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diff --git a/old/53148-0.txt b/old/53148-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 23be089..0000000 --- a/old/53148-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2956 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ballads of Bravery, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Ballads of Bravery - -Author: Various - -Editor: George Melville Baker - -Release Date: September 26, 2016 [EBook #53148] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS OF BRAVERY *** - - - - -Produced by David Edwards, Paul Marshall and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -Transcriber's Note: - Underscores "_" before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_ - in the original text. - Equal signs "=" before and after a word or phrase indicate =bold= - in the original text. - Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals. - Illustrations have been moved so they do not break up stanzas. - Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved. - Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations - in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered. - In TOC, corrected "Excelsior" reference from 137 to 136. - -[Illustration] - - - - - BALLADS OF BRAVERY. - - EDITED BY - - GEORGE M. BAKER. - - WITH - - FORTY FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. - - - BOSTON: - LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. - 1877. - - - COPYRIGHT. - - LEE AND SHEPARD. - - 1877. - - - BOSTON: - ELECTROTYPED BY ALFRED MUDGE AND SON, - SCHOOL STREET. - - UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE: - WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO. - - BALLADS OF BRAVERY. - - [Illustration] - - - - - Contents. - PAGE. - “CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.” 13 - THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.--_Leigh Hunt_ 18 - A YOUNG HERO. 21 - THE BEGGAR MAID.--_Tennyson_ 26 - BUNKER HILL.--_G. H. Calvert_ 29 - FASTENING THE BUCKLE.--_Samuel Burnham_ 34 - HERVÉ RIEL.--_Robert Browning_ 37 - THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON.--_Geo. W. Bungay_ 46 - THE BRAVE AT HOME.--_T. Buchanan Read_ 50 - KANE.--_Fitz James O’Brien_ 53 - THE LIFE-BOAT.--_Alice M. Adams_ 58 - THE RED JACKET.--_George M. Baker_ 61 - OTHELLO’S STORY OF HIS LIFE.--_Shakspeare_ 66 - THE BLACKSMITH OF RAGENBACH.--_Frank Marry_ 70 - MARMION AND DOUGLAS.--_Scott_ 75 - THE LOSS OF THE HORNET. 80 - MAN THE LIFE-BOAT.--_Anon._ 84 - SIR GALAHAD.--_Tennyson_ 87 - KING CANUTE AND HIS NOBLES.--_Dr. Walcott_ 92 - OUTWARD BOUND.--_Anon._ 96 - THE BRIDES OF VENICE.--_Samuel Rogers_ 99 - THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.--_Mrs. Hemans_ 108 - THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY.--_Anon._ 112 - THE SONG OF THE CAMP.--_Anon._ 116 - THE RECANTATION OF GALILEO.--_F. E. Raleigh_ 120 - BELSHAZZAR.-_-Trans. from Heine_ 124 - LIBERTY.--_From William Tell. By J. Sheridan Knowles_ 128 - THE FISHERMEN.--_Whittier_ 131 - EXCELSIOR.--_Longfellow_ 136 - THE SOLDIER.--_Robert Burns_ 140 - JOHN MAYNARD. 143 - EXCALIBUR.--_Tennyson_ 148 - THE DEATH OF ARTHUR.--_Tennyson_ 152 - A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.--_Allan Cunningham_ 156 - THE LEAP OF CURTIUS.--_Geo. Aspinall_ 159 - THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX. 164 - A YARN.--_Mary Howitt._ 169 - - [Illustration] - - Ballads of Bravery. - - - “CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.” - - England’s sun, bright setting o’er the hills so far away, - Filled the land with misty beauty at the close of one sad day; - And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,-- - He with step so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair; - He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful; she, with lips so cold - and white, - Struggled to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night.” - - “Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, - With its walls so tall and gloomy, walls so dark and damp - and cold,-- - “I’ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die - At the ringing of the curfew; and no earthly help is nigh. - Cromwell will not come till sunset,” and her face grew - strangely white, - As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night.” - - “Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her - young heart - Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poisoned dart), - “Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy, - shadowed tower; - Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour. - I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right: - Now I’m old, I will not miss it. Girl, the curfew rings to-night!” - - Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her - thoughtful brow; - And within her heart’s deep centre Bessie made a solemn vow. - She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,-- - “At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood _must die_.” - And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large - and bright; - One low murmur, scarcely spoken, “Curfew _must not_ ring to-night!” - - She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old - church-door, - Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft before. - Not one moment paused the maiden, but, with cheek and brow aglow, - Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro; - Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light, - Upward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew _shall not_ - ring to-night!” - - She has reached the topmost ladder; o’er her hangs the great, - dark bell, - And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell. - See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; ’tis the hour of curfew now, - And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled - her brow. - Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light, - As she springs, and grasps it firmly: “Curfew _shall not_ - ring to-night!” - - Out she swung,--far out. The city seemed a tiny speck below,-- - There ’twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to - and fro; - And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell), - And he thought the twilight curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell. - Still the maiden, clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white, - Stilled her frightened heart’s wild beating: _“Curfew shall not - ring to-night!”_ - - [Illustration] - - It was o’er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped - once more - Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before, - Human foot had not been planted; and what she this night had done - Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun - Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires, with heads of white, - Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night. - - O’er the distant hills came Cromwell. Bessie saw him; and her brow, - Lately white with sickening horror, glows with sudden beauty now. - At his feet she told her story, showed her hands, all bruised - and torn; - And her sweet young face, so haggard, with a look so sad and worn, - Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light. - “Go! your lover lives,” cried Cromwell. “Curfew shall not - ring to-night!” - - [Illustration] - - - THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. - - King Francis was a hearty king and loved a royal sport, - And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court. - The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, - And ’mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom - he sighed. - And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,-- - Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. - Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; - They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with - their paws; - With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, - Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; - The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air. - Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we’re better here than there.” - - De Lorge’s love o’erheard the king,--a beauteous, lively dame, - With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed - the same; - She thought, “The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be, - He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me. - King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; - I’ll drop my glove to prove his love. Great glory will be mine!” - She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked on him - and smiled; - He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild. - The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place; - Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face. - “By Heaven!” said Francis, “rightly done!” rising from where he sat. - “No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.” - - [Illustration] - - - A YOUNG HERO. - - On Labrador, like coils of flame - That clasp the walls of blazing town, - The long, resistless billows came, - And swept the craggy headlands down; - Till ploughing in strong agonies - Their furrows deep into the land, - They carried rocks, and bars of sand - Past farthest margin of old seas, - And in their giant fury bore - Full thirty crowded craft ashore. - That night they pushed the darkness through, - O’er rocks where slippery lichens grew, - And swamps of slime and melted snow, - And torrents filled to overflow, - Through pathless wilds, in showers and wind, - Where woe to him who lags behind! - Where children slipped in ooze, and lay - Half frozen, buried half in clay; - Young mothers, with their babes at breast, - In chilly stupor dropped to rest. - - A sailor lad of years fourteen - Had chanced, as by the waters thrown, - On four that made sad cry and moan - For parents they had lost between - The wreck and shore, or haply missed. - Cheerly and kind their cheeks he kissed, - And folded each in other’s arm. - Upon a sloping mound of moss - He dragged a heavy sail across, - Close-pinned with bowlders, rough yet warm; - And packing it with mosses tight, - Kept steadfast watch the livelong night, - Nor dared depart, lest e’er again - Was found this treasure he had hid, - Some sudden treacherous gust had slid - Beneath that rugged counterpane. - He knew not name or face of one. - He saved them. It was nobly done. - - Day dawned at last. The storm had lulled; - And these were happy, sleeping yet. - A few fresh hands of moss he pulled, - Then traced with trembling steps the track - Of many footprints deeply set; - And pressing forward, early met - These children’s parents hasting back, - And filled their hearts with boundless joy, - As with blanched lips and chattering teeth - He told them of his night’s employ; - Feigned, too, he was not much distressed, - Although his dying heart, beneath - His icy-frozen shirt and vest, - - [Illustration] - - Beat faint. They went; and o’er his eyes - A gathering film beclouded light; - And music murmured in his brain, - Such respite sang from toil and strain - That all his senses, wearied quite, - Were lapped to slumber, lulling pain; - Whilst soothing visions seemed to rise, - That brought him scenes of other times, - With cherub faces, beaming bright, - Of many children, and the rhymes - His mother taught him on her knee, - In happy days of