Othere, the old sea-captain,
                 Who dwelt in Helgoland,
               To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth,
               Brought a snow-white walrus-tooth,
                 Which he held in his brown right hand.

               His figure was tall and stately,
                 Like a boy's his eye appeared;
               His hair was yellow as hay,
               But threads of a silvery gray
                 Gleamed in his tawny beard.

               Hearty and hale was Othere,
                 His cheek had the color of oak;
               With a kind of laugh in his speech,
               Like the sea-tide on a beach,
                 As unto the King he spoke.

               And Alfred, King of the Saxons,
                 Had a book upon his knees,
               And wrote down the wondrous tale
               Of him who was first to sail
                 Into the Arctic seas.

               "So far I live to the northward,
                 No man lives north of me;
               To the east are wild mountain-chains,
               And beyond them meres and plains;
                 To the westward all is sea.

               "So far I live to the northward,
                 From the harbor of Skeringes-hale,
               If you only sailed by day,
               With a fair wind all the way,
                 More than a month would you sail.

               "I own six hundred reindeer,
                 With sheep and swine beside;
               I have tribute from the Finns,
               Whalebone and reindeer-skins,
                 And ropes of walrus-hide.

               "I ploughed the land with horses,
                 But my heart was ill at ease,
               For the old seafaring men
               Came to me now and then,
                 With their sagas of the seas;

               "Of Iceland and of Greenland
                 And the stormy Hebrides,
               And the undiscovered deep;—
               I could not eat nor sleep
                 For thinking of those seas.

               "To the northward stretched the desert,
               How far I fain would know;
               So at last I sallied forth,
                 And three days sailed due north,
               As far as the whale-ships go.

               "To the west of me was the ocean,
                 To the right the desolate shore,
               But I did not slacken sail
               For the walrus or the whale,
                 Till after three days more,

               "The days grew longer and longer,
                 Till they became as one,
               And southward through the haze
               I saw the sullen blaze
                 Of the red midnight sun.

               "And then uprose before me,
                 Upon the water's edge,
               The huge and haggard shape
               Of that unknown North Cape,
                 Whose form is like a wedge.

               "The sea was rough and stormy,
                 The tempest howled and wailed,
               And the sea-fog, like a ghost,
               Haunted that dreary coast,
                 But onward still I sailed.

               "Four days I steered to eastward,
                 Four days without a night
               Round in a fiery ring
               Went the great sun, O King,
                 With red and lurid light."

               Here Alfred, King of the Saxons,
                 Ceased writing for a while;
               And raised his eyes from his book,
               With a strange and puzzled look,
                 And an incredulous smile.

               But Othere, the old sea-captain,
                 He neither paused nor stirred,
               Till the King listened, and then
               Once more took up his pen,
                 And wrote down every word.

               "And now the land," said Othere,
                 "Bent southward suddenly,
               And I followed the curving shore
               And ever southward bore
                 Into a nameless sea.

               "And there we hunted the walrus,
                 The narwhale, and the seal;
               Ha! 't was a noble game!
               And like the lightning's flame
                 Flew our harpoons of steel.

               "There were six of us all together,
                 Norsemen of Helgoland;
               In two days and no more
               We killed of them threescore,
                 And dragged them to the strand!

               Here Alfred the Truth-Teller
                 Suddenly closed his book,
               And lifted his blue eyes,
               with doubt and strange surmise
                    Depicted in their look.

               And Othere the old sea-captain
                 Stared at him wild and weird,
               Then smiled, till his shining teeth
               Gleamed white from underneath
                 His tawny, quivering beard.

               And to the King of the Saxons,
                 In witness of the truth,
               Raising his noble head,
               He stretched his brown hand, and said,
                 "Behold this walrus-tooth!"

                    Have you read in the Talmud of old,
                    In the Legends the Rabbins have told
                      Of the limitless realms of the air,—
                    Have you read it.—the marvellous story
                    Of Sandalphon, te Angel of Glory,
                      Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

                    How, erect, at the outermost gates
                    Of the City Celestial he waits,
                      With his feet on the ladder of light,
                    That, crowded with angels unnumbered,
                    By Jacob was seen as he slumbered
                      Alone in the desert at night?

