainbow in the cloud, Wherein a trustful promise may be found, That quite your little worlds shall not be drown’d. The sunshine through the foggy mists appear, The low’ring sky begins again to clear; And though the tempest yet your eyes affright, Fair weather may befall you long ere night. Such comfort speaks our Emblem unto those Whom stormy persecution doth inclose; And comforts him, that for the present sad, With hopes that better seasons may be had. There is not trouble, sorrow, nor distress, But mitigation hath, or some release.

Long use or time the storm away will turn, Else patience makes it better to be borne. Yea; sorrow’s low’ring days will come and go, As well as prosp’rous hours of sunshine do; And when ’tis past, the pain that went before Will make the following pleasure seem the more. For He hath promis’d, whom we may believe, His blessing unto those that mourn and grieve; And that though sorrow much dejects their head, In ev’ry need we shall be comforted. This promise I believe; in ev’ry grief Perform it, Lord, and help my unbelief. So others viewing how thou cheerest me, Shall in all sorrows put their trust in thee. GEORGE WITHER, 1588–1667.

XXV.
=Medley.=

THE STORY OF AARON THE BEGGAR.

FROM THE SWEDISH.

Kangas lieth in Sioni; ’tis a homestead that scarce has an equal; Plenteous in wood and in corn-fields, with rich grassy meadows and moorland. This won my father, in wedding the farmer’s fair daughter; And here he grew old, like a summer’s eve calmly declining. From him came the farm unto me; and here, like my father, I spent the best years of my life, and dwelt like a king amid plenty. Servants I had; men servants to plow with my oxen; And maids in the house, too; and children, the joy of their mother And the hope of my eye, who grew up like olive-plants round us. Thus sowing and reaping in comfort, from season to season abode I, Envied by many, but having the good-will of all men. At length came misfortune, and so put an end to my gladness. The frost of one night destroyed all my yet unreaped harvest, Wolves killed my cattle; and thus passed a winter of sorrow. Again I sowed rye-crops, looking for profit in autumn;

And again the rye failed, for again was the early ear frosted. I had men and maid servants no longer. I could not pay land-dues. Bread we had none; bark dried in the oven sustained us. So passed the time; and as long as the milch-kine were spared us, And we had their milk, the bark-bread for us was sufficient. Thus came and went Christmas; and still we lived on, although famished. At length, when returning one morning with bark on my shoulder, I was met on the threshold by strangers—and thus one accosts me: “Friend, either pay that thou owest, or all that thou hast will be seized on.” Amazed, I made answer: “Good sir, yet awhile have thou patience, And I will pay all, Heaven helping! We now are sustained Alone on bark bread!” Again they turned into the house, no answer vouchsafing, Then hastily stripped from the walls our poor store of household utensils, Seized all that remained of our clothing, and carried them off to their sledge. Weeping, my wife lay, my excellent wife, on her straw bed, Watching in silence the men, and all the while soothing the baby, Which lay on her bosom new-born, and kept up a wailing of sorrow. I followed them out as they bore thence the last of our chattels, As stern in my mood as the pine when his axe at its roots lays the woodman. They cast up the worth of their plunder, and said that it reached not The half of the sum that they needed. Again spake the bailiff: “Friend,” said he, “this doth not suffice, but thou hast much kine in the cow-shed.” Thus saying, with no more ado, they went on to the straw-yard, Where stood the kine under their shelter lowing for fodder. They loosened and drove them all forth, one after another; Still forcing them on by compulsion, unwilling to leave their old homestead. In this way six cows were secured; the seventh, a starveling, Dead rather than living, they left me. Thus all that I had was distrained on. I spake not; in dreary despondence re-crossing my threshold, And thus from the bed of her sorrow a low voice of misery accosts me; “Look around if thou canst not find aught for my hunger’s appeasing; How sweet were a draught of new milk, for I thirst, and the babe findeth nothing!” Thus spake she; a darkness came over my eyesight, and sorrowing I went to the cow-shed, where stood the lean, famishing creature, And chewed a poor mouthful of rye-straw. I pressed the dry udder, For milk trying vainly, for not a drop answered the pressure. Despairing, yet dreading a failure, yet harder assayed I, And blood flowed, a crimson stream, staining the pail of the milker. As fierce as the mother-bear, struck by the spear of the hunter, Rushed I indoors, and took up a loaf, which I sundered By the stroke of the axe, and black flew the bark-fragments round me. One morsel I gave to my wife, saying: “Take it; ’tis all that is left us; Eat, and give suck to the infant.” She took the dry morsel; She turned it about in her hand, looked at it, then pressing The babe to her bosom, she swooning, fell back on her pillow. I buckled the skates on my feet, and sped in all haste to the neighbor Who dwelt nearest to me, and prayed for some help in my sorrow He willingly gave it, dividing his all as a brother. Again I sped back with a pailful of milk on my shoulder; But on reaching my threshold a cry of sad sorrow assailed me; And entering, I saw by the bedside my two eldest children, Frantic with terror, and trying to waken their mother; But silent and motionless lay she, a ghastly death pallor Spread over her face, and the blackness of night her eyes vailing. This was the crown of our sorrow—bereaved was the beautiful Kangas. And ere long, as if Heaven-abandoned, I left it forever, And, taking my staff in my hand went forth, drawing my children On a light sledge behind me, and wandered gray-headed a beggar. From parish to parish we wandered, and God and good Christians sustained us. But Time doth lighten most sorrows; and now amid strangers My children are blooming afresh; for myself it contents me If only my bread I can win, and playing my jew’s-harp Can sit 'neath the trees in the sunshine, and sing like a cricket.

