Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13)

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Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 65

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


  Winter’s cold or summer’s heat, 45

  To the convent portals came

  All the blind and halt and lame,

  All the beggars of the street,

  For their daily dole of food

  Delat them by the brotherhood; 50

  And their almoner was he

  Who upon his bended knee,

  Rapt in silent ecstasy

  Of divinest self-surrender,

  Saw the Vision and the Splendor. 55

  Deep distress and hesitation

  Mingled with his adoration;

  Should he go or should he stay?

  Should he leave the poor to wait

  Hungry at the convent gate, 60

  Till the Vision passed away?

  Should he slight his radiant guest,

  Slight this visitant celestial,

  For a crowd of ragged, bestial

  Beggars at the convent gate? 65

  Would the Vision there remain?

  Would the Vision come again?

  Then a voice within his breast

  Whispered, audible and clear

  As if to the outward ear: 70

  “Do thy duty; that is best;

  Leave unto thy Lord the rest!”

  Straightway to his feet he started,

  And with longing look intent

  On the Blessed Vision bent, 75

  Slowly from his cell departed,

  Slowly on his errand went.

  At the gate the poor were waiting,

  Looking through the iron grating,

  With that terror in the eye 80

  That is only seen in those

  Who amid their wants and woes

  Hear the sound of doors that close,

  And of feet that pass them by;

  Grown familiar with disfavor, 85

  Grown familiar with the savor

  Of the bread by which men die!

  But to-day, they know not why,

  Like the gate of Paradise

  Seemed the convent gate to rise, 90

  Like a sacrament divine

  Seemed to them the bread and wine.

  In his heart the Monk was praying,

  Thinking of the homeless poor,

  What they suffer and endure; 95

  What we see not, what we see;

  And the inward voice was saying:

  “Whatsoever thing thou doest

  To the least of mine and lowest,

  That thou doest unto me!” 100

  Unto me! but had the Vision

  Come to him in beggar’s clothing,

  Come a mendicant imploring,

  Would he then have knelt adoring,

  Or have listened with derision, 105

  And have turned away with loathing?

  Thus his conscience put the question,

  Full of troublesome suggestion,

  As at length, with hurried pace,

  Towards his cell he turned his face, 110

  And beheld the convent bright

  With a supernatural light,

  Like a luminous cloud expanding

  Over floor and wall and ceiling.

  But he paused with awe-struck feeling 115

  At the threshold of his door,

  For the Vision still was standing

  As he left it there before,

  When the convent bell appalling,

  From its belfry calling, calling, 120

  Summoned him to feed the poor.

  Through the long hour intervening

  It had waited his return,

  And he felt his bosom burn,

  Comprehending all the meaning, 125

  When the Blessed Vision said,

  “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!”

  The Theologian’s Tale: Interlude

  ALL praised the Legend more or less;

  Some liked the moral, some the verse;

  Some thought it better, and some worse

  Than other legends of the past;

  Until, with ill-concealed distress 5

  At all their cavilling, at last

  The Theologian gravely said:

  “The Spanish proverb, then, is right;

  Consult your friends on what you do,

  And one will say that it is white, 10

  And others say that it is red.”

  And “Amen!” quoth the Spanish Jew.

  “Six stories told! We must have seven,

  A cluster like the Pleiades,

  And lo! it happens, as with these, 15

  That one is missing from our heaven.

  Where is the Landlord? Bring him here;

  Let the Lost Pleiad reappear.”

  Thus the Sicilian cried, and went

  Forthwith to seek his missing star, 20

  But did not find him in the bar,

  A place that landlords most frequent,

  Nor yet beside the kitchen fire,

  Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall;

  It was in vain to ask or call, 25

  There were no tidings of the Squire.

  So he came back with downcast head,

  Exclaiming: “Well, our bashful host

  Hath surely given up the ghost.

  Another proverb says the dead 30

  Can tell no tales; and that is true.

  It follows, then, that one of you

  Must tell a story in his stead.

  You must,” he to the Student said,

  “Who know so many of the best, 35

  And tell them better than the rest.”

  Straight, by these flattering words beguiled,

  The Student, happy as a child

  When he is called a little man,

  Assumed the double task imposed, 40

  And without more ado unclosed

  His smiling lips, and thus began.

  The Student’s Second Tale

  The Baron of St. Castine

  BARON CASTINE of St. Castine

  Has left his château in the Pyrenees,

  And sailed across the western seas.