                    The Angels of Wind and of Fire,
                    Chant only one hymn, and expire
                      With the song's irresistible stress;
                    Expire in their rapture and wonder,
                    As harp-strings are broken asunder
                      By music they throb to express.

                    But serene in the rapturous throng,
                    Unmoved by the rush of the song,
                      With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
                    Among the dead angels, the deathless
                    Sandalphon stands listening breathless
                      To sounds that ascend from below;—

                    From the spirits on earth that adore,
                    From the souls that entreat and implore
                      In the fervor and passion of prayer;
                    From the hearts that are broken with losses,
                    And weary with dragging the crosses
                      Too heavy for mortals to bear.

                    And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
                    And they change into flowers in his hands,
                      Into garlands of purple and red;
                    And beneath the great arch of the portal,
                    Through the streets of the City Immortal
                      Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

                    It is but a legend, I know,—
                    A fable, a phantom, a show,
                      Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
                    Yet the old mediaeval tradition,
                    The beautiful, strange superstition
                      But haunts me and holds me the more.

                    When I look from my window at night,
                    And the welkin above is all white,
                      All throbbing and panting with stars,
                    Among them majestic is standing
                    Sandalphon the angel, expanding
                      His pinions in nebulous bars.

                    And the legend, I feel, is a part
                    Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
                      The frenzy and fire of the brain,
                    That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
                    The golden pomegranates of Eden,
                      To quiet its fever and pain.

          Listen, my children, and you shall hear
             Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
          On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
             Hardly a man is now alive
          Who remembers that famous day and year.

          He said to his friend, "If the British march
             By land or sea from the town to-night,
          Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
             Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
          One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
             And I on the opposite shore will be,
          Ready to ride and spread the alarm
             Through every Middlesex village and farm,
          For the country-folk to be up and to arm."

          Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
             Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
          Just as the moon rose over the bay,
             Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
          The Somerset, British man-of-war;
             A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
          Across the moon like a prison bar,
             And a huge black hulk that was magnified
          By its own reflection in the tide.

             Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
          Wanders and watches with eager ears,
             Till in the silence around him he hears
          The muster of men at the barrack door,
             The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
          And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
             Marching down to their boats on the shore.

          Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
             Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
          To the belfry-chamber overhead,
             And startled the pigeons from their perch
          On the sombre rafters, that round him made
             Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
          Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
             To the highest window in the wall,
          Where he paused to listen and look down
             A moment on the roofs of the town,
          And the moonlight flowing over all.
             Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
          In their night-encampment on the hill,
             Wrapped in silence so deep and still
          That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
             The watchful night-wind, as it went
          Creeping along from tent to tent,
             And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
          A moment only he feels the spell
             Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
          Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
             For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
          On a shadowy something far away,
             Where the river widens to meet the bay,
          A line of black that bends and floats
             On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

          Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
             Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
          On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
             Now he patted his horse's side,
          Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
             Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
          And turned and tightened his saddlegirth;
             But mostly he watched with eager search
          The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
             As it rose above the graves on the hill,
          Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
             And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
          A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
             He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
          But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
             A second lamp in the belfry burns!

          A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
             A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
          And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
             Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
          That was all!  And yet, through the gloom and the light,
             The fate of a nation was riding that night;
          And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
             Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

          He has left the village and mounted the steep,
             And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
          Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
             And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
          Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
             Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
          It was twelve by the village clock
             When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
          He heard the crowing of the cock,
             And the barking of the farmer's dog,
          And felt the damp of the river fog,
             That rises after the sun goes down.

          It was one by the village clock,
             When he galloped into Lexington.
          He saw the gilded weathercock
             Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
          And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
             Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
          As if they already stood aghast
             At the bloody work they would look upon.

          It was two by the village clock,
             When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
          He heard the bleating of the flock,
             And the twitter of birds among the trees,
          And felt the breath of the morning breeze
             Blowing over the meadows brown.
          And one was safe and asleep in his bed
             Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
          Who that day would be lying dead,
             Pierced by a British musket-ball.

