Gaily bedight,
                         A gallant knight,
                    In sunshine and in shadow,
                         Had journeyed long,
                         Singing a song,
                    In search of Eldorado.

                         But he grew old—
                         This knight so bold—
                    And o'er his heart a shadow
                         Fell as he found
                         No spot of ground
                    That looked like Eldorado.

                         And, as his strength
                         Failed him at length,
                    He met a pilgrim shadow—
                         "Shadow," said he,
                         "Where can it be—
                    This land of Eldorado?"

                         "Over the Mountains
                         Of the Moon,
                    Down the Valley of the Shadow,
                         Ride, boldly ride,"
                         The shade replied,
                    "If you seek for Eldorado."

               I heard the trailing garments of the Night
                 Sweep through her marble halls!
               I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
                 From the celestial walls!

               I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
                 Stoop o'er me from above;
               The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
                 As of the one I love.

               I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
                 The manifold, soft chimes,
               That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
                 Like some old poet's rhymes.

               From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
                 My spirit drank repose;
               The fountain of perpetual peace flows there—
                 From those deep cisterns flows.

               O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
                 What man has borne before!
               Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
                 And they complain no more.

               Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
                 Descend with broad-winged flight,
               The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
                 The best-beloved Night!

          Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
               "Life is but an empty dream!"
          For the soul is dead that slumbers,
               And things are not what they seem.

          Life is real!  Life is earnest!
               And the grave is not its goal;
          "Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
               Was not spoken of the soul.

          Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
               Is our destined end or way;
          But to act, that each to-morrow
               Find us farther than to-day.

          Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
               And our hearts, though stout and brave,
          Still, like muffled drums, are beating
               Funeral marches to the grave.

          In the world's broad field of battle,
               In the bivouac of Life,
          Be not like dumb, driven cattle;
               Be a hero in the strife!

          Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant
               Let the dead Past bury its dead!
          Act,—act in the living Present!
               Heart within, and God o'erhead!

          Lives of great men all remind us
               We can make our lives sublime,
          And, departing, leave behind us
               Footprints on the sands of time;

          Footprints, that perhaps another,
               Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
          A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
               Seeing, shall take heart again.

          Let us, then, be up and doing,
               With a heart for any fate;
          Still achieving, still pursuing,
               Learn to labor and to wait.

                    "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
                    Who, with thy hollow breast
                    Still in rude armor drest,
                      Comest to daunt me!

                    Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
                    But with thy fleshless palms
                    Stretched, as if asking alms,
                      Why dost thou haunt me?"

                    Then, from those cavernous eyes
                    Pale flashes seemed to rise,
                    As when the Northern skies
                      Gleam in December;
                    And, like the water's flow
                    Under December's snow,
                    Came a dull voice of woe
                      From the heart's chamber.

                    "I was a Viking old!
                    My deeds, though manifold,
                    No Skald in song has told,
                      No Saga taught thee!
                    Take heed, that in thy verse
                    Thou dost the tale rehearse,
                    Else dread a dead man's curse;
                      For this I sought thee.

                    "Far in the Northern Land,
                    By the wild Baltic's strand,
                    I, with my childish hand,
                      Tamed the ger-falcon;
                    And, with my skates fast-bound,
                    Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
                    That the poor whimpering hound
                      Trembled to walk on.

                    "Oft to his frozen lair
                    Tracked I the grisly bear,
                    While from my path the hare
                      Fled like a shadow;
                    Oft through the forest dark
                    Followed the were-wolf's bark,
                    Until the soaring lark
                      Sang from the meadow.

                    "But when I older grew,
                    Joining a corsair's crew,
                    O'er the dark sea I flew
                      With the marauders.
                    Wild was the life we led;
                    Many the souls that sped,
                    Many the hearts that bled,
                      By our stern orders.

                    "Many a wassail-bout
                    Wore the long Winter out;
                    Often our midnight shout
                      Set the cocks crowing,
                    As we the Berserk's tale
                    Measured in cups of ale,
                    Draining the oaken pail,
                      Filled to o'erflowing.

