Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, HAUNTED HOUSES. ALL houses wherein men have lived and died A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table, than the hosts Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; He but perceives what is; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear. We have no title-deeds to house or lands; The spirit-world around this world of sense Our little lives are kept in equipoise And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud So from the world of spirits there descends IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. IN the village churchyard she lies, Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; At her feet and at her head Lies a slave to attend the dead, But their dust is white as hers. Was she a lady of high degree, And foolish pomp of this world of ours? And lowliness and humility, The richest and rarest of all dowers? Who shall tell us? No one speaks; At the rude question we have asked; By those who are sleeping at her side To find her failings, faults, and errors? THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S NEST. ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain, Long besieged, in mud and rain, Some old frontier town of Flanders. Up and down the dreary camp, In great boots of Spanish leather, Striding with a measured tramp, These Hidalgos, dull and damp, Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather. Thus as to and fro they went, Over upland and through hollow, Giving their impatience vent, In her nest, they spied a swallow. Yes, it was a swallow's nest, Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane, or tale, or dragoon's crest, Found on hedge-rows east and west, After skirmish of the forces. Then an old Hidalgo said, As he twirled his gray mustachio, Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, "Tis the wife of some deserter!" Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, Through the camp was spread the rumour, And the soldiers, as they quaffed Flemish beer at dinner, laughed At the Emperor's pleasant humour. So unharmed and unafraid Sat the swallow still and brooded, Through the wails a breach had made, Then the army, elsewhere bent, Only not the Emperor's tent, So it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Singing o'er those walls of stone Which the cannon-shot had shattered. THE TWO ANGELS. Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, The dawn was on their faces and beneath, The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. Their attitude and aspect were the same, Alike their featnres and their robes of white: But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. I saw them pause on their celestial way; Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest!" And he who wore the crown of asphodels, Descending, at my door began to knock, And my soul sank within me, as in wells The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. I recognised the nameless agony, The terror and the tremor and the pain, That oft before had filled or haunted me, And now returned with threefold strength again. The door I opened to my heavenly guest, And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice; Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, 'Twas at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, Angels of Life and Death alike are His; DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. IN broad daylight, and at noon, In broad daylight, yesterday, But at length the feverish day Then the moon in all her pride, Filled and overflowed the night And the Poet's song again Passed like music through my brain; All its grace and mystery, THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves, Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never-silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down! The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, With Abraham and Jacob of old times. "Blessed be God! for He created Death!" The mourners said, "and Death is rest and peace;" Then added, in the certainty of faith, "And giveth Life that never more shall cease." Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, Gone are the living, but the dead remain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. How came they here? What burst of Christian hate Drove o'er the sea-that desert desolate- |