And the worse, the nearer they are to
For the sake of the living and the dead, Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed, And all things come to a happy end."
O sun, that followest the night, In yon blue sky, serene and pure, And pourest thine impartial light Alike on mountain and on moor, Pause for a moment in thy course, And bless the bridegroom and the bride! O Gave, that from thy hidden source In yon mysterious mountain-side Pursuest thy wandering way alone, And leaping down its steps of stone, Along the meadow-lands demure Stealest away to the Adour, Pause for a moment in thy course To bless the bridegroom and the bride!
The choir is singing the matin song, The doors of the church are opened wide,
The people crowd, and press, and throng To see the bridegroom and the bride. They enter and pass along the nave ; They stand upon the father's grave; The bells are ringing soft and slow The living above and the dead below Give their blessing on one and twain ; The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain,
The birds are building, the leaves
And Baron Castine of St. Castine Hath come at last to his own again.
"NUNC plaudite!" the Student cried, When he had finished; "now applaud,
| As Roman actors used to say At the conclusion of a play"; And rose, and spread his hands abroad, And smiling bowed from side to side, As one who bears the palm away. And generous was the applause and loud, But less for him than for the sun, That even as the tale was done Burst from its canopy of cloud, And lit the landscape with the blaze Of afternoon on autumn days, And filled the room with light, and made
The fire of logs a painted shade.
A sudden wind from out the west Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill ; The windows rattled with the blast, The oak-trees shouted as it passed, And straight, as if by fear possessed, The cloud encampment on the hill Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent Vanished into the firmament, And down the valley fled amain The rear of the retreating rain.
Only far up in the blue sky
A mass of clouds, like drifted snow Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, Was heaped together, vast and high, On which a shattered rainbow hung, Not rising like the ruined arch Of some aerial aqueduct, But like a roseate garland plucked From an Olympian god, and flung Aside in his triumphal march.
Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, Like birds escaping from a snare, Like school-boys at the hour of play, All left at once the pent-up room, And rushed into the open air; And no more tales were told that day.
THE evening came; the golden vane A moment in the sunset glanced, Then darkened, and then gleamed again, As from the east the moon advanced And touched it with a softer light; While underneath, with flowing mane, Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, And galloped forth into the night.
But brighter than the afternoon That followed the dark day of rain, And brighter than the golden vane That glistened in the rising moon, Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed ; And every separate window-pane, Backed by the outer darkness, showed A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed And flickered to and fro, and seemed A bonfire lighted in the road.
Amid the hospitable glow, Like an old actor on the stage, With the uncertain voice of age, The singing chimney chanted low The homely songs of long ago.
The voice that Ossian heard of yore, When midnight winds were in his hall; A ghostly and appealing call,
A sound of days that are no more! And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, And listened to the sound, and knew The passing of the airy hosts, The gray and misty cloud of ghosts In their interminable flight; And listening muttered in his beard, With accent indistinct and weird, "Who are ye, children of the Night?"
"That birds have souls I can concede," The poet cried, with glowing cheeks;
The flocks that from their beds of reed Uprising north or southward fly, And flying write upon the sky The biforked letter of the Greeks, As hath been said by Rucellai; All birds that sing or chirp or cry, Even those migratory bands, The minor poets of the air, The plover, peep, and sanderling, That hardly can be said to sing, But pipe along the barren sands, - All these have souls akin to ours; So hath the lovely race of flowers: Thus much I grant, but nothing more. The rusty hinges of a door
Are not alive because they creak; This chimney, with its dreary roar, These rattling windows, do not speak!" To me they speak," the Jew replied; "And in the sounds that sink and soar, I hear the voices of a tide
That breaks upon an unknown shore!"
Here the Sicilian interfered: "That was your dream, then, as you dozed
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