I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; And her lighted bridal chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving West, Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat; Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, 'I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!' Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo, the shadow of the belfry crossed the sunillumined square! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 175 THE PICTURE-GALLERIES AT MUNICH (Dover to Munich.) THERE, the long dim galleries threading Pallas there, and Jove, and Juno And the saffron skies of Claude. There the Amazons of Rubens And in Berghem's pools reflected Laugh amid the Seville grapes. And all purest, loveliest fancies Lo, her wan arms folded meekly, Kneels the Magdalen in prayer. And the white-robed Virgin-mother Half in gladness, half in wonder, And that mighty Judgment-vision Past the frontier-walls of Time; Heard the trumpet-echoes rolling Charles Stuart Calverley. 176 THE MASTER-BUILDER (The Problem.) NOT from a vain or shallow thought The thrilling Delphic oracle; Out from the heart of Nature rolled The litanies of nations came, Up from the burning core below,- The hand that rounded Peter's dome, Himself from God he could not free; Knowst thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Or how the sacred pine-tree adds These temples grew as grows the grass; Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, The word unto the prophet spoken Ralph Waldo Emerson. 177 TO HELEN HELEN, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicèan barks of yore, The weary way-worn wanderer bore On desperate seas long wont to roam, Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land! Edgar Allan Poe. 178 THE SWAN-NECK EVIL Sped the battle-play On the Pope Calixtus' day; Mighty war-smiths, thanes and lords, Lay along the autumn weald; |