Ballads of Bravery 8

Ballads of Bravery 8

Who can look on unmoved? Mothers in secret

Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters;

Sons in the thought of making them their own;

And they, arrayed in youth and innocence,

Their beauty heightened by their hopes and fears.

At length the rite is ending. All fall down

In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together;

And stretching out his hands, the holy man

Proceeds to give the general benediction,

When hark! a din of voices from without,

And shrieks and groans and outcries, as in battle;

And lo! the door is burst, the curtain rent,

And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep,

Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbarigo

And his six brothers in their coats of steel,

Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like,

Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude,

Each with his sabre up, in act to strike;

Then, as at once recovering from the spell,

Rush forward to the altar, and as soon

Are gone again, amid no clash of arms,

Bearing away the maidens and the treasures.

Where are they now? Ploughing the distant waves,

Their sails all set, and they upon the deck

Standing triumphant. To the east they go,

Steering for Istria, their accursed barks

(Well are they known, the galliot and the galley)

Freighted with all that gives to life its value

The richest argosies were poor to them!

Now might you see the matrons running wild

Along the beach; the men half armed and arming;

One with a shield, one with a casque and spear;

One with an axe, hewing the mooring-chain

Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank,

But on that day was drifting. In an hour

Half Venice was afloat. But long before,--

Frantic with grief, and scorning all control,--

The youths were gone in a light brigantine,

Lying at anchor near the arsenal;

Each having sworn, and by the holy rood,

To slay or to be slain.

And from the tower

The watchman gives the signal. In the east

A ship is seen, and making for the port;

Her flag St. Mark’s. And now she turns the point,

Over the waters like a sea-bird flying.

Ha! ’tis the same, ’tis theirs! From stern to prow

Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, restoring

All that was lost!

Coasting, with narrow search.

Friuli, like a tiger in his spring,

They had surprised the corsairs where they lay,

Sharing the spoil in blind security,

And casting lots; had slain them one and all,--

All to the last,--and flung them far and wide

Into the sea, their proper element.

Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long

Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet

Breathing a little, in his look retained

The fierceness of his soul.

 

[Illustration]

 

Thus were the brides

Lost and recovered. And what now remained

But to give thanks? Twelve breastplates and twelve crowns,

Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offerings

Of the young victors to their patron saint,

Vowed on the field of battle, were erelong

Laid at his feet; and to preserve forever

The memory of a day so full of change,

From joy to grief, from grief to joy again,

Through many an age, as oft as it came round,

’Twas held religiously with all observance.

The Doge resigned his crimson for pure ermine;

And through the city in a stately barge

Of gold were borne, with songs and symphonies,

Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were

In bridal white with bridal ornaments,

Each in her glittering veil; and on the deck

As on a burnished throne, they glided by.

No window or balcony but adorned

With hangings of rich texture; not a roof

But covered with beholders, and the air

Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars

Moving in concert with the harmony,

Through the Rialto to the ducal palace;

And at a banquet there, served with due honor,

Sat, representing in the eyes of all--

Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears--

Their lovely ancestors, the “Brides of Venice.”

 

[Illustration]

 

 

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

 

The breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches tossed;

 

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and water o’er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

 

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;

 

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear;

They shook the depths of the desert gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

 

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the anthem of the free!

 

[Illustration]

 

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave’s foam,

And the rocking pines of the forest roared,--

This was their welcome home.

 

There were men with hoary hair

Amidst that pilgrim band:

Why had they come to wither there,

Away from their childhood’s land?

 

There was woman’s fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love’s truth;

There was manhood’s brow, serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.

 

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine,

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

They sought a faith’s pure shrine!

 

Aye, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod;

They have left unstained what there they found,--

Freedom to worship God.

 

[Illustration]

 

 

THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY.

 

Alas! The days of chivalry are fled,

The brilliant tournament exists no more;

Our loves are cold, and dull as ice or lead,

And courting is a most enormous bore.

 

In those good “olden times,” a “ladye bright”

Might sit within her turret or her bower,

While lovers sang and played without all night,

And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower.

 

Yet if one favored swain would persevere,

In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh,

Perchance she threw him, with the closing year,

An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf.

 

Off then, away he’d ride o’er sea and land,

And dragons fell and mighty giants smite

With the tough spear he carried in his hand;

And all to prove himself her own true knight.

 

[Illustration]

 

Meanwhile a thousand more, as wild as he,

Were all employed upon the self-same thing;

And when each had rode hard for his “ladye,”

They all come back and met within a ring.

 

Where all the men who were entitled “syr”

Appeared with martial air and haughty frown,

Bearing “long poles, each other up to stir,”

And, in the stir-up, thrust each other down.

 

And then they galloped round with dire intent,

Each knight resolved another’s pride to humble;

And laughter rang around the tournament

As oft as any of them had a tumble.

 

And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die,

The victim of a stout, unlucky poke,

Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye,

The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke.

 

Soon, then, the lady, whose grim, stalwart swain

Had got the strongest horse and toughest pole,

Bedecked him, kneeling, with a golden chain,

And plighted troth before the motley whole.

 

Alas! the days of chivalry are fled,

The brilliant tournament exists no more.

Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead,

And even courtship is a dreadful bore.