Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal?
Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed;Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them, As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness.
Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent, As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention.
But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction, Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth!
Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with emotion, "Forgive me!
I have been angry and hurt,--too long have I cherished the feeling;I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it is ended.
Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error.
Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden."Thereupon answered the bridegroom: "Let all be forgotten between us,--All save the dear, old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer!"Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla, Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry in England, Something of camp and of court, of town and of country, commingled, Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband.
Then he said with a smile: "I should have remembered the adage,--If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and moreover, No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas!"Great was the people's amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, Thus to behold once more the sun-burnt face of their Captain, Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and crowded about him, Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other, Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewildered, He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited.
Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at the doorway, Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning.
Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation;There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the sea-shore, There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows;But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the ocean.
Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure, Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying, Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left uncompleted.
Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, Brought out his snow-white steer, obeying the hand of its master, Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils, Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle.
She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday;Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant.
Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband, Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey.
"Nothing is wanting now," he said with a smile, "but the distaff;Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha!"Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together.
Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest, Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its bosom, Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the azure abysses.
Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended, Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol.
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers, So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession.
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BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
FLIGHT THE FIRST
..come i gru van cantando lor lai, Facendo in aer di se lunga riga.-- DANTEBIRDS OF PASSAGE
Black shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall Against the southern sky;And from the realms Of the shadowy elms A tide-like darkness overwhelms The fields that round us lie.
But the night is fair, And everywhere A warm, soft vapor fills the air, And distant sounds seem near,And above, in the light Of the star-lit night, Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere.
I hear the beat Of their pinions fleet, As from the land of snow and sleet They seek a southern lea.
I hear the cry Of their voices high Falling dreamily through the sky, But their forms I cannot see.
O, say not so!
Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds.
They are the throngs Of the poet's songs, Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words.
This is the cry Of souls, that high On toiling, beating pinions, fly, Seeking a warmer clime,From their distant flight Through realms of light It falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme.
PROMETHEUS
OR THE POET'S FORETHOUGHT
Of Prometheus, how undaunted On Olympus' shining bastions His audacious foot he planted, Myths are told and songs are chanted, Full of promptings and suggestions.