infancy. - Then gentlest forms, with rustling wings, - Were wafting him a world of ease - Beneath those downy canopies, - Wherewith they shut out angry skies; - And they with winning beckonings-- - Who looked so sweet and saintly wise-- - His buoyant spirit drew afar - From creaking timbers, shivering sails, - And ships that strain in autumn gales, - And snow-mixed rains, and sleeting hails, - And wind and waves at endless war. - Oh! who will e’er forget the day, - The bitter tears, the voiceless prayer, - The thoughts of grief we could not say, - The shallow graves within the bay, - The fifteen dear ones buried there, - The grown, the young, who, side by side, - Without or coffin, shroud, or priest, - Were laid; and him we mourned not least,-- - The boy that had so bravely died! - - - THE BEGGAR MAID. - - Her arms across her breast she laid; - She was more fair than words can say; - Barefooted came the beggar maid - Before the king Cophetua. - In robe and crown the king stept down - To meet and greet her on her way. - “It is no wonder,” said the lords, - “She is more beautiful than day.” - - As shines the moon in clouded skies, - She in her poor attire was seen; - One praised her ankles, one her eyes, - One her dark hair and lovesome mien. - So sweet a face, such angel grace, - In all that land had never been; - Cophetua sware a royal oath,-- - “This beggar maid shall be my queen.” - - [Illustration] - - - BUNKER HILL. - - “Not yet, not yet! Steady, steady!” - On came the foe in even line, - Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine. - We looked into their eyes. “Ready!” - A sheet of flame, a roll of death! - They fell by scores: we held our breath. - Then nearer still they came. - Another sheet of flame, - And brave men fled who never fled before. - Immortal fight! - Foreshadowing flight - Back to the astounded shore. - - Quickly they rallied, re-enforced, - ’Mid louder roar of ships’ artillery, - And bursting bombs and whistling musketry, - And shouts and groans anear, afar, - All the new din of dreadful war. - Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed - The blood of those stout farmers, aiming - For freedom, manhood’s birthright claiming. - Onward once more they came. - Another sheet of deathful flame! - Another and another still! - They broke, they fled, - Again they sped - Down the green, bloody hill. - - Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage, - Stormed with commanders’ rage. - Into each emptied barge - They crowd fresh men for a new charge - Up that great hill. - Again their gallant blood we spill. - That volley was the last: - Our powder failed. - On three sides fast - The foe pressed in, nor quailed - A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks - They fought, and gave death-dealing knocks, - Till Prescott ordered the retreat. - Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet - From Bunker Hill and Breed, - Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read, - Led off the remnant of those heroes true, - The foe too weakened to pursue. - The ground they gained; but we - The victory. - - [Illustration] - - The tidings of that chosen band - Flowed in a wave of power - Over the shaken, anxious land, - To men, to man, a sudden dower. - History took a fresh, higher start - From that stanch, beaming hour; - And when the speeding messenger, that bare - The news that strengthened every heart, - Met near the Delaware - The leader, who had just been named, - Who was to be so famed, - The steadfast, earnest Washington, - With hands uplifted, cries, - His great soul flashing to his eyes, - “Our liberties are safe! The cause is won!” - A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then - His steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men. - - [Illustration] - - - FASTENING THE BUCKLE. - - Stand still, my steed, though the foe is near, - And sharp the rattle of hoofs on the hill. - And see! there’s the glitter of many a spear, - And a wrathful shout that bodes us ill. - Stand still! Our way is weary and long, - And muscle and foot are put to the test. - Buckle and girth must be tightened and strong; - And rider and horse are far from rest. - - A moment more, and then we’ll skim - Like a driving cloud o’er hill and plain; - The vision of horseman will slowly dim, - And pursuer seek the pursued in vain. - Ha! stirrup is strong and girth is tight! - One bound to the saddle, and off we go. - I count their spears as they glisten bright - In the ruddy beams of the sunset glow. - - ’Tis life or death; but we’re fresh and strong, - And buckle and girth are fastened tight. - The race is hard and the way is long, - But we’ll win as twilight fades into night. - Hurrah for rider and horse to-day, - For buckle and saddle fastened tight! - We’ll win! we’re gaining! They drop away! - Our haven of rest is full in sight. - - [Illustration] - - - HERVÉ RIEL. - - On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, - Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! - And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, - Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, - Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, - With the English fleet in view. - ’Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase, - First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville. - Close on him fled, great and small, - Twenty-two good ships in all; - And they signalled to the place, - “Help the winners of a race! - Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick,--or, quicker still, - Here’s the English can and will!” - - Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board. - “Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?” - laughed they. - “Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred - and scored, - Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty guns, - Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, - Trust to enter where ’tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, - And with flow at full beside? - Now ’tis slackest ebb of tide. - Reach the mooring? Rather say, - While rock stands or water runs, - Not a ship will leave the bay!” - - Then was called a council straight; - Brief and bitter the debate: - “Here’s the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow - All that’s left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, - For a prize to Plymouth Sound? - Better run the ships aground!” - (Ended Damfreville his speech.) - “Not a minute more to wait! - Let the captains all and each - Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! - France must undergo her fate.” - - “Give the word!” But no such word - Was ever spoke or heard; - For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these, - A captain? A lieutenant? A mate,--first, second, third? - No such man of mark, and meet - With his betters to compete, - But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tourville for the fleet,-- - A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel, the Croisickese. - - [Illustration] - - And “What mockery or malice have we here?” cries Hervé Riel. - “Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? - Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell - On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell - ’Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river disembogues? - Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying’s for? - Morn and eve, night and day, - Have I piloted your bay, - Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. - Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That were worse than - fifty Hogues! - Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there’s a way! - Only let me lead the line, - Have the biggest ship to steer, - Get this Formidable clear, - Make the others follow mine, - And I lead them most and least by a passage I know well, - Right to Solidor, past Greve, - And there lay them safe and sound; - And if one ship misbehave, - Keel so much as grate the ground,-- - Why, I’ve nothing but my life; here’s my head!” cries Hervé Riel. - - Not a minute more to wait. - “Steer us in, then, small and great! - Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief. - “Captains, give the sailor place!” - He is admiral, in brief. - Still the north-wind, by God’s grace. - See the noble fellow’s face - As the big ship, with a bound, - Clears the entry like a hound, - Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! - See, safe through shoal and rock, - How they follow in a flock. - Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, - Not a spar that comes to grief! - The peril, see, is past, - All are harbored to the last; - And just as Hervé Riel halloos, “Anchor!”--sure as fate, - Up the English come, too late. - - So the storm subsides to calm; - They see the green trees wave - On the heights o’erlooking Greve. - Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. - “Just our rapture to enhance, - Let the English rake the bay, - Gnash their teeth and glare askance - As they cannonade away! - ’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!” - How hope succeeds despair on each captain’s countenance! - Out burst all with one accord, - “This is Paradise for Hell! - Let France, let France’s king, - Thank the man that did the thing!” - What a shout, and all one word, - “Hervé Riel!” - As he stepped in front once more, - Not a symptom of surprise - In the frank blue Breton eyes, - Just the same man as before. - - [Illustration] - - Then said Damfreville, “My friend, - I must speak out at the end, - Though I find the speaking hard: - Praise is deeper than the lips. - You have saved the king his ships, - You must name your own reward. - Faith, our sun was near eclipse! - Demand whate’er you will, - France remains your debtor still. - Ask to heart’s content, and have, or my name’s not Damfreville.” - Then a beam of fun outbroke - On the bearded mouth that spoke, - As the honest heart laughed through - Those frank eyes of Breton blue: - “Since I needs must say my say, - Since on board the duty’s done, - And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run? - Since ’tis ask and have I may, - Since the others go ashore,-- - Come, a good whole holiday! - Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!” - That he asked, and that he got,--nothing more. - - Name and deed alike are lost; - Not a pillar nor a post - In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; - Not a head in white and black - On a single fishing-smack - In memory of the man but for whom had gone to rack - All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. - Go to Paris; rank on rank - Search the heroes flung pell-mell - On the Louvre, face and flank, - You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. - So, for better and for worse, - Hervé Riel, accept my verse! - In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more - Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore! - - - THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON. - - The circling century has brought - The day on which our fathers fought - For liberty of deed and thought, - One hundred years ago! - We crown the day with radiant green, - And buds of hope to bloom between, - And stars undimmed, whose heavenly sheen - Lights all the world below. - - At break of day again we hear - The ringing words of Paul Revere, - And beat of drum and bugle near, - And shots that shake the throne - Of tyranny, across the