                    "Once as I told in glee
                    Tales of the stormy sea,
                    Soft eyes did gaze on me,
                      Burning yet tender;
                    And as the white stars shine
                    On the dark Norway pine,
                    On that dark heart of mine
                      Fell their soft splendor.

                    "I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
                    Yielding, yet half afraid,
                    And in the forest's shade
                      Our vows were plighted.
                    Under its loosened vest
                    Fluttered her little breast,
                    Like birds within their nest
                      By the hawk frighted.

                    "Bright in her father's hall
                    Shields gleamed upon the wall,
                    Loud sang the minstrels all,
                      Chaunting his glory;
                    When of old Hildebrand
                    I asked his daughter's hand,
                    Mute did the minstrels stand
                      To hear my story.

                    "While the brown ale he quaffed,
                    Loud then the champion laughed,
                    And as the wind-gusts waft
                      The sea-foam brightly,
                    So the loud laugh of scorn,
                    Out of those lips unshorn,
                    From the deep drinking-horn
                      Blew the foam lightly.

                    "She was a Prince's child,
                    I but a Viking wild,
                    And though she blushed and smiled,
                      I was discarded!
                    Should not the dove so white
                    Follow the sea-mew's flight,
                    Why did they leave that night
                      Her nest unguarded?

                    "Scarce had I put to sea,
                    Bearing the maid with me,—
                    Fairest of all was she
                      Among the Norsemen!—
                    When on the white sea-strand,
                    Waving his armed hand,
                    Saw we old Hildebrand,
                      With twenty horsemen.

                    "Then launched they to the blast,
                    Bent like a reed each mast,
                    Yet we were gaining fast,
                      When the wind failed us;
                    And with a sudden flaw
                    Come round the gusty Skaw,
                    So that our foe we saw
                      Laugh as he hailed us.

                    "And as to catch the gale
                    Round veered the flapping sail,
                    Death! was the helmsman's hail
                      Death without quarter!
                    Mid-ships with iron keel
                    Struck we her ribs of steel;
                    Down her black hulk did reel
                      Through the black water!

                    "As with his wings aslant,
                    Sails the fierce cormorant,
                    Seeking some rocky haunt,
                      With his prey laden,
                    So toward the open main,
                    Beating to sea again,
                    Through the wild hurricane,
                      Bore I the maiden.

                    "Three weeks we westward bore,
                    And when the storm was o'er,
                    Cloud-like we saw the shore
                      Stretching to lee-ward;
                    There for my lady's bower
                    Built I the lofty tower,
                    Which to this very hour,
                      Stands looking sea-ward.

                    "There lived we many years;
                    Time dried the maiden's tears;
                    She had forgot her fears,
                      She was a mother;
                    Death closed her mild blue eyes,
                    Under that tower she lies;
                    Ne'er shall the sun arise
                      On such another!

                    "Still grew my bosom then,
                    Still as a stagnant fen!
                    Hateful to me were men,
                      The sun-light hateful.
                    In the vast forest here,
                    Clad in my warlike gear,
                    Fell I upon my spear,
                      O, death was grateful!

                    "Thus, seamed with many scars
                    Bursting these prison bars,
                    Up to its native stars
                      My soul ascended!
                    There from the flowing bowl
                    Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
                    Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"
                      —Thus the tale ended.

                    It was the schooner Hesperus,
                    That sailed the wintry sea:
                    And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
                    To bear him company.

                    Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
                    Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
                    And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
                    That ope in the month of May.

                    The skipper he stood beside the helm,
                    His pipe was in his mouth,
                    And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
                    The smoke now West, now South.

                    Then up and spake an old Sailor,
                    Had sailed the Spanish Main,
                    "I pray thee, put into yonder port
                    For I fear a hurricane.

                    "Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
                    And to-night no moon we see!"
                    The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
                    And a scornful laugh laughed he.

