New York State College of Agriculture At Cornell University Ithaca, N. Y. Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014550366 &'i^11 VH; DATE DUE 'AIMOILW GAYLORD PRINTED IN U.SA Cornell University Library PN4199.B95 3 1924 014 550 366 SBL BCT PROSE AND POETRY ro« THS V8B or Schools, Colleges and Public Readers. COMPILED AND ARRAMGBD By yAMES S, BURDETT. NEW YORK : EXCELSIOR PUBLISHING HOUSE, T. J. CABEir & CO., PeopbIETOBS, 26 CITY HALL PLACE. 5 9r COPYEIQHT, 1891, BY aXCBLSIOR PUBLISHING HOUSE. CONTENTS. PAOB fljuue and Wmie's Prayer SophiaP. Snow. 154 A.iuiie's Ticket 357 Anthony's Prayer Vandyke Brown. 307 Arab's Tarewell to Ma Steed, The Mrs. Norton. 208 Baby'sKiss 0. S. Emerson. 334 Ballad of Eoland Clare, The 448 Baron's Last Banquet, The Albert 0. Oreene. 126 Battle of Pontenoy, The Thomas Davis. 348 Battle of Ivry , The Macauloj/. 367 Battle of Morgarten, The Mrs. Remans. 460 Bean T. B. Robertson. 416 Benediction, The Frangois Ooppee. 31 BethGelert W. L. Spencer. 433 Bill Gibbon's Deliverance Arfhwr Matthison. 389 BUI Mason's Bride Chiquita. 480 Boat-Bace, The W. 0. Bennett, 54 Bridgeof Sighs, The , Thomas Hood. 223 Burial of Little Nell Charles Dickens. 181 CaldwcUof Springfield BretHarte. 455 Charge of the Light Brigade, The Alfred Tennyson. 363 Child's Prayer, The 333 Gonfesaionof aSrunkard 806 Christian Maiden and the Lion, The. , .Fra/ncis A . Durivage. 404 Cowardly Jim W.A. Peters. 356 Cuddle Doon Alexander Anderson. 283 Curfew must not King To-Night 433 Death LordByron. 59 Death-bed of Benedict Arnold George Lvppa/rd. 14 Death of King John Leigh Sunt. 12 Death of Murat Atkinson. 22 Death of ' ' Old Braze " Detroit Free Press. 495 Death of the Drunkard, The Mrs. Jessie Elder. 40 Death oft'je Old Squire, The 92 Death of the Be veUer, The yf . E. Eaton. 120 Defence of Luckno w. The Alfred Tennyson. 426 Dermot's Parting 244 ii CONTENTS. pAat Diver, The BehiOer. 489 Downfall of Poland, The CampieU. 369 Dream of Engene Aram, The Thomas Hood. 5 Drowned Peleg Arkwright. 189 Dying Hebrew, The Kvmbie. 144 Eagle's Eock, The 801 Education O. Phillips. 29 Evangelist, The Prangois Oopp&e. 109 Execution of Montrose, The Aytoun. 466 Execution of Queen Mary Ijamartitie. 430 Eace Against the Pane, The I. B. Aldrich. 197 Fall of the Femherton MUl, The Elizabeth S. Phelpt. S89 Farmer Gray's Photograph 209 Father John Peleg Arkwright 493 Fearless De Couroy, The S. M. 97 Fireman, The Robert T. Conrad. 384 First Settler's Story, The Will Oarleton. 160 Flight for Life, The William Sawyer. 60 Foreclosure of the Mortgage, The Mrs. E. T. Corbett. 286 Forgive,— No, Never 52 Forgotten Actor, The Oeo. B. Sims. Ill Found Dead Albert Leighton. 236 Galley-Slave, The Menry Abbey. 90 Game Xnut Played, The ". Thomas Dunn English. 69 Glove and the Lions, The Leigh Hunt. 457 Heart's Charity, The Eliza Cook. 297 He Doeth his Alms to be Seen of Men 206 Henry of Navarre before Paris Nora Perry. 424 Her Last Look Sagonel, 338 Heroism Hale. 350 Herv6 Eiel Jtobert Browning. 462 How he Saved St. Michael's Mary A. P. Stansbury. 435 How Jane Conquest Bang the Bell James Milne. 352 In the Tunnel Bret Harte. 471 Isabel's Grave L. E. Landon. 818 Ivan, The Czar Mrs. Hemans. 46 Jean Goello's Yam Frangois Ooppie. 115 Jessie Brown at Lucknow G. Yanderturf. 458 Jim Bludso John Hay. 403 John Bartholomew's Hide ..Q.H. Jennings. 387 John Maynarff. 365 EateMaloney Qet.S^Bvms. 484 Karl the Martyr 412 King llohert of Sicily ?...H.W. LongfeOow. 138 LastBanquet, The 42 last Hynm, The M. Farrwngham, 837 CONTENTS. iji FAOB l/sst Bedonbt, The Alfred Avutin. 896 LaafWorda 243 Leagnor of Lucknow, The James Meed. 398 Leap of Houshau Beg, The HennJ W. Longfellow. 469 legend of the Cbnrch of Los Angeles A. T. Hawlgy. 63 Legend of a Veil '....Lucy Larcoin. 106 Leper, The N. P. Wittit. 65 Little Boy I Dreamed About, The Mre. S. M. B. Piatt. 19j Little Golden Hair^..... WillM. Carleton. 261 Little Grave, The 188 LittleHero, The Arthur ^atthUon. 440 Little Jim Fa/rmer. 288 Little Hed Robert Buchanan. 284 Little Phil Mrs. Weleri Bieh. 321 Little Will 216 Little Eoctet'a Christmas Vandyke Browm. 335 Lochinrar Sir Walter Scott. 371 LostandFonnd Samilton Aide. 174 "Lynch for Lynch" Arthur Matthieon. 123 Maclaine's Child 247 Main Track, The ; or, A Leap for Life Walter Oolton. 376 Maniac, The M Q.Leimi. 178 MarcoBozzaris Fitz-Oreene BCalleck. 410 Maiseillaise at Sebastopol, The 74 Martyrs of Sandomir, The 360 Mary Qneen of Scots H. G.Bell. 48 Mary, the Maid of the Inn Robert Southey. 811 Mask and Domino Peleg Arhwright. 135 Master Johnny's Next-door Neighbor Bret Marte. 227 MaudMiiller J. O. WhitUer. 316 Mona's Waters 293 Mother and her Dead Child, The Mdr. 231 " Mother's Fool " 319 My Bread on the Waters Beo. L. Oatlin. 278 New Tear's Bve 280 Night Watch, The Framgoii Ooppie. 127 Nobody's Child Philo B. Child. 219 Nothing 305 Ode to Eloqnence Carey. 96 Old Man's Prayer, The Jeam, Ingelow. 343 O Maria, Begina Miserlcordise Jamtet 0. Mamgim. 104 O'Mnrtogh Bobmt Bi'chanan. 381 One of King Charles' Madcap Men Caroline A. Merighi. 72 Only a Jew 234 Over the Hill from the Poorhonse W'M Carleton. 200 iv CONTENTS. PAOH Over the BiU to the FooThonse WUlOarlelon. 290 OvertheEiver - K.A. W. Priest. 257 Out In the Storm Oeo. L. OatUn. 239 Painter of Florence, The 17 Papa'sLetter 253 Parrhasias WiHit. 147 Passof Brander, The 840 Phil Blood's Leap Sobert Buchanan. 476 PolishBoy, The Ann S. Stephen: 444 Poor Little Joe Peleg Arhwright. 245 Portrait, The OwenMereiiCh. 149 Eamon BretBarte. 20 Eed Jacket, The Geo. M. Baker. 204 Bescue, The John Brovmjohn. 76 Eide of Jennie McJfeal, The Will Oarletan. 892 Bicheliea; or, The Gonspiraoy " Benfley BaUads." 25 Sea Captain's Story, The Lord Lytton. 23 Sergeant's Story, The, of the Light Brigade 877 Seventh Fnsileers, The Kinglahe. 885 SheisDead 191 Shipon Fire, The Senry Bateinan. 406 Sim's Little Girl Mary Sartwett. 260 Sister of Charity, The Gerald Oriffin. 259 Somehody's Darling 160 Somehody's Mother 872 Spanish Armada, The Jjord Macaulay. 422 Spanish Mother, The Sir Francis Baitingi Doyle, 276 Spanish Page, The Zetitia E. London. 102 Station Agent's Story, The BoeeS. Thorpe. 328 Story of the Faithful Sold, The Adelaide Procter. 167 Street Musicians, The Oeo. L. Oatlin. 229 Street Organ-Player, The BdmundB. Price. 831 Sue's Thanksgiving Mre. Lucy M. Blinn. 327 Suicide, The Oeorge Orabie. 215 Supporting the Guns Detroit Pree Press. 473 There'll he Eoom in Heaven 158 Three Sons, The Moultrie. 255 Three "Words (The) j Arnold, the Traitor — George Lippard. 80 Tiger Bay Robert Buchanan. 85 Tim's Kit Detroit Free Press. 241 Told at the Falcon 36 Tom Constance Fenimore Woolson. 487 To Mark Mother's G-rave Detroit Free Press. 193 Tramp, The F. T. Welch. 809 Trooper's Story, The WiUiam Sawyer, 401 CONTENTS. V PAOB true Hero, A S.B. Oonwett. 4B1 Jum Mother's Face to the "Wall Byron Webber. 346 Two Loves and a Life WUliam Sawyer. 158 Unfinished Prayer, The 197 We are Seven Wordsworth. 299 ■What Ailed " TJgly Sam " Detroit Free Prese. 211 ■Where the Angels Lingered 8S0 ■Will the New Tear come To-Night, Mamma. . Cora M. Eager. 231 ■Woolen Doll, The Geo. W. Mows. 170 Yeoman' s Story, The Florence K. Berger. 263 Tonng Tramp, The Chas. F. Adami, USt BURDETT'S DRAMATIC RECITATIONS AND READINGS. THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM, AS RECITED BY HENRY IRVING. 'TwAS in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school ; There were some that ran and some that leapt. Like troutlets in a pool. Away they sped with gamesome minds. And souls untouched by sin ; To a level mead they came, and there They drove the wickets in : Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn. Like sportive deer they coursed about. And shouted as they ran, — Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can ; But the Usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man ! His hat was off, his vest apart. To catch heaven's blessed breeze ; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease : So he leaned his head on his hands, and read The book upon his knees ! THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside. For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide ; Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the pond'rous tome. With a fast and fervent grasp He strained the dusky covers close. And fixed the brazen hasp : " O God ! could I so close my mind. And clasp it with a clasp ! " Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turn he took, — Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook, — And, lo ! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book. " My gentle lad, what is't you read — Romance or fairy fable ? Or is it some historic page. Of kings and crowns unstable ? " The young boy gave an upward glance,— " It is ' The Death of Abel.' " The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain, — Six hasty strides beyond the place. Then slowly back again ; And down he sat beside the lad. And talked with him of Cain ; And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves ; THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves ; Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn. And murders done in caves ; And how the spirits of injured men Shriek upward from the sod, — Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod ; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God ! He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain, — With crimson clouds before their eyes. And flames about their brain ; For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain ! "And well," quoth he, " I know for truth. Their pangs must be extreme, — Woe, woe. Unutterable woe, — Who spill life's sacred stream ! For why ? Methought last night I wrought A murder, in a dream ! "One that had never done me wrong, — A feeble man and old ; I led bim to a lonely field. The moon shone clear and cold : Now here, said I, this man shall die. And I will have his gold ! "Two sudden blows with a ragged stick And one with a heavy stone. One hurried gash with a hasty knife, And then the deed was done : There was nothing lying at my foot But lifeless flesh and bone ! THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. "Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone. That could not do me ill ; And yet I feared him all the more, For lying there so still : There was a manhood in his look. That murder could not kill ! "And lo ! the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flame ; Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame ; I took the dead man by his hand. And called upon his name ! " O God ! it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain ! But when I touched the lifeless clay, The blood gushed out amain ! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain ! "My head was like an ardent" coal, My heart as solid ice ; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the Devil's price : A dozen times I groaned : the dead Had never groaned but twice ! "And now, from forth the frowning sky, From the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice — the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite — 'Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead And hide it from my sight ! ' " I took the dreary body up. And cast it in a stream, A sluggish water, black as ink, The depth was so extreme ; THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. My gentle boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream 1 " Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanished in the pool ; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And washed my forehead cool. And sat among the urchins young, That evening in the school. "Oh, Heaven ! to think of their white souls. And mine so black and grim ! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in Evening Hymn : Like a Devil of the Pit I seemed. Mid holy Cherubim ! "And peace went with them, one and all. And each calm pillow spread ; But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain That lighted me to bed ; And drew my midnight curtains round. With fingers bloody red ! "All night I lay in agony. In ang^uish dark and deep. My fevered eyes I dared not close, But stared aghast at Sleep : For Sin had rendered unto her The keys of Hell to keep ! "All night I lay in agony. From weary chime to chime. With one besetting horrid hint. That racked me all the time ; A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime ! lO THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. "One stern, tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave ; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave, — Till urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave ! "Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky. And sought the black accursed pool With a wild, misgiving eye ; And I saw the dead in the river-bed, For the faithless stream was dry. " Merrily rose the lark and shook The dewdrop from its wing ; But I never marked its morning flight, I never heard it sing : For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. " With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran ; There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began : In a lonesome wood with heaps of leaves, I hid the murdered man. " And all that day I read in school. But my thought was otherwhere ; As soon as the midday task was done. In secret I was there : And a mighty wind had swept the leaves. And still the corse was bare ! •' Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep, THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. II For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep : Or land, or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep. "So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, Till blood for blood atones ! Ay, though he's buried in a cave. And trodden down with stones. And years have rotted off his flesh, The world shall see his bones ! " O God ! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake ! Again — again, with dizzy brain. The human life I take ; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. "And still no peace for the restless clay, Will wave or mould allow ; The horrid thing pursues my soul — It stands before me now ! " The fearful boy looked up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow. That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kissed, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist ; And Eugene Aram walked between With gyves upon his wrist. — Thomas Hood, 12 DEATH OF KING JOHN. DEATH OF KING JOHN. 'Tis evening, and the ancient towers of Swinburne Abbey lie In calm, majestic stateliness beneath the pale moon's sky. On a low couch a stricken man rests under yonder trees. And monks and abbot vainly strive the sufferer's pain to ease. A torchlight throws a lurid glare those death-like features o'er, A sceptre lies beside the hand that ne'er may grasp it more ; And royal robes the litter deck, and jewels rich and rare Gleam from yon crown-encircled casque with fitful radiance there. The suffering, weak and helpless form, that racked with anguish lies On that low couch, is England's lord. King John, whose restless eyes Are for a moment closed in sleep, but ere the night is o'er. His throne will be another's, and his place know him no more. The fight has gone against his arms upon the field to-day. Defeated, borne down, overcome, his soldiers fled away ; And yet, unwounded he has been, no sword has harmed the King— A treacherous hand has laid him low with poison's subtle sting. He wakes — the dying monarch wakes, and fiercely gleam his eyes. With wild and feverish brilliancy, and see — ^he vainly tries To raise himself upon his arm, too weak to bear him now. Whilst cold, big drops of agony bedew his aching brow. " Fall back, fall back, ye shaveling monks ; ah ! wherefore rest I here? How goes the battle, Hubert ? alas ! your words I fear ; Oh, tell me not the day is lost, it must not, shall not be ; Give me my armor, helmet and shield, and, Hubert, follow me. DEATH OF KING JOHN. 1 3 " Prythee, good Hubert, answer me, why stands young Arthur there ? It was not I who murdered him, in that I had no share ; 'Twas you who did the guilty deed. Let him not blast my sight, Oh, shield me from his cruel glare, which chills my soul with fright. " A cup of water, quick ! for I am parched with thirst, Oh, may the slave who poisoned me be evermore accursed. My veins are filled with molten lead, my vitals seem on fire ; I scorch with heat, and all my frame is tossed with anguish dire. " Away, nor press so round my couch. I'm choking, give me air, I can not breathe. Again I see young Arthur standing there. I see again the golden curls, again the boyish face ; Arthur, torture me no more. Spare me, for love of grace. " A thousand shadows 'fore mine eyes are passing to and fro, A thousand spirits beckon me, my mind is filled with woe. Back ! back ! ye fierce accusing spules, your fiend-like mockery cease ! By all the demons ye obey, leave me to die in peace. " Brave Falconbridge, my trusty friend, I'm glad that you are here. I'm forsaken now save you, there's none but Hubert near. Of all the fawning sycophants who basked around my throne, Not one remains to tend on me ; the cormorants have flown. "What cry was that? the battle cry! you shall not hold me down. My strength returns to me again — what, ho ! my sword and crown. Full soon shall yonder traitors fly like chaff before the gale. Stand back ! nor dare to hinder me — the King shall yet prevail. " Are ye too leagued to baffle me ? Alas ! I can not stand, i This arm of mine is powerless now to grasp the warlike brand. 14 DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. My limbs refuse to bear me up, I feel faint and weak, My brain seems whirling round and round, I — I — can scarcely speak. "A strange, cold numbness seizes me ! How thick the air has grown ! A mistiness obscures my sight, I dare not die alone. Then grasp my hand that I may know that you are standing by. Again the poison tears my frame. 'Tis o'er, I faint, I die." — Leigh Hunt. DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. Fifty years ago, in a rude garret, near the lone- liest suburbs of the city of London, lay a dying man. He was but half dressed, though his legs were' concealed in long military boots. An aged minis- ter stood beside the rough couch. The form was that of a strong man growti old through care more than age. There was a face that you might look upon but once, and yet wear it in your memory forever. Let us bend over the bed and look upon that face. A bold forehead seamed by one deep wrinkle is visible between the brows ; long locks of dark hair, sprinkled with gray ; lips firmly set, yet quivering, as though they had a life separate from the life of the man ; and then, two large eyes, vivid, burning, unnatural in their steady glare. Aye, there was something terrible in that face, something so full of unnatural loneliness, unspeakable despair, that the aged minister started back in horror. But look ! those strong arms are clutching at the vacant air j DEATH-IiED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. 1 5 the death sweat stands in drops on that bold brow ; the man is dying. Throb, throb, throb, beats the death-watch in the shattered wall. "Would you die in the faith of the Christian?" faltered the preacher, as he knelt there on the damp floor. The white lips of the death-stricken man trem- bled, but made no sound. Then, with the strong agony of death upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. For the first time he spoke. " Christian ! " he echoed, in that deep tone which thrilled the preacher to the heart : " Will that give me back my honor ? Come with me, old man, come with me, far over the waters. Ha ! we are there ! This is my native town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood ; yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But another flag waves there, in place of the flag that waved when I was a child. "And listen, old man. Were I to pass along the streets, as I passed when but a child, the very babes in their cradles would raise their tiny hands and curse me ! The graves in yonder churchyard would shrink from my footsteps, and yonder flag would rain a baptism of blood upon my head ! " Suddenly the dying man arose ; he tottered along the floor, threw open a valise, and drew from thence a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, and the wreck of a battle-flag. " Look ye, priest ! this faded coat is spotted with my blood," he cried, as old memories seemed stir- ring at his heart. " This coat I wore when I first" heard the news of Lexington ; this coat I wore when I planted the banner of the stars on Ticonderoga ! l6 DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. that bullet-hole was pierced in the fight of Quebec , and now, I am a — let me whisper it in your ear ! " He hissed that single burning word into the minis- ter's ear. " Now help me, priest ! help me to put on this coat of blue ; for you see " — and a ghastly smile came over his face — " there is no one here to wipe the cold drops from my brow ; no wife, no child ; I must meet death alone ; but I will meet him as I have met him in battle, without a -fear." And while he stood arraying his limbs in that worm-eaten coat of blue and silver, the good minis- ter spoke to him of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that great faith which pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back from the face of God. " Faith ! " echoed that strange man, who stood there, erect, with the death-chill on his brow, "Faith ! Can it give me back my honor ? Look ye, priest ! there, over the waves, sits George Washington, telling to his comrades the pleasant story of the eight years' war ; there in his royal halls sits George of Eng- land, bewailing, in his idiotic voice, the loss of the colonies ! And here ami ! — I, who was the first to raise the flag of freedom, the first to strike a blow against that king — here am I dying ! oh, dying like a dog ! " The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look of the dying man, while throb, throb, throb, beats the death-watch in the shattered wall. " Hush ! silence along the lines there ! " he muttered in that wild, absent tone, as though speaking to the dead. " Silence along the lines ! not a word — not a word on peril of your lives! Hark you, Montgomery! THE PAINTER OF FLORENCE. 1 7 we will meet in the centre of the town ; we will meet there in victory, or die ! Hist ! silence, my men ; not a whisper as we move up those steep rocks ! Now on, my boys ; now on ! Men of the wilderness, we will gain the town ! Now up with the banner of the stars ! up with the flag of free- dom, though the night is dark, and the snow falls ! Now ! now, one more blow, and Quebec is ours ! " Who is this strange man, lying there alone, in this rude garret — this man who, in all his crimes, still treasured up that blue uniform, that faded flag? Let us look at that parchment and flag. The aged minister unrolls that faded flag ; it is a blue banner gleaming with thirteen stars. He unrolls that parchment ; it is a colonel's commission in the Continental Army, addressed to Benedict Arnold. And there in that rude hut, while the death-watch throbbed like a heart in the shattered wall, there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of desolation, lay the corpse of the patriot and the traitor. — George Lippard. THE PAINTER OF FLORENCE. There once was a painter in Catholic days, Like Job, who eschewed all evil ; Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze With applause and amazement, but chiefly his praise And delight was in painting the devil. They were angels compared to the devils he drew Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell ; 2 1 8 THE PAINTER OF FLORENCE. Such burning hot eyes, such a devilish hue, You could even smell brimstone, their breath was so blue, He painted his devils so well. And now had the artist a picture begun 'Twas over the Virgin's church door ; She stood on the dragon, embracing her son : Many devils already the artist had done. But this must out-do all before. The old dragon's imps, as they fled through the air, At seeing it paus'd on the wing. For he had a likeness so just to a hair. That they came, as ApoUyon himself had been there. To pay their respects to their king. Every child on beholding it shiver'd with dread. And scream'd, as he tum'd away quick ; Not an old woman saw it, but, raising her head, Dropp'd a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said, " God help me from ugly old Nick ! " What the painter so earnestly thought on by day He sometimes would dream of by night ; But once he was startled, as sleeping he lay. 'Twas no fancy, no dream, he could plainly survey That the devil himself was in sight. "You rascally dauber,'' old Beelzebub cries, ' ' Take heed how you wrong me again ! Though your caricatiu'es for myself I despise. Make me handsomer now in the multitude's eyes. Or see if I threaten in vain ! " Now the painter was bold, and religious besides. And on faith he had certain reliance, So earnestly he all his countenance eyed. And thank'd him for sitting with Catholic pride. And sturdily bade him defiance. THE PAINTER OF FLORENCE. 19 Betimes in the morning the painter arose, He is ready as soon as 'tis light ; Every look, every line, every feature he knows, 'Twas fresh to his eye, to his labor he goes. And he has the old wicked one quite. Happy man, he is sure the resemblance can't fail — The tip of the nose is red hot ; There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scales. And that, the identical curl of his tail — Not a mark, not a claw is forgot. He looks, and retouches again with delight ; 'Tis a portrait complete to his mind ! He touches again, and again feeds his sight ; He looks round for applause, and he sees, with affright, The original standing behind. "Fool ! idiot ! " old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke, And stafnp'd on the scaffold in ire ; The painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke, 'Twas a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke. And the devil could wish it no higher. " Help ! help me, O Mary ! " he cried in alarm. As the scaffold sunk under his feet ; From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm. She caught the good painter, she sav'd him from harm ; There were thousands who saw in the street. The old dragon fled when the wonder he spied. And curs'd his own fruitless endeavor ; While the painter cried after, his rage to deride. Shook his pallet and brush in triumph, and cried, " Now I'll paint thee more ugly than ever ! " — Anon. 20 RAMON. RAMON. REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO. Drunk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man Alive or dead — By his great pump out of gear. Lay the peon engineer. Waking only just to hear, Overhead, Angry tones that called his name, Oaths and cries of bitter blame — Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and fled I " To the man who'll bring to me," Cried Intendant Harry Lee — Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine — " Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, " Fifteen hundred /^j-oj down. Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine ; Since but death Deserves the man whose deed. Be it vice or want of heed. Stops the pumps that give us breath — Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine ! " No one answered, for a cry From the shaft rose up on high ; And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below Came the miners each, the bolder Mounting on the weaker's shoulder Grappling, clinging, to their hold or Letting go. RAMON. 21 As the weaker gasped and fell From the ladder to the well— To the poisoned pit of hell Down below ! " To the man who sets them free," Cried the foreman, Harry Lee — Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine — " Brings them out and sets them free, I will give that man," said he, " Twice that sum, who with a rope Face to face with Death shall cope. Let him come who dares to hope ! " " Hold your peace ! " some one replied, Standing by the foreman's side ; ' There has one already gone, whoe'er he be ! " Then they held their breath with awe. Pulling on the rope, and saw Fainting figures reappear. On the black rope swinging clear, Fastened by some skillful hand from below ; Till a score the level gained, And but one alone remained— He the hero and the last. He whose skillful hand made fast The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer 1 Haggard, gasping, down dropped he At the feet of Harry Lee — Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine. " I have come," he gasped, " to claim Both rewards. Senor, my name Is Ramon ! I'm the drunken engineer — I'm the coward, Senor " Here He fell over, by that sign Dead as stone ! — Brtt Hartt. 