sea, - And wake the sons of Liberty - To strike for freedom and be free:-- - _Our_ king is God alone! - - “Load well with powder and with ball, - Stand firmly, like a living wall; - But fire not till the foe shall call - A shot from every one,” - Said Parker to his gallant men. - Then Pitcairn dashed across the plain, - Discharged an angry threat, and then - The world heard Lexington! - - [Illustration] - - Militia and brave minute-men - Stood side by side upon the plain, - Unsheltered in the storm of rain, - Of fire, and leaden sleet; - But through the gray smoke and the flame, - Star crowned, a white-winged angel came, - To bear aloft the souls of flame - From war’s red winding-sheet! - - Hancock and Adams glory won - With yeomen whose best work was done - At Concord and at Lexington, - When first they struck the blow. - Long may their children’s children bear - Upon wide shoulders, fit to wear, - The mantles that fell through the air - One hundred years ago! - - [Illustration] - - - THE BRAVE AT HOME. - - The maid who binds her warrior’s sash, - With smile that well her pain dissembles, - The while beneath her drooping lash - One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, - Though heaven alone records the tear, - And fame shall never know the story, - Her heart has shed a drop as dear - As e’er bedewed the field of glory. - - The wife who girds her husband’s sword, - ’Mid little ones who weep or wonder, - And bravely speaks the cheering word, - What though her heart be rent asunder, - Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear - The bolts of death around him rattle, - Hath shed as sacred blood as e’er - Was poured upon a field of battle! - - The mother who conceals her grief, - While to her breast her son she presses, - Then breathes a few brave words and brief, - Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, - With no one but her secret God - To know the pain that weighs upon her, - Sheds holy blood as e’er the sod - Received on Freedom’s field of honor! - - [Illustration] - - - KANE: DIED FEBRUARY 16, 1857. - - Aloft upon an old basaltic crag, - Which, scalped by keen winds that defend the Pole, - Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll - Around the secret of the mystic zone, - A mighty nation’s star-bespangled flag - Flutters alone; - And underneath, upon the lifeless front - Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced,-- - Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt, - But with a rocky purpose in his soul, - Breasted the gathering snows, - Clung to the drifting floes, - By want beleaguered and by winter chased, - Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste. - - Not many months ago we greeted him, - Crowned with the icy honors of the North. - Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, - And Maine’s deep woods were shaken limb by limb; - His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, - Burst from decorous quiet as he came; - Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, - Sounded his triumph; Texas, wild and grim, - Proffered its horny hand; the large-lunged West, - From out his giant breast, - Yelled its frank welcome; and from main to main, - Jubilant to the sky, - Thundered the mighty cry, - HONOR TO KANE! - - * * * * * - - He needs no tears, who lived a noble life! - We will not weep for him who died so well, - But we will gather round the hearth and tell - The story of his strife. - Such homage suits him well,-- - Better than funeral pomp or passing bell. - - What tale of peril and self-sacrifice, - Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice, - With hunger howling o’er the wastes of snow; - Night lengthening into months; the ravenous floe - Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear - Crunches his prey. The insufficient share - Of loathsome food; - The lethargy of famine; the despair - Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued; - Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued - Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind - Glimmered the fading embers of a mind! - - [Illustration] - - That awful hour, when through the prostrate band - Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand - Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew; - The whispers of rebellion, faint and few - At first, but deepening ever till they grew - Into black thoughts of murder: such the throng - Of horrors bound the hero. High the song - Should be that hymns the noble part he played! - Sinking himself, yet ministering aid - To all around him. By a mighty will - Living defiant of the wants that kill, - Because his death would seal his comrades’ fate; - Cheering, with ceaseless and inventive skill, - Those Polar waters, dark and desolate. - Equal to every trial, every fate, - He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, - Unlocks the icy gate, - And the pale prisoners thread the world once more, - To the steep cliffs of Greenland’s pastoral shore, - Bearing their dying chief. - - Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold - From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state. - The knell of old formalities is tolled, - And the world’s knights are now self-consecrate. - No grander episode doth chivalry hold - In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, - Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain, - Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold, - By the good Christian knight, ELISHA KANE! - - [Illustration] - - - THE LIFE-BOAT. - - Launch the life-boat! Far on high - The fiery rockets gleam, - While loud and clear the booming signal gun - Says there is work that quickly must be done. - A vessel’s in distress: haste, every one, - Nor idly stop to dream. - - Launch the life-boat! On the shore - The startled people stand, - And watch the signal lights that shine on high, - And through the pitchy darkness seek to spy - The struggling ship, or to their comrades try - To lend a helping hand. - - Launch the life-boat! Now the moon - Sheds forth her silvery light, - And shows the boat is off; one long, loud cheer - Breaks from the eager crowd assembled here; - The dip of oars comes to the listening ear, - Upon the silent night. - - Speed the life-boat and her crew, - Speed them on their watery way! - As joy and hope they bring to hearts cast down, - And waiting ’neath the storm-clouds’ dismal frown, - While wind and wave their trembling voices drown, - Waiting another day. - - [Illustration] - - - THE RED JACKET. - - ’Tis a cold, bleak night. With angry roar - The north winds beat and clamor at the door; - The drifted snow lies heaped along the street, - Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet; - The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend, - But o’er the earth in gloom and darkness bend; - Gigantic shadows, by the night-lamps thrown, - Dance their weird revels fitfully alone. - - In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease, - Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas; - In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet - The weary traveller with their smiles to greet; - In lonely dwellings, where the needy swarm - Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,-- - Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light, - “Thank God for home this bitter, bitter night!” - - But hark! above the beating of the storm - Peals on the startled ear the fire-alarm! - Yon gloomy heaven’s aflame with sudden light; - And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright. - From tranquil slumber springs, at duty’s call, - The ready friend no danger can appall; - Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave, - He hurries forth to battle and to save. - - From yonder dwelling fiercely shooting out, - Devouring all they coil themselves about, - The flaming furies, mounting high and higher, - Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. - Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe, - In vain attempts their power to overthrow; - With mocking glee they revel with their prey, - Defying human skill to check their way. - - And see! far up above the flames’ hot breath, - Something that’s human waits a horrid death: - A little child, with waving golden hair, - Stands like a phantom ’mid the horrid glare, - Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed, - While sobs of terror shake her tender breast. - And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, - A mother screams, “O God! my child, my child!” - - Up goes a ladder! Through the startled throng - A hardy fireman swiftly moves along, - Mounts sure and fast along the slender way, - Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. - The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path, - Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath; - But up, still up he goes! The goal is won, - His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone,-- - - Gone to his death. The wily flames surround, - And burn and beat his ladder to the ground; - In flaming columns move with quickened beat, - To rear a massive wall ’gainst his retreat. - Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure, - Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore: - Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live, - Crowned with all honors nobleness can give. - - [Illustration] - - Nay, not so fast! subdue these gloomy fears! - Behold! he quickly on the roof appears, - Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm - Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm. - Up with your ladders! Quick! ’tis but a chance! - Behold how fast the roaring flames advance! - Quick! quick! brave spirits to his rescue fly! - Up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die! - - Silence! he comes along the burning road, - Bearing with tender care his living load. - Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save - The good, true heart that can so nobly brave! - He’s up again, and now he’s coming fast! - One moment, and the fiery ordeal’s past, - And now he’s safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain! - A happy mother clasps her child again. - - “O, Heaven bless you!” ’Tis an earnest prayer - Which grateful thousands with that mother share. - Heaven bless the brave who on the war-clad field - Stand fast, stand firm, the nation’s trusty shield! - Heaven bless the brave who on the mighty sea - Fearless uphold the standard of the free! - And Heaven’s choicest blessing for the brave - Who fearless move our lives and homes to save! - - - OTHELLO’S STORY OF HIS LIFE. - - Her father loved me; oft invited me; - Still questioned me the story of my life - From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes, - That I had past. - I ran it through, e’en from my boyish days, - To the very moment that he bade me tell it. - Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, - Of moving accidents by flood and field, - Of hair-breadth ’scapes, in the imminent deadly breach, - Of being taken by the insolent foe, - And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, - And with it all my travel’s history. - - * * * * * - - All these to hear, - Would Desdemona seriously incline; - But still the house affairs would draw her thence, - Whichever as she could with haste despatch, - She’d come again, and with a greedy ear - Devour up my discourse. Which, I observing, - Took once a pliant hour, and found good