                    Colder and louder blew the wind,
                    A gale from the Northeast;
                    The snow fell hissing in the brine,
                    And the billows frothed like yeast.

                    Down came the storm, and smote amain,
                    The vessel in its strength;
                    She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
                    Then leaped her cable's length,

                    "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
                    And do not tremble so;
                    For I can weather the roughest gale,
                    That ever wind did blow."

                    He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
                    Against the stinging blast;
                    He cut a rope from a broken spar,
                    And bound her to the mast.

                    "O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
                    O say, what may it be?"
                    "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"
                    And he steered for the open sea.

                    "O father!  I hear the sound of guns,
                    O say, what may it be?"
                    "Some ship in distress, that cannot live
                    In such an angry sea!"

                    "O father!  I see a gleaming light,
                    O say, what may it be?"
                    But the father answered never a word,
                    A frozen corpse was he.

                    Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
                    With his face turned to the skies,
                    The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
                    On his fixed and glassy eyes.

                    Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
                    That saved she might be;
                    And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
                    On the Lake of Galilee.

                    And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
                    Through the whistling sleet and snow,
                    Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
                    Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

                    And ever the fitful gusts between,
                    A sound came from the land;
                    It was the sound of the trampling surf,
                    On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

                    The breakers were right beneath her bows,
                    She drifted a dreary wreck,
                    And a whooping billow swept the crew
                    Like icicles from her deck.

                    She struck where the white and fleecy waves
                    Looked soft as carded wool,
                    But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
                    Like the horns of an angry bull.

                    Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
                    With the masts went by the board;
                    Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
                    Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

                    At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
                    A fisherman stood aghast,
                    To see the form of a maiden fair,
                    Lashed close to a drifting mast.

                    The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
                    The salt tears in her eyes;
                    And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
                    On the billows fall and rise.

                    Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
                    In the midnight and the snow!
                    Christ save us all from a death like this,
                    On the reef of Norman's Woe!

                    Under a spreading chestnut tree
                      The village smithy stands;
                    The smith, a mighty man is he,
                      With large and sinewy hands;
                    And the muscles of his brawny arms
                      Are strong as iron bands.

                    His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
                      His face is like the tan;
                    His brow is wet with honest sweat,
                      He earns whate'er he can,
                    And looks the whole world in the face,
                      For he owes not any man.

                    Week in, week out, from morn till night,
                      You can hear his bellows blow;
                    You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
                      With measured beat and slow,
                    Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
                      When the evening sun is low.

                    And children coming home from school
                      Look in at the open door;
                    They love to see the flaming forge,
                      And hear the bellows roar,
                    And catch the burning sparks that fly
                      Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

                    He goes on Sunday to the church,
                      And sits among his boys
                    He hears the parson pray and preach,
                      He hears his daughter's voice,
                    Singing in the village choir,
                      And it makes his heart rejoice.

                    It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
                      Singing in Paradise!
                    He needs must think of her once more,
                      How in the grave she lies;
                    And with his hard, rough hand he wipe
                      A tear out of his eyes.

                    Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
                      Onward through life he goes;
                    Each morning sees some task begin,
                      Each evening sees it close;
                    Something attempted, something done,
                      Has earned a night's repose.

                    Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
                      For the lesson thou hast taught!
                    Thus at the flaming forge of life
                      Our fortunes must be wrought;
                    Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
                      Each burning deed and thought!

               The sun is bright,—the air is clear,
                 The darting swallows soar and sing,
               And from the stately elms I hear
                 The bluebird prophesying Spring.

               So blue yon winding river flows,
                 It seems an outlet from the sky,
               Where, waiting till the west wind blows,
                 The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

               All things are new;—the buds, the leaves,
                 That gild the elm tree's nodding crest.
               And even the nest beneath the eaves;
                 There are no birds in last year's nest!

               All things rejoice in youth and love,
                 The fulness of their first delight!
               And learn from the soft heavens above
                 The melting tenderness of night.

               Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
                 Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;
               Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
                 For O! it is not always May!

               Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
                 To some good angel leave the rest;
               For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
                 There are no birds in last year's nest!

               The shades of night were falling fast,
               As through an Alpine village passed
               A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
               A banner with the strange device,
                         Excelsior!

               His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
               Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
               And like a silver clarion rung
               The accents of that unknown tongue,
                         Excelsior!

               In happy homes he saw the light
               Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
               Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
               And from his lips escaped a groan,
                         Excelsior!

               "Try not the Pass!" the old man said;
               "Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
               The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
               And loud that clarion voice replied,
                         Excelsior!

               "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
               Thy weary head upon this breast!"
               A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
               But still he answered, with a sigh,
                         Excelsior!

               "Beware the pine tree's withered branch!
               Beware the awful avalanche!"
               This was the peasant's last Good-night,
               A voice replied, far up the height,
                         Excelsior!

               At break of day, as heavenward
               The pious monks of Saint Bernard
               Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
               A voice cried through the startled air,
                         Excelsior!

               A traveller, by the faithful hound,
               Half-buried in the snow was found,
               Still grasping in his hand of ice
               That banner with the strange device,
                         Excelsior!

               There in the twilight cold and gray,
               Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
               And from the sky, serene and far,
               A voice fell, like a falling star,
                         Excelsior!

          The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
          It rains, and the wind is never weary;
          The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
          But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
            And the day is dark and dreary.

          My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
          It rains, and the wind is never weary;
          My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
          But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
            And the days are dark and dreary.

          Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
          Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
          Thy fate is the common fate of all,
          Into each life some rain must fall,
            Some days must be dark and dreary.

               I shot an arrow into the air,
               It fell to earth, I knew not where;
               For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
               Could not follow it in its flight.

               I breathed a song into the air,
               It fell to earth, I knew not where;
               For who has sight so keen and strong,
               That it can follow the flight of song?

               Long, long afterward, in an oak
               I found the arrow, still unbroke;
               And the song, from beginning to end,
               I found again in the heart of a friend.

                    The day is done, and the darkness
                      Falls from the wings of Night,
                    As a feather is wafted downward
                      From an eagle in his flight.

                    I see the lights of the village
                      Gleam through the rain and the mist,
                    And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
                      That my soul cannot resist:

                    A feeling of sadness and longing,
                      That is not akin to pain,
                    And resembles sorrow only
                      As the mist resembles the rain.

                    Come, read to me some poem,
                      Some simple and heartfelt lay,
                    That shall soothe this restless feeling,
                      And banish the thoughts of day.

                    Not from the grand old masters,
                      Not from the bards sublime,
                    Whose distant footsteps echo
                      Through the corridors of Time.

                    For, like strains of martial music,
                      Their mighty thoughts suggest
                    Life's endless toil and endeavor;
                      And to-night I long for rest.

                    Read from some humbler poet,
                      Whose songs gushed from his heart,
                    As showers from the clouds of summer,
                      Or tears from the eyelids start;

                    Who, through long days of labor,
                      And nights devoid of ease,
                    Still heard in his soul the music
                      Of wonderful melodies.

                    Such songs have power to quiet
                      The restless pulse of care,
                    And come like the benediction
                      That follows after prayer.

                    Then read from the treasured volume
                      The poem of thy choice,
                    And lend to the rhyme of the poet
                      The beauty of thy voice.

                    And the night shall be filled with music,
                      And the cares, that infest the day,
                    Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
                      And as silently steal away.

                    VOGELWEID, the Minnesinger,
                     When he left this world of ours,
                    Laid his body in the cloister,
                     Under Wurtzburg's minster towers.

                    And he gave the monks his treasures,
                     Gave them all with this behest
                    They should feed the birds at noontide
                     Daily on his place of rest;

                    Saying, "From these wandering minstrels
                     I have learned the art of song;
                    Let me now repay the lessons
                     They have taught so well and long."