22 THE DEATH OF MURAT. THE DEATH OF MURAT. " My hour is come ! — Forget me not ! — My blessing is with you ; With you my last, my fondest thought ; with you my heart's adieu. Farewell — farewell, my Caroline ! my children's doting mother ! I made thee wife, fate made thee queen : — one hour — thou art fai other. Farewell, my sweet Letitia, my love is with thee still ; Louise and Lucien, adieu : and thou, my own Achille ! " With quivering lip, but with no tear, or tear that gazers saw. These words, to all his heart held dear, thus wrote the brave Murat. Then of the locks which, dark and large, o'er his broad shoulders hung ; That streamed war-pennons in the charge, yet like caressings clung In peace around his forehead high, which, more than diadem. Beseemed the curls that lovingly replaced the cold, hard gem ; He cut one for his wife — for child — 'twas all he had to will ; But, with the regal wealth and state, he lost its heartless chill ! The iciness of alien power, what gushing love may thaw ! — The agony of such an hour as this — thy last — Murat. " Comrade — though foe ! — a soldier asks from thee a soldier's aid — They're not a warrior's only tasks that need his blood and blade : That upon which I latest gaze — that which I fondest clasp, When death upon my eyeballs sinks, and stiffens on my grasp ! This, and these locks around it twined, say, wilt thou see them sent — Need I say where ? — Enough ! — 'tis kind ! — To death, then ! — I'm content. Oh ! to have found death in the field, not as a chained outlaw ! No more !— to destiny I yield — ^with mightier than Murat ! " THE SEA CAPTAIN'S STORY. 23 They led him forth — 'twas but a stride between his prison room And where, with yet a monarch's pride, he met a felon's doom. " Soldiers ! your muzzles to my breast will leave brief space for pain. Strike to the heart ! " His last behest was uttered not in vain. He turned full to the leveled tubes that held the wished-for boon, He gazed upon the love-clasped pledge — then volleyed the platoon! And when their hold the hands gave up, the pitying gazers saw, In the dear image of a .wife, thy heart's best trait, Murat ! — Atkinson. THE SEA CAPTAIN'S STORY. Gentle lady ! The key of some charm'd music in your voice Unlocks a long-closed chamber in my soul ; And would you listen to an outcast's tale, 'Tis briefly told. Until my fourteenth year. Beneath the roof of an old village priest. Nor far from hence, my childhood wore away. Then waked within me anxious thoughts and deep. Throughout the liberal and melodious nature Something seem'd absent — what, I scarcely knew — Till one calm night, when over earth and wave Heaven looked its love from all its numberless stars- Watchful yet breathless — suddenly the sense Of my sweet want swelled in me, and I ask'd The priest — why I was motherless ? He wept, and answer'd " I was nobly born ! " As he spake. There gleamed across my soul a dim remembrance Of a pale face in infancy beheld — A shadowy face, but from whose lips there breathed The words that none but mothers murmur ! 'Twas at that time there came Into our hamlet a rude, jovial seaman, With the frank mien boys welcome, and wild tales 24 THE SEA CAPTAIN S STORY. Of the far-off Indian lands, from which mine ear Drank envious wonder. Brief — his legends fired me. And from the deep, whose billows washed the shore On which our casement look'd, I heard a voice That woo'd me to its bosom : Raleigh's fame, The New World's marvels, then made old men heroes. And young men dreamers ! So I left my home With that wild seaman. The villain whom I trusted, when we reached The bark he ruled, cast me to chains and darkness, And so to sea. At length no land in sight, His crew — dark, swarthy men — the refuse crimes Of many lands — (for he, it seems, a pirate) Call'd me on deck — struck off my fetters : " Boy ! " He said, and grimly smiled : " not mine the wrong ; Thy chains are forged from gold, the gold of those Who gave thee birth ! " I wrench'd From his own hand the blade it bore, and struck The slanderer to my feet. With that, a shout, A hundred knives gleam'd round me ; but the pirate, Wiping the gore from his gash'd brow, cried ' ' Hold ! Such death were mercy." Then they grip'd and bound me To a slight plank — spread to the wind their sails, And left me on the waves alone with God ! That day, and all that night, upon the seas Toss'd the frail barrier between life and death. Heaven luU'd the gales ; and when the stars came forth All look'd so bland and gentle that I wept, Recall'd that wretch's words, and murmur'd, "Wave And wind are kinder than a parent." Day dawn'd, and glittering in the sun, behold A sail — a flag ! It pass'd away, And saw me not. Noon, and then thirst and famine ; And, with parch'd lips, I call'd on death, and sought To wrench my limbs from the stiff cords that gnaw'd RICHELIEU; OR, THE CONSPIRACY. 2$ Into the flesh, and drop into the deep ; And then methought I saw beneath the clear And crystal lymph, a dark, swift-moving thing, With watchful, glassy eyes— the ocean monster That follows ships for prey. Then life once more Grew sweet, and with a strained and horrent gaze. And lifted hair, I floated on, till sense Grew dim and dimlier, and a terrible sleep. In which still, still those livid eyes met mine, Fell on me. I awoke, and heard My native tongue. Kind looks were bent upon me ; I lay on deck, escaped the ghastly death— For God had watch'd the sleeper 1 — Lord Lytton. RICHELIEU ; OR, THE CONSPIRACY. Cardinal Richelieu was Premier of France ; He was keen as a fox, and you read at a glance. In his phiz so expressive of malice and trick. That he'd much of the nature ascribed to Old Nick ; If a noble e'er dared to oppose him, instead Of confuting his lordship, he whipped off his head. He fixed his grim paw Upon church, state, and law. With as much cool assurance as ever you saw ; With his satire's sharp sting He badgered the King, Bullied his brother. Transported his mother. And (what is a far more astonishing case) Not only pronounced him an ass to his face. But made love to his Queen, and because she declined His advances, gave out she was wrong in her mind 1 -26 RICHELIEU ; OR, THE CONSPIRACY. Now the nobles of France, and still more the poor King, Disliked, as was natural, this sort of thing ; The former felt shocked that plebeian beholders Should see a peer's head fly so oft from his shoulders. And the latter was constantly kept upon thorns By the Cardinal's wish to endow him with horns ; Thus rankling with spite, A party one night Of noblemen met, and determined outright (So enraged were the crew) First to murder Richelieu, And, if needful, dispatch all his partisans too ; Next to league with the foes Of the King and depose The fat-pated monarch himself, for a fool Rebellion ne'er uses except as a tool. On the night that Richelieuvvas thus marked out for slaughter. He chanced to be tipping cold brandy and water With one Joseph, a Capuchin priest — a sly dog, And by no means averse to the comforts of grog. As you saw by his paunch, which seemed proud to reveal How exactly it looked like a fillet of veal. They laughed and they quaffed, till the Capuchin's nose ('Twas a thoroughbred snub) grew as red as a rose ; And whenever it chanced that his patron, Richelieu, Cracked a joke, even though it was not very new. And pointed his smart conversational squibs. By a slap on Joe's back, or a peg in his ribs ; The priest, who was wonderfully shrewd as a schemer, Would bellow with ecstasy, " Gad, that's a screamer I" Thus they chatted away, a rare couple well met, And were just tuning up for a pious duet, When in rushed a spy With his wig all awry. And a very equivocal drop in his eye. Who cried (looking blue As he turned to Richelieu), RICHELIEU; OR, THE CONSPIRACY. 2/ "Oh, my lord, lack-a-day ! ' Here's the devil to pay ! For a dozen fierce noblea are coming this way ; One of whom, an old stager, as sharp as a lizard, Has threatened to stick a long knife in your gizzard ; While the rest of the traitors, I say it with pain. Have already sent off a dispatch to Spain, To state that his Majesty's ceased to reign. And order the troops all home again." When his Eminence heard these tidings, " Go," He said, in the blandest of tones to Joe, "And if you can catch The traitors' dispatch, I swear — no matter how rich he be — You shall have, dear Joe, the very next see ! " (Nota bene, whenever Old Nick is wishing To enjoy the prime sport of parson-fishing. He always, like Richelieu, cunning and quick. Bates with a good fat bishopric !) No sooner had Joe prned his sanctified back — I hardly need add he was off in a crack — Than up the grand stairs rushed the murderous pack. Whereon the sly Cardinal, tipping the wink To the spy, who was helping himself to some drink At a side-table, said, " Tell 'em I'm dead ! " Then flew to his chamber and popped into bed. "What, dead?" roared the traitors. " I stuck him myself, With a knife which I snatched from the back-kitchen shelf," Was the ready reply Of the quick-witted spy — Who in matters of business ne'er stuck at a lie. " Huzza, then, for office ! " cried one and cried all, " The government's ours by the Cardinal's fall ! " And, so saying, the crew Cut a capef or two. Gave the spy a new four-penny piece and withdrew. 28 RICHELIEU ; OR, THE CONSPIRACY. Next day all the papers were full of the news, Little dreaming the Cardinal's death was a ruse ; In Parliament, too, lots of speeches were made, And poetical tropes by the bushel displayed ; The deceased was compared to Ulysses and Plato, To a star, to a cherub, an eagle, and Cato ; And 'twas gravely proposed by some gents in committee To erect him a statue of gold in the city ; But when an economist, caustic and witty, Asked, "Gentlemen, pray. Who is to pay 7 " The committee, as if by a galvanic shock jolted. Looked horrified, put on their castors, and bolted ! Meanwhile the shrewd traitors repaired in a bevy, All buoyant with hope to his Majesty's levee. When, lo ! as the King, with anxiety feigned. Was beginning to speak of the loss he sustained. In strutted Richelieu, And the Capuchin too. Which made each conspirator shake in his shoe ; One whispered a by-stander, looking him through, " By Jove ! I can scarcely believe it ; can you?" Another cried, " Dam'me, I thought 'twas a. do I" And a third muttered faintly, o'ercome by his fear, " Talk of the devil and he's sure to appear ! " When the King, who, at first, hardly trusted his eyes. Had somehow recovered the shock of surprise. He shook his thick head At the Cardinal, and said. In tones in which something of anger still lurked, "How's this? Why, God bless me, I thought you were burked ! " " Had such been my fate," quickly answered Richelieu, " Had they made me a subject, the rascally crew, My liege, they'd have soon made another of you. Look here ! " and he pulled out the nobles' dispatch, Who felt that for once they had met with their match. EDUCATION. And exclaiming, " 'Od rot 'em' The scoundrels, I've got 'em ! " Read it out to the King, from the top to the bottom. Next morning twelve scaffolds, with axes of steel. Adorned the fore-court of the sprightly Bastile ; And at midnight twelve nobles, by way of a bed, Lay snug in twelve coflSns, each minus a head — A thing not uncommon with nobles, 'tis said. Priest Joe got his see. And delighted was he. For the bishopric su'ted his taste to a T ; And Richelieu, the stern, unforgiving and clever. Bullied King, Church and people more fiercely than ever ! And the moral is this — if conspiring in flocks. Silly geese will presume to play triclis with a fox. And strive by finesse to get rid of the pest, They must always expect to come off second best ! — " Sentiev Ballads," 29 EDUCATION. Of all the blessings which it has pleased Provi- dence to allow us to cultivate, there is not one which breathes a purer fragrance or bears a heavenlier as- pect than education. It is a companion which no misfortune can depress, no clime destroy, no enemy alienate, no despotism enslave ; at home a friend, abroad an introduction, in solitude a solace, in soci- ety an ornament ; it chastens vice, it guides virtue, it gives at once a grace and government to genius. Without it, what is man ? A splendid slave ! A reasoning savage, vacillating between the dignity of an intelligence derived from God, and the degra- dation of passions participated with brutes ; and in 30 EDUCATION. the accident of their alternate ascendency, shudder- ing at the terrors of a hereafter, or embracing the horrid hope of annihilation. What is this wondrous world of his residence ? "A mighty maze, and all without a plan ": a dark, and desolate, and dreary cavern, without wealth, or ornament, or order. But light up within it the torch of knowledge, and how wondrous the transition ! The seasons change, the atmosphere breathes, the landscape lives, earth unfolds its fruits, ocean rolls in its magnificence, the heavens display their constellated canopy, and the grand animated spectacle of nature rises revealed before him, its va- rieties regulated, and its mysteries resolved ! The phenomena which bewilder, the prejudices which debase, the superstitions which enslave, vanish be- fore education. Like the holy symbol which blazed upon the cloud before the hesitating Constantine, if man follows but its precepts purely, it will not only lead him to the victories of this world, but open the very portals of Omnipotence for his admission. Cast your eye over the monumental map of ancient grandeur, once studded with the stars of empire and the splendors of philosophy. What erected the little State of Athens into a powerful commonwealth, placing in her hand the sceptre of legislation, and wreathing round her brow the imperishable chaplet of literary fame ? What extended Rome, the heart of banditti, into universal empire ? What animated Sparta with that high, unbending, adamantine courage, which THE BENEDICTION. 