of alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm,
A cry of defiance and not of fear,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

The people will waken and listen to

hear

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

INTERLUDE.

THE Landlord ended thus his tale,
Then rising took down from its nail
The sword that hung there, dim with
dust,

And cleaving to its sheath with rust, And said, This sword was in the fight."

The Poet seized it, and exclaimed,
"It is the sword of a good knight,
Though homespun was his coat-of-mail;
What matter if it be not named
Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale,
Excalibar, or Aroundight,
Or other name the books record?
Your ancestor, who bore this sword
As Colonel of the Volunteers,
Mounted upon his old gray mare,
Seen here and there and everywhere,
To me a grander shape appears
Than old Sir William, or what not,
Clinking about in foreign lands
With iron gauntlets on his hands,
And on his head an iron pot!"

The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears,
The Student said, with careless ease,
"The ladies and the cavaliers,
The arms, the loves, the courtesies,
The deeds of high emprise, I sing!
Thus Ariosto says, in words
That have the stately stride and ring
Of armed knights and clashing swords.
Now listen to the tale I bring;
Listen! though not to me belong
The flowing draperies of his song,
The words that rouse, the voice that
charms.

The Landlord's tale was one of arms,
Only a tale of love is mine,
Blending the human and divine,
A tale of the Decameron, told
In Palmieri's garden old,
By Fiametta, laurel-crowned,
While her companions lay around,
And heard the intermingled sound
Of airs that on their errands sped,
And wild birds gossiping overhead,
And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall,
And her own voice more sweet than
all,

Telling the tale, which, wanting these,
Perchance may lose its power to please."

THE STUDENT'S TALE.

THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO.

ONE summer morning, when the sun was hot,

Weary with labor in his garden-plot,
On a rude bench beneath his cottage

eaves,

red

As his escutcheon on the wall;
He could not comprehend at all
The drift of what the Poet said;
For those who had been longest dead
Were always greatest in his eyes;
And he was speechless with surprise
To see Sir William's plumed head
Brought to a level with the rest,
And made the subject of a jest.

And from its banks were lifted high in

air

The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair;

To him a marble tomb, that rose above His wasted fortunes and his buried love. For there, in banquet and in tournament,

His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent,

And so the empty-handed years went round,

Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound,

And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused

With folded, patient hands, as he was used,

And dreamily before his half-closed sight Floated the vision of his lost delight. Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard

The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare

The headlong plunge thro' eddying gulfs of air,

Then, starting broad awake upon his perch,

Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church,

And, looking at his master, seemed to say,

"Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?"

Ser Federigo thought not of the chase; The tender vision of her lovely face,

I will not say he seems to see, he sees
In the leaf-shadows of the trellises,
Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child
With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and
wild,

Coming undaunted up the garden walk, And looking not at him, but at the hawk.

"Beautiful falcon !" said he, "would that I

Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!"

The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start

Through all the haunted chambers of his heart,

As an æolian harp through gusty doors Of some old ruin its wild music pours.

With iron gates, that opened through long lines

Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone,

And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown,
And fountains palpitating in the heat,
And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath
its feet.

Here in seclusion, as a widow may,
The lovely lady whiled the hours away,
Pacing in sable robes the statued hall,
Herself the stateliest statue among all,
And seeing more and more, with secret
joy,

Her husband risen and living in her boy,
Till the lost sense of life returned again,
Not as delight, but as relief from pain.
Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his
strength,

Stormed down the terraces from length to length;

The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit,

And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. But his chief pastime was to watch the flight

Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall,

Then downward stooping at some distant

call;
And as he gazed full often wondered he
Who might the master of the falcon be,
Until that happy morning, when he found
Master and falcon in the cottage ground.

And now a shadow and a terror fell
On the great house, as if a passing-bell
Tolled from the tower, and filled each
spacious room

With secret awe, and preternatural

gloom;

Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face;

Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll

From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul;

The other with her hood thrown back, her hair

Making a golden glory in the air, Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush,

Her young heart singing louder than the thrush.

So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade,

Each by the other's presence lovelier made,

Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, Intent upon their errand and its end.