means - To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart - That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, - Whereof, by parcels, she had something heard, - But not distinctly. - - [Illustration] - - I did consent; - And often did beguile her of her tears, - When I did speak of some distressful stroke - That my youth suffered. My story being done, - She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. - She swore in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange; - ’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful; - She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished - That heaven had made her such a man. - - She thanked me, - And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, - I should but teach him how to tell my story, - And that would woo her. On this hint I spake; - She loved me for the dangers I had passed; - And I loved her that she did pity them: - This is the only witchcraft which I’ve used. - - [Illustration] - - - THE BLACKSMITH OF RAGENBACH. - - In a little German village, - On the waters of the Rhine, - Gay and joyous in their pastimes, - In the pleasant vintage-time, - Were a group of happy peasants, - For the day released from toil, - Thanking God for all his goodness - In the product of their soil, - - When a cry rung through the welkin, - And appeared upon the scene - A panting dog, with crest erect, - Foaming mouth, and savage mien. - “He is mad!” was shrieked in chorus. - In dismay they all fell back,-- - _All_ except one towering figure,-- - ’Twas the smith of Ragenbach. - - God had given this man his image; - Nature stamped him as complete. - Now it was incumbent on him - To perform a greater feat - Than Horatius at the bridge, - When he stood on Tiber’s bank; - For behind him were his townsfolk, - Who, appalled with terror, shrank - - [Illustration] - - From the most appalling danger,-- - That which makes the bravest quail,-- - While they all were grouped together, - Shaking limbs and visage pale. - For a moment cowered the beast, - Snapping to the left and right, - While the blacksmith stood before him - In the power of his might. - - “_One_ must die to save the many, - Let it then my duty be: - I’ve the power. Fear not, neighbors! - From this peril you’ll be free.” - As the lightning from the storm-cloud - Leaps to earth with sudden crash, - So upon the rabid monster - Did this man and hero dash. - - In the death-grip then they struggled, - Man and dog, with scarce a sound, - Till from out the fearful conflict - Rose the man from off the ground, - Gashed and gory from the struggle; - But the beast lay stiff and dead. - There he stood, while people gathered, - And rained blessings on his head. - - “Friends,” he said, “from one great peril, - With God’s help, I’ve set you free, - But my task is not yet ended, - There is danger now in _me_. - Yet secure from harm you shall be, - None need fear before I die. - That my sufferings may be shortened, - Ask of Him who rules on high.” - - Then unto his forge he straightway - Walked erect, with rapid step, - While the people followed after, - Some with shouts, while others wept; - And with nerve as steady as when - He had plied his trade for gain, - He selected, without faltering, - From his store, the heaviest chain. - - To his anvil first he bound it, - Next his limb he shackled fast, - Then he said unto his townsfolk, - “All your danger now is past. - Place within my reach, I pray you, - Food and water for a time, - Until God shall ease my sufferings - By his gracious will divine.” - - Long he suffered, but at last - Came a summons from on high, - Then his soul, with angel escort, - Sought its home beyond the sky; - And the people of that village, - Those whom he had died to save, - Still with grateful hearts assemble, - And with flowers bedeck his grave. - - - MARMION AND DOUGLAS. - - Not far advanced was morning day, - When Marmion did his troop array - To Surrey’s camp to ride. - He had safe-conduct for his band, - Beneath the royal seal and hand, - And Douglas gave a guide. - The ancient earl, with stately grace, - Would Clara on her palfrey place, - And whispered in an undertone, - “Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.” - The train from out the castle drew, - But Marmion stopped to bid adieu: - “Though something I might ’plain,” he said, - “Of cold respect to stranger guest, - Sent hither by your king’s behest, - While in Tantallon’s towers I stayed, - Part we in friendship from your land, - And, noble earl, receive my hand.” - But Douglas round him drew his cloak, - Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: - “My manors, halls, and bowers shall still - Be open, at my sovereign’s will, - To each one whom he lists, howe’er - Unmeet to be the owner’s peer; - My castles are my king’s alone, - From turret to foundation-stone,-- - The hand of Douglas is his own, - And never shall in friendly grasp - The hand of such as Marmion clasp.” - - Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire, - And shook his very frame for ire, - And--“This to me!” he said;-- - “An ’twere not for thy hoary beard, - Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared - To cleave the Douglas’ head! - And first, I tell thee, haughty peer, - He who does England’s message here, - Although the meanest in her state, - May well, proud Angus, be thy mate! - And Douglas, more, I tell thee here, - Even in thy pitch of pride, - Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, - (Nay, never look upon your lord, - And lay your hands upon your sword,) - I tell thee, thou ’rt defied! - And if thou saidst I am not peer - To any lord in Scotland here, - Lowland or Highland, far or near, - Lord Angus, thou hast lied!” - On the earl’s cheek the flush of rage - O’ercame the ashen hue of age: - Fierce he broke forth, “And dar’st thou then - To beard the lion in his den, - The Douglas in his hall? - And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go? - No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! - Up drawbridge, grooms! What, warder, ho! - Let the portcullis fall.” - Lord Marmion turned,--well was his need!-- - And dashed the rowels in his steed, - Like arrow through the archway sprung; - The ponderous grate behind him rung: - To pass there was such scanty room, - The bars, descending, razed his plume. - - [Illustration] - - The steed along the drawbridge flies, - Just as it trembled on the rise; - Not lighter does the swallow skim - Along the smooth lake’s level brim; - And when Lord Marmion reached his band, - He halts, and turns with clinched hand, - And shout of loud defiance pours, - And shook his gauntlet at the towers. - “Horse! horse!” the Douglas cried, “and chase!” - But soon he reigned his fury’s pace: - “A royal messenger he came, - Though most unworthy of the name. - - * * * * * - - St. Mary mend my fiery mood! - Old age ne’er cools the Douglas blood, - I thought to slay him where he stood. - ’Tis pity of him, too,” he cried; - “Bold can he speak and fairly ride, - I warrant him a warrior tried.” - With this his mandate he recalls, - And slowly seeks his castle walls. - - - THE LOSS OF THE HORNET. - - Call the watch! call the watch! - “Ho! the starboard watch, ahoy!” Have you heard - How a noble ship so trim, like our own, my hearties, here, - All scudding ’fore the gale, disappeared, - Where yon southern billows roll o’er their bed so green and clear? - Hold the reel! keep her full! hold the reel! - How she flew athwart the spray, as, shipmates, we do now, - Till her twice a hundred fearless hearts of steel - Felt the whirlwind lift its waters aft, and plunge her - downward bow! - Bear a hand! - - Strike top-gallants! mind your helm! jump aloft! - ’Twas such a night as this, my lads, a rakish bark was drowned, - When demons foul, that whisper seamen oft, - Scooped a tomb amid the flashing surge that never shall be found. - Square the yards! a double reef! Hark the blast! - O, fiercely has it fallen on the war-ship of the brave, - When its tempest fury stretched the stately mast - All along her foamy sides, as they shouted on the wave, - “Bear a hand!” - - Call the watch! call the watch! - “Ho! the larboard watch, ahoy!” Have you heard - How a vessel, gay and taut, on the mountains of the sea, - Went below, with all her warlike crew on board, - They who battled for the happy, boys, and perished for the free? - Clew, clew up, fore and aft! keep away! - How the vulture bird of death, in its black and viewless form, - Hovered sure o’er the clamors of his prey, - While through all their dripping shrouds yelled the spirit of - the storm! - Bear a hand! - - [Illustration] - - Now out reefs! brace the yards! lively there! - O, no more to homeward breeze shall her swelling bosom spread, - But love’s expectant eye bid despair - Set her raven watch eternal o’er the wreck in ocean’s bed. - Board your tacks! cheerly, boys! But for them, - Their last evening gun is fired, their gales are overblown; - O’er their smoking deck no starry flag shall stream; - They’ll sail no more, they’ll fight no more, for their gallant - ship’s gone down. - Bear a hand! - - [Illustration] - - - MAN THE LIFE-BOAT. - - Man the life-boat! Man the life-boat! - Help, or yon ship is lost! - Man the life-boat! Man the life-boat! - See how she’s tempest-tossed. - No human power in such an hour - The gallant bark can save; - Her mainmast gone, and running on, - She seeks her watery grave. - Man the life-boat! Man the life-boat! - See, the dreaded signal flies! - Ha! she’s struck, and from the wreck - Despairing shouts arise. - - O, speed the life-boat! Speed the life-boat! - O God, their efforts crown! - She dashes on; the ship is gone, - Full forty fathoms down. - And see, the crew are struggling now - Amidst the tempest roar. - They’re in the boat, they’re all afloat,-- - Hurrah! they’ve gained the shore. - Bless the life-boat! Bless the life-boat! - O God, thou’lt hear our prayer! - Bless the life-boat! Bless the life-boat! - No longer we’ll despair. - - [Illustration] - - - SIR GALAHAD. - - My good blade carves the casques of men, - My tough lance thrusteth sure, - My strength is as the strength of ten, - Because my heart is pure. - The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, - The hard brands shiver on the steel, - The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly, - The horse and rider reel: - They reel, they roll in clanging lists, - And when the tide of combat stands, - Perfume and flowers fall in showers, - That lightly rain from ladies’ hands. - - How sweet are looks that ladies bend - On whom their favors fall! - For them I battle till the end, - To save from shame and thrall: - But all my heart is drawn above, - My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine: - I never felt the kiss of love, - Nor maiden’s hand in mine. - More bounteous aspects on me beam, - Me mightier transports move and thrill; - So keep I fair through faith and prayer - A virgin heart in work and will. - - When down the stormy crescent goes, - A light before me swims, - Between dark stems the forest glows, - I hear a noise of hymns: - Then by some secret shrine I ride; - I hear a voice, but none are there; - The stalls are void, the doors are wide, - The tapers burning fair. - Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, - The silver vessels sparkle clean, - The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, - And solemn chants resound between. - - Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres - I find a magic bark; - I leap on board: no helmsman steers: - I float till all is dark. - A gentle sound, an awful light! - Three angels bear the holy Grail: - With folded feet, in stoles of white, - On sleeping wings they sail. - Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! - My spirit beats her mortal bars, - As down dark tides the glory slides, - And star-like mingles with the stars. - - When on my goodly charger borne - Through dreaming towns I go, - The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, - The streets are dumb with snow. - The tempest crackles on the leads, - And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; - But o’er the dark a glory spreads, - And gilds the driving hail. - I leave the plain, I climb the height; - No branchy thicket shelter yields; - But blessed forms in whistling storms - Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields. - - [Illustration] - - A maiden knight, to me is given - Such hope, I know not fear; - I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven - That often meet me here. - I muse on joy that will not cease, - Pure spaces clothed in living beams, - Pure lilies of eternal peace, - Whose odors haunt my dreams; - And, stricken by an angel’s hand, - This mortal armor that I wear, - This weight and size, this heart and eyes, - Are touched, are turned to finest air. - - The clouds are broken in the sky, - And through the mountain-walls - A rolling organ-harmony - Swells up, and shakes and falls. - Then move the trees, the copses nod, - Wings flutter, voices hover clear: - “O just and faithful knight of God, - Ride on! the prize is near.” - So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; - By bridge and ford, by park and pale, - All armed I ride, whate’er betide, - Until I find the holy Grail. - - - KING CANUTE AND HIS NOBLES. - - Canute was by his nobles taught to fancy - That, by a kind of royal necromancy, - He had the power old Ocean to control. - Down rushed the royal Dane upon the strand, - And issued, like a Solomon, command,--poor soul! - - “Go back, ye waves, you blustering rogues,” quoth he; - “Touch not your lord and master, Sea; - For by my power almighty, if you do--” - Then, staring vengeance, out he held a stick, - Vowing to drive old Ocean to Old Nick, - Should he even wet the latchet of his shoe. - - The sea retired,--the monarch fierce rushed on, - And looked as if he’d drive him from the land; - But Sea, not caring to be put upon, - Made for a moment a bold stand. - - Not only made a stand did Mr. Ocean, - But to his waves he made a motion, - And bid them give the king a hearty trimming. - The order seemed a deal the waves to tickle, - For soon they put his Majesty in pickle, - And set his royalties, like geese, a swimming. - - [Illustration] - - All hands aloft, with one tremendous roar, - Sound did they make him wish himself on shore; - His head and ears they most handsomely doused,-- - Just like a porpoise, with one general shout, - The waves so tumbled the poor king about. - No anabaptist e’er was half so soused. - - At length to land he crawled, a half-drowned thing, - Indeed, more like a crab than like a king, - And found his courtiers making rueful faces; - But what said Canute to the lords and gentry, - Who hailed him from the water, on his entry, - All trembling for their lives or places? - - “My lords and gentlemen, by your advice, - I’ve had with Mr. Sea a pretty bustle; - My treatment from my foe, not overnice, - Just made a jest for every shrimp and mussel. - - “A pretty trick for one of my dominion! - My lords, I thank you for your great opinion. - You’ll tell me, p’r’aps, I’ve only lost one game - And bid me try another,--for the rubber. - Permit me to inform you all, with shame, - That you’re a set of knaves and I’m a lubber.” - - [Illustration] - - - OUTWARD BOUND. - - Clink--clink--clink! goes our windlass. - “Ahoy!” “Haul in!” “Let go!” - Yards braced and sails set, - Flags uncurl and flow. - Some eyes that watch from shore are wet, - (How bright their welcome shone!) - While, bending softly to the breeze, - And rushing through the parted seas, - Our gallant ship glides on. - Though one has left a sweetheart, - And one has left a wife, - ’Twill never do to mope and fret, - Or curse a sailor’s life. - See, far away they signal yet,-- - They dwindle--fade--they’re gone: - For, dashing outwards, bold and brave, - And springing light from wave to wave, - Our merry ship flies on. - Gay spreads the sparkling ocean; - But many a gloomy night - And stormy morrow must be met - Ere next we heave in sight. - The parting look we’ll ne’er forget, - The kiss, the benison, - As round the rolling world we go. - God bless you all! Blow, breezes blow! - Sail on, good ship, sail on! - - [Illustration] - - - THE BRIDES OF VENICE. - - It was St. Mary’s eve; and all poured forth, - As to some grand solemnity. The fisher - Came from his islet, bringing o’er the waves - His wife and little one; the husbandman - From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta, - Crowding the common ferry. All arrived; - And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened, - So great the stir in Venice. Old and young - Thronged her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk, - Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew, - In yellow hat and threadbare gabardine, - Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, - The noblest sons and daughters of the state, - They of patrician birth, the flower of Venice, - Whose names are written in the “Book of Gold,” - Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials. - At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd, - Rising and rolling on, announced their coming; - And never from the first was to be seen - Such splendor or such beauty. Two and two - (The richest tapestry unrolled before them), - First came the brides in all their loveliness; - Each in her veil, and by two bridemaids followed. - Only less lovely, who behind her bore - The precious caskets that within contained - The dowry and the presents. On she moved, - Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand - A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich feathers. - Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, - Fell from beneath a starry diadem; - And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone, - Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst; - A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath, - Wreathing her gold brocade. - - [Illustration] - - Before the church, - That venerable pile on the sea-brink, - Another train they met,--no strangers to them,-- - Brothers to some, and to the rest still dearer, - Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume, - And, as he walked, with modest dignity - Folding his scarlet mantle, his _tabarro._ - They join, they enter in, and up the aisle - Led by the full-voiced choir, in bright procession, - Range round the altar. In his vestments there - The patriarch stands; and while the anthem flows, - Who can look on unmoved? Mothers in secret - Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters; - Sons in the thought of making them their own; - And they, arrayed in youth and innocence, - Their beauty heightened by their hopes and fears. - At length the rite is ending. All fall down - In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together; - And stretching out his hands, the holy man - Proceeds to give the general benediction, - When hark! a din of voices from without, - And shrieks and groans and outcries, as in battle; - And lo! the door is burst, the curtain rent, - And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep, - Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbarigo - And his six brothers in their coats of steel, - Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like, - Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude, - Each with his sabre up, in act to strike; - Then, as at once recovering from the spell, - Rush forward to the altar, and as soon - Are gone again, amid no clash of arms, - Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. - Where are they now? Ploughing the distant waves, - Their sails all set, and they upon the deck - Standing triumphant. To the east they go, - Steering for Istria, their accursed barks - (Well are they known, the galliot and the galley) - Freighted with all that gives to life its value - The richest argosies were poor to them! - Now might you see the matrons running wild - Along the beach; the men half armed and arming; - One with a shield, one with a casque and spear; - One with an axe, hewing the mooring-chain - Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, - But on that day was drifting. In an hour - Half Venice was afloat. But long before,-- - Frantic with grief, and scorning all control,-- - The youths were gone in a light brigantine, - Lying at anchor near the arsenal; - Each having sworn, and by the holy rood, - To slay or to be slain. - And from the tower - The watchman gives the signal. In the east - A ship is seen, and making for the port; - Her flag St. Mark’s. And now she turns the point, - Over the waters like a sea-bird flying. - Ha! ’tis the same, ’tis theirs! From stern to prow - Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, restoring - All that was lost! - Coasting, with narrow search. - Friuli, like a tiger in his spring, - They had surprised the corsairs where they lay, - Sharing the spoil in blind security, - And casting lots; had slain them one and all,-- - All to the last,--and flung them far and wide - Into the sea, their proper element. - Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long - Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet - Breathing a little, in his look retained - The fierceness of his soul. - - [Illustration] - - Thus were the brides - Lost and recovered. And what now remained - But to give thanks? Twelve breastplates and twelve crowns, - Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offerings - Of the young victors to their patron saint, - Vowed on the field of battle, were erelong - Laid at his feet; and to preserve forever - The memory of a day so full of change, - From joy to grief, from grief to joy again, - Through many an age, as oft as it came round, - ’Twas held religiously with all observance. - The Doge resigned his crimson for pure ermine; - And through the city in a stately barge - Of gold were borne, with songs and symphonies, - Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were - In bridal white with bridal ornaments, - Each in her glittering veil; and on the deck - As on a burnished throne, they glided by. - No window or balcony but adorned - With hangings of rich texture; not a roof - But covered with beholders, and the air - Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars - Moving in concert with the harmony, - Through the Rialto to the ducal palace; - And at a banquet there, served with due honor, - Sat, representing in the eyes of all-- - Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears-- - Their lovely ancestors, the “Brides of Venice.” - - [Illustration] - - - THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. - - The breaking waves dashed high - On a stern and rock-bound coast, - And the woods against a stormy sky - Their giant branches tossed; - - And the heavy night hung dark - The hills and water o’er, - When a band of exiles