FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 301 And the citadel was lighted, and the hall | Till one arose, and from his pack's scant was gayly drest, All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveller and guest. Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure And exchanged congratulation with the And To hear the tale anew; then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, Till the formal speeches ended, and He read aloud the book wherein the amidst the laugh and wine Some one spoke of Concha's lover,heedless of the warning sign. Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson: "Speak no ill of him, I pray. Master Had writ of "Little Nell." Perhaps 't was boyish fancy, -for the reader Was youngest of them all, He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty But, as he read, from clustering pine and years ago this day. cedar A silence seemed to fall; fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows, Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes- o'ertaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: And he who wrought that spell? towering pine, and stately Kentish Ah, spire, Ye have one tale to tell! Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, And on that grave where English oak painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face, and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth; and holly And laurel wreaths entwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,- This spray of Western pine! THEY gave the whole long day to idle I KNEW a Princess: she was old, laughter, To fitful song and jest, To moods of soberness as idle, after, But when at last upon their way returning, Taciturn, late, and loath, Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both. Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish Such as but women know That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish, And what they would, would rather they would not so; Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look Such as no dainty pen of gold Would write of in a Fairy Book. So bent she almost crouched, her face What wonder that a faith so strong This Princess was a Slave, like one And all the flowers, without a vail. Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring, Till he said,— man-like nothing compre- But of a subtler, fiercer Thing: hending Of all the wondrous guile That women won win themselves with, and bending Eyes of relentless asking on her the while, She was the Slave of Slavery. That at her side the whitest queen Were dark, her darkness was so fair. Then she-whom both his faith and fear Black, but enchanted black, and shut enchanted Far beyond words to tell, Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted The art he had that knew to blunder so well In some vague Giant's tower of air, Built higher than her hope was. But The True Knight came and found her there. The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid Shyly drew near, a little step, and mock- | That hid her Self: as if afraid, ing, "Shall we not be too late For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking: Yes, thanks, your arm. And will you -open the gate?” The cruel blackness shrank and fell. Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep, He took her with him through the night, And swam a River cold and deep, And vanished up an awful Height. She doubted, once upon a time, JOHN HAY. Because it took away her sight, She looked and said, "There is no light!" It was thine eyes, poor Italy! That knew not dark apart from bright. This flame which burnt for Italy, It would not let her haters sleep. They blew at it with angry breath, And only fed its upward leap, And only made it hot and deep. Its burning showed us Italy, And all the hopes she had to keep. This light is out in Italy, Her eyes shall seek for it in vain! For her sweet sake it spent itself, Too early flickering to its wane, Too long blown over by her pain. Bow down and weep, O Italy, Thou canst not kindle it again! UNAWARES. THE wind was whispering to the vines Till from a slow-consenting cloud And sudden something in me stirred, Ah! glad was I as any bird I had a carven missal once, Though merely in a childish wise I used to search for it betimes. 305 It showed the face of God in man How often in the bitter night Then have I said: "Ah! Christ the Lord! I took you through deep soundings where 66 God sends no angel unto me!" My heart withdrew into itself, When lo! a knocking at the door: Am I so soon a stranger here, Who was an honored guest before?" Then looking in your eyes, I knew You were God's angel sent to me! JOHN HAY. [v. s. A.] A WOMAN'S LOVE. A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story! |