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?"
Beholding his mysterious face, "Tell me," the gay Sicilian said, "Why was it that in breaking bread At supper, you bent down your head And, musing, paused a little space, As one who says a silent grace?"
The Jew replied, with solemn air,, "I said the Manichæan's prayer. It was his faith, - perhaps is mine, That life in all its forms is one, And that its secret conduits run
Unseen, but in unbroken line, From the great fountain-head divine Through man and beast, through grain and grass.
Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry, From death there can be no escape, And no escape from life, alas ! Because we cannot die, but pass From one into another shape: It is but into life we die.
"Therefore the Manichæan said This simple prayer on breaking bread, Lest he with hasty hand or knife Might wound the incarcerated life, The soul in things that we call dead :
I did not reap thee, did not bind thee, I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee,
Nor did I in the oven bake thee! It was not I, it was another
Did these things unto thee, O brother; I only have thee, hold thee, break thee!'"
"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
Of a white figure in the twilight air, Gazing intent, as one who with surprise His form and features seemed to recognize;
And in a whisper to the king he said: "What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead,
Is watching me, as if he sought to trace In the dim light the features of my face?"
The king looked, and replied: "I know him well;
It is the Angel men call Azrael, 'Tis the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?"
And the guest answered: "Lest he should come near,
And speak to me, and take away my breath!
Save me from Azrael, save me from death!
O king, that hast dominion o'er the wind, Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind."
"O EDREHI, forbear to-night Your ghostly legends of affright, And let the Talmud rest in peace; Spare us your dismal tales of death That almost take away one's breath; So doing, may your tribe increase."
Thus the Sicilian said; then went And on the spinet's rattling keys Played Marianina, like a breeze From Naples and the Southern seas, That brings us the delicious scent Of citron and of orange trees, And memories of soft days of ease At Capri and Amalfi spent.
"Not so," the eager Poet said ; "At least, not so before I tell The story of my Azrael, An angel mortal as ourselves, Which in an ancient tome I found Upon a convent's dusty shelves, Chained with an iron chain, and bound In parchment, and with clasps of brass, Lest from its prison, some dark day, It might be stolen or steal away, While the good friars were singing mass.
"It is a tale of Charlemagne, When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast,
With lightning flaming through its showers,
He swept across the Lombard plain, Beleaguering with his warlike train Pavía, the country's pride and boast, The City of the Hundred Towers."
Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts; And Desiderio could no more endure The light of day, nor yet encounter death, "Let us
But sobbed aloud and said : go down
And hide us in the bosom of the earth, Far from the sight and anger of a foe So terrible as this!" And Olger said: "When you behold the harvests in the fields
Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino
Lashing the city walls with iron waves, Then may you know that Charlemagne is come.
This at a single glance Olger the Dane Saw from the tower, and turning to the King Exclaimed in haste: "Behold! this is the man
You looked for with such eagerness!" and then
Fell as one dead at Desiderio's feet.
WELL pleased all listened to the tale, That drew, the Student said, its pith And marrow from the ancient myth Of some one with an iron flail ; Or that portentous Man of Brass Hephaestus made in days of yore, Who stalked about the Cretan shore, And saw the ships appear and pass, And threw stones at the Argonauts, Being filled with indiscriminate ire That tangled and perplexed his thoughts; But, like a hospitable host,
When strangers landed on the coast, Heated himself red-hot with fire, And hugged them in his
Their bodies to his burning breast.
The Poet answered: "No, not thus The legend rose; it sprang at first Out of the hunger and the thirst In all men for the marvellous. And thus it filled and satisfied The imagination of mankind, And this ideal to the mind Was truer than historic fact. Fancy enlarged and multiplied The terrors of the awful name Of Charlemagne, till he became Armipotent in every act,
And, clothed in mystery, appeared Not what men saw, but what they feared. *
The Theologian said: "Perchance Your chronicler in writing this Had in his mind the Anabasis, Where Xenophon describes the advance Of Artaxerxes to the fight; At first the low gray cloud of dust, And then a blackness o'er the fields
As of a passing thunder-gust, Then flash of brazen armor bright,
Or watch him with the pupils of his school,
And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust, Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule.
Among them, always earliest in his place, | And as the Emperor promised he wa Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race, Whose face was bright with flashes that forerun
The splendors of a yet unrisen sun. To him all things were possible, and seemed
Not what he had accomplished, but had dreamed,
And what were tasks to others were his play,
The pastime of an idle holiday.
Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said, With many a shrug and shaking of the head,
Surely some demon must possess the lad, Who showed more wit than ever schoolboy had,
And learned his Trivium thus without the rod;
But Alcuin said it was the grace of God.
Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device, Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric nice; Science of Numbers, Geometric art, And lore of Stars, and Music knew by heart;
A Minnesinger, long before the times Of those who sang their love in Suabian rhymes.
The Emperor, when he heard this good report
Of Eginhard much buzzed about the court,
Said to himself, "This stripling seems to be
Purposely sent into the world for me; He shall become my scribe, and shall be schooled
In all the arts whereby the world is ruled.'
Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain To honor in the court of Charlemagne ; Became the sovereign's favorite, his right
So that his fame was great in all the land, And all men loved him for his modest grace
And comeliness of figure and of face. An inmate of the palace, yet recluse, A man of books, yet sacred from abuse Among the armed knights with spur on heel,
The tramp of horses and the clang of steel;
In all the arts by which the world is ruled.
But the one art supreme, whose law is fate,
The Emperor never dreamed of till too late.
Home from her convent to the palace
The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet name,
Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard, Had often touched the soul of Eginhard. He saw her from his window, as in state She came, by knights attended through the gate;
He saw her at the banquet of that day, Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May; He saw her in the garden, as she strayed Among the flowers of summer with her maid,
And said to him, “O Eginhard, disclose The meaning and the mystery of the
And trembling he made answer: “In good sooth,
Its mystery is love, its meaning youth!"
How can I tell the signals and the signs By which one heart another heart divines ?
How can I tell the many thousand ways By which it keeps the secret it betrays?
O mystery of love! O strange romance ! Among the Peers and Paladins of France, Shining in steel, and prancing on gay steeds,
Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds, The Princess Emma had no words nor looks
But for this clerk, this man of thought and books.
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