moored their bark - On the wild New England shore. - - Not as the conqueror comes, - They, the true-hearted, came; - Not with the roll of the stirring drums, - And the trumpet that sings of fame; - - Not as the flying come, - In silence and in fear; - They shook the depths of the desert gloom - With their hymns of lofty cheer. - - Amidst the storm they sang, - And the stars heard, and the sea; - And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang - To the anthem of the free! - - [Illustration] - - The ocean eagle soared - From his nest by the white wave’s foam, - And the rocking pines of the forest roared,-- - This was their welcome home. - - There were men with hoary hair - Amidst that pilgrim band: - Why had they come to wither there, - Away from their childhood’s land? - - There was woman’s fearless eye, - Lit by her deep love’s truth; - There was manhood’s brow, serenely high, - And the fiery heart of youth. - - What sought they thus afar? - Bright jewels of the mine, - The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? - They sought a faith’s pure shrine! - - Aye, call it holy ground, - The soil where first they trod; - They have left unstained what there they found,-- - Freedom to worship God. - - [Illustration] - - - THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY. - - Alas! The days of chivalry are fled, - The brilliant tournament exists no more; - Our loves are cold, and dull as ice or lead, - And courting is a most enormous bore. - - In those good “olden times,” a “ladye bright” - Might sit within her turret or her bower, - While lovers sang and played without all night, - And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower. - - Yet if one favored swain would persevere, - In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh, - Perchance she threw him, with the closing year, - An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf. - - Off then, away he’d ride o’er sea and land, - And dragons fell and mighty giants smite - With the tough spear he carried in his hand; - And all to prove himself her own true knight. - - [Illustration] - - Meanwhile a thousand more, as wild as he, - Were all employed upon the self-same thing; - And when each had rode hard for his “ladye,” - They all come back and met within a ring. - - Where all the men who were entitled “syr” - Appeared with martial air and haughty frown, - Bearing “long poles, each other up to stir,” - And, in the stir-up, thrust each other down. - - And then they galloped round with dire intent, - Each knight resolved another’s pride to humble; - And laughter rang around the tournament - As oft as any of them had a tumble. - - And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die, - The victim of a stout, unlucky poke, - Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye, - The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke. - - Soon, then, the lady, whose grim, stalwart swain - Had got the strongest horse and toughest pole, - Bedecked him, kneeling, with a golden chain, - And plighted troth before the motley whole. - - Alas! the days of chivalry are fled, - The brilliant tournament exists no more. - Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead, - And even courtship is a dreadful bore. - - - THE SONG OF THE CAMP. - - “Give us a song!” the soldiers cried, - The outer trenches guarding, - When the heated guns of the camps allied - Grew weary of bombarding. - - The dark Redan, in silent scoff, - Lay grim and threatening under; - And the tawny mound of the Malakoff - No longer belched its thunder. - - There was a pause. A guardsman said, - “We storm the forts to-morrow; - Sing while we may, another day - Will bring enough of sorrow.” - - They lay along the battery’s side, - Below the smoking cannon, - Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, - And from the banks of Shannon. - - They sang of love, and not of fame; - Forgot was Britain’s glory: - Each heart recalled a different name, - But all sang “Annie Lawrie.” - - [Illustration] - - Voice after voice caught up the song, - Until its tender passion - Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- - Their battle-eve confession. - - Beyond the darkening ocean burned - The bloody sunset’s embers, - While the Crimean valleys learned - How English love remembers. - - And once again a fire of hell - Rained on the Russian quarters, - With scream of shot and burst of shell - And bellowing of the mortars! - - And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim - For a singer dumb and gory; - And English Mary mourns for him - Who sang of “Annie Lawrie.” - - Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest - Your truth and valor wearing. - The bravest are the tenderest, - The loving are the daring. - - [Illustration] - - - THE RECANTATION OF GALILEO. - - Far ’neath the glorious light of the noontide, - In a damp dungeon a prisoner lay, - Aged and feeble, his failing years numbered, - Waiting the fate to be brought him that day. - - Silence, oppressive with darkness, held durance; - Death in the living, or living in death; - Crouched on the granite, and burdened with fetters, - Inhaling slow poison with each labored breath. - - O’er the damp floor of his dungeon there glistened - Faintly the rays of a swift-nearing light; - Then the sweet jingle of keys, that soon opened - The door, and revealed a strange scene to his sight. - - In the red glare of the flickering torches, - Held by the gray-gowned soldiers of God, - Gathered a group that the world will remember - Long ages after we sleep ’neath the sod. - - Draped in their robes of bright scarlet and purple, - Bearing aloft the gold emblems of Rome, - Stood the chief priests of the papal dominion, - Under the shadow of Peter’s proud dome, - - [Illustration] - - By the infallible pontiff commanded, - From his own lips their directions received; - Sent to demand of the wise Galileo - Denial of all the great truths he believed,-- - - Before the whole world to give up his convictions, - Because the great church said the world had not moved; - Then to swear, before God, that his science was idle, - And truth was unknown to the facts he had proved. - - So, loosing his shackles, they bade the sage listen - To words from the mouth of the vicar of God: - “Recant thy vile doctrines, and life we will give thee: - Adhere, and thy road to the grave is soon trod!” - - His doctrines--the truth, as proud Rome has acknowledged-- - On low, bended knee, in that vault he renounced; - Yet with joy in their eyes, the high-priests retiring, - “Confinement for life,” as his sentence pronounced. - - But as they left him, their malice rekindled - Fires that their threats had subdued in his breast: - Clanking his chains, with fierce ardor he muttered, - “But it _does_ move, and tyrants can ne’er make it rest.” - - [Illustration] - - - BELSHAZZAR. - - The midnight hour was drawing on; - Flushed in repose lay Babylon; - But in the palace of the king - The herd of courtiers shout and sing. - There, in his royal banquet hall, - Belshazzar holds high festival. - - The servants sit in glittering rows, - The beakers are drained, the red wine flows; - The beakers clash and the servants sing,-- - A pleasing sound to the moody king. - The king’s cheeks flush and his wild eyes shine, - His spirit waxes bold with wine, - Until, by maddening passion stung, - He scoffs at God with impious tongue; - And his proud heart swells as he wildly raves, - ’Mid shouts of applause from his fawning slaves. - He spoke the word, and his eyes flashed flame! - The ready servants went and came; - Vessels of massive gold they bore, - Of Jehovah’s temple the plundered store. - - Then seizing a consecrated cup, - The king in his fury fills it up; - He fills, and hastily drains it dry; - From his foaming lips leaps forth the cry, - “Jehovah, at Thee my scorn I fling! - I am Belshazzar, Babylon’s king.” - Yet scarce had the impious words been said, - When the king’s heart shrank with secret dread; - Suddenly died the shout and yell, - A deathlike hush on the tumult fell. - - [Illustration] - - And see! and see! on the white wall high - The form of a hand went slowly by, - And wrote--and wrote in sight of all - Letters of fire upon the wall! - The king sat still, with a stony look, - His trembling knees with terror shook; - The menial throng nor spoke nor stirred; - Fear froze the blood,--no sound was heard. - - The magicians came, but none of all - Could read the writing on the wall. - At length to solve those words of flame, - Fearless, but meek, the prophet came. - One glance he gave, and all was clear. - “King! there is reason in thy fear. - Those words proclaim, thy empire ends, - The day of woe and wrath impends. - Weighed in the balance, wanting found, - Thou and thy empire strike the ground!” - - That night, by the servants of his train, - Belshazzar, the mighty king, was slain! - - - LIBERTY. - - With what pride I used - To walk these hills, and look up to my God, - And bless him that it was so! I loved - Its very storms. I have sat - In my boat at night when, midway o’er the lake, - The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge - The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed - The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled - To see him shake his lightnings o’er my head, - And think I had no master save his own. - You know the jutting cliff round which a track - Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow - To such another one, with scanty room - For two abreast to pass? O’ertaken there - By the mountain blast, I’ve laid me flat along, - And while gust followed gust more furiously, - As if to sweep me o’er the horrid brink, - And I have thought of other lands, whose storms - Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just - Have wished me there--the thought that mine was free - Has checked that wish; and I have raised my head, - And cried in thraldrom to that furious wind, - Blow on! This is the land of liberty! - - [Illustration] - - - THE FISHERMEN. - - Hurrah! the seaward breezes - Sweep down the bay amain. - Heave up, my lads, the anchor! - Run up the sail again! - Leave to the lubber landsmen - The rail-car and the steed; - The stars of heaven shall guide us, - The breath of heaven shall speed. - - From the hill-top looks the steeple, - And the lighthouse from the sand; - And the scattered pines are waving - Their farewell from the land. - One glance, my lads, behind us, - For the homes we leave one sigh, - Ere we take the change and chances - Of the ocean and the sky. - - Now, brothers, for the icebergs - Of frozen Labrador, - Floating spectral in the moonshine, - Along the low, black shore! - Where like snow the gannet’s feathers - On Brador’s rocks are shed, - And the noisy murr are flying, - Like black scuds, overhead; - - Where in mist the rock is hiding, - And the sharp reef lurks below, - And the white squall smites in summer, - And the autumn tempests blow; - Where, through gray and rolling vapor, - From evening unto morn, - A thousand boats are hailing, - Horn answering unto horn. - - Hurrah for the Red Island, - With the white cross on its crown! - Hurrah for Meccatina, - And its mountains bare and brown! - Where the caribou’s tall antlers - O’er the dwarf-wood freely toss, - And the footstep of the mickmack - Has no sound upon the moss. - - There we’ll drop our lines, and gather - Old Ocean’s treasures in, - Where’er the mottled mackerel - Turns up a steel-dark