3I conquered Nature herself, and has fixed her in the sight of future ages, a model of public virtue, and a proverb of national independence ? What but those wise public institutions which strengthened their minds with early application, informed their infancy with the principles of actions, and sent them into the world too vigilant to be deceived by its calms, and too vigorous to be shaken by its whirlwinds ? — C. Phillips. THE BENEDICTION. It was in eighteen hundred — yes — and nine, That we took Saragossa. What a day Of untold horrors ! I was sergeant then. The city carried, we laid siege to houses, All shut up close, and with a treacherous look, Raining down shots upon us from the windows. ' 'Tis the priest's doing ! " was the word passed round i So that, although since daybreak under arms — Our eyes with powder smarting, and our mouths Bitter with kissing cartridge-ends — piff ! paff ! Rattled the musketry with ready aim. If shovel hat and long black coat were seen Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street My company worked on. I kept an eye On every house-top, right and left, and saw From many a roof flames suddenly burst forth. Coloring the sky as from the chimney-tops Among the forges. Low our fellows stooped. Entering the low-pitched dens. When they came out, With bayonets dripping red, their bloody fingers iigned crosses on the wall ; for we were bound, In such a dangerous defile, not to leave Foes lurking in our rear. There was no drum-beat. 32 THE BENEDICTION. No ordered march. Our officers looked grave ; The rank and file uneasy, jogging elbows As do recruits when flinching. All at once. Rounding a comer, we are hailed in French With cries for help. At double-quick we join Our hard-pressed comrades. They were grenadiers, A gallant company, but beaten back Inglorious from the raised and flag-paved square, Fronting a convent. Twenty stalwart monks Defended it — black demons with shaved crowns. The cross in white embroider'd on their frocks, Barefoot, their sleeves tucked up, their only weapOkis Enormous crucifixes, so well brandished Our men went down before them. By platoons Firing we swept the place ; in fact, we slaughtered This terrible group of heroes, no more soul Being in ps than in executioners. The foul deed done — deliberately done — And the thick smoke rolling away, we noted Under the huddled masses of the dead. Rivulets of blood run trickling down the steps ; While in the background solemnly the church Loomed up, its doors wide open. We went in. It was a desert. Lighted tapers starred The inner gloom with points of gold. The incense Gave out its perfume. At the upper end. Turned to the altar, as though unconcerned In the fierce battle that had raged, a priest. White-haired and tall of stature, to a close Was bringing tranquilly the mass. So stamped Upon my memory is that thrilling scene. That, as I speak, it comes before me now — The convent built in old time by the Moors ; The huge brown corpses of the monks ; the sun Making the red blood on the pavement steam ; And there, framed in by the low porch, the priest ; THE BENEDICTION. 33 And there the altar brilliant as a shrine ; And here ourselves, all halting, hesitating, Almost afraid. I, cerlfes, in those days Was a confirmed blasphemer. 'Tis on record That once, by way of sacrilegious joke, A chapel being sacked, I lit my pipe At a wax candle burning on the altar. This time, however, I was awed — so blanched Was that ol^ man ! " Shoot him ! " our captain cried. Not a soul budged. The priest beyond all doubt Heard ; but, as though he heard not, turning round, He faced us with the elevated Host, Having that period of the service reached When on the faithful benediction falls. His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings ; And as he raised the pyx, and in the air With it described the Cross, each man of us Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling Than if before him the devout were ranged. But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice. The words came to us — Vos benedicat Deus Omnipotens ! The captain's order Rang out again and sharply, " Shoot him down. Or I shall swear ! " Then one of ours, a dastard. Leveled his gun and fired. Upstanding still. The priest changed color, though with steadfast look Set upwards, and indomitably stern. Pater et Filius ! Came the words. What frenzy. What maddening thirst for blood, sent from our ranks Another shot, I know not ; but 'twas done. The monk, with one hand on the altar's ledge. 34 LITTLE NED. Held himself up ; and strenuous to complete His benediction, in the other raised The consecrated Host. For the third time Tracing in air the symbol of forgiveness, With eyes closed, and in tones exceeding low, But in the general hush distinctly heard, Et Sanctus Spiritus ! He said ; and, ending His service, fell down dead. The golden pyx Rolled bounding on the floor. Then, as we stood. Even the old troopers, with our muslcets grounded. And choking horror in our hearts, at sight Of such a shameless murder and at sight Of such a martyr, with a chuckling laugh, Amen ! Drawled out a drummer-boy. — Francois Cofpit. LITTLE NED. All that is like a dream. It don't seem true I Father was gone, and mother left, you see, To work for little brother Ned and me ; And up among the gloomy roofs we grew — Locked in full oft, lest we should wander out. With nothing but a crust of bread to eat. While mother charred for poor folk round about, Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street. Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair. To make the time pass happily up there — A steamboat going past upon the tide, A pigeon lighting on the roof close by. The sparrows teaching little ones to fly. The small white moving clouds that we espied. And thought were living in the bit of sky — With sights like these right glad were Ned and I ; LITTLE NED. 35 And then we loved to hear the soft rain calling, Pattering, pattering upon the tiles ; And it was fine to see the still snow falling. Making the house-tops white for miles and miles, And catch it in our little hands in play. And laugh to feel it melt and sKp away ! But I was six and Ned was only three. And thinner, weaker, wearier than me ; And one cold day in winter time, when mother Had gone away into the snow, and we Sat close for warmth and cuddled one another, He put his little head upon my knee And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb. But looked quite strange and old ; And when I shook him, kissed him, spoke to him, He smiled and grew so cold. Then I was frightened, and cried out, and none Could hear me, while I sat and nursed his head. Watching the whitened window, while the sun Peeped in upon his face, and made it red. And I began to sob — till mother came. Knelt down, and screamed, and named the good God's name. And told me he was dead. And when she put his night-gown on, and, weeping. Placed him among the rags upon his bed, I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping, And took his little hand and felt no fear. But when the place grew gray, and cold, and drear. And the round moon over the roofs came creeping. And put a silver shade All round the chilly bed where he was laid, I cried and was afraid. — Robert Buchanan. 36 TOLD AT THE FALCON. TOLD AT THE FALCON. Another flagon, old friend ? Of course, I knew what you would say. Ah, we've drain'd a few together, Hal, since we knew each other, eh? When two old brother soldiers meet to gossip o'er days gone by. If they're not to moistefl their throats a bit, the devil's in't, say I ! Ho, there ! No, tapster, friend, not you ; just send the damsel here. Hi ! Margery — Cicely — what's your name ? Fill up again, my dear ; There's a good girl. What eyes she has, and lips more charm- ing still ! Here, taste, my dear, and pledge us a toast. You won't ? well, then, I will : "Here's health to all the pretty girls ! " Hullo, she's gone, I see ! " And a double health to our Merry King, Prince Charlie that used to be ! " If it wasn't for me, the crown mayhap had never graced his brow. You smile, but it's true. Here, drink again, and I'll tell ypu the story now. You know our place — half-moated grange, half-ruin'd castle gray, My master's, Hubert Moulton's, where you found me out to-day ; There I was born, and thence I went, in youth's all-joyous spring. To fight with glorious Capel's host for coimtry and for king. 'Twas then I met you first, old friend, and, ah, what days they were ! Of fighting, flirting, feast and fray, methinks we had our share. And when old Noll had won the game — oh, cursed, heavy hour ! — Where should the broken soldier fly but back to Moulton Tower ? The squire was old and laid aside ; his gallant son was fled ; And only Mistress Kate was left to watch beside his bed ; And so they 'scaped the Cropheads' ire. E'en Noll, that canting churl, Could hardly wreak his wrath upon an old man and a girl. TOLD AT THE FALCON. 37 Time was the squires of Moulton Tower own'd all the country side ; And now, though gone their ancient power, they kept their an. cient pride ; Old state and customs still they loved. My keys hung at my breast, Half warder and half cellarer — I liked the last the best ! I' faith, our Merry England then was but a gruesome place ; The man who made his way was he who puU'd the longest face ; No May-day, Christmas, Martinmas, no junketings, no fairs. But 'stead of bluff old English sports, long faces and long prayers. Not long, thought I, will Englishmen 'neath such a thralldom groan ; The day of reck'ning yet will come, the King will have his own ! And when I knew he'd come at last, with Scotland's chivalrie, I long'd to join his glorious host ; but it was not to be. Well do I mind the woful day, when full of throbbing fears. Sweet Mistress Kate came down to me, her pale face stain'd with tears : " Oh, Michael, all is lost ! " she said, " our beaten host has fled, And left the King a fugitive— a price upon his head ! "And Michael" — here her voice sank low, her face was ashen white — " His Grace, with my poor brother, too, will sojourn here to- night ; See the Priest's Hole's prepared ; and, friend, mind, not a word nor sign ; If aught befell him here, 'twould break my father's heart and mine. My cousin Hugh is here, you know, and ah, though seeming kind, I know him for a false, weak man, the sport of every wind. 'Twas but to-day I heard him say old Noll was much belied, And none but fools were ever found upon the losing side. God grant I do him grievous wrong ! — he comes o' royal race ; But well I wot, he knows of old our ancient hiding-place ; And much I fear, to serve himself— oh, cruel, bitter shame !— 38 TOLD AT THE FALCON. He might be tempted to a deed I hardly dare to name. So vile a sin would stain our race until the end o' time ; My cousin must be kept by force from risk of such a crime. I told my father so, and he but laughed at me to-day, But I have talked him o'er at last to let me have my way. Listen : Hugh Moulton loves to walk in our old Pleasaunce fair ; It was but now he said to me that I should find him there. Get trusty help, and while mayhap he broods o'er snare and plot, Seize, gag, and bind him suddenly, but see you harm him not. You know the Friar's Cell below, there he must lie to-night ; Unloose him, mind, and use him well, but see the bolts are right. Then should the Roundhead bloodhounds come, gag, bind him quick once more. And thrust him in the secret vault that opens from the floor ! Two days from now his Grace, please God, will be upon the sea ; Two days my cousin Hugh must lie safe under lock and key. See he has food and wine to spare. Be wary, fearless, true ; No matter how he threats and fumes, no harm shall come to you. I know you true as steel of old ; oh, fail me not to-day ! Here's gold, and when the King But see, my cousin comes this way. Methinks I read mistrust and guile upon that moody brow ; Remember, Michael. — Ah, good coz, how fares it with you now ? " Ho, ho ! but you should have seen him, Hal ! shall I ever forget the sight? When we loosed him at last in the Friar's Cell, panting, dishev- el'd, white ! I'd hardly thought such horrible oaths from human lips could flow. And I used to be pretty fair myself at that sort of thing, you know. " I only obey my orders," I said, " 'tis idle to rave at me ; No harm is meant you, Master Hugh, and you'll soon again be free. TOLD AT THE FALCON. 39 But understand me once for all, you may rave, or swear, or shout, But here you are, and here you'll stay till my betters let you out ! " I left him then to sober down, and sought our Mistress Kate ; ■ Thanks, Michael, thanks ! " she said. ' ' Now list, to-night we watch and wait. My brother Hubert's message said ere midnight they'd be near ; When you shall hear his whistle thrice, then haste to meet me here." And faith, at dead o' night, as though 'twere some dark deed o' sin. The signal came, the bolts were drawn, two muffled men stole in. A moment Mistress Kate's fair head lay on her brother's breast. The next she turn'd with rev'rence meet to greet her kingly guest. "Welcome in my sick father's name and mine, to Moulton Tower ! God grant your Grace may come again in some more happy hour ! " Then bent to kiss his hand ; but nay : " At Beauty's shrine," he said, " Kings should be worshippers," and stoop'd and kiss'd her lips instead. Young Hubert gave me greeting kind ; then stole they up the stair; And soon the house was still as though no anxious hearts were there. But on my watch at dawn I heard a hum o' voices near. And Mistress Kate flew breathless down: "Oh, Michael, they are here ! " Too true ! the Crophead curs were out. As swift as words can tell. The Prince was warned, Hugh Moulton gagg'd and in the secret cell ; Then while they thunder'd at the door, I flung it open wide;^ "What would ye here at such an hour?" "Stand back!" the leader cried. 