  When he went away from his fair demesne

  The birds were building, the woods were green; 5

  And now the winds of winter blow

  Round the turrets of the old château,

  The birds are silent and unseen,

  The leaves lie dead in the ravine,

  And the Pyrenees are white with snow. 10

  His father, lonely, old, and gray,

  Sits by the fireside day by day,

  Thinking ever one thought of care;

  Through the southern windows, narrow and tall,

  The sun shines into the ancient hall, 15

  And makes a glory round his hair.

  The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair,

  Groans in his sleep, as if in pain,

  Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again,

  So silent is it everywhere, — 20

  So silent you can hear the mouse

  Run and rummage along the beams

  Behind the wainscot of the wall;

  And the old man rouses from his dreams,

  And wanders restless through the house, 25

  As if he heard strange voices call.

  His footsteps echo along the floor

  Of a distant passage, and pause awhile;

  He is standing by an open door

  Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, 30

  Into the room of his absent son.

  There is the bed on which he lay,

  There are the pictures bright and gray,

  Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas;

  There are his powder-flask and gun, 35

  And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan;

  The chair by the window where he sat,

  With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat,

  Looking out on the Pyrenees,

  Looking out on Mount Marboré 40

  And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan.

  Ah me! he turns away and sighs;
/>
  There is a mist before his eyes.

  At night, whatever the weather be,

  Wind or rain or starry heaven, 45

  Just as the clock is striking seven,

  Those who look from the windows see

  The village Curate, with lantern and maid,

  Come through the gateway from the park

  And cross the courtyard damp and dark, — 50

  A ring of light in a ring of shade.

  And now at the old man’s side he stands,

  His voice is cheery, his heart expands,

  He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze

  Of the fire of fagots, about old days, 55

  And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde,

  And the Cardinal’s nieces fair and fond,

  And what they did, and what they said,

  When they heard his Eminence was dead.

  And after a pause the old man says, 60

  His mind still coming back again

  To the one sad thought that haunts his brain,

  “Are there any tidings from over sea?

  Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me?”

  And the Curate answers, looking down, 65

  Harmless and docile as a lamb,

  “Young blood! young blood! It must so be!”

  And draws from the pocket of his gown

  A handkerchief like an oriflamb,

  And wipes his spectacles, and they play 70

  Their little game of lansquenet

  In silence for an hour or so,

  Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear

  From the village lying asleep below,

  And across the courtyard, into the dark 75

  of the winding pathway in the park,

  Curate and lantern disappear,

  And darkness reigns in the old château.

  The ship has come back from over sea,

  She has been signalled from below, 80

  And into the harbor of Bordeaux

  She sails with her gallant company.

  But among them is nowhere seen

  The brave young Baron of St. Castine;

  He hath tarried behind, I ween, 85

  In the beautiful land of Acadie!

  And the father paces to and fro

  Through the chambers of the old château,

  Waiting, waiting to hear the hum

  Of wheels on the road that runs below, 90

  Of servants hurrying here and there,

  The voice in the courtyard, the step on the stair,

  Waiting for some one who doth not come!

  But letters there are, which the old man reads

  To the Curate, when he comes at night, 95

  Word by word, as an acolyte

  Repeats his prayers and tells his beads;

  Letters full of the rolling sea,

  Full of a young man’s joy to be

  Abroad in the world, alone and free; 100

  Full of adventures and wonderful scenes

  Of hunting the deer through forests vast

  In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast;

  Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines;

  Of Madocawando the Indian chief, 105

  And his daughters, glorious as queens,

  And beautiful beyond belief;

  And so soft the tones of their native tongue,

  The words are not spoken, they are sung!

  And the Curate listens, and smiling says: 110

  “Ah yes, dear friend! in our young days

  We should have liked to hunt the deer

  All day amid those forest scenes,

  And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines;

  But now it is better sitting here 115

  Within four walls, and without the fear

  Of losing our hearts to Indian queens;

  For man is fire and woman is tow,

  And the Somebody comes and begins to blow.”

  Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise 120

  Shines in the father’s gentle eyes,

  As fire-light on a window-pane

  Glimmers and vanishes again;

  But naught he answers; he only sighs,

  And for a moment bows his head; 125

  Then, as their custom is, they play

  Their little game of lansquenet,

  And another day is with the dead.