          You know the rest.
             In the books you have read,
          How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
             How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
          From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
            Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
          Then crossing the fields to emerge again
             Under the trees at the turn of the road,
          And only pausing to fire and load.

          So through the night rode Paul Revere;
             And so through the night went his cry of alarm
          To every Middlesex village and farm,
             A cry of defiance and not of fear,
          A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
             And a word that shall echo forevermore!
          For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
             Through all our history, to the last,
          In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
             The people will waken and listen to hear
          The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
             And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

          Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
          And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
          Apparelled in magnificent attire,
          With retinue of many a knight and squire,
          On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat
          And heard the priests chant the Magnificat.
          And as he listened, o'er and o'er again
          Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
          He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes
          De sede, et exaltavit humiles;"
          And slowly lifting up his kingly head
          He to a learned clerk beside him said,
          "What mean these words?"  The clerk made answer meet,
          "He has put down the mighty from their seat,
          And has exalted them of low degree."
          Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,
          "'Tis well that such seditious words are sung
          Only by priests and in the Latin tongue;
          For unto priests and people be it known,
          There is no power can push me from my throne!"
          And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,
          Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.

          When he awoke, it was already night;
          The church was empty, and there was no light,
          Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,
          Lighted a little space before some saint.
          He started from his seat and gazed around,
          But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
          He groped towards the door, but it was locked;
          He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,
          And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,
          And imprecations upon men and saints.
          The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls
          As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls!

          At length the sexton, hearing from without
          The tumult of the knocking and the shout,
          And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,
          Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?"
          Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,
          "Open: 'tis I, the King!  Art thou afraid?"
          The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,
          "This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!"
          Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;
          A man rushed by him at a single stride,
          Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak,
          Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,
          But leaped into the blackness of the night,
          And vanished like a spectre from his sight.

          Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
          And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
          Despoiled of his magnificent attire,
          Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire,
          With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
          Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;
          Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage
          To right and left each seneschal and page,
          And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
          His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.
          From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;
          Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,
          Until at last he reached the banquet—room,
          Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.

          There on the dais sat another king,
          Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,
          King Robert's self in features, form, and height,
          But all transfigured with angelic light!
          It was an Angel; and his presence there
          With a divine effulgence filled the air,
          An exaltation, piercing the disguise,
          Though none the hidden Angel recognize.

          A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,
          The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,
          Who met his looks of anger and surprise
          With the divine compassion of his eves;
          Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?"
          To which King Robert answered with a sneer,
          "I am the King, and come to claim my own
          From an impostor, who usurps my throne!"
          And suddenly, at these audacious words,
          Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords;
          The Angel answered, with unruffled brow,
          "Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou
          Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,
          And for thy counsellor shaft lead an ape;
          Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,
          And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"

          Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,
          They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;
          A group of tittering pages ran before,
          And as they opened wide the folding-door,
          His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,
          The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,
          And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring
          With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!

          Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,
          He said within himself, "It was a dream!"
          But the straw rustled as he turned his head,
          There were the cap and bells beside his bed,
          Around him rose the bare, discolored walls,
          Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,
          And in the corner, a revolting shape,
          Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.
          It was no dream; the world he loved so much
          Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch!

          Days came and went; and now returned again
          To Sicily the old Saturnian reign
          Under the Angel's governance benign
          The happy island danced with corn and wine,
          And deep within the mountain's burning breast
          Enceladus, the giant, was at rest.

          Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate,
          Sullen and silent and disconsolate.
          Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear,
          With looks bewildered and a vacant stare,
          Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn,
          By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,
          His only friend the ape, his only food
          What others left,—he still was unsubdued.
          And when the Angel met him on his way,
          And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,
          Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel
          The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,
          "Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe
          Burst from him in resistless overflow,
          And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling
          The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the King!"

          Almost three years were ended; when there came
          Ambassadors of great repute and name
          From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine.
          Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane
          By letter summoned them forthwith to come
          On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome.
          The Angel with great joy received his guests,
          And gave them presents of embroidered vests,
          And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined,
          And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.
          Then he departed with them o'er the sea
          Into the lovely land of Italy,
          Whose loveliness was more resplendent made
          By the mere passing of that cavalcade,
          With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir
          Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur.
          And lo! among the menials, in mock state,
          Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait,
          His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind,
          The solemn ape demurely perched behind,
          King Robert rode, making huge merriment
          In all the country towns through which they went.