* * * * *

_Translation of_ M. HOWITT. JOHANN LUDWIG RUNEBERG, _a Finlander_.

]

ELEGY.

RUSSIAN.

O thou field! thou clean and level field!
O thou plain! so far and wide around!
Level field, dressed up with every thing,
Every thing; with sky-blue flowerets small,
Fresh green grass, and bushes thick with leaves;
But defaced by one thing, but by one!

For in thy very middle stands a broom,
On the broom a young gray eagle sits,
And he butchers wild a raven black,
Sucks the raven’s heart-blood, glowing hot,
Drenches with it too the moistened earth.

Ah, black raven, youth so good and brave,
Thy destroyer is the eagle gray!

Not a swallow ’tis, that hovering clings,
Hovering clings to her warm little nest;
To the murdered son the mother clings,
And her tears fall like the rushing stream,
And his sister’s like the flowing rill;
Like the dew the tears fall of his love—
When the sun shines it dries up the dew!
_Translated by_ TALVI.

TAKE THY OLD CLOAKE ABOUT THEE.[14]

This winter weather—itt waxeth cold,
And frost doth freese on every hill,
And Boreas blows his blastes so cold
That all our cattell are like to spill;
Bell, my wife, who loves no strife,
Shee sayd unto me quietlye,
Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke’s life—
Man, put thy old cloake about thee.

_He._ O Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne?
Thou kenst my cloake is very thin,
Itt is soe bare and overworne
A cricke he thereon can not renn;
Then Ile no longer borrowe nor lend,
For once Ile new apparelled bee;
To-morrow Ile to towne, and spend,
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

_She._ Cow Crumbocke is a very good cowe,
She ha beene alwayes true to the payle,
Shee has helpt us to butter and cheese, I trow,
And other things she will not fayle,
I wold be loth to see her pine,
Good husbande, council take of mee,
It is not for us to goe so fine—
Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

_He._ My cloake, it was a very good cloake,
Itt hath been alwayes true to the weare,

But now it is not worth a groate;
I have had itt four-and-forty yeare.
Sometime it was of cloth in graine,
’Tis now but a sigh clout as you may see
It will neither hold nor winde nor raine—
And Ile have a new cloake about mee.

_She._ It is four-and-forty yeeres agoe
Since the one of us the other did ken,
And we have had betwixt us towe
Of children either nine or ten;
We have brought them up to women and men,
In the fere of God I trowe they bee,
And why wilt thou thyself misken—
Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

_He._ O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute,
Now is now, and then was then;
Seeke now all the world throughout,
Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen,
They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray,
Soe far above their owne degree—
Once in my life Ile do as they,
For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

_She._ King Stephen was a worthy peere,
His breeches cost him but a crowne,
He held them sixpence all too deere,
Therefore he call’d the tailor loon.
He was a wight of high renowne,
And thouse but of a low degree—
Its pride that putts this countrye downe—
Man, take thy old cloake about thee.

_He._ Bell, my wife, she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me if she can;
And oft to live a quiet life
I’m forced to yield though I bee good-man.
Itt’s not for a man with a woman to threepe,
Unless he first give o’er the plea;
As we began sae will wee leave—
And Ile take my old cloake about mee.
_Anonymous—16th century._

THE COUNTRY LASSE.

OLD SONG.

Although I am a country lass,
A lofty mind I bear-a,
I think myself as good as those
That gay apparel wear-a.
My coat is made of homely gray,
Yet is my skin as soft-a
As those that with the chiefest wines
Do bathe their bodies oft-a.
Down, down, derry, derry down;
Heigh, downa, downa, downa;
A derry, derry, derry, derry down,
Heigh down a derry!

