The Student's Second Tale - The Wayside Inn - Part Second Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: A ABBAACCAAC DDEFFEEAAEGHFHGF IJIJADDBAAKKBIALL AAAAMNNM OOPPQQRR SAAAAATAATDRCICNNIC ACCAAAAC CCTCIITUCCUAAAVCCVWV WXX VVIVVIIVCCVVAAVCDCC CCCCCACAC CXIXCCIYYACCA CCCCCCIICCNNI CAACZZCAACACCCC AA2A2AAAA CB2CCCCCB2 CCCCAAFFVVVVVCIIC TCTCFFWVVW IAAVVICCC2CC2VVXAC2X AD2D2 CCVVCCVVV VVVCE2CE2CIICF2G2VVC CVCCCC CICIVCVCAAIIVC ZCZCH2H2C2C2AAAAA A CCCCCCCCAACVVCC CC2CCCC2CCAA I2AAI2XJ2CCXJ2 TICTIC

THE BARON OF ST CASTINEA
-
Baron Castine of St CastineA
Has left his chateau in the PyreneesB
And sailed across the western seasB
When he went away from his fair demesneA
The birds were building the woods were greenA
And now the winds of winter blowC
Round the turrets of the old chateauC
The birds are silent and unseenA
The leaves lie dead in the ravineA
And the Pyrenees are white with snowC
-
His father lonely old and grayD
Sits by the fireside day by dayD
Thinking ever one thought of careE
Through the southern windows narrow and tallF
The sun shines into the ancient hallF
And makes a glory round his hairE
The house dog stretched beneath his chairE
Groans in his sleep as if in painA
Then wakes and yawns and sleeps againA
So silent is it everywhereE
So silent you can hear the mouseG
Run and rummage along the beamsH
Behind the wainscot of the wallF
And the old man rouses from his dreamsH
And wanders restless through the houseG
As if he heard strange voices callF
-
His footsteps echo along the floorI
Of a distant passage and pause awhileJ
He is standing by an open doorI
Looking long with a sad sweet smileJ
Into the room of his absent sonA
There is the bed on which he layD
There are the pictures bright and gayD
Horses and hounds and sun lit seasB
There are his powder flask and gunA
And his hunting knives in shape of a fanA
The chair by the window where he satK
With the clouded tiger skin for a matK
Looking out on the PyreneesB
Looking out on Mount MarboreI
And the Seven Valleys of LavedanA
Ah me he turns away and sighsL
There is a mist before his eyesL
-
At night whatever the weather beA
Wind or rain or starry heavenA
Just as the clock is striking sevenA
Those who look from the windows seeA
The village Curate with lantern and maidM
Come through the gateway from the parkN
And cross the courtyard damp and darkN
A ring of light in a ring of shadeM
-
And now at the old man's side he standsO
His voice is cheery his heart expandsO
He gossips pleasantly by the blazeP
Of the fire of fagots about old daysP
And Cardinal Mazarin and the FrondeQ
And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fondQ
And what they did and what they saidR
When they heard his Eminence was deadR
-
And after a pause the old man saysS
His mind still coming back againA
To the one sad thought that haunts his brainA
Are there any tidings from over seaA
Ah why has that wild boy gone from meA
And the Curate answers looking downA
Harmless and docile as a lambT
Young blood young blood It must so beA
And draws from the pocket of his gownA
A handkerchief like an oriflambT
And wipes his spectacles and they playD
Their little game of lansquenetR
In silence for an hour or soC
Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clearI
From the village lying asleep belowC
And across the courtyard into the darkN
Of the winding pathway in the parkN
Curate and lantern disappearI
And darkness reigns in the old chateauC
-
The ship has come back from over seaA
She has been signalled from belowC
And into the harbor of BordeauxC
She sails with her gallant companyA
But among them is nowhere seenA
The brave young Baron of St CastineA
He hath tarried behind I weenA
In the beautiful land of AcadieC
-
And the father paces to and froC
Through the chambers of the old chateauC
Waiting waiting to hear the humT
Of wheels on the road that runs belowC
Of servants hurrying here and thereI
The voice in the courtyard the step on the stairI
Waiting for some one who doth not comeT
But letters there are which the old man readsU
To the Curate when he comes at nightC
Word by word as an acolyteC
Repeats his prayers and tells his beadsU
Letters full of the rolling seaA
Full of a young man's joy to beA
Abroad in the world alone and freeA
Full of adventures and wonderful scenesV
Of hunting the deer through forests vastC