                    Thus the bard of love departed;
                     And, fulfilling his desire,
                    On his tomb the birds were feasted
                     By the children of the choir.

                    Day by day, o'er tower and turret,
                     In foul weather and in fair,
                    Day by day, in vaster numbers,
                     Flocked the poets of the air.

                    On the tree whose heavy branches
                     Overshadowed all the place,
                    On the pavement, on the tombstone;
                     On the poet's sculptured face,

                    On the cross-bars of each window,
                     On the lintel of each door,
                    They renewed the War of Wartburg,
                     Which the bard had fought before.

                    There they sang their merry carols,
                     Sang their lauds on every side;
                    And the name their voices uttered
                     Was the name of Vogelweid.

                    Till at length the portly abbot
                     Murmured, "Why this waste of food?
                    Be it changed to loaves henceforward
                     For our fasting brotherhood."

                    Then in vain o'er tower and turret,
                     From the walls and woodland nests,
                    When the minster bells rang noontide,
                     Gathered the unwelcome guests.

                    Then in vain, with cries discordant,
                     Clamorous round the Gothic spire,
                    Screamed the feathered Minnesingers
                     For the children of the choir.

                    Time has long effaced the inscriptions
                     On the cloister's funeral stones,
                    And tradition only tells us
                     Where repose the poet's bones.

                    But around the vast cathedral,
                     By sweet echoes multiplied,
                    Still the birds repeat the legend,
                     And the name of Vogelweid.

               All are architects of Fate,
                 Working in these walls of Time;
               Some with massive deeds and great,
                 Some with ornaments of rhyme.

               Nothing useless is, or low:
                 Each thing in its place is best;
               And what seems but idle show
                 Strengthens and supports the rest.

               For the structure that we raise,
                 Time is with materials filled;
               Our to-days and yesterdays
                 Are the blocks with which we build.

               Truly shape and fashion these;
                 Leave no yawning gaps between
               Think not, because no man sees,
                 Such things will remain unseen.

               In the elder days of Art,
                 Builders wrought with greatest care
               Each minute and unseen part!
                 For the Gods see everywhere.

               Let us do our work as well,
                 Both the unseen and the seen;
               Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
                 Beautiful, entire, and clean.

               Else our lives are incomplete,
                 Standing in these walls of Time,
               Broken stairways, where the feet
                 Stumble as they seek to climb.

               Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
                 With a firm and ample base
               And ascending and secure
                 Shall to-morrow find its place.

               Thus alone can we attain
                 To those turrets, where the eye
               Sees the world as one vast plain,
                 And one boundless reach of sky.

                    Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
                    Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
                      Our hearts, in glad surprise,
                      To higher levels rise.

                    The tidal wave of deeper souls
                    Into our inmost being rolls,
                      And lifts us unawares
                      Out of all meaner cares.

                    Honor to those whose words or deeds
                    Thus help us in our daily needs,
                      And by their overflow
                      Raise us from what is low!

                    Thus thought I, as by night I read
                    Of the great army of the dead,
                      The trenches cold and damp,
                      The starved and frozen camp,

                    The wounded from the battle-plain,
                    In dreary hospitals of pain,
                      The cheerless corridors,
                      The cold and stony floors.

                    Lo! in that house of misery
                    A lady with a lamp I see
                      Pass through the glimmering gloom,
                      And flit from room to room.

                    And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
                    The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
                      Her shadow, as it falls
                      Upon the darkening walls.

                    As if a door in heaven should be
                    Opened and then closed suddenly,
                      The vision came and went,
                      The light shone and was spent.

                    On England's annals, through the long
                    Hereafter of her speech and song,
                      That light its rays shall cast
                      From portals of the past.

                    A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
                    In the great history of the land,
                      A noble type of good,
                      Heroic womanhood.

                    Nor even shall be wanting here
                    The palm, the lily, and the spear,
                      The symbols that of yore
                      Saint Filomena bore.