He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, He did not pause to parley or dissemble, Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead. THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. ONCE the Emperor Charles of Spain, With his swarthy, grave commanders, Up and down the dreary camp, Thus as to and fro they went, Over upland and through hollow, Yes, it was a swallow's nest, Built of clay and hair of horses, Mane, or tail, 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, Hearing his imperial name Coupled with those words of malice, "Let no hand the bird molest," Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, Through the camp was spread the rumor, And the soldiers, as they quaffed Flemish beer at dinner, laughed At the Emperor's pleasant humor. So unharmed and unafraid Sat the swallow still and brooded, Then the army, elsewhere bent, So it stood there all alone, Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, Which the cannon-shot had shattered. THE TWO ANGELS. Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, Their attitude and aspect were the same, Alike their features 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 belovèd are at rest!" And he who wore the crown of asphodels, I recognized 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; And, knowing whatso'er he sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. 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, All is of God! If he but wave his hand, Angels of Life and Death alike are his; Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door? OLIVER BASSELIN. In the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer, And beneath the window-sill, On the stone, These words alone: "Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Château; Nothing but the donjon-keep Left for shelter or for show. Its vacant eyes Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown, Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, With a splendor of its own. |