          The Pope received them with great pomp and blare
          Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's square,
          Giving his benediction and embrace,
          Fervent, and full of apostolic grace.
          While with congratulations and with prayers
          He entertained the Angel unawares,
          Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd,
          Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,
          "I am the King!  Look, and behold in me
          Robert, your brother, King of Sicily!
          This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,
          Is an impostor in a king's disguise.

          Do you not know me? does no voice within
          Answer my cry, and say we are akin?"
          The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,
          Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene;
          The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport
          To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!"
          And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace
          Was hustled back among the populace.

          In solemn state the Holy Week went by,
          And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;
          The presence of the Angel, with its light,
          Before the sun rose, made the city bright,
          And with new fervor filled the hearts of men,
          Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again.
          Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,
          With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw,
          He felt within a power unfelt before,
          And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,
          He heard the rushing garments of the Lord
          Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.

          And now the visit ending, and once more
          Valmond returning to the Danube's shore,
          Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again
          The land was made resplendent with his train,
          Flashing along the towns of Italy
          Unto Salerno, and from there by sea.
          And when once more within Palermo's wall,
          And, seated on the throne in his great hall,
          He heard the Angelus from convent towers,
          As if the better world conversed with ours,
          He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,
          And with a gesture bade the rest retire;
          And when they were alone, the Angel said,
          "Art thou the King?"  Then bowing down his head,
          King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,
          And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!
          My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,
          And in some cloister's school of penitence,
          Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven,
          Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!"

          The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face
          A holy light illumined all the place,
          And through the open window, loud and clear,
          They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,
          Above the stir and tumult of the street
          "He has put down the mighty from their seat,
          And has exalted them of low degree!"
          And through the chant a second melody
          Rose like the throbbing of a single string
          "I am an Angel, and thou art the King!"

          King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
          Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!
          But all apparelled as in days of old,
          With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold;
          And when his courtiers came, they found him there
          Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.

                    "HADST thou stayed, I must have fled!"
                    That is what the Vision said.

                    In his chamber all alone,
                    Kneeling on the floor of stone,
                    Prayed the Monk in deep contrition
                    For his sins of indecision,
                    Prayed for greater self-denial
                    In temptation and in trial;
                    It was noonday by the dial,
                    And the Monk was all alone.

                    Suddenly, as if it lightened,
                    An unwonted splendor brightened
                    All within him and without him
                    In that narrow cell of stone;
                    And he saw the Blessed Vision
                    Of our Lord, with light Elysian
                    Like a vesture wrapped about Him,
                    Like a garment round Him thrown.

                    Not as crucified and slain,
                    Not in agonies of pain,
                    Not with bleeding hands and feet,
                    Did the Monk his Master see;
                    But as in the village street,
                    In the house or harvest-field,
                    Halt and lame and blind He healed,
                    When He walked in Galilee.

                    In an attitude imploring,
                    Hands upon his bosom crossed,
                    Wondering, worshipping, adoring,
                    Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.
                    Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,
                    Who am I, that thus thou deignest
                    To reveal thyself to me?
                    Who am I, that from the centre
                    Of thy glory thou shouldst enter
                    This poor cell, my guest to be?

                    Then amid his exaltation,
                    Loud the convent bell appalling,
                    From its belfry calling, calling,
                    Rang through court and corridor
                    With persistent iteration
                    He had never heard before.
                    It was now the appointed hour
                    When alike in shine or shower,
                    Winter's cold or summer's heat,
                    To the convent portals came
                    All the blind and halt and lame,
                    All the beggars of the street,
                    For their daily dole of food
                    Dealt them by the brotherhood;
                    And their almoner was he
                    Who upon his bended knee,
                    Rapt in silent ecstasy
                    Of divinest self-surrender,
                    Saw the Vision and the Splendor.
                    Deep distress and hesitation
                    Mingled with his adoration;
                    Should he go or should he stay?
                    Should he leave the poor to wait
                    Hungry at the convent gate,
                    Till the Vision passed away?
                    Should he slight his radiant guest,
                    Slight this visitant celestial,
                    For a crowd of ragged, bestial
                    Beggars at the convent gate?
                    Would the Vision there remain?
                    Would the Vision come again?
                    Then a voice within his breast
                    Whispered, audible and clear
                    As if to the outward ear
                    "Do thy duty; that is best;
                    Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

                    Straightway to his feet he started,
                    And with longing look intent
                    On the Blessed Vision bent,
                    Slowly from his cell departed,
                    Slowly on his errand went.