40 THE DEATH OF THE DRUNKARD. And in they, tramp'd with clash o' steel and torches' lurid glare, And swarm'd the place, and search'd and peer'd from roof to cel- lar there ; They sounded panels, hammer'd walls, and once, with gasping start, Sweet Mistress Kate tum'd white as death ; and well she might., dear heart ! But baffled, beaten, wearied out, at last they slunk away : " Hugh Moulton must have played us false ! " I heard their leader say; And Mistress Kate, she heard him, too, with lips that quiver'd sore. And in her eyes I caught a look was never there before. Two days his Grace lay hid with us ere yet 'twas safe to go, And three days more Hugh Moulton fumed within his cell below ; Then when we got the welcome news the King was on the sea. Fair Mistress Kate came down herself to set her cousin free. He tried to fume, but quail'd before her scornful eyes and brow ; " Cousin, I did but doubt you once ; alas ! I know you now. Listen : the King was here, is gone, has sail'd, while you, pool chiu-1. Lay quaking in your cell — ^ha, ha ! — outwitted by a girl ! Haste to your Cromwell, if you will, and tell him all you know. And don't forget the Friar's Cell, good cousin mine. Now go ! - And cowering from her splendid scorn, he slunk away for fear ! — That's all ■ and faith I'm mighty dry. Just pass the flagon here — Anon. THE DEATH OF THE DRUNKARD. A LOW, cramped room, gloomy and bare ; A man on a pallet lay gasping there ; His lurid eye, his struggling breath Told his near approach to the realms of death ; The mists from that sea were gathering now. And the dew of that night was on his brow. THE DEATH OF THE DRUNKARD. 4I Strange muttering words from his parted lips. As he winds his hair round his finger tips : " Oh ! I am weaving a necklace rare For the matchless neck of a lady fair ; She went away — will she never return ? Come back — come back ! I burn — 1 bum 1 " I feel the foul demon here again ; He fires my blood, he mounts my brain, Dragging me down to the depths below, Mid gnashing of teeth and sounds of woe ; And flames, like serpents, coil round my head. And I wish I were — but am never— dead. " Oh, I am parching here ! Will no one come To cool my mouth with a taste of rum ? A soothing draught is whisky and fire ! " And he writhed and shook in his mad desire For that which had blasted and cursed his life. His house, his fame, his children, his wife. And that fond wife came when she heard the cry, With pallid cheek and moistened eye ; She stooped to kiss him, and bade him take The healing potion for her dear sake. To cure the fever, heal the pain. And restore him to life and health again. But with clenched teeth and upraised arm He drove her from him ; " Begone ! for harm Lies festering in thy cruel smiles. Luring me into the devil's toils. Murder ! Murder ! I fall— I sink ! Oh, draw me back ! give me something to drink i " The chosen one of her early life — For twenty years she had been his wife — 42 THE LAST BANQUET. Wearily, sadly, those years had flown ; His love, his ambition, his reason gone, She watched through the night till the stars went out. For his reeUng step and his drunken shout. And now she knelt by his dying bed. While his oaths and curses rained on her head, But they hurt her not, for her trust was still In God. She had striven to do His will. And she prayed, as her husband the cold river prest, That the Father, in mercy, would give him rest. And as she knelt weeping in earnest prayer, God in His love was stirring there ; With one low wail of parting life. His dim eyes fell on his faithful wife. And ' ' Mercy ! Mercy ! " was the cry. As the Angel of Death went sweeping by. — Mrs. Jessie Elder. THE LAST BANQUET. {From ApMetoiis yournal^ [The incident narrated in the poem is based on fact, a tragedy of the kind being reported to have occurred, during the French Revolution in 1793, in the north of Fiance.] GiTAUT, the Norman marquis, sat in his banquet hall, When the shafts of the autumn sunshine gilded the castle wall ; While in through the open windows floated the sweet perfume, Borne in from the stately garden and filling the lofty room ; And still, like a strain of music breathed in an undertone. The ripple of running water rose, with its sob and moan. From the river, swift and narrow, far down in the vale below, That shone like a silver arrow shot from a bended bow. THE LAST BANQUET. 43 Yonder, over the poplars, lapped in the mellow haze. Lay the roofs of the teeming city, red in the noonday blaze ; While ever, in muffled music, the tall cathedral towers Told to the panting people the story of the hours. His was a cruel temper ; under his baneful sway. Peasant and maid and matron fled from his headlong way. When down from his rocky eyrie, spurring his foaming steed. Galloped the haughty noble, ripe for some evil deed. But when the surging thousands, bleeding at every pore, Roused by the wrongs of ages, rose with a mighty roar — Ever the streets of cities rang with a voice long mute ; Gibbet and tree and lanteme bearing their bleeding fruit. Only one touch of feeling — hid from the world apart. Locked with the key of silence — lived in that cruel heart ; For one he had loved and worshipped, dead in the days of yore. Who slept in the lonely chapel, hard by the river shore. High on a painted panel, set in a gilded shrine. Shone her benignant features, lit with a smile divine ; Under the high straight forehead, eyes of the brightest blue. Framed in her hair's bright masses, rivalled the sapphire's hue. " Why do you come, Breconi ? " — " Marquis, you did not call ; But Mignonne is waiting yonder, down by the castle wall." " Bid her begone ! " — " But, master — poor child, ske loves you so 1 And broken with bitter weeping, she told me a tale of woe. " She says there is wild work yonder, there in the hated town, Where the crowd of frenzied people are shooting the nobles down ; And to-night, ere the moon has risen, they come, with burning brand. With the flame of the blazing castle to light the lurid land. 44 THE LAST BANQUET. "But first you must spread the banquet — host for the crew abhorred — Ere out from the topmost turret they fling my murdered lord. Flee for thy life, Lord Marquis, flee from a frightful doom, When the night has hid the postern safe in its friendly gloom ! " " Tush ! are you mad, Breconi ? Spread them the banquet here With flowers and fruit and viands, silver and crystal clear ; Let not a touch be wanting — hasten those hands of thine ! Haste to the task, Breconi ; and I will draw the wine ! " Slowly the sun went westward, till all the city's spires Flamed in the flood of splendor — a hundred flickering fires. Over the peaceful landscape, clasped by the girdling stream. Quivered, in mournful glory, the last expiring beam. Then up from the rippling river sounded the tramp of feet. That rose o'er the solemn stillness laden with perfume sweet ; While high o'er the sleeping city, and over the garden gloom, Towered the grim, black castle, still as the silent tomb. Leaning over the casement, heark'ning the busy hum. Smiling, the haughty marquis knew that his time was come : And he turned to the panelled picture — that answered his look again. And beamed with a sigh of welcome — humming a low refrain. Under the echoing archway, and up o'er the stairs of stone. Ever the human torrent shouted in strident tone — Curses and gibes and threat' nings, with snatches of ribald jest, Stirring the blood to fury in many a brutal breast. There, under the lighted tapers set in the banquet-hall. Smiling and calm and steadfast, towered the marquis tall. Dressed in his richest costume, facing the gibing host. He wore on his broad blue ribbon the star of "The Holy Ghost." THE LAST BANQUET. 4.5 " Welcome, fair guests — be seated ! " he cried to the motley crowd, That drew to the loaded table with curses long and loud ; Waving a graceful welcome, the gleaming lights reveal The rings on his soft, white fingers, strung with their nerves of steel. Turned to the panelled picture, calm in his icy hate. He stood, in his pride of lineage, cold as a marble Fate ; Smiling in hidden meaning — in his rich garments dressed — As cold and hard and polished as the brilliants on his breast. Pouring a brimming beaker, he cried, " Drink, friends, I pray ! Drink to the toast I give you ! Pledge me my proudest day ! Here, under the hall of banquet — drink, drink to the festal news ! — Stand twenty casks of powder, set with a lighted fuse ! " Frozen with sudden horror, they saw, like a fleecy mist. As he quaffed the purple vintage, the ruffles at his wrist Turned to the smiling picture ; clear as a silver bell Echoed his last fond greeting — " I drink to thee, ma belle 1 " Down crashed the crystal goblet, flung on the marble floor ; Back rushed the stricken revellers — ^back to the close-barred door ! Up through its yawning crater, the mighty earthquake broke. Dashing its spume of fire up through its waves of smoke ! Out through the deep'ning darkness a wild desparing cry Rang, as the riven castle lighted the midnight sky ; Then down o'er the lurid landscape, lit by those fires of hell- Buttress and roof and rafter— the smoking ruin fell ! Over the Norman landscape the summer sun looks down, Gilding the gray cathedral, gilding the teeming town. Still shines the rippling river, lapped in its banks of green ; Still hangs the scent of roses over the peaceful scene ; 46 IVAN THE CZAR. But high o'er the trembling poplars, blackened and burned and riven. Those blasted battlements and towers frown in the face of heaven ; And still in the sultry August I seem at times to feel The smile of that cruel marquis, keen as his rapier's steel ! — Edward Renaud. IVAN THE CZAR. ;.Ivan the Czar, or Emperor of Russia, sumamed the Terrible from his passion and cruelty, when old besieged Novogorod. His Boyards, or nobles, perceiving his incapacity, entreated him to give the command to his son. He was so enraged at this request, that, although his son threw himself at his feet, he struck him with such force that he died in two days. Ivan siuTdvcd him only two or three months.] He sat in silence on the ground, The old and haughty Czar, Lonely, though princes girt him round And leaders of the war ; He had cast his jewelled sabre, That many a field had won, To the earth beside his youthful dead— His fair and first-born son ! With a robe of ermine for his bed Was laid that form of clay. Where the light a stormy sunset shed Through the rich tent made way ; And a sad and solemn beauty On the pallid face came down, Which the lord of nations mutely watched In the dust with his renown. Low tones at last, of woe and fear. From his full bosom broke — A mournful thing it was to hear How then the proud man spoke ! IVAN THE CZAR. 47 The voice that through the combat Had shouted far and high, Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones. Burdened with agony. " There is no crimson on thy cheek, And on thy lip no breath ; I call thee, and thou dost not speak— They tell me this is death ! And fearful things are whispering That I the deed have done : For the honor of thy father's name. Look up, look up, my son ! " Well might I know death's hue and mien— - But on thy aspect, boy ! What, till this moment, have I seen Save pride and tameless joy ? Swiftest thou wert to battle. And bravest there of all — How could I think a warrior's frame Thus like a flower should fall ? " I will not bear that still, cold look- Rise up, thou fierce and free ! Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook All, save this calm from thee ! Lift brightly up, and proudly, Once more thy kindling eyes ! Hath my word lost its power on earth ? I say to thee. Arise ! " Didst thou not know I loved thee well ? Thou didst not ! and art gone, In bitterness of soul, to dwell Where man must dwell alone. Come back, young fiery spirit ! If but one hour, to learn 48 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. The secrets of the folded heart That seemed to thee so stern. " Thou wert the first, the first fair child That in mine arms I pressed : Thou wert the bright one, that has smiled Lilce summer on my breast ' I reared thee as an eagle. To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse, I look upon thee — dead ! " Lay down my warlike banners here, Never again to wave, And bury my red sword and spear. Chiefs ! in my first-bom's grave ! And leave me ! — I have conquered : I have slain : my work is done ! Whom have I slain ? Ye answer not— Thou, too, art mute, my son ! " And thus his wild lament was poured Through the dark, resounding night. And the battle knew no more his sword, Nor the foaming steed his might. He heard strange voices moaning In every wind that sighed ; From the searching stars of heaven he shrank — Humbly the conqueror died. — Mrs. Hemans. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. I LOOKED far back into other years, and lo ! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls. And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the foot- step falls ; MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 49 And o'er the antique dial stone the creeping shadow passed, And all around the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast. No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister dim, The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees. In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please ; And little reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers. That Scotland knew no prouder names — held none more dear than theirs : And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine. Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line ! Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, And, as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light. The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon, And 'neath a thousand silver lamps a thousand courtiers throng ; And proudly kindles Henry's eye — well pleased, I ween, to see The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry ; But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's tide. Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride ! The homage of a thousand hearts — the fond, deep love of one — The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun — They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek. They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak : Ah ! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours. She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers ? The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way. And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay ; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast-receding hills, that dim and distant rise. No marvel that the lady wept — there was no land on earth She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth ; 50 Mary, queen of scots. It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends — It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends— The land where her dead husband slept — the land where she had known The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendors of a throne : No marvel that the lady wept — it was the land of France — The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of romance ! The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark ; The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark ! One gaze again — one long, last gaze — "Adieu, fair France, to thee ! " The breeze comes forth — she is alone on the unconscious sea ! The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds, That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. The touch of care had blanched her cheek— her smile was sadder now. The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow ; And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field ; The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could ' not wield. She thought of all her blighted hopes — the dreams of youth's brief day, And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play The songs she loved in early years — the songs of gay Navarre, The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar ; They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles, They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils ; But hark ! the tramp of armfed men ! the Douglas' battle-cry ! They come, they come ! — and lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye ! And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words are vain — The ruffian steel is in his heart — the faithful Rizzio's slain 1 MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. Jl Then Mary Stuart dashed aside the tears that trickling fell : "Now for my father's arm!" she said; " my woman's heart, farewell ! " The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle, And there, within the prison-walls of its baronial pile. Stern men stood menacing their Queen, till she should stoop ta sign The traitorous scroll that snatched the crown from her ancestral line. " My lords, my lords ! " the captive said, "were I but once more free, With ten good knights on yonder shore, to aid my cause and me. That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows. And once more reign a Stuart Queen o'er my remorseless foes ! " A red spot burned upon her cheek — streamed her rich tresses down. She wrote the words — she stood erect — a Queen without a crown ! The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore. And the faithful of the land stood round their smiling Queen once more ; She stayed her steed upon a hill — she saw them marching by — She heard their shouts — she read success in every flashing eye. The tumult of the strife begins — it roars — it dies away ; And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers — ^where are they? Scattered and strown, and flying far, defenceless and undone — Alas ! to think what she has lost, and all that guilt has won ! — Away ! away ! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part ; Yet vain his speed — for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart ! The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood. And gleamed the broad-axe in his hand, that soon must drip wiiu blood. 52 FOKGIVE? — NO, NEVER. With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall, And breathless silence chained the lips and touched the hearts of all. I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom — I saw that grief had decked it out — an offering for the tomb ! I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone ; I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every tone. I knew the ringlets, almost -gray, once threads of living gold ; I knew that bounding grace of step — that symmetry of mould ! Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle, I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile — Even now I see her bursting forth, upon the bridal morn, A new star in the firmament, to light and glory bom ! Alas ! the change ! — she placed her foot upon a triple throne. And on the scaffold now she stands — beside the block — alone ! The little dog that licks her hand — the last of all the crowd Who sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her foot- steps bowed ! — Her neck is bared — the blow is struck — the soul is passed away ! The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay ! The dog is moaning piteously ; and, as it gurgles o'er, Laps the warm blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor ! The blood of beauty, wealth, and power — the heart-blood of a Queen — The noblest of the Stuart race — the fairest earth has seen — Lapped by a dog ! Go, think of it, in silence and alone ; Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne ! —H. G. Bell. F0RGIVE2—N0, NEVER. Well, Dominie, thank you for comin' — They toM you, I s'pose, I was wild When I found that a store-keepin' feller Had just run away with my chil(i ; FORGIVE? — NO, NEVER. 53 My baby, my motherless Nancy — She's a baby, you see, to me, now. And to think she would cheat her old father ! ' ' When was it ? " you ask me, ' ' and how ? " Well, 'long about hayin' she told me — Her apron half over her cheek — That a lad from the town came a courtin'. " Might she see him ? " I tried not to speak. But I couldn't keep still, an' I told her I'd shoot him as quick as a hound, If he ever came near her to court her When me and my gun was around. She looked kind o' pitiful at me ; " O father ! I've promised," she said. Then left me. Along through the orchard I saw the bent-down yaller head. I saw her go wanderin' further — And I know well enough where she went : Her mother lies buried off yonder, The way that her footsteps was bent. An' she came, when the dew was a-fallin', A-past me, with never a word ; But out of her own little window A pitiful sobbin' I heard. Well, after that, all through the summer, She seemed sort o' solemn and shy. She said nothin' more of her lover. And nothin' about him said I. Last night, when the milkin' was over. An' I sat by the stoop all alone, Little Nancy came softly beside me. And took my old hand in her own. Her face was as red as the roses. I know now she tried to confess That her mind was made up to the weddin', But she hadn't the courage, I guess. 54 THE BOAT-RACE. Well, sir, when I called in the mornin' No sleepy " Yes, father," I heard ; I opened the door of her chamber, And pillow and blanket wa'n't stirred. All her poor little duds she had taken — There wa'n't such a wonderful sight — And a shabby and faded old pictur' Of me and her mother in white. She left me this scrap of paper : She's married by this time, you see. " You married her?" Well, sir, how dare you Come over here talkin' to me ? " Forgive her?" No, never ! no, never ! ' ' She wants me to bless her ? " The jade ! " She is waitin' out yonder ? " No matter. She must lie in the bed she has made. I'll never — no, never — forgive her. Who's comin' ? O Nancy, my child ! Ah, me ! she is like her dead mother ! Well, parson, we've got reconciled. — Anon THE BOAT-RACE. ' There, win the cup, and you shall have my girl. I won it, Ned ; and you shall win it, too. Or wait a twelvemonth. Books — forever books ! Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes ! I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength To breast the world with, and to cleave your way — No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care, She needing yours. There — there — I love you, Ned, Both for your own, and for your mother's sake ! So win our boat-race and the cup next month. And you shall have her." With a broad, loud laugh, THE BOAT-RACE. 5S A jolly triumph at his rare conceit, He left the subject, and, across the wine, He talked — or, rattier, all the talk was his — Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known, Both of his set and others : Clare, the boast Of Jesus', and young Edmonds, he who fell Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow — and, to-day. There was young Chester might be named with them. 'Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins ; Small chance for you, boy ! " And again his laugh, With its broad thunder turned my thoughts to gall ; But yet I mask'd my humor with a mirth Moulded on his ; and, feigning haste, 1 went, But left not. Through the garden porch I turn'd : But on its sun-fleck'd seats its jessamine shades Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one Sweeter than all its roses, and across Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells. There, in the orchard's greenness, down beyond Its sweetbrier hedge-row, found her — found her there, A summer blossom that the peering sun Peep'd at through blqssoms — that the summer airs Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold. Warm as that rain'd on Danae. With a step Soft as the sunlight down the pebbled path I pass'd ; and, ere her eye could cease to count The orchard daisies, in some summer mood Dreaming (was I her thought ?), my murmur'd " Kate " Shock'd up the tell-tale roses to her cheek, And lit her eyes with starry lights of love That dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her all. And told her that her father's jovial jest Should make her mine, and kiss'd her sunlit tears Away, and all her little trembling doubts, Until hope won her heart to happy dreams. And all the future smiled with happy love. 56 THE BOAT-RACE. Nor till the still moon in the purpling east Gleam'd through the twilight did we stay our talk. Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words Remember'd for a lifetime. Home I went ; And in my college rooms what blissful hopes Were mine ! — what thoughts, that still'd to happy dreams, Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life, Made my years Eden, and lit up my home (The ivied rectory my sleep made mine) With little faces and the gleams of curls. And baby crows, and voices twin to hers. Oh, happy night ! Oh, more than happy dreams ! But with the earliest twitter from the eaves I rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard. As if but boating were the crown of life. Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes, Even my new tragedy upon the stocks, I throng'd my brain with talks of lines and curves, And all that makes a wherry sure to win, And furbish'd up the knowledge that I had. Ere study put my boyhood's feats away. And made me bookworm ; all that day my hand Grew more and more familiar with the oar. And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach Of the green river lengthen'd on my sight, Its by-laid cunning back ; so, day by day, From when dawn touch'd our elm-tops, till the moon Gleam'd through the slumb'rous leafage of our lawns. I flash'd the flowing Isis from my oars. And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come And breathed myself, in sport, one after one. Against the men with whom I was to row. Until I fear'd but Chester — him alone. So June stole on to July, sun by sun. And the day came — how well I mind that day ! Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad To dim the golden greenness of the fields, And all a happy hush about the earth, THE BOAT-RACE." 57 And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon, Save where, along the peopled towing-paths, Banking the river, swarm'd the city out, Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds. Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks. That flush'd with boats and barges, silken-awn'd. Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls, Our college toasts, and gay with jest and laugh, Bright as their champagne. One, among them all. My eye saw only ; one that morning left With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart, And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at fears — One that upon my neck had parting hung Arms white as daisies — on my bosom hid A tearful face, that sobb'd against my heart, Fill'd with what fondness ! yearning with what love ! O Hope, and would the glad day make her mine ? O Hope ! was Hope a prophet, truth alone ? There was a murmur in my heart of " Yes," That sung to slumber every waking fear That still would stir and shake me with its dread. And now a hush was on the wavering crowd. That sway'd along the river, reach by reach, A grassy mile, to where we were to turn — A barge moored 'mid-streams, flush'd with fluttering flags. And we were ranged, and at the gun we went. As in a horse-race, all at first a-crowd ; Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropt off. Till rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern. The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife Was come, and hopsd 'ga.inst fear, and, oar to oar, Strained to the work before mg. Head to head Through the wild-cheering river-banks we clove The swarming waters, raining streams of toil ; But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor'd strength Held on, enduring — mine still waning more. And parting with the victory inch by inch. 58 THE BOAT-RACE. Yet straining on as if I strove with death, Until I groan'd with anguish. Chester heard, And turned a wondering face upon me quick. And toss'd a laugh across with jesting words : " What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so? The cup's not worth the moaning of a man — No, nor the triumph. Tush ! boy, I must win." Then from the anguish of my heart a cry Burst : " Kate, oh, dearest Kate — oh, love — ^we lose !" "Ah ! I've a Kate, too, here to see me win," He answered. "Faith ! my boy, I pity you." " Oh, if you lose," I answered, " you but lose A week's wild triumph, and its praise and pride ; I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy ! Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness. What years with her that I might call my wife ! Winning, I win her ! " Oh, thrice noble heart ! I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face ; I saw a nobler light light up his eyes ; I saw the flush of pride die into one Of manly tenderness and sharp resolve ; No word he spoke ; one only look he threw. That told me all ; and ere my heart could leap In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name, I Tras before him, through the tracking eyes Of following thousands heading to the goal, The shouting goal, that hurl'd my conquering name Miles wide in triumph, ' ' Chester foil'd at last ! " Oh, how I turn'd to him ! with what a heart ! Unheard the shouts — ^unseen the crowding gaze That ring'd us. How I wrung his answering hand With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush that told I shamed to hear my name more loud than his. And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife. My own dear wife ; and so I won a friend : Chester, more dear than all but only her And these, the small ones of my college dreams. — W. C. Bennett. DEATH. 59 DEATH. He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the line where beauty lingers), And marked the mild angelic air. The rapture of repose that's there. The fixed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek. And but for that sad shrouded eye. That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, And but for that chill, changeless brow. Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appalls the gazing mourner's heart. As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon — Yes, but for these, and these alone. Some moments, aye, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed The first, last look by death revealed ! Such is the aspect of this shore ; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb. Expression's last receding ray, . A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Feeling pass'd away. Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth ! — Lord Byron. 6o THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. AN emigrant's reminiscence. Oh, hideous leagues of straining woods, Straining back from the sea ; Oh, woods of pine, and nothing but pine, Will they never have end for me ? The ceaseless line of the red, red pine. My very brain it sears ; And the roar of trees, like surging seas. Is it ever to haunt my ears ? Let me remember it all : 'Twas late — The burning end of day — The trees were all in a golden glow. As with the flame they would burn away. The joyful news to our clearing came, Came as the sun went down ; A ship from England at anchor lay In the bay of the nearest town. In that good ship my Alice had come — Alice, my dainty queen ! Sweet Alice, my own, my own so near. There was only the woods between ! Now, three days' journey we counted that. The days and nights were three ; But for thirty days and thirty nights I had journeyed my love to see. Before an hour to the night had gone. Into the wood I went ; The pine tops yet were bright in the light, Though below it was all but spent, THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. ^I ' ' The moon at ten and the dawn at four ! " For this I offered praise ; Though I knew the wood on the hither side Knew each of its tortuous ways. The moon rose redder than any sun, Through the straight pines it rose ; But, glittered on keener eyes than mine — On the eyes of deadliest foes ! To sudden peril my heart awoke — And yet it did not quail ; I had skirted Indians in their camp. And the fiends were upon my trail ! Three stealthy " Snakes" were upon my track. Supple and dusk and dread ; A thought of Alice, a prayer to God, And like wind on my course I sped. Only in flight, in weariest flight, Could I my safety find ; But fast or slow, howe'er I might go. They followed me close behind. The night wore out and the moon went down, The sun rose in the sky ; But on and on came the stealthy foes. Who had made it my doom to die. With two to follow and one to sleep, They tracked me through the night; But one could follow and two could sleep In the day's increasing light. So all day under the burning sky. All night beneath the stars, And on, when the moon through ranging, pines Gleamed white as through prison-bars. 62 THE FLIGHT FOR LIFE. With some to follow and some to halt, Their course they well might keep ; But I — O God, for a little rest, For a moment of blessed sleep ! Lost in the heart of the hideous wood. My desperate way I kept ; For why ? They would take me if I stayed. And murder me if I slept. But brain will yield and body will drop ; And next when sunset came, I shrieked delirious at the light. For I fancied the wood in flame ! I shrieked, I reeled ; then venomous eyes And dusky shapes were there ; And I felt the touch of gleaming steel. And a hand in my twisted hair. A cry, a struggle, and down I sank ; But sank not down alone — A shot had entered the Indian's heart, And his body bore down my own ! Yet an Indian gun that shot had fired — Most timely, Heaven knows ! For I had chanced on a friendly tribe. Who were watching my stealthy foes. And they who fired had kindliest hearts : They gave me nursing care ; And when that my brain knew aught again Lo, my Alice, my own, was there ! Dear Alice ! But, oh, the straining woods, Straining back from the sea ; The woods of pine, and nothing but pine, They have never an end for me. THE CHURCH OF LOS ANGELES. 63 The ceaseless line of the red, red pine, My brain to madness sears ; And the roar of trees, like surging seas. Is a horror in my ears. — William Sawyer. A LEGEND OF THE CHURCH OF LOS ANGELES. [The present inscription over the portal of the parish church of the city o! Los Angeles, California, is " Los Fideles de esta Parroquia a la Reina de los Angeles" ("The-^azVA/w/of this Parish to the Queen of the Angels "). After the restoration, for a long time the inscription read : " Los Pohres del Parro- quia," etc, (" The Poor of the Parish of Los Angeles," etc.)] The Legend dates back many years ago, The earth was iron and the skies were brass, In the old Spanish city of Los Angeles, That lovely city, which as Patroness Claims the Immaculate Queen of Heaven's hosts. Padre Francisco was the parish priest, A plain, blunt man, but fired with holy zeal. He long had marked how Time, with envious han«l, Had wrought great damage to the house of God, And sore perplex'd that such a thing should be. And thinking shame that such a gross affront Should thus be offered to God's Majesty, And to the Mother of Divinity, Resolved that without more delay he would Restore the temple and repair the wrong. Money was needed, and the sanguine priest Went boldly to the wealthy and demanded Alms and oblations for the sacred cause. " Why, look you. Father," one Hidalgo said, " Look at our blasted fields and starving herds ; Why should you come to us for money now?" And quoth another, " Why, sir priest, my purse 64 THE CHURCH OF LOS ANGELES. Is lean as yonder heifer, or that ewe ; Her wither'd dugs are nothing emptier." Another shouted, " Sacramento, Padre, Que tienes usted ! Money have I none. Go, leave us till the floods come down again ! Let the good Queen of Heaven give us crops And we will see her temple is restored." Like answers got the priest on every hand. Padre Francisco went back to his cell And pondered deeply on what he had heard. " Mother of Heaven ! " cried he, " I think these nicn. Into whose laps thou long hast poured thy gifts. Year after year, of barley and of wool, Of wine and oil, and golden oranges, Pomegranates, purple grapes, and figs, and pears. Have every one forgotten thee, or else They think to mock thee and our Lord, thy Son." And then the priest in his own mind revolv'd Th' imprecatory psalms, which one to choose ; When lo ! the Blessed Mother, smiling fair. Appeared before him and his wrath forbade. ' Hast thou forgot the widow and her mite," Quoth she, " that thou dost thus despair of aid ?" And then she vanished, and Francisco rose. Pondering the meaning of the vision bright. Not long he stayed, nor long remain'd in doubt. " Go to, ye rich ! " the impetuous churchman cried; " I will to those who, not with pride puffed up, Are ever ready, from their scanty stores. And glad to give to blessed charity." Into the hovel and the lowly home He went and told the story of his need. Naught heard he there of sky, or field, or flock. But each, as God had prosper'd him, pour'd out His humble ofifering, and anon the church. Restored and beautified, no more reproached The children of the Mother of us all. Padre Francisco — charitable man — THE LEPER. 6$ Strove long and nard within his inmost soul- Strove to forget and to forgive the slight He met with from the wealthy of the flock, And sooth to say, I think he did forgive ; But to forget — well, let the sequel show. Above the portal' of the church restored He caused to be inscribed — not, as is wont, ' The Faithful of the Parish to their Queen ''— But, " Los pobres del parroquia." Long These words remained, and they were thorns indeed, That daily pricked the consciences of those Who from their abundance could find naught to give. While from the meagre stores of poverty Enough was garner'd in a year of drought To stay the envious hand of Father Time, And give the soul of good Francisco rest. Padre Francisco ! in the legend wrought By thee— perchance in human spite — is taught A lesson, seeming old, but ever new. Hard to believe, it may be, but most true. The widow who, in giving less, gave more Than all who lavished from abundant store. Is but a type — and he who runs may read The lesson which will serve him in the hour of need. /i, T. Hawley in Fitzgerald's Home Newspaper THE LEPER. • Room for the leper ! Room 1 " And as he came The cry passed on—" Room for the leper ! Room ! " And aside they stood. Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood— all Who met him on his way— and let him pass. And onward through the open gate he came, A iCper, with the ashes on his brow, 5 66 THE LEPER. Sackcloth about his loins, and on his Up A covering, stepping painfully and slow, And with a difficult utterance, like one Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down. Crying, " Unclean ! unclean ! " Day was breaking, When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense lamp Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof. Like an articulate wail ; and there, alone. Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put oflf His costly raiment for the leper's garb. And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom : " Depart ! depart, O child Of Israel, from the temple of thy God ! For He has smote thee with His chastening rod. And to the desert wild, From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague His people may be free. " Depart ! and come not neai The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er ; And stay thou not to hear Voices that call thee in the way ; and fly From all who in the wilderness pass by. " Wet not thy burning lip In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide ; THE LEPER. 67 Nor kneel thee down to dip The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, By desert well, or river's grassy brink. " And pass not thou between The weary traveller and the cooling breeze ; And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees Where human tracks are seen ; Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain ; Nor pluck the standing corn or yellow grain. " And now depart ! and when Thy heart is heavy and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel His chastening rod ; Depart, O leper ! and forget not God." And he went forth alone. Not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Was woven in the fibres of the heart Breaking within him now, to come and speak Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way — Sick and heart-broken, and alone — to die ! For God had cursed the leper. It was noon. And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched The loathsome water to his fevered lips. Praying he might be so blest — to die ! Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee He drew the covering closer on his lip. Crying, " Unclean ! unclean ! " and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face. He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er 68 THE LEPER. The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name, " Helen ! " The voice was like the master-tone Of a rich instrument — most strangely sweet — And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. "Helon, arise ! " And he forgot his curse,' And rose and stood before him. Love and awe Mingled in the regard of Melon's eye. As he beheld the Stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow The symbol of a lofty lineage wore ; No followers at his back, nor in his hand Buckler, or sword, or spear ; yet in his mien Command sat throned serene, and if he smile^ A kingly condescension graced his lips. The lion would have crouched to in his lair. His garb was simple and his sandals worn ; His statue modeled with a perfect grace ; His countenance the impress of a God Touched with the open innocence of a child ; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon ; his hair, unshorn, Fell to his shoulders ; and his curling beard The fullness of perfected manhood bore. He looked on Helon earnestly awhile. As if his heart was moved ; and stooping down. He took a little water in his hand And laid it on his brow and said, " Be clean ! " And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins. And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and \rorshipped him. ^N.F. Willis, THE GAME KNUT PLAYED. 