  Another day, and many a day

  And many a week and month depart, 130

  When a fatal letter wings its way

  Across the sea, like a bird of prey,

  And strikes and tears the old man’s heart.

  Lo! the young Baron of St. Castine,

  Swift as the wind is, and as wild, 135

  Has married a dusky Tarratine,

  Has married Madocawando’s child!

  The letter drops from the father’s hand;

  Though the sinews of his heart are wrung,

  He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, 140

  No malediction falls from his tongue;

  But his stately figure, erect and grand,

  Bends and sinks like a column of sand

  In the whirlwind of his great despair.

  Dying, yes, dying! His latest breath 145

  Of parley at the door of death

  Is a blessing on his wayward son.

  Lower and lower on his breast

  Sinks his gray head; he is at rest;

  No longer he waits for any one. 150

  For many a year the old château

  Lies tenantless and desolate;

  Rank grasses in the courtyard grow,

  About its gables caws the crow;

  Only the porter at the gate 155

  Is left to guard it, and to wait

  The coming of the rightful heir;

  No other life or sound is there;

  No more the Curate comes at night,

  No more is seen the unsteady light, 160

  Threading the alleys of the park;

  The windows of the hall are dark,

  The chambers dreary, cold, and bare!

  At length, at last, when the winter is past,

  And birds are building, and woods are green, 165

  With flying skirts is the Curate seen

  Speeding along the woodland way,

  Humming gayly, “No day is so long

  But it comes at last to vesper-song.”

  He stops at the porter’s lodge to say 170

  That at last the Baron of St. Castine

  Is coming home with his Indian queen,

  Is coming without a week’s delay;

  And all the house must be swept and clean,

  And all things set in good array! 175

  And the solemn porter shakes his head;

  And the answer he makes is: “Lackaday!

  We will see, as the blind man said!”

  Alert since first the day began,

  The cock upon the village church 180

  Looks northward from his airy perch,

  As if beyond the ken of man

  To see the ships come sailing on,

  And pass the Isle of Oléron,

  And pass the Tower of Cordouan. 185

  In the church below is cold in clay

  The heart that would have leaped for joy —

  O tender heart of truth and trust! —

  To see the coming of that day;

  In the church below the lips are dust; 190

  Dust are the hands, and dust the feet

  That would have been so swift to meet

  The coming of that wayward boy.

  At night the front of the old château

  Is a blaze of light above and below; 195

  There’s a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street,

  A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet,

  Bells are ringing, and horns are blown,

  And the Baron hath come again to his own.

  The Curate is waiting in the hall, 200

  Most
eager and alive of all

  To welcome the Baron and Baroness;

  But his mind is full of vague distress,

  For he hath read in Jesuit books

  Of those children of the wilderness, 205

  And now, good, simple man! he looks

  To see a painted savage stride

  Into the room, with shoulders bare,

  And eagle feathers in her hair,

  And around her a robe of panther’s hide. 210

  Instead, he beholds with secret shame

  A form of beauty undefined,

  A loveliness without a name,

  Not of degree, but more of kind;

  Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, 215

  But a new mingling of them all.

  Yes, beautiful beyond belief,

  Transfigured and transfused, he sees

  The lady of the Pyrenees,

  The daughter of the Indian chief. 220

  Beneath the shadow of her hair

  The gold-bronze color of the skin

  Seems lighted by a fire within,

  As when a burst of sunlight shines

  Beneath a sombre grove of pines, — 225

  A dusky splendor in the air.

  The two small hands, that now are pressed

  In his, seem made to be caressed,

  They lie so warm and soft and still,

  Like birds half hidden in a nest, 230

  Trustful, and innocent of ill.

  And ah! he cannot believe his ears

  When her melodious voice he hears

  Speaking his native Gascon tongue;

  The words she utters seem to be 235

  Part of some poem of Goudouli,

  They are not spoken, they are sung!

  And the Baron smiles, and says, “You see,

  I told you but the simple truth;

  Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!” 240

  Down in the village day by day

  The people gossip in their way,

  And stared to see the Baroness pass

  On Sunday morning to early mass;

  And when she kneeleth down to pray, 245

  They wonder, and whisper together, and say

  “Surely this is no heathen lass!”

  And in course of time they learn to bless

  The Baron and the Baroness.

  And in course of time the Curate learns 250

  A secret so dreadful, that by turns

  He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns.

  The Baron at confession hath said,

  That though this woman be his wife,

  He hath wed her as the Indians wed, 255

 

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