                    At the gate the poor were waiting,
                    Looking through the iron grating,
                    With that terror in the eye
                    That is only seen in those
                    Who amid their wants and woes
                    Hear the sound of doors that close,
                    And of feet that pass them by;
                    Grown familiar with disfavor,
                    Grown familiar with the savor
                    Of the bread by which men die!

                    But to-day, they know not why,
                    Like the gate of Paradise
                    Seemed the convent gate to rise,
                    Like a sacrament divine
                    Seemed to them the bread and wine.
                    In his heart the Monk was praying,
                    Thinking of the homeless poor,
                    What they suffer and endure;
                    What we see not, what we see;
                    And the inward voice was saying
                    "Whatsoever thing thou doest
                    To the least of mine and lowest,
                    That thou doest unto me!"

                    Unto me! but had the Vision
                    Come to him in beggar's clothing,
                    Come a mendicant imploring.
                    Would he then have knelt adoring,
                    Or have listened with derision,
                    And have turned away with loathing?

                    Thus his conscience put the question,
                    Full of troublesome suggestion,
                    As at length, with hurried pace,
                    Towards his cell he turned his face,
                    And beheld the convent bright
                    With a supernatural light,
                    Like a luminous cloud expanding
                    Over floor and wall and ceiling.

                    But he paused with awe-struck feeling
                    At the threshold of his door,
                    For the Vision still was standing
                    As he left it there before,
                    When the convent bell appalling,
                    From its belfry calling, calling,
                    Summoned him to feed the poor.
                    Through the long hour intervening
                    It had waited his return,
                    And he felt his bosom burn,
                    Comprehending all the meaning,
                    When the Blessed Vision said,
                    "Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"

                    I love the old melodious lays
               Which softly melt the ages through,
                    The songs of Spenser's golden days,
                    Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase,
               Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew.

                    Yet, vainly in my quiet hours
               To breathe their marvellous notes I try;
                    I feel them, as the leaves and flowers
                    In silence feel the dewy showers,
               And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky.

                    The rigor of a frozen clime,
               The harshness of an untaught ear,
                    The jarring words of one whose rhyme
                    Beat often Labor's hurried time,
               Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here.

                    Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace,
               No rounded art the lack supplies;
                    Unskilled the subtle lines to trace,
                    Or softer shades of Nature's face,
               I view her common forms with unanointed eyes.

                    Nor mine the seer-like power to show
               The secrets of the hear and mind;
                    To drop the plummet-line below
                    Our common world of joy and woe,
               A more intense despair or brighter hope to find.

                    Yet here at least an earnest sense
               Of human right and weal is shown;
                    A hate of tyranny intense,
                    And hearty in its vehemence,
               As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own.

                    O Freedom! if to me belong
               Nor mighty Milton's gift divine,
                    Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song,
                    Still with a love as deep and strong
               As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine!

          He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!  You
            may trace his footsteps now
          On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown
            hill's withered brow.
          He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their
            pleasant green came forth,
          And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken
            them down to earth.

          He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—from
            the frozen Labrador,—
          From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white
            bear wanders o'er,—
          Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless
            forms below
          In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues
            grow!

          He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—on the
            rushing Northern blast,
          And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful
            breath went past.
          With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires
            of Hecla glow
          On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

          He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—and
            the quiet lake shall feel
          The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the
          skater's heel;
          And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang
            to the leaning grass,
          Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful
            silence pass.

          He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes!—let us
            meet him as we may,
          And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil
            power away;
          And gather closer the circle round, when that fire-light
            dances high,
          And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding
            wing goes by!