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook His little bells, with that sagacious look, Which said, as plain as language to the

ear,

men spied,

The garden suddenly was glorified;
His long-lost Eden was restored again,
And the strange river winding through
the plain

No longer was the Arno to his eyes,
But the Euphrates watering Paradise!

Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, And with fair words of salutation said: "Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, Hoping in this to make some poor amends For past unkindness. I who ne'er before Would even cross the threshold of your door,

I who in happier days such pride maintained,

Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained,

This morning come, a self-invited guest, To put your generous nature to the test, And breakfast with you under your own vine."

To which he answered: "Poor desert of mine,

Not your unkindness call it, for if aught Is good in me of feeling or of thought, From you it comes, and this last grace outweighs

All sorrows, all regrets of other days."

And after further compliment and talk,
Among the asters in the garden walk
He left his guests; and to his cottage
turned,

And as he entered for a moment yearned
For the lost splendors of the days of old,
The ruby glass, the silver and the gold,
And felt how piercing is the sting of pride,
By want embittered and intensified.
He looked about him for some means or
way

To keep this unexpected holiday; Searched every cupboard, and then searched again,

Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain ;

"The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said, "There's nothing in the house but wine and bread."

"If anything is wanting, I am here!"

The master seized thee without further

word.

Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah me!

The pomp and flutter of brave falconry, The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood,

The flight and the pursuit o'er field and wood,

All these forevermore are ended now; No longer victor, but the victim thou!

Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread,

Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot,

The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot; Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed,

And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced.

Ser Federigo, would not these suffice Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice?

When all was ready, and the courtly dame

With her companion to the cottage came,
Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell
The wild enchantment of a magic spell!
The room they entered, mean and low
and small,

Was changed into a sumptuous banquethall,

With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown; The rustic chair she sat on was a throne ; He ate celestial food, and a divine Flavor was given to his country wine, And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice,

A peacock was, or bird of paradise!

When the repast was ended, they arose And passed again into the garden-close. Then said the lady, "Far too well I

know,

Remembering still the days of long ago, Though you betray it not, with what surprise

You see me here in this familiar wise.

Ser Federigo listens, and replies, With tears of love and pity in his eyes: "Alas, dear lady! there can be no task So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. One little hour ago, if I had known This wish of yours, it would have been my own.

But thinking in what manner I could best

Do honor to the presence of my guest,
I deemed that nothing worthier could be
Than what most dear and precious was
to me,

And so my gallant falcon breathed his last

To furnish forth this morning our repast."

In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, The gentle lady turned her eyes away, Grieving that he such sacrifice should make,

And kill his falcon for a woman's sake, Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, That nothing she could ask for was denied ;

Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate With footstep slow and soul disconsolate.

Three days went by, and lo! a passingbell

Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, Breathing a prayer, "Alas! her child is

dead!'

Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chime

Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time;

The cottage was deserted, and no more Ser Federigo sat beside its door,

In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair,

High-perched upon the back of which

there stood

The image of a falcon carved in wood, And underneath the inscription, with a date,

"All things come round to him who will but wait."

INTERLUDE.

SOON as the story reached its end,
One, over eager to commend,
Crowned it with injudicious praise;
And then the voice of blame found vent,
And fanned the embers of dissent
Into a somewhat lively blaze.

The Theologian shook his head;
"These old Italian tales," he said,
"From the much - praised Decameron
down

Through all the rabble of the rest,
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd;
The gossip of a neighborhood
In some remote provincial town,
A scandalous chronicle at best!
They seem to me a stagnant fen,
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds,
Where a white lily, now and then,
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds
And deadly nightshade on its banks."

To this the Student straight replied,
"For the white lily, many thanks!
One should not say, with too much pride,
Fountain, I will not drink of thee!
Nor were it grateful to forget,
That from these reservoirs and tanks
Even imperial Shakespeare drew
His Moor of Venice, and the Jew,
And Romeo and Juliet,
And many a famous comedy."

Then a long pause; till some one said,
"An Angel is flying overhead!"
At these words spake the Spanish Jew,
And murmured with an inward breath:
"God grant, if what you say be true,
It may not be the Angel of Death!"