To the Children of Cambridge, who presented to me, on my Seventy-second Birthday, February 27th, 1879, this Chair, made from the Wood of the Village Blacksmith's Chestnut Tree.
Am I a king, that I should call my own This splendid ebon throne?
Or by what reason, or what right divine, Can I proclaim it mine?
Only, perhaps, by right divine of song It may to me belong;
Only because the spreading chestnut tree Of old was sung by me.
Well I remember it in all its prime, When in the summer-time
The affluent foliage of its branches made A cavern of cool shade.
There by the blacksmith's forge beside the street Its blossom white and sweet
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive, And murmured like a hive.
And when the winds of autumn, with a shout, Tossed its great arms about,
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath, Dropped to the ground beneath.
And now some fragments of its branches bare, Shaped as a stately chair,
Have by my hearthstone found a home at last, And whisper of the Past.
The Danish king could not in all his pride Repel the ocean tide,
But seated in this chair, I can in rhyme Roll back the tide of Time.
I see again, as one in vision sees, The blossoms and the bees,
And hear the children's voices shout and call, And the brown chestnuts fall.
I see the smithy with its fires aglow, I hear the bellows blow,
And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat The iron white with heat!
And thus, dear children, have ye made for me This day a jubilee,
And to my more than threescore years and ten Brought back my youth again.
The heart hath its own memory, like the mind, And in it are enshrined
The precious keepsakes, into which are wrought The giver's loving thought.
Only your love and your remembrance could Give life to this dead wood,
And make these branches, leafless now so long, Blossom again in song.
THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE.
Is it so far from thee Thou canst no longer see
In the Chamber over the Gate That old man desolate, Weeping and wailing sore For his son who is no more? O Absalom, my son !
Is it so long ago
That cry of human woe From the walled city came, Calling on his dear name, That it has died away In the distance of to-day? O Absalom, my son!
There is no far nor near,
There is neither there nor here, There is neither soon nor late, In that Chamber over the Gate, Nor any long ago
To that cry of human woe, O Absalom, my son !
From the ages that are past The voice comes like a blast,
Over seas that wreck and drown, Over tumult of traffic and town; And from ages yet to be Come the echoes back to me, O Absalom, my son ! Somewhere at every hour The watchman on the tower Looks forth, and sees the fleet Approach of the hurrying feet Of messengers, that bear The tidings of despair.
O Absalom, my son !
He goes forth from the door, Who shall return no more.
With him our joy departs;
The light goes out in our hearts; In the Chamber over the Gate We sit disconsolate.
O Absalom, my son !
That 'tis a common grief Bringeth but slight relief; Ours is the bitterest loss, Ours is the heaviest cross; And for ever the cry will be "Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son!"
OLGER the Dane and Desiderio,
King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling plains, League after league of harvests, to the foot Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw approach A mighty army, thronging all the roads That led into the city. And the King Said unto Olger, who had passed his youth As hostage at the court of France, and knew The Emperor's form and face: "Is Charlemagne Among that host?" And Olger answered: "No."
And still the innumerable multitude Flowed onward and increased, until the King Cried in amazement: "Surely Charlemagne Is coming in the midst of all these knights!" And Olger answered slowly: "No, not yet; He will not come so soon. Then much disturbed King Desiderio asked: "What shall we do, If he approach with a still greater army?" And Olger answered: "When he shall appear, You will behold what manner of man he is; But what will then befall us I know not."
Then came the guard that never knew repose, The Paladins of France; and at the sight The Lombard King o'ercome with terror cried : "This must be Charlemagne !" and as before Did Olger answer: "No; not yet, not yet."
And then appeared in panoply complete The Bishops and the Abbots and the Priests Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts; And Desiderio could no more endure The light of day, nor yet encounter death, But sobbed aloud and said: "Let us go down And hide us in the bosom of the earth, Far from the sight and anger of a foe So terrible as this!" And Olger said:
66 When you behold the harvests in the fields
Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino Lashing the city walls with iron waves,
Then may you know that Charlemagne is come." And even as he spake, in the northwest,
Lo! there uprose a black and threatening cloud, Out of whose bosom flashed the light of arms Upon the people pent up in the city; A light more terrible than any darkness: And Charlemagne appeared-a Man of Iron !
His helmet was of iron, and his gloves Of iron, and his breastplate and his greaves And tassets were of iron, and his shield. In his left hand he held an iron spear, In his right hand his sword invincible. The horse he rode on had the strength of iron, And colour of iron. All who went before him, Beside him, and behind him, his whole host, Were armed with iron, and their hearts within them Were stronger than the armour that they wore. The fields and all the roads were filled with iron, And points of iron glistened in the sun, And shed a terror through the city streets. This at a single glance Ölger the Dane
Saw from the tower, and turning to the King Exclaimed in haste, "Behold, this is the man You looked for with such eagerness!" and then Fell as one dead at Desiderio's feet.
THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS.
UP soared the lark into the air, A shaft of song, a wingèd prayer, As if a soul, released from pain, Were flying back to heaven again.
St. Francis heard; it was to him An emblem of the Seraphim; The upward motion of the fire, The light, the heat, the heart's desire.
Around Assisi's convent gate
The birds, God's poor who cannot wait, From moor and mere and darksome wood
Came flocking for their dole of food.
"O brother birds," St. Francis said, "Ye come to me and ask for bread, But not with bread alone to-day Shall ye be fed and sent away.
"Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,
With manna of celestial words;
Not mine, though mine they seem to be,
Not mine, though they be spoken through me.
"O, doubly are ye bound to praise
The great Creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.
"He giveth you your wings to fly And breathe a purer air on high, And careth for you everywhere, Who for yourselves so little care!"
With flutter of swift wings and songs Together rose the feathered throngs, And singing scattered far apart; Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart.
He knew not if the brotherhood His homily had understood; He only knew that to one ear
The meaning of his words was clear.
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