The Baron of St. Castine

Baron Castine of St. CastineHas left his chateau in the Pyrenees,And sailed across the western seas.When he went away from his fair demesneThe birds were building, the woods were green;And now the winds of winter blowRound the turrets of the old chateau,The birds are silent and unseen,The leaves lie dead in the ravine,And the Pyrenees are white with snow.

His father, lonely, old, and gray,Sits by the fireside day by day,Thinking ever one thought of care;Through the southern windows, narrow and tall,The sun shines into the ancient hall,And makes a glory round his hair.The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair,Groans in his sleep as if in painThen wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again,So silent is it everywhere,--So silent you can hear the mouseRun and rummage along the beamsBehind the wainscot of the wall;And the old man rouses from his dreams,And wanders restless through the house,As if he heard strange voices call.

His footsteps echo along the floorOf a distant passage, and pause awhile;He is standing by an open doorLooking long, with a sad, sweet smile,Into the room of his absent son.There is the bed on which he lay,There are the pictures bright and gay,Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas;There are his powder-flask and gun,And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan;The chair by the window where he sat,With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat,Looking out on the Pyrenees,Looking out on Mount MarboreAnd the Seven Valleys of Lavedan.Ah me! he turns away and sighs;There is a mist before his eyes.

At night whatever the weather be,Wind or rain or starry heaven,Just as the clock is striking seven,Those who look from the windows seeThe village Curate, with lantern and maid,Come through the gateway from the parkAnd cross the courtyard damp and dark,--A ring of light in a ring of shade.

And now at the old man's side he stands,His voice is cheery, his heart expands,He gossips pleasantly, by the blazeOf the fire of fagots, about old days,And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde,And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond,And what they did, and what they said,When they heard his Eminence was dead.

And after a pause the old man says,His mind still coming back againTo the one sad thought that haunts his brain,"Are there any tidings from over sea?Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me?"And the Curate answers, looking down,Harmless and docile as a lamb,"Young blood! young blood! It must so be!"And draws from the pocket of his gownA handkerchief like an oriflamb,And wipes his spectacles, and they playTheir little game of lansquenetIn silence for an hour or so,Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clearFrom the village lying asleep below,And across the courtyard, into the darkOf the winding pathway in the park,Curate and lantern disappear,And darkness reigns in the old chateau.

The ship has come back from over sea,She has been signalled from below,And into the harbor of BordeauxShe sails with her gallant company.But among them is nowhere seenThe brave young Baron of St. Castine;He hath tarried behind, I ween,In the beautiful land of Acadie!

And the father paces to and froThrough the chambers of the old chateau,Waiting, waiting to hear the humOf wheels on the road that runs below,Of servants hurrying here and there,The voice in the courtyard, the step on the stair,Waiting for some one who doth not come!But letters there are, which the old man readsTo the Curate, when he comes at nightWord by word, as an acolyteRepeats his prayers and tells his beads;Letters full of the rolling sea,Full of a young man's joy to beAbroad in the world, alone and free;Full of adventures and wonderful scenesOf hunting the deer through forests vastIn the royal grant of Pierre du Gast;Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines;Of Madocawando the Indian chief,And his daughters, glorious as queens,And beautiful beyond belief;And so soft the tones of their native tongue,The words are not spoken, they are sung!

And the Curate listens, and smiling says:"Ah yes, dear friend! in our young daysWe should have liked to hunt the deerAll day amid those forest scenes,And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines;But now it is better sitting hereWithin four walls, and without the fearOf losing our hearts to Indian queens;For man is fire and woman is tow,And the Somebody comes and begins to blow."Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmiseShines in the father's gentle eyes,As fire-light on a window-paneGlimmers and vanishes again;But naught he answers; he only sighs,And for a moment bows his head;Then, as their custom is, they playTheir little gain of lansquenet,And another day is with the dead.

Another day, and many a dayAnd many a week and month depart,When a fatal letter wings its wayAcross the sea, like a bird of prey,And strikes and tears the old man's heart.Lo! the young Baron of St. Castine,Swift as the wind is, and as wild,Has married a dusky Tarratine,Has married Madocawando's child!

The letter drops from the father's hand;Though the sinews of his heart are wrung,He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer,No malediction falls from his tongue;But his stately figure, erect and grand,Bends and sinks like a column of sandIn the whirlwind of his great despair.Dying, yes, dying! His latest breathOf parley at the door of deathIs a blessing on his wayward son.Lower and lower on his breastSinks his gray head; he is at rest;No longer he waits for any one;

For many a year the old chateauLies tenantless and desolate;Rank grasses in the courtyard grow,About its gables caws the crow;Only the porter at the gateIs left to guard it, and to waitThe coming of the rightful heir;No other life or sound is there;No more the Curate comes at night,No more is seen the unsteady light,Threading the alleys of the park;The windows of the hall are dark,The chambers dreary, cold, and bare!

At length, at last, when the winter is past,And birds are building, and woods are green,With flying skirts is the Curate seenSpeeding along the woodland way,Humming gayly, "No day is so longBut it comes at last to vesper-song."He stops at the porter's lodge to sayThat at last the Baron of St. CastineIs coming home with his Indian queen,Is coming without a week's delay;And all the house must be swept and clean,And all things set in good array!And the solemn porter shakes his head;And the answer he makes is: "Lackaday!We will see, as the blind man said!"

Alert since first the day began,The cock upon the village churchLooks northward from his airy perch,As if beyond the ken of manTo see the ships come sailing on,And pass the isle of Oleron,And pass the Tower of Cordouan.

In the church below is cold in clayThe heart that would have leaped for joy--O tender heart of truth and trust!--To see the coming of that day;In the church below the lips are dust;Dust are the hands, and dust the feet,That would have been so swift to meetThe coming of that wayward boy.

At night the front of the old chateauIs a blaze of light above and below;There's a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street,A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet,Bells are ringing, and horns are blown,And the Baron hath come again to his own.The Curate is waiting in the hall,Most eager and alive of allTo welcome the Baron and Baroness;But his mind is full of vague distress,For he hath read in Jesuit booksOf those children of the wilderness,And now, good, simple man! he looksTo see a painted savage strideInto the room, with shoulders bare,And eagle feathers in her hair,And around her a robe of panther's hide.

Instead, he beholds with secret shameA form of beauty undefined,A loveliness with out a name,Not of degree, but more of kind;Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall,But a new mingling of them all.Yes, beautiful beyond belief,Transfigured and transfused, he seesThe lady of the Pyrenees,The daughter of the Indian chief.

Beneath the shadow of her hairThe gold-bronze color of the skinSeems lighted by a fire within,As when a burst of sunlight shinesBeneath a sombre grove of pines,--A dusky splendor in the air.The two small hands, that now are pressedIn his, seem made to be caressed,They lie so warm and soft and still,Like birds half hidden in a nest,Trustful, and innocent of ill.And ah! he cannot believe his earsWhen her melodious voice he hearsSpeaking his native Gascon tongue;The words she utters seem to bePart of some poem of Goudouli,They are not spoken, they are sung!And the Baron smiles, and says, "You see,I told you but the simple truth;Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!"

Down in the village day by dayThe people gossip in their way,And stare to see the Baroness passOn Sunday morning to early Mass;And when she kneeleth down to pray,They wonder, and whisper together, and say,"Surely this is no heathen lass!"And in course of time they learn to blessThe Baron and the Baroness.

And in course of time the Curate learnsA secret so dreadful, that by turnsHe is ice and fire, he freezes and burns.The Baron at confession hath said,That though this woman be his wife,He bath wed her as the Indians wed,He hath bought her for a gun and a knife!And the Curate replies: "O profligate,O Prodigal Son! return once moreTo the open arms and the open doorOf the Church, or ever it be too late.Thank God, thy father did not liveTo see what he could not forgive;On thee, so reckless and perverse,He left his blessing, not his curse.But the nearer the dawn the darker the night,And by going wrong all things come right;Things have been mended that were worse,And the worse, the nearer they are to mend.For the sake of the living and the dead,Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed,And all things come to a happy end."

O sun, that followest the night,In yon blue sky, serene and pure,And pourest thine impartial lightAlike on mountain and on moor,Pause for a moment in thy course,And bless the bridegroom and the bride!O Gave, that from thy hidden sourceIn you mysterious mountain-sidePursuest thy wandering way alone,And leaping down its steps of stone,Along the meadow-lands demureStealest away to the Adour,Pause for a moment in thy courseTo bless the bridegroom and the bride!

The choir is singing the matin song,The doors of the church are opened wide,The people crowd, and press, and throngTo see the bridegroom and the bride.They enter and pass along the nave;They stand upon the father's grave;The bells are ringing soft and slow;The living above and the dead belowGive their blessing on one and twain;The warm wind blows from the hills of Spain,The birds are building, the leaves are green,And Baron Castine of St. CastineHath come at last to his own again.