69 THE GAME KNUT PLAYED. A PAGE who seemed of low degree, And bore the name of Knut, was he ; The hign-born Princess Hilga she. And that the youth had served her long, Being quick at errands, skilled in song, To jest with him she thought no wrong. And so it chanced one summer day. At chess, to while the time away. The page and princess sat at play. At length she said, " To play for naught Is only sport to labor brought. So let a wager guerdon thought." He answered, " Lady, naught have I Whose worth might tempt a princess high Her uttermost of skill to try." "And yet this ruby ring," she said, "I'll risk against the bonnet red With snow-white plume that crowns thy head. "And should I win, do not forget. Or should I lose, whichever yet, I'll take my due, or pay my debt." And so they played, as sank the sun ; But when the game they played was done. The page's cap the princess won. " My diamond necklace," then she cried, " I'll match against thy greatest pride. The brand held pendent at thy side." ^0 THE GAME KNUT PLAYED. " Not so," he said — " that tempered glaive. Borne oft by noble hands and brave, To me my dying father gave. " Fit only for a true man's touch, I hold it dear and prize it much — No diamond necklace mates with such, " But, though my father's ghost be wroth, I'll risk the weapon, nothing loth, Against thy love and virgin troth.'' Reddened her checks at this in ire, This daughter of a royal sire. And flashed those eyes of hers like fire. " Thy words, bold youth, shall work thee ill ; Thou canst not win against my skill. But I can punish at my will. " Begin the game ; that hilt so fine Shall nevermore kiss hand of thine. Nor thou again be page of mine ! " Answered the page : " Do not forget, Or win or lose, whichever yet, I'll take my due, or pay my debt. "And let this truth the end record : I risk to-day my father's sword To be no more thy page, but lord." Down sat the pair to play once more, Hope in his bosom brimming o'er, And hers with pride and anger sore. From square to square the bishops crept. The agile knights eccentric leapt. The castles onward stately swept. THE GAME KNUT PLAYED. 7 1 Pawns fell in combat one by one ; Knights, rooks, and bishops could not shun Their fate before that game was done. Well fought the battle was, I ween, Until two castles and a queen Guarding the kings alone were seen. ' Check ! " cried the princess, all elate ; ' Check ! " cried the page, and sealed the fate Of her beleaguered king with " mate ! " The princess smiled, and said : " I lose. Nor can I well to pay refuse — From my possessions pick and choose. * Or diamonds bright, or chests of gold. Or strings of pearls of worth untold. These may be thine to have and hold : " Or costly robes to feed thy pride, Or coursers such as monarchs ride. Or castles tall, or manors wide — "Any or all of such be thine ; But, save he spring from royal line. No husband ever can be mine." " Nor jewels rich, nor lands in fee. Steeds, robes, nor castles pleasure me ; Thy love and troth be mine,'' said he. " Nor shalt thou lack of state and pride When seated crowned thy lord beside. As Knut, the King of Denmark's bride ; " Ring marriage-bells from sun to sun. And tell the gossips, as they run, How Sweden's princess has been won." — Thos. Dunn English in Appleton's Journal. 72 ONE OF KING CHARLES' MADCAP MEN. Why, " Care's a cat that wine will drown ! " And soldiers' strength is swift to go ; Well ! God save Cromwell, heel and crown ! Since God sees good to have it so ! ... . Drink ! and I'll tell — you listen, then — A tale of one of Charley's men : A curled, laced darling, madcap boy — Pray heaven it hath him housed in joy ! The fire was fast, the skirmish hot, Old Noll ! his soldiers fought and prayed. And howled, " God's vengeance tarries not "I " His faithful shall not be betrayed ! " ' ' The tares and stubble perish fast ; " " He laugheth long who laugheth last ! " Sudden, a flash I saw, and then The lad, hard pressed by Noll, his men ! The tavern-keeper — Cromwell's foe — He marked the winsome cavalier, All white, and soiled, and bleeding so. Yet staunch of heart, and free of fear ; And, 'spite the shadows falling fast. He saw the lad gain ground at last. " Beshrew me ! 'tis that lordling then ! Cecil, the pride of Charles, his men ! " Swiftly he oped a secret door — A pile of straw it lay beside — Drew in and hid the youth, before Noll's hirelings guessed what chance betide. Each Roundhead stared and chatted still, " Mysterious is the heavenly will ! " Praise-the-Lord Barebone, through his nose. Still shotted, " Down with heftvenHis fo«s ! " ONE OF KING CHARLES' MADCAP MEN. ;3 Cceur-de-yesus 1 'twas like the fray In France, what time I got this scar ! The boy scarce hidden ; fresh dismay ; Wild sudden cries that rang afar, Caught by the echoes of the hills — 'Sdeath ! how the blood it marred their rills ! A woman shrieking, " Spare him " then, " My child ! " then shouts of " Noll, his men ! " The ribald rakes, their wines above. Rattled the dice and cursed the day ; In teeth of danger flung their glove — Base loves and false will heaven betray — Poor, pale, mad Mabel's face of snow. Under her locks' disheveled flow. We saw. Without her child, and then A dark, dread group of Noll, his men. " Ho, there ! Lord Cecil hides within ! The woman's brat, the blind boy's here ! We know the father, bolJ Sir Gwynne — Yonder the crows, they'll have good cheer — Ope swift the door and yield our foe Straightway ! the child we'll render so. But tarry and the imp shall be A sight for eyes profane to see ! " Now when brave Cecil heard the call, His name, the child's, its piteous wail, Saw Mabel's anguish, heard her fall. Voiced he, " Good sirs, beyond avail Stand I in peril ; let me go. Since Cromwell's hounds will have it so ! They'll spike the child ! Hark ! hear them call ? The fiends are on us, one and all. " Ho ! Beelzebub ! " the cavaliers Struggled to stay Lord Cecil, " No 1 74 THE MARSEILLAISE AT SEBASTOPOL. I'll snatch the child ! nay, have no fears, I've shot to feed them .... let me go ! Mabel, good cheer ! " — a pause — " The boy ! So ! your arms have him ! vfish you joy ! " God ! what a cry went up just then From that pale group of Charles, his men. " I've heard you say you don't believe, Comrade, that creed of God and Heaven, Or that good work hath' holy seed. And harvest time to us is given. Up in the clouds. Well, let it go ! Yet something here will have it so ! " Here, at my heart, where lives the lad, Cecil's dead face, in death not sad ! — Yet a lord more or less, what then ? A madcap ! one of Charley's men ! — Caroline A. Merighi. THE MARSEILLAISE AT SEBASTOPOL. Three times, with cheers, the Frenchmen charged, To take the Malakoff ; Three times they rolled in tumult down, And heard the Russians scoff. What's to be done ? Their hearts grow cold ; That "Vive I'Empereur " Falls faint and dead — a broken spell, A battle-cry no more. Ah, me ! there was remembered yet, Of glory's brighter days — They mijrmur — they pronounce a name — That name. The Marseillaise 1 THE MARSEILLAISE AT SEBASTOPOL. 7$ From man to man the whisperings ran, " Long live the Marseillaise !" The murmur grows — they talk aloud : " Our fathers' song ! " they cry. Heard round the lovely tri-color In the gallant days gone by. O'er battle-fields and battered walls. They sang it, marching free ; From the Alps to the Pyrenees, Right round to the Zuyder Zee. " We'd try its conquering charm this day. And though its portholes blaze, We'll give you bloody Malakoff, If you'll give us the Marseillaise." Said a brown Zouave, " My chief, let's have One touch of the Marseillaise." Grave looks that stout Pellisier, when He hears that startling word ; Says, " Nonsense, go," but well I know This Frenchman's heart was stirred. " Those fellows fly from yon Redan, They're lost, and on my soul, Unless I take yon Malakoff, Farewell, Sebastopol." " Well ! form them in God's name afresh. And let the bands," he says, " If they've recovered wind enough. Lead off the Marseillaise. What can I say ? 'Tis our Frenchmen's way, So give them their Marseillaise." 'Twas done. Zouaves and Voltigeurs, And soldiers of the line, Chim'd in with the old Republic's march, The war-song of the Rhine. ■J^ THE RESCUE. And then that charge, that last wild charge, Down fell Bosquet bold ; Heaven rest the dead. " On, comrades, on ! MacMahon's in the hold." Ne'er rang that air to nobler feat Through battle's fiery haze ; Well may the Czar and his men of war Lament the Marseillaise. Brave song he heard, all undeterred, An omen and a sign. Beyond the despot's guarded camp. Beyond the 'leaguering line. Lead yet a nobler, wider strife ; A mightier fortress far Against thy banner still holds out On the deadly heights of war. And sound again, bold melody. For baffled millions raise The last victorious rallying cry. The nation's Marseillaise. Once more advance in the vanguard, France. To the roar of the Marseillaise ! — Atcon. THE RESCUE. Nearer and nearer and nearer and near ! Hark how his horse's hoofs ring out On the river-bottom, loud and clear ! He waves his sombrero, and utters a shout , His long black hair floats free in the wind ; His gray-hued serape is fallen behind. THE RESCUE. "JJ Nearer and nearer, He has reached the river, yet does not seem To notice the ford Above where 'tis broad ; But straight down the shelving bank into the stream He urges his horse like a man in a dream. Great God ! The horse's head is under ! Not so, he swims ! 'twas the quicksand, 'tis past. See his broad breast cleave the waves asunder ! He comes straight onward ; he's over at last : He is here. Poor mustang, panting and trembling and faint ! Not another rod to-night shall ye stir. The dusky rider springs to ground, And looks with questioning glance around. ^^ Americanos ? Ah, Senors, What hand so quick to save as yours ? For amor de Dies, mount and ride ! Los Comanches ! " The captain cried — " Stranger, enough ! we know the rest. God willing, we will do our best." Hark to the bugle's roundelay ! Boot and saddle ! Up and away ! Mount and ride as ye ne'er rode before ; Spur till your horses' flanks run gore ; Ride for the sake of human lives ; Ride as ye would were your sisters and wives Cowering under their scalping-knives ! Boot and saddle ! Away, away ! Never did order Come more welcome to us on the border ; Never more promptly did we obey. Everything dropped in drear disorder ; Supper half finished was left on the ground ; Each man sprang to his horse's side ; Cheerily the word went rounds THE RESCUE. Rescue, rescue ! Mount and ride ! Death to the redskins far and wide ! Then quickly we galloped off into the night, " All saddled, all bridled, all fit for a fight." The evening sun had sunk full soon, Tinging the west with crimson and gold ; But over each man's left shoulder the moon- Evil omen As e'er foretold To other foemen In days of old Danger and death — in majesty Silently climbs the eastern sky. The moon behind, the stars shining o'er xw, Shadows and darkness around ; But we only know straight before us Are twenty miles of ground. O God ! To think of the terrible fate Awaiting that home if we come too late ! To think twenty miles and two hours hence May make such fearful difference ! Ah, noble steeds, do all ye know That twenty miles we draw not rein, But after that ye shall rest again. Galloping, galloping, galloping on. Four times thirty hoofs as one. Galloping on at a fearful pace. In terrible race, One by one the miles go by. Quickly the horses and moments fly. ' Stranger, are we almost there ? " The Mexican, he shook his head • " Ten miles farther on," he said, Then bowed his head in muttered prayer. Ten miles more ! Will they never pass ? On and on and on we go : THE RESCUE. 79 We brush the dew from the buffalo-grass ; We're in the Badlands now. Still the miles are passing by, Still the horses and moments fly : " Stranger, do we near the place ?" The Mexican nods in mute reply. Then suddenly, with ghastly face. Points to the western sky. Aha ! What means that lurid glow ? Surely the sun set long ago. " Pause not for your lives," the captain said, " 'Tis a house in flames, five miles ahead ! " God grant that rarely on human sight There dawn such a scene as we saw that night ! Such horrible pictures no brush could produce, Such terrible story no pen could tell ; As if in an instant had been let loose A thousand fiends of hell. A bit of timber, a patch of green, A house in a winding sheet of flame, Smoke and fire and ghastly glare. The shrieks of a poor wretch tortured there, The cries of women bemoaning their fate. The yells of the devils incarnate, Playing their devil's game — This is the story filling the air This is the terrible scene. A painted savage, with rapid stride. Places himself by a captive's side, A moment toys with her beautiful hair. Then raises his hatchet high in air. But the threatening weapon never fell — Something stays their horrible mirth ; What thunder is that which shakes the earth ? 'Tis a thunder the redskins know full well ; 8o ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR. Full well they know that heavy tread, Full well they know they have cause to dread The headlong charge of our cavalry. See what a change in their revelry ! Scalps and captives are heeded not. Plunder and pillage are all forgot. Now let the fiends escape who can ! We're down upon them, horse and man ; We follow them far o"er the grassy plaiii ; We hunt them down amid the trees ; Ay, devils ! well may you come to your knees ! Ye shall never slay women and children again ! But hark, the bugle ! What does it say ? Methinks the notes were the recall. Never less promptly did we obey ; Why should we hold our hand to slay ? The captain spoke, and shamed us all — " ' Vengeance is Mine, I will repay '; 'Twas He that brought us here night In time to save ; the fight is won. Vengeance is His ; let Him requite : Our work is done." — yohn BrowHjohn. ~ \(\M ^ THE THREE WORDS— ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR. Benedict Arnold sailed from our shores and came back no more. From that time forth, wher- ever he went, three whispered words followed him, singing through his ears into his heart — Arnold, THE Traitor. When he stood beside his king in the House of Lords — the weak old man whispered in fainiliar ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR, 8 1 cones to his gorgeously attired General — a whisper crept through the thronged Senate, faces were turned, fingers extended, and as the whisper deepened into a murmur, one venerable lord arose and stated that he loved his sovereign, but could not speak to him while by his side there stood — Arnold, the Traitor. He went to the theatre, parading his warrior form a