What though I keep my father’s sheep—
A thing that must be done-a,
A garland of the fairest flowers
Shall shroud me from the sun-a;
And when I see them feeding be,
Where grass and flowers spring-a,
Close by a crystal fountain side
I sit me down and sing-a.

Dame Nature crowns us with delight,
Surpassing court or city;
We pleasures take from morn to night,
In sports and pastimes pretty.
Your city dames in coaches ride
Abroad for recreation;
We country lasses hate their pride,
And keep the country fashion.

Your city wives lead wanton lives,
And if they come i’ the country,
They are so proud, that each one strives
For to out-brave our gentry.
We country lasses lowly be,
For seat nor wall we strive not;
We are content with our degree—
Our debtors we despise not.

I care not for the fan or mask,
When Titan’s heat reflecteth;
A homely hat is all I ask,
Which well my face protecteth;
Yet I am in my country guise
Esteemed lasse as pretty
As those that every day devise
New shapes in court or city.

In every season of the year
I undergo my labor;
No shower nor wind at all I fear,
My limbs I do not favor.
If summer’s heat my beauty stain,
It makes me ne’er the sicker,
Sith I can wash it off again
With a cup of Christmas liquor.
_From a black-letter copy in the Assigns of Symcocke._

HARVEST SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Sickles sound;
On the ground
Fast the ripe ears fall;
Every maiden’s bonnet
Has blue blossoms on it—
Joy is over all.

Sickles ring,
Maidens sing
To the sickle’s sound;
Till the moon is beaming,
And the stubble gleaming,
Harvest songs go round.

All are springing,
All are singing
Every lisping thing;
Man and master meat
From one dish they eat;
Each is now a king.

Hans and Michael
Whet the sickle,

Piping merrily.
Now they mow; each maiden,
Soon with sheaves is laden,
Busy as a bee!

Now the blisses,
Now the kisses—
Now the wit doth flow
Till the beer is out;
Then with song and shout,
Hence they go, yo ho!
_Translation of_ C. T. BROOKS. LUDWIG HOLTY, 1748–1776.

SONG.

FROM THE SPANISH.

I ne’er on the border
Saw girl fair as Rosa,
The charming milk-maiden
Of sweet Finojosa.

Once making a journey
To Santa Maria
Of Calataveño,
From weary desire
Of sleep, down a valley
I strayed, where young Rosa
I saw, the milk-maiden
Of lone Finojosa.

In a pleasant green meadow,
'Midst roses and grasses,
Her herd she was tending,
With other fair lasses;
So lovely her aspect,
I could not suppose her
A simple milk-maiden
Of rude Finojosa.

I think not primroses
Have half her smile’s sweetness,
Or mild, modest beauty;
I speak with discreetness.

O had I beforehand
But known of this Rosa,
The lovely milk-maiden
Of fair Finojosa:

Her very great beauty
Had not so subdued,
Because it had left me,
To do as I would!
I have said more, O fair one,
By learning ’twas Rosa,
The charming milk-maiden
Of sweet Finojosa.
_Translation of_ T. ROSCOE. LOPE DE MENDOZA, 1398–1458.

SERVIAN.

SONG OF THE PEASANT’S WIFE.

Come, companion, let us hurry,
That we may be early home;
For my mother-in-law is cross!
Only yestreen she accused me—
Said that I had beat my husband,
When, poor soul, I had not touched him;
Only bid him wash the dishes,
And he would not wash the dishes;
Threw, then, at his head the pitcher;
Knocked a hole in head and pitcher;
For the head I do not care much;
But I care much for the pitcher,
As I paid for it right dearly—
Paid for it with one wild apple—
Yes, and half a one besides.
_Translated by_ TALVI.

LINES.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise.
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown—and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh!
The difference to me!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770–1850.

THE BALADE OF THE SHEPHARDE.

FROM THE “KALENDAR OF SHEPHARDES.”

I know that God hath formed me,
And made me to his own likenesse:
I know that he hath given to me truly
Soul and body—wit and knowledge givis.
I know that by right wise true balance,
After my deeds judged shall I be.
I know much, but I wot not the variance,
To understand whereof cometh my folly.
I know full well that I shall die,
And yet my life amend not I.

I know in what poverty,
Born a child this earth above.
I know that God hath lent to me
Abundance of goods to my behoof.
I know that riches can me not save,
And with me I shall bear none away.
I know the more good I have,
The loather I shall be to die.
I know all this faithfully,
And yet my life amend not I.