fin. - The sea’s our field of harvest, - Its scaly tribes our grain; - We’ll reap the teeming waters - As at home they reap the plain! - - Our wet hands spread the carpet, - And light the hearth of home; - From our fish, as in the old time, - The silver coin shall come. - As the demon fled the chamber - Where the fish of Tobit lay, - So ours from all our dwellings - Shall frighten Want away. - - [Illustration] - - Though the mist upon our jackets - In the bitter air congeals, - And our lines wind stiff and slowly - From off the frozen reels, - Though the fog be dark around us, - And the storm blow high and loud, - We will whistle down the wild wind, - And laugh beneath the cloud! - - In the darkness as in daylight, - On the water as on land, - God’s eye is looking on us, - And beneath us is his hand! - Death will find us soon or later, - On the deck or in the cot; - And we cannot meet him better - Than in working out our lot. - - Hurrah! hurrah! The west wind - Comes freshening down the bay, - The rising sails are filling,-- - Give way, my lads, give way! - Leave the coward landsman clinging - To the dull earth, like a weed. - The stars of heaven shall guide us, - The breath of heaven shall speed! - - - EXCELSIOR. - - The shades of night were falling fast, - As through an Alpine village passed - A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice, - A banner, with the strange device, - Excelsior! - - His brow was sad; his eye, beneath, - Flashed like a falchion from its sheath; - And like a silver clarion rung - The accents of that unknown tongue, - Excelsior! - - In happy homes he saw the light - Of household fires gleam warm and bright. - Above, the spectral glaciers shone; - And from his lips escaped a groan, - Excelsior! - - “Try not the pass!” the old man said; - “Dark lowers the tempest overhead! - The roaring torrent is deep and wide!” - And loud that clarion voice replied, - Excelsior! - - [Illustration] - - “Oh! stay,” the maiden said, “and rest - Thy weary head upon this breast!” - A tear stood in his bright blue eye; - But still he answered, with a sigh, - Excelsior! - - “Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch! - Beware the awful avalanche!” - This was the peasant’s last good-night. - A voice replied, far up the height, - Excelsior! - - At break of day, as heavenward - The pious monks of St. Bernard - Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, - A voice cried, through the startled air, - Excelsior! - - A traveller by the faithful hound, - Half buried in the snow, was found, - Still grasping in his hand of ice - The banner with the strange device, - Excelsior! - - There, in the twilight cold and gray, - Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay; - And from the sky, serene and far, - A voice fell, like a falling star,-- - Excelsior! - - - THE SOLDIER. - - For gold the merchant ploughs the main, - The farmer ploughs the manor; - But glory is the soldier’s prize, - The soldier’s wealth is honor. - The brave poor soldier ne’er despise; - Nor count him as a stranger; - Remember, he’s his country’s stay - In day and hour o’ danger. - - [Illustration] - - - JOHN MAYNARD. - - ’Twas on Lake Erie’s broad expanse, - One bright midsummer day, - The gallant steamer, Ocean Queen, - Swept proudly on her way. - Bright faces clustered on the deck, - Or, leaning o’er the side, - Watched carelessly the feathery foam - That flecked the rippling tide. - - A seaman sought the captain’s side, - A moment whispered low: - The captain’s swarthy face grew pale; - He hurried down below. - Alas, too late! Though quick and sharp - And clear his orders came, - No human efforts could avail - To quench th’ insidious flame. - - The bad news quickly reached the deck, - It sped from lip to lip, - And ghastly faces everywhere - Looked from the doomed ship. - “Is there no hope, no chance of life?” - A hundred lips implore. - “But one,” the captain made reply; - “To run the ship on shore.” - - A sailor whose heroic soul - That hour should yet reveal, - By name John Maynard, Eastern born, - Stood calmly at the wheel. - “Head her southeast!” the captain shouts, - Above the smothered roar,-- - “Head her southeast without delay! - Make for the nearest shore!” - - John Maynard watched the nearing flames, - But still, with steady hand, - He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly - He steered the ship to land. - “John Maynard, can you still hold out?” - He heard the captain cry. - A voice from out the stifling smoke - Faintly responds, “Ay, ay!” - - But half a mile! A hundred hands - Stretch eagerly to shore. - But half a mile! That distance sped, - Peril shall all be o’er. - But half a mile! Yet stay! The flames - No longer slowly creep, - But gather round the helmsman bold - With fierce, impetuous sweep. - - “John Maynard,” with an anxious voice, - The captain cries once more, - “Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, - And we will reach the shore.” - Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart - Responded firmly still, - Unawed, though face to face with death, - “With God’s good help, I will!” - - [Illustration] - - The flames approach with giant strides, - They scorch his hands and brow; - One arm disabled seeks his side: - Ah, he is conquered now! - But no; his teeth are firmly set, - He crushes down his pain; - His knee upon the stanchion pressed, - He guides the ship again. - - One moment yet, one moment yet! - Brave heart, thy task is o’er! - The pebbles grate beneath the keel, - The steamer touches shore. - Three hundred grateful voices rise - In praise to God, that He - Hath saved them from the fearful fire - And from th’ ingulfing sea. - - But where is he, that helmsman bold? - The captain saw him reel; - His nerveless hands released their task, - He sank beside the wheel. - The wave received his lifeless corpse, - Blackened with smoke and fire. - God rest him! Never hero had - A nobler funeral pyre. - - - EXCALIBUR. - - Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: - “The sequel of to-day unsolders all - The goodliest fellowship of famous knights - Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep - They sleep,--the men I loved. I think that we - Shall never more, at any future time, - Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, - Walking about the gardens and the halls - Of Camelot, as in the days that were. - I perish by this people which I made,-- - Though Merlin swear that I should come again - To rule once more; but let what will be, be: - I am so deeply smitten through the helm - That without help I cannot last till morn. - Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, - Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how - In those old days, one summer noon, an arm - Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, - Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, - Holding the sword; and how I rowed across - And took it, and have worn it, like a king: - And, wheresoever I am sung or told - In after-time, this also shall be known: - But now delay not: take Excalibur, - And fling him far into the middle mere. - Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.” - - [Illustration] - - Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, - And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged - Among the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword, - And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand - Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, - And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch, - Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, - Seen where the moving isles of winter shock - By night, with noises of the northern sea. - So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur: - But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm - Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, - And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him - Three times, and drew him under in the mere. - And lightly went the other to the king. - - [Illustration] - - - THE DEATH OF ARTHUR. - - Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, - Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, - Beneath them; and descending they were ware - That all the decks were dense with stately forms - Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream; by these - Three Queens with crowns of gold, and from them rose - A cry that shivered to the tingling stars, - And, as it were one voice, an agony - Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills - All night in a waste land, where no one comes, - Or hath come since the making of the world. - - Then murmured Arthur, “Place me in the barge.” - So to the barge they came. There those three Queens - Put forth their hands, and took the king, and wept. - - [Illustration] - - And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: - “The old order changeth, yielding place to new, - And God fulfils himself in many ways, - Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. - Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? - I have lived my life, and that which I have done - May He within himself make pure! but thou, - If thou shouldst never see my face again, - Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer - Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice - Rise like a fountain for me night and day. - For what are men better than sheep or goats - That nourish a blind life within the brain, - If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer - Both for themselves and those who call them friend? - For so the whole round earth is every way - Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. - But now farewell. I am going a long way - With these thou seest--if indeed I go-- - (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) - To the island-valley of Avilion, - Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, - Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies - Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns - And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, - Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.” - - So said he, and the barge with oar and sail - Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan - That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, - Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood - With swarthy webs. - - [Illustration] - - - A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. - - A wet sheet and a flowing sea, - A wind that follows fast, - And fills the white and rustling sail, - And bends the gallant mast. - And bends the gallant mast, my boys, - While, like the eagle free, - Away the good ship flies, and leaves - Old England on the lee. - - O, for a soft and gentle wind! - I heard a fair one cry; - But give to me the swelling breeze, - And white waves heaving high. - The white waves heaving high, my lads, - The good ship tight and free,-- - The world of waters is our home, - And merry men are we. - - [Illustration] - - - THE LEAP OF CURTIUS. - - Within Rome’s forum, suddenly, a wide gap opened in a night, - Astounding those who gazed on it,--a strange, terrific sight. - In Senate all their sages met, and, seated in their chairs of state, - Their faces blanched with deadly fear, debated long and late. - - A sign inimical to Rome, they deemed it,--a prognostic dire, - A visitation from the gods, in token of their ire. - Yet how to have their minds resolved, how ascertain in this - their need, - Beyond the shadow of a doubt, if thus it were indeed? - - In silence brooded they awhile, unbroken by a single word, - While from the capital without the lightest sounds were heard. - Then rose the eldest magistrate, a tall old man, with locks - like snow, - Straight as a dart, and with an eye that oft had quelled the foe. - - And thus, with ripe, sonorous voice, no note or tone of which - did shake, - Or indicate the wear of time, the aged Nestor spake: - “Fathers, the Oracle is nigh: to it then let us promptly send, - And at the shrine inquire what this dread marvel doth portend. - - “And if to Rome it augurs ill, then ask we, ere it be too late, - How we may best avert the doom, and save the sacred state.-- - That state to every Roman dear, as dear as brother, friend, or wife, - For which each true-born son would give, if needful, even life. - - “For what, O fathers! what were life apart from altar, hearth, - and home? - Yea, is not all our highest good bound up with that of Rome? - And now adjourn we for a space, till three full days have - circled round, - And on the morning of the fourth, let each one here be found.” - - Then gat they up, and gloomily for such short interval did part, - For they were Romans stanch and tried, and sad was every heart. - The fourth day dawned, and when they met, the Oracle’s response - was known: - Something most precious in the chasm to close it must be thrown. - - But if _un_closed it shall remain, thereon shall follow - Rome’s decay, - And all the splendor of her state shall pale and pass away. - Something most precious! What the gift that may prevent the - pending fate, - What costly offering will the gods indeed propitiate? - - While this they pondered, lo! a sound of footsteps fell on - every ear, - And in their midst a Roman youth did presently appear. - Apollo’s brow, a mien like Mars, in Beauty’s mould he seemed - new-made, - As on his golden hair the sun with dazzling dalliance played. - - ’Tis Marcus Curtius! Purer blood none there could boast, and none - more brave: - There stands the youthful patriot, come, a Roman, Rome to save. - His own young life, he offers that, yea, volunteers _himself_ - to throw - Within the cleft to make it close, and stay the heavy woe. - - And now on horseback, fully armed, behold him, for the hour - hath come. - The Roman guards keep watch and ward, and beats the muffled drum. - The consuls, proctors, soothsayers, within the forum group around, - Young Curtius in the saddle sits,--there yawns the severed ground. - - [Illustration] - - Each pulse is stayed. He lifts his helm, and bares his forehead - to the sky, - And to the broad, blue heaven above upturns his flashing eye. - “O Rome, O country best beloved, thou land in which I first - drew breath, - I render back the life thou gav’st, to rescue _thee_ - from death!” - - Then spurring on his gallant steed, a last and brief farewell - he said, - And leapt within the gaping gulf, _which closed above his head_. - - [Illustration] - - - THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX. - - I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; - I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three. - “Good speed!” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; - “Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through. - Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, - And into the midnight we galloped abreast. - - Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace - Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place. - I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, - Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, - Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, - Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. - - ’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near - Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; - At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; - At Düffield, ’twas morning, as plain as could be; - And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, - So Joris broke the silence with, “Yet there is time!” - - [Illustration] - - At Aorschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, - And against him the cattle stood black every one. - To stare through the mist at us galloping past, - And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last, - With resolute shoulders, each butting away - The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. - - And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back - For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; - And one eye’s black intelligence, ever that glance - O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance; - And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon - His fierce lips shook upwards on galloping on. - - By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, “Stay spur! - Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her. - We’ll remember at Aix!”--for one heard the quick wheeze - Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, - And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, - As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. - - So we were left galloping, Joris and I, - Past Looz and past Tongrés, no cloud in the sky; - The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, - ’Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff, - Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, - And, “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight!” - - “How they’ll greet us!” And all in a moment his roan - Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; - And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight - Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, - With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim - And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim. - - Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, - Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, - Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, - Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; - Clapped my hands, laughed and sang,--any noise, bad or good, - Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. - - And all I remember is friends flocking around - As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground, - And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, - As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, - Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) - Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. - - [Illustration] - - - A YARN. - - “’Tis Saturday night, and our watch below. - What heed we, boys, how the breezes blow, - While our cans are brimmed with the sparkling flow? - Come, Jack, uncoil, as we pass the grog, - And spin us a yarn from memory’s log.” - - Jack’s brawny chest like the broad sea heaved, - While his loving lip to the beaker cleaved; - And he drew his tarred and well-saved sleeve - Across his mouth, as he drained the can, - And thus to his listening mates began:-- - - “When I sailed, a boy, in the schooner Mike, - No bigger, I trow, than a marlinespike-- - But I’ve told ye the tale ere now, belike?” - “Go on!” each voice re-echoed, - And the tar thrice hemmed, and thus he said:-- - - “A stanch-built craft as the waves e’er bore-- - We had loosed our sail for home once more, - Freighted full deep from Labrador, - When a cloud one night rose on our lee, - That the heart of the stoutest quailed to see. - - “And voices wild with the winds were blent, - As our bark her prow to the waters bent; - And the seamen muttered their discontent-- - Muttered and nodded ominously-- - But the mate, right carelessly whistled he. - - “‘Our bark may never outride the gale. - ’Tis a pitiless night! The pattering hail - Hath coated each spar as ’twere in mail; - And our sails are riven before the breeze, - While our cordage and shrouds into icicles freeze!’ - - “Thus spake the skipper beside the mast, - While the arrowy sleet fell thick and fast; - And our bark drove onward before the blast - That goaded the waves, till the angry main - Rose up and strove with the hurricane. - - “Up spake the mate, and his tone was gay,-- - ‘Shall we at this hour to fear give way? - We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray. - Out, shipmates, and grapple home yonder sail, - That flutters in ribbons before the gale!’ - - “Loud swelled the tempest, and rose the shriek, - ‘Save, save! we are sinking! A leak! a leak!’ - And the hale old skipper’s tawny cheek - Was cold, as ’twere sculptured in marble there, - And white as the foam or his own white hair. - - [Illustration] - - “The wind piped shrilly, the wind piped loud, - It shrieked ’mong the cordage, it howled in the shroud, - And the sleet fell thick from the cold, dun cloud; - But high over all, in tones of glee, - The voice of the mate rang cheerily,-- - - “Now, men, for your wives’ and your sweethearts’ sakes! - Cheer, messmates, cheer! Quick! man the brakes! - We’ll gain on the leak ere the skipper wakes; - And though our peril your hearts appall, - Ere dawns the morrow we’ll laugh at the squall.” - - “He railed at the tempest, he laughed at its threats, - He played with his fingers like castanets; - Yet think not that he, in his mirth, forgets - That the plank he is riding this hour at sea - May launch him the next to eternity! - - “The white-haired skipper turned away, - And lifted his hands, as it were to pray; - But his look spoke plainly as look could say, - The boastful thought of the Pharisee,-- - ‘Thank God, I’m not hardened as others be!’ - - “But the morning dawned, and the waves sank low, - And the winds, o’erwearied, forebore to blow: - And our bark lay there in the golden glow.-- - Flashing she lay in the bright sunshine, - _An ice-sheathed hulk_ on the cold, still brine. - - “Well, shipmates, my yarn is almost spun-- - The cold and the tempest their work had done, - And I was the last, lone, living one, - Clinging, benumbed, to that wave-girt wreck, - While the dead around me bestrewed the deck. - - “Yea, the dead were round me everywhere! - The skipper gray, in the sunlight there, - Still lifted his paralyzed hands in prayer; - And the mate, whose tones through the darkness leapt, - In the silent hush of the morning slept. - - “Oh, bravely he perished who sought to save - Our storm-tossed bark from the pitiless wave, - And her crew from a yawning and fathomless grave, - Crying, Messmates, cheer!’ with a bright, glad smile, - And praying, ‘Be merciful, God!’ the while. - - “True to his trust, to his last chill gasp, - The helm lay clutched in his stiff, cold grasp: - You might scarcely in death undo the clasp; - And his crisp, brown locks were dank and thin, - And the icicles hung from his bearded chin. - - “My timbers have weathered, since, many a gale; - And when life’s tempests this hulk assail, - And the binnacle-lamp in my breast burns pale, - ‘Cheer, messmates, cheer!’ to my heart I say, - ‘We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray.’” - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ballads of Bravery, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS OF BRAVERY *** - -***** This file should be named 53148-0.txt or 53148-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/1/4/53148/ - -Produced by David Edwards, Paul Marshall and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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