In the royal grant of Pierre du GastC
Of nights in the tents of the TarratinesV
Of Madocawando the Indian chiefW
And his daughters glorious as queensV
And beautiful beyond beliefW
And so soft the tones of their native tongueX
The words are not spoken they are sungX
-
And the Curate listens and smiling saysV
Ah yes dear friend in our young daysV
We should have liked to hunt the deerI
All day amid those forest scenesV
And to sleep in the tents of the TarratinesV
But now it is better sitting hereI
Within four walls and without the fearI
Of losing our hearts to Indian queensV
For man is fire and woman is towC
And the Somebody comes and begins to blowC
Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmiseV
Shines in the father's gentle eyesV
As fire light on a window paneA
Glimmers and vanishes againA
But naught he answers he only sighsV
And for a moment bows his headC
Then as their custom is they playD
Their little gain of lansquenetC
And another day is with the deadC
-
Another day and many a dayC
And many a week and month departC
When a fatal letter wings its wayC
Across the sea like a bird of preyC
And strikes and tears the old man's heartC
Lo the young Baron of St CastineA
Swift as the wind is and as wildC
Has married a dusky TarratineA
Has married Madocawando's childC
-
The letter drops from the father's handC
Though the sinews of his heart are wrungX
He utters no cry he breathes no prayerI
No malediction falls from his tongueX
But his stately figure erect and grandC
Bends and sinks like a column of sandC
In the whirlwind of his great despairI
Dying yes dying His latest breathY
Of parley at the door of deathY
Is a blessing on his wayward sonA
Lower and lower on his breastC
Sinks his gray head he is at restC
No longer he waits for any oneA
-
For many a year the old chateauC
Lies tenantless and desolateC
Rank grasses in the courtyard growC
About its gables caws the crowC
Only the porter at the gateC
Is left to guard it and to waitC
The coming of the rightful heirI
No other life or sound is thereI
No more the Curate comes at nightC
No more is seen the unsteady lightC
Threading the alleys of the parkN
The windows of the hall are darkN
The chambers dreary cold and bareI
-
At length at last when the winter is pastC
And birds are building and woods are greenA
With flying skirts is the Curate seenA
Speeding along the woodland wayC
Humming gayly No day is so longZ
But it comes at last to vesper songZ
He stops at the porter's lodge to sayC
That at last the Baron of St CastineA
Is coming home with his Indian queenA
Is coming without a week's delayC
And all the house must be swept and cleanA
And all things set in good arrayC
And the solemn porter shakes his headC
And the answer he makes is LackadayC
We will see as the blind man saidC
-
Alert since first the day beganA
The cock upon the village churchA2
Looks northward from his airy perchA2
As if beyond the ken of manA
To see the ships come sailing onA
And pass the isle of OleronA
And pass the Tower of CordouanA
-
In the church below is cold in clayC
The heart that would have leaped for joyB2
O tender heart of truth and trustC
To see the coming of that dayC
In the church below the lips are dustC
Dust are the hands and dust the feetC
That would have been so swift to meetC
The coming of that wayward boyB2
-
At night the front of the old chateauC
Is a blaze of light above and belowC
There's a sound of wheels and hoofs in the streetC
A cracking of whips and scamper of feetC
Bells are ringing and horns are blownA
And the Baron hath come again to his ownA
The Curate is waiting in the hallF
Most eager and alive of allF
To welcome the Baron and BaronessV
But his mind is full of vague distressV
For he hath read in Jesuit booksV
Of those children of the wildernessV
And now good simple man he looksV
To see a painted savage strideC
Into the room with shoulders bareI
And eagle feathers in her hairI
And around her a robe of panther's hideC
-
Instead he beholds with secret shameT
A form of beauty undefinedC
A loveliness with out a nameT
Not of degree but more of kindC
Nor bold nor shy nor short nor tallF
But a new mingling of them allF
Yes beautiful beyond beliefW
Transfigured and transfused he seesV
The lady of the PyreneesV
The daughter of the Indian chiefW
-
Beneath the shadow of her hairI
The gold bronze color of the skinA
Seems lighted by a fire withinA
As when a burst of sunlight shinesV
Beneath a sombre grove of pinesV
A dusky splendor in the airI
The two small hands that now are pressedC
In his seem made to be caressedC
They lie so warm and soft and stillC2
Like birds half hidden in a nestC
Trustful and innocent of illC2
And ah he cannot believe his earsV
When her melodious voice he hearsV
Speaking his native Gascon tongueX
The words she utters seem to beA
Part of some poem of GoudouliC2
They are not spoken they are sungX
And the Baron smiles and says You seeA
I told you but the simple truthD2
Ah you may trust the eyes of youthD2
-
Down in the village day by dayC
The people gossip in their wayC
And stare to see the Baroness passV
On Sunday morning to early MassV
And when she kneeleth down to prayC
They wonder and whisper together and sayC
Surely this is no heathen lassV
And in course of time they learn to blessV
The Baron and the BaronessV
-
And in course of time the Curate learnsV
A secret so dreadful that by turnsV
He is ice and fire he freezes and burnsV
The Baron at confession hath saidC
That though this woman be his wifeE2
He bath wed her as the Indians wedC
He hath bought her for a gun and a knifeE2
And the Curate replies O profligateC
O Prodigal Son return once moreI
To the open arms and the open doorI
Of the Church or ever it be too lateC
Thank God thy father did not liveF2
To see what he could not forgiveG2
On thee so reckless and perverseV
He left his blessing not his curseV
But the nearer the dawn the darker the nightC
And by going wrong all things come rightC
Things have been mended that were worseV
And the worse the nearer they are to mendC
For the sake of the living and the deadC
Thou shalt be wed as Christians wedC
And all things come to a happy endC
-
O sun that followest the nightC
In yon blue sky serene and pureI
And pourest thine impartial lightC
Alike on mountain and on moorI
Pause for a moment in thy courseV
And bless the bridegroom and the brideC
O Gave that from thy hidden sourceV
In you mysterious mountain sideC
Pursuest thy wandering way aloneA
And leaping down its steps of stoneA
Along the meadow lands demureI
Stealest away to the AdourI
Pause for a moment in thy courseV
To bless the bridegroom and the brideC
-
The choir is singing the matin songZ
The doors of the church are opened wideC
The people crowd and press and throngZ
To see the bridegroom and the brideC
They enter and pass along the naveH2
They stand upon the father's graveH2
The bells are ringing soft and slowC2
The living above and the dead belowC2
Give their blessing on one and twainA
The warm wind blows from the hills of SpainA
The birds are building the leaves are greenA
And Baron Castine of St CastineA
Hath come at last to his own againA
-
-
-
FINALEA
-
Nunc plaudite the Student criedC
When he had finished now applaudC
As Roman actors used to sayC
At the conclusion of a playC
And rose and spread his hands abroadC
And smiling bowed from side to sideC
As one who bears the palm awayC
And generous was the applause and loudC
But less for him than for the sunA
That even as the tale was doneA
Burst from its canopy of cloudC
And lit the landscape with the blazeV
Of afternoon on autumn daysV
And filled the room with light and madeC
The fire of logs a painted shadeC
-
A sudden wind from out the westC
Blew all its trumpets loud and shrillC2
The windows rattled with the blastC
The oak trees shouted as it passedC
And straight as if by fear possessedC
The cloud encampment on the hillC2
Broke up and fluttering flag and tentC
Vanished into the firmamentC
And down the valley fled amainA
The rear of the retreating rainA
-
Only far up in the blue skyI2
A mass of clouds like drifted snowA
Suffused with a faint Alpine glowA
Was heaped together vast and highI2
On which a shattered rainbow hungX
Not rising like the ruined archJ2
Of some aerial aqueductC
But like a roseate garland pluckedC
From an Olympian god and flungX
Aside in his triumphal marchJ2
-
Like prisoners from their dungeon gloomT
Like birds escaping from a snareI
Like school boys at the hour of playC
All left at once the pent up roomT
And rushed into the open airI
And no more tales were told that dayC

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



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