I know that I have passed
Great part of my days with joy and pleasaunce.
I know that I have gathered
Sins, and also do little penance.
I know that by ignorance,
To excuse me there is no art.
I know that once shall be

When my soul shall depart—
That I shall wish that I had mended me.
I know there is no remedy,
And therefore my life amend I will!
RICHARD PYNSON, _16th century_.

]

XXVI.
=Medley.=

Several translations from pleasing verses of Charles, Duke of Orleans, have been inserted in this volume; and as the American reader is seldom very familiar with French poets, we shall venture to give a little sketch of their author. Charles d’Orleans was born in 1391, and his life was highly colored by the vicissitudes of that stormy period. He was a nephew of the unhappy Charles VI., and was still a mere lad when, in 1406, his father Louis, Duke of Orleans, and regent of the kingdom, was assassinated in the streets of Paris, an event which placed the youth at once in nominal possession of his father’s duchy. The crime was laid at the door of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy; and the widowed princess, Valentine Visconti, urged doubtless by the nobles of her political party, sought every possible means of bringing the offender to punishment; a criminal suit, extraordinary in its details, stands recorded in the French annals in connection

with this circumstance. In order to excite the public sympathies to the utmost, the widowed duchess, with her children, appeared repeatedly in the streets, and courts of justice, in gloomy mourning procession. On all these occasions the young duke held a prominent position at the side of his Italian mother. His father’s murderer and kinsman, however, was too powerful for legal punishment; a few years later he fell under the dagger of the assassin on the bridge of Montereau, and in the presence of the dauphin. The consequences of these crimes were ruinous to France; the powerful house of Burgundy, after the murder of Duke John, rose in open rebellion, and Henry V. of England, through their means, obtained what without them he would scarcely have dared seriously to aim at—possession of the throne of St. Louis. On the famous field of Agincourt, Charles d’Orleans, sharing the fate of so many others, was made prisoner. He was immediately sent to England, where his captivity and exile were prolonged through a period of nearly five and twenty years, and varied only by removals from one stronghold to another. During part of that time he was confined in Pontrefact Castle, where his cousin, Queen Katherine, the wife of Henry V., paid him a visit in one of her progresses. Captivity, as in the case of several other royal and princely exiles, led him to seek consolation and amusement from poetical composition. His verses are very pleasing indeed, full of the simplicity of natural feeling, with much ease and grace of expression. Absence does not appear to have diminished his love of country; he cherished a longing desire to return to France, and envied, as he tells us, even the birds which were flying toward his native shores. At length, after a captivity extending over half a lifetime, he was liberated, and returned to France. Having some claims upon the Duchy of Milan, through his mother, a Visconti, he raised troops, not long after his return to Paris, and led an expedition into Italy, but failed to conquer the ducal crown. He was more successful as a poet than as a soldier; but he left, however, a reputation superior to either of these distinctions, that

of a good and honest man. His death took place in the year 1461.

The Duke of Orleans, who figures in Shakspeare’s drama of Henry V. at the battle of Agincourt, was this same poet-prince. His character is not unworthily sketched in the play, where he appears loyal and brave, superior to the other French princes figuring in the same scenes. When the French are already in full flight, he exclaims:

“We are enough yet living in the field
To smother up the English in our throngs,
If any order might be thought upon.”

To which the Duke of Bourbon is made to reply, very expressively:

“The devil take order now! I’ll to the throng;
Let life be short, else shame will be too long.”

Shakspeare was probably not aware that the duke was a poet, else he would doubtless have made an allusion to the fact in Act iii., Scene vii., where some pleasantry occurs between the dauphin and his companions regarding a sonnet he had himself written to his horse.

SONG.

FROM THE FRENCH.

I stood upon the wild sea-shore, And marked the wide expanse; My straining eyes were turned once more To long-loved distant France: I saw the sea-bird hurry by Along the waters blue; I saw her wheel amid the sky, And mock my tearful, eager eye, That would her flight pursue.

Onward she darts, secure and free, And wings her rapid course to thee! O that her wing were mine to soar, And reach thy lovely land once more!

O Heaven! It were enough to die
In my own, my native home—
One hour of blessed liberty
Were worth whole years to come!
_Translation of_ MISS COSTELLO. CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS,
1391–1467.

SONG OF COLMA

OSSIAN.

It is night, I am alone; forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds!

Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him unstrung; his dogs panting 'round him. But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar—why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock, and there the tree! Here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! Stream, be thou silent awhile! Let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar, it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo, the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep; I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone!