Chapter XI: How to Read Poetry (6)

_She._ Your father’s friend, the metropolitan—
A word from him....

_He._ Alas, he too is bitten!
Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly-wise, he sees
This marriage makes me the Tsar’s protégé
And opens every door to preference.

_She._ Think while I think. There surely is some key
Unlocks the labyrinth, could we but find it.
Nastasia!

_He._ What, beg life of her? Not I.

_She._ Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps
Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air.
Were she told all, would she not pity us?
For if she love you, as I think she must,
Would not some generous impulse stir in her,
Some latent, unsuspected spark illume?
How love thrills even commonest girl-clay,
Ennobling it an instant if no more!
You said that she is proud; then touch her pride,
And turn her into marble with the touch.
But yet the gentler passion is the stronger.
Go to her, tell her in some tenderest phrase
That will not hurt too much—ah, but ’twill hurt!
Just how your happiness lies in her hand
To make or mar for all time; hint, not say,
Your heart is gone from you, and you may find—

_He._ A casement in St. Peter and St. Paul
For, say, a month; then some Siberian town.
Not this way lies escape. At my first word
That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire
In every vein.

_She._ How blindly you read her,
Or any woman! Yes, I know, I grant
How small we often seem to our small world
Of trivial cares and narrow precedents—
Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men—
Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse;
But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs,
The weakest of us measures pulse with you.

_He._ Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height!
But there’s no martyr wrapt in her rose flesh.
There should have been; for Nature gave you both
The self-same purple for your eyes and hair,
The self-same Southern music to your lips,
Fashioned you both, as ’twere, in the same mold,
Yet failed to put the soul in one of you!
I know her willful—her light head quite turned
In this court atmosphere of flatteries;
A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there,
And since, spoiled here; as soft as swan’s down, now,
With words like honey melting from the comb,
But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold.
I fancy her between two rosy smiles,
Saying, “Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!”

_She._ You know her not.
Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask
Could hide the soul, yet how you have mistaken
The soul these two months—and the face to-night. (_She removes mask._)

_He._ You!—it was you.

_She._ Count Sergius Pavlovich, go find Pauline Pavlovna—she is here—
And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. (_Goes out hurriedly._)

GUNGA DIN

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

You may talk o’ gin and beer
When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din!
It was “Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Pannee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”

The uniform ’e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field equipment ’e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted “Harry By!”
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ’im cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I’ll marrow you this minute;
If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

’E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or if we cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ’is mussick on ’is back,
’E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire,”
An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide
’E was white, clear white, inside
When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was “Din! Din! Din!”
With the bullets kickin’ dust spots on the green,
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front lines shout,
“Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”

I sha’n’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
’E lifted up my head,
An’ ’e plugged me where I bled,
An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green:
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through his spleen;
’E’s chawin’ up the ground,
An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:
For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!”

’E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet came and drilled the beggar clean.
’E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ’e died:
“I ’ope you like your drink,” sez Gunga Din.
So I’ll meet ’im later on
At the place where ’e is gone—
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;
’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals,
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leathern Gunga Din!
Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ God that made you,
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

THE TRUE BALLAD OF THE KING’S SINGER

BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON

The king rode fast, the king rode well,
The royal hunt went loud and gay,
A thousand bleeding chamois fell
For royal sport that day.

When sunset turned the hill all red,
The royal hunt went still and slow;
The king’s great horse with weary tread
Plunged ankle-deep in snow.

Sudden a strain of music sweet,
Unearthly sweet, came through the wood;
Up sprang the king, and on both feet
Straight in his saddle stood.

“Now, by our lady, be it bird,
Or be it man or elf that plays,
Never before my ears have heard
A music fit for praise!”

Sullen and tired, the royal hunt
Followed the king, who tracked the song,
Unthinking, as is royal wont,
How hard the way and long.

Stretched on a rock the shepherd lay
And dreamed and piped, and dreamed and sang,
And careless heard the shout and bay
With which the echoes rang.

“Up, man! the king!” the hunters cried.
He slowly stood, and, wondering,
Turned honest eyes from side to side:
To him, each looked like king.

Strange shyness seized the king’s bold tongue;
He saw how easy to displease
This savage man who stood among
His courtiers, so at ease.

But kings have silver speech to use
When on their pleasure they are bent;
The simple shepherd could not choose;
Like one in dream he went.

O hear! O hear! The ringing sound
Of twenty trumpets swept the street,
The king a minstrel now has found,
For royal music meet.

With cloth of gold, and cloth of red,
And woman’s eyes the place is bright.
“Now, shepherd, sing,” the king has said,
“The song you sang last night!”

One faint sound stirs the perfumed air,
The courtiers scornfully look down;
The shepherd kneels in dumb despair,
Seeing the king’s dark frown.

The king is just; the king will wait.
“Ho, guards! let him be gently led,
Let him grow used to royal state,—
To being housed and fed.”

All night the king unquiet lay,
Racked by his dream’s presentiment;
Then rose in haste at break of day,
And for the shepherd sent.

“Ho, now, thou beast, thou savage man,
How sound thou sleepest, not to hear!”
They jeering laughed, but soon began
To louder call in fear.

They wrenched the bolts; unrumpled stood
The princely bed all silken fine,
Untouched the plates of royal food,
The flask of royal wine!

The costly robes strewn on the floor,
The chamber empty, ghastly still;
The guards stood trembling at the door,
And dared not cross the sill.

All night the sentinels their round
Had kept. No man could pass that way.
The window dizzy high from ground;
Below, the deep moat lay.

They crossed themselves. “The foul fiend lurks
In this,” they said. They did not know
The miracles sweet Freedom works,
To let her children go.

It was the fiend himself who took
That shepherd’s shape to pipe and sing;
And every man with terror shook,
For who would tell the king!

The heads of men all innocent
Rolled in the dust that day;
And east and west the bloodhounds went,
Baying their dreadful bay;

Safe on a snow too far, too high,
For scent of dogs or feet of men,
The shepherd watched the clouds sail by,
And dreamed and sang again;

And crossed himself, and knelt and cried,
And kissed the holy Edelweiss,
Believing that the fiends had tried
To buy him with a price.

The king rides fast, the king rides well;
The summer hunts go loud and gay;
The courtiers, who this tale can tell,
Are getting old and gray.

But still they say it was a fiend
That took a shepherd’s shape to sing,
For still the king’s heart is not weaned
To care for other thing.

Great minstrels come from far and near,
He will not let them sing or play,
But waits and listens still to hear
The song he heard that day.

—Copyright by _Little, Brown & Co._, Boston, and used by kind permission.

THE DREAM OF CLARENCE

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

O, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such night,
Though ’twere to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time!

Methought that I had broken from the tower,
And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy;
And, in my company, my brother Gloucester;
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England,
And cited up a thousand fearful times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befallen us.

As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought the Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
Lord! Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!
What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
Ten thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scattered in the bottom of the sea:
Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,
As ’twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,
Which woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock’d the dead bones that lay scattered by.

Methought I had, and often did I strive
To yield the ghost: but the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To seek the empty, vast and wandering air;
But smothered it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

My dream was lengthened after life;
O, then began the tempest of my soul,
Who pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferry-man which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;
Who cried aloud, “What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?”

And so he vanished: then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he squeaked aloud,
“Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,
That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury:
Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!”
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ’d me about, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise
I trembling waked, and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in hell,
Such terrible impression made the dream.

THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK

BY ROBERT DWYER JOYCE

He grasped the ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more,
To hear the bomb-shells bursting, and thundering battle’s roar;
He said, “The breach they’re mounting, the Dutchman’s murdering crew—
I’ll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do!

“Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well;
’Tis Sarsfield’s horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or shell;”
“Ah, sure,” cried both, “the horse can wait, for Sarsfield’s on the wall
And where you go we’ll follow, with you to stand or fall!”

The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street,
His ’prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet;—
High on the breach of Limerick with dauntless hearts they stood,
Where bomb-shells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood.

“Now look you, brown-haired Moran; and mark you, swarthy Ned,
This day we’ll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman’s head!
Hurrah! upon their bloody path, they’re mounting gallantly;
And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me.”

The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave,—
A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive;
He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain!
For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain!

The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel bold;
Bright, through the dust of battle, his helmet flashed with gold—
“Gold is no match for iron,” the doughty blacksmith said,
And with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foeman’s head.

“Hurrah for gallant Limerick!” black Ned and Moran cried,
As on the Dutchmen’s leaden heads their hammers well they plied;
A bomb-shell burst between them—one fell without a groan,
One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown.

“Brave smith! brave smith!” cried Sarsfield, “beware the treacherous
mine!
Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is thine!”
The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the blood-stained wall,
As high into the shuddering air went foeman, breach and all!

Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild and high,—
Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foeman through the sky;
And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell;—
He thought upon his ’prentice boys,—they were avengèd well.

On foeman and defenders a silence gathered down;
’Twas broken by a triumph shout that shook the ancient town,
As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew,
And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts could do.

Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river’s side,
He hammered on the foe’s pontoon, to sink it in the tide;
The timber, it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain;
“Mavrone! t’won’t break!” the blacksmith roared; “I’ll try their heads
again!”

He rushed upon the flying ranks; his hammer ne’er was slack,
For in thro’ blood and bone it crashed, thro’ helmet and thro’ jack;
He’s ta’en a Holland captain beside the red pontoon,
And “Wait you here,” he boldly cries; “I’ll send you back full soon!

“Dost see this gory hammer? It cracked some skulls to-day,
And yours ’twill crack, if you don’t stand and list to what I say;—
Here! take it to your cursèd King, and tell him, softly, too,
’Twould be acquainted with his skull if he were here, not you!”

The blacksmith sought his smithy and blew his bellows strong;
He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o’er it sang no song;
“Ochone! my boys are dead!” he cried; “their loss I’ll long deplore,
But comfort’s in my heart, their graves are red with foreign gore.”

HYMN OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD

BY BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING

Up, comrades, up, the bugle peals the note of war’s alarms,
And the cry is ringing sternly round, that calls the land to arms;
Adieu, adieu, fair land of France, where the vine of Brennus reigns;
We go where the blooming laurels grow, on the bright Italian plains.
Advance! advance! brave sons of France, before the startled world;
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

Our eagles shall fly ’neath many a sky, with a halo round their way
Where History flings, on their flashing wings, the light of Glory’s ray;
And we shall bear them proudly on, through many a mighty fray,
That shall win old nations back to life, in the glorious coming day.
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

The glowing heart of the land of Art, throbbing for Liberty,
Our swords invoke, to erase the yoke from beauteous Italy.
And the Magyar waits, with kindling hope, the aid of the Gallic hand,
To drive the hated Austrians forth, from the old Hungarian land.
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

See the Briton, pale, as he dons his mail, for the coming conflict shock,
And before his eyes, see the phantom rise, of the Chief on Helena’s rock;
In foreboding fears, already he hears through palace and mart anew,
Our avenging shout, o’er the battle rout—remember Waterloo!
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.
And, hark, a wail from our kindred Gael, comes floating from the West—
That gallant race, whose chosen place was ever our battle’s crest;
Now is the day we can repay the generous debt we owe
To Irish blood, that freely flowed to conquer France’s foe.
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

Old Tricolor, as in days of yore, you shall wave o’er vanquished kings,
And your folds shall fly ’neath an English sky, on Victory’s crimson
wings;
And Europe’s shout shall in joy ring out, hailing freedom in thy track,
When our task is done, and we bear thee on, to France with glory back.
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

THE DEATH-SONG OF THE VIKING[15]

BY BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING

My race is run, my errand done, the pulse of life beats low;
My heart is chill, and the conquering will has lost its fiery glow:
Launch once again on the northern main my battleship of old:
I would die on the deck, ’mid storm and wreck, as befits a Viking bold.

I know no fears, but the mist of years that has gathered round my track
For a moment clears, and my youth’s compeers again to my side come back;
And the tall ships reel o’er their iron keel, as we sweep down on the
foe,
Like a giant’s form amid the storm, where the mighty tempests blow.

Again I gaze on the leaping blaze o’er a conquered city rise,
As in those days, when the Skald’s wild lays, sang the fame of our high
emprise;
When our ships went forth from the stormy North with the Scandinavian
bands
Who backward bore to the Baltic’s shore the spoil of the Western lands.
But my race is run, my errand done; so bear me to my ship.
Place my battle-brand in this dying hand, and the wine-cup to my lip;
Then loose each sail to the rising gale and lash the helm a-lee.
Alone, alone, on my drifting throne, I would view my realm, the sea.

My realm and grave the northern wave, where the tempest’s voice will sing
My death-song loud, where flame shall shroud the ocean’s warrior-king,
Whilst heroes wait at Valhalla’s gate to proudly welcome me.
For my race is run, my errand done. Receive thy Chief, O Sea!

THE RIDE OF JENNIE McNEAL

BY WILL CARLETON

Paul Revere was a rider bold—
Well has his valorous deed been told;
Sheridan’s ride was a glorious one—
Often it has been dwelt upon.
But why should men do all the deeds
On which the love of a patriot feeds?
Hearken to me, while I reveal
The dashing ride of Jennie McNeal.

On a spot as pretty as might be found
In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground,
In a cottage cosy, and all their own,
She and her mother lived alone.
Safe were the two, with their frugal store,
From all of the many who passed their door;
For Jennie’s mother was strange to fears,
And Jennie was large for fifteen years.

One night, when the sun had crept to bed,
And rain-clouds lingered overhead,
And sent their surly drops for proof
To drum a tune on the cottage roof,
Close after a knock at the outer door,
There entered a dozen dragoons or more.
Their red coats, stained by the muddy road,
That they were British soldiers showed;

The captain his hostess bent to greet,
Saying, “Madam, please give us a bit to eat;
We will pay you well, and, if may be,
This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea;
Then we must dash ten miles ahead,
To catch a rebel colonel abed.
He is visiting home, as doth appear;
We will make his pleasure cost him dear.”
And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal,
Close-watched the while by Jennie McNeal.
For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near,
Had been her true friend, kind and dear;
So sorrow for him she could but feel,
Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie McNeal.

With never a thought or a moment more,
Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door,
Ran out where the horses were left to feed,
Unhitched and mounted the captain’s steed,
And down the hilly and rock-strewn way
She urged the fiery horse of gray.
Around her slender and cloakless form
Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm;
Secure and tight, a gloveless hand
Grasped the reins with stern command;
And full and black her long hair streamed,
Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed;
And on she rushed for the colonel’s weal,
Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie McNeal.

Hark! from the hills, a moment mute,
Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit;
And a cry from the foremost trooper said,
“Halt! or your blood be on your head!”
She heeded it not, and not in vain
She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein.
So into the night the gray horse strode;
His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road;
And the high-born courage that never dies
Flashed from his rider’s coal-black eyes.
The pebbles flew from the fearful race;
The rain-drops grasped at her glowing face.
“On, on, brave beast!” with loud appeal,
Cried eager, resolute Jennie McNeal.

“Halt!” once more came the voice of dread;
“Halt! or your blood be on your head!”
Then, no one answering to the calls,
Sped after her a volley of balls.
They passed her in her rapid flight,
They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right;
But, rushing still o’er the slippery track,
She sent no token of answer back,
Except a silvery laughter-peal,
Brave, merry-hearted Jennie McNeal.

So on she rushed, at her own good will,
Through wood and valley, o’er plain and hill;
The gray horse did his duty well,
Till all at once he stumbled and fell,
Himself escaping the nets of harm,
But flinging the girl with a broken arm.
Still undismayed by the numbing pain,
She clung to the horse’s bridle-rein,
And gently bidding him to stand,
Petted him with her able hand;
Then sprang again to the saddle-bow,
And shouted, “One more trial now!”
As if ashamed of the heedless fall,
He gathered his strength once more for all,
And, galloping down a hillside steep,
Gained on the troopers at every leap.
No more the high-bred steed did reel,
But ran his best for Jennie McNeal.
They were a furlong behind, or more,
When the girl burst through the colonel’s door,
Her poor arm helpless, hanging with pain,
And she all drabbled and drenched with rain,
But her cheeks as red as fire-brands are,
And her eyes as bright as a blazing star,
And shouted, “Quick! be quick, I say!
They come! they come! Away! away!”
Then sank on the rude white floor of deal,
Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie McNeal.

The startled colonel sprang, and pressed
His wife and children to his breast,
And turned away from his fireside bright;
And glided into the stormy night;
Then soon and safely made his way
To where the patriot army lay.
But first he bent, in the dim firelight,
And kissed the forehead broad and white,
And blessed the girl who had ridden so well
To keep him out of a prison-cell.
The girl roused up at the martial din,
Just as the troopers came rushing in,
And laughed, e’en in the midst of a moan,
Saying, “Good sirs, your bird has flown.
’Tis I who have scared him from his nest;
So deal with me now as you think best.”
But the grand captain bowed, and said,
“Never you hold a moment’s dread.
Of womankind I must crown you queen;
So brave a girl I have never seen.
Wear this gold ring as your valor’s due;
And when peace comes I will come for you.”
But Jennie’s face an arch smile wore,
As she said, “There’s a lad in Putnam’s Corps,
Who told me the same, long time ago;
You two would never agree, I know.
I promised my love to be true as steel,”
Said good, sure-hearted Jennie McNeal.

—From “Centennial Rhymes.”

CHRISTMAS AT SEA

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor’wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But ’twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops’l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So’s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every ’longshore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it’s just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard’s was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother’s silver spectacles, my father’s silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
“All hands to loose topgallant sails,” I heard the captain call.
“By the Lord, she’ll never stand it,” our first mate, Jackson, cried,
... “It’s the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,” he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter’s day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

THE _REVENGE_

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter’d bird, came flying from far away:
“Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!”
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: “’Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?”

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: “I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But I’ve ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.”

So Lord Howard pass’d away with five ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down below;
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
To the thumb-screw and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
And he sailed away from Flores ’til the Spaniard came in sight,
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow.
“Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
For to fight is but to die!
There’ll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.”
And Sir Richard said again: “We be all good Englishmen.
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turn’d my back upon Don or devil yet.”

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh’d and we roar’d a hurrah, and so
The little _Revenge_ ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,
And the little _Revenge_ ran on through the long sea-lane between.

Thousands of their soldiers look’d down from their decks and laugh’d.
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft
Running on and on, till delay’d
By their mountain-like _San Philip_ that, of fifteen hundred tons,
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,
Took the breath from our sails, and we stay’d.

And while now the great _San Philip_ hung above us like a cloud,
Whence the thunderbolt will fall
Long and loud,
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that day,
And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,
And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

But anon the great _San Philip_, she bethought herself and went,
Having that within her womb that had left her ill content;
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand,
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers,
And a dozen times we shook ’em off as a dog that shakes his ears
When he leaps from the water to the land.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea,
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and shame.
For some were sunk and many were shatter’d, and so could fight us no
more—
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

For he said, “Fight on! fight on!”
Tho’ his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,
And he said, “Fight on! fight on!”

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear’d that we still could
sting,
So they watch’d what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight we were,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And the half of the rest of us maim’d for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it
spent;
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride:
“We have fought such a fight for a day and a night
As may never be fought again!
We have won great glory, my men!
And a day less or more
At sea or ashore,
We die—does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner—sink her, split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!”

And the gunner said, “Ay, ay,” but the seamen made reply:
“We have children, we have wives,
And the Lord hath spared our lives,
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow.”
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.
And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,
And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:
“I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do.
With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!”
And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
But they sank his body with honor down into the deep,
And they mann’d the _Revenge_ with a swarthier alien crew,
And away she sailed with her loss and long’d for her own;
When a wind from the lands they had ruin’d awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their
flags,
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter’d navy of Spain,
And the little _Revenge_ herself went down by the island crags
To be lost evermore in the main.

THE BALLAD OF THE EAST AND WEST

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends
of the earth.

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,
And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the Colonel’s pride.
He has lifted her out of the stable door between the dawn and the day,
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.
Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a troop of the Guides:
“Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?”

Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
“If ye know the track of the morning mist, ye know where his pickets are.
At dusk he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair;
But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare.
So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
By the favor of God, ye may cut him off ere he win the tongue of Jagai.
But if he be passed the tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then—
For the length and breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men.
There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn
between,
And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.”

The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
With the mouth of a bell, and the heart of hell, and the head of a
gallows-tree.
The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won; they bid him stay to eat—
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
He’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
Till he was aware of his father’s mare, with Kamal upon her back,
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
“Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “Show now if ye can ride.”

It’s up and over the tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go—
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
The dun he leaned against the bit, and slugged his head above,
But the red mare played with the snaffle bars like a maiden plays with
her love.
There was rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn
between,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick, though never a man was seen.

They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the
dawn—
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new roused fawn.
The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woeful heap fell he,
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.

He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive—
“’Twas only by favor of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive:
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
If I had raised my bridle-hand as I have carried it low,
The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.”

Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “Do good to bird and beast,
But count who comes for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,
Belike the price of a jackal’s meal were more than a thief could pay.
They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the
garnered grain;
The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are
slain.
But if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
Give me my father’s mare again, and I’ll fight my own way back!”
Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
“No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet.
May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?”

Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “I hold by the blood of my clan:
Take up the mare for my father’s gift—by God she has carried a man!”
The red mare ran to the Colonel’s son, and nuzzled against his breast.
“We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger
best.
So shall she go with a lifter’s dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.”
The Colonel’s son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end.
“Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he; “will ye take the mate from
a friend?”
“A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb.
Thy father hath sent his son to me—I’ll send my son to him!”
With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain crest—
He trod the links like a buck in Spring, and he looked a lance in rest.

“Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides,
And thou must ride at his left side, as shield on shoulder rides.
Till death or I cut loose the tie at camp, and board and bed,
Thy life is his—thy fate to guard him with thy head.
So thou must eat the White Queen’s meat, and all her foes are thine,
And thou must harry thy father’s hold for the peace at the Borderline;
And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power—
Belike they will raise thee to Rassaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.”

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no
fault;
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut
sod.
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the wond’rous Names
of God.
The Colonel’s son he rides the mare, and Kamal’s boy the dun,
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
And when they drew to the quarter-guard, full twenty swords flew clear—
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the
mountaineer.
“Ha’ done! ha’ done!” said the Colonel’s son. “Put up the steel at your
sides!
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—to-night ’tis a man of the
Guides.”

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends
of the Earth.

THE BRAVEST BATTLE

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

The bravest battle that ever was fought;
Shall I tell you where and when?
On the maps of the world you will find it not;
It was fought by the mothers of men.

Nay, not with cannon or battle shot,
With sword or nobler pen;
Nay, not with eloquent word or thought,
From mouths of wonderful men,

But deep in a walled-up woman’s heart—
Of woman that would not yield,
But patiently, silently bore her part—
Lo! there in that battlefield.

No marshaling troop, no bivouac song;
No banner to gleam and wave;
And oh! these battles they last so long—
From babyhood to the grave!

Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars,
She fights in her walled-up town—
Fights on and on in the endless wars,
Then silent, unseen—goes down.

O ye with banners and battle shot
And soldiers to shout and praise,
I tell you the kingliest victories fought
Are fought in these silent ways.

O spotless woman in a world of shame!
With splendid and silent scorn,
Go back to God as white as you came,
The kingliest warrior born.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT

[IN SPRINGFIELD, ILL.]

BY NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY

It is portentous, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
Near the old courthouse pacing up and down.

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards
He lingers where his children used to play,
Or through the market, on the well-worn stones
He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,
A famous high-top hat and plain worn shawl
Make him the quaint great figure that men love,
The prairie lawyer, master of us all.

He can not sleep upon his hillside now,
He is among us—as in times before!
And we who toss and lie awake for long
Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings,
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why,
Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart,
He sees the dreadnoughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He can not rest until a spirit-dawn
Shall come—the shining hope of Europe free;
The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth,
Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,
That all his hours of travail here for men
Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again?

CORONATION

BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON

At the king’s gate the subtle noon
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun;
Into the drowsy snare too soon
The guards fell one by one.

Through the king’s gate unquestioned then,
A beggar went, and laughed, “This brings
Me chance, at last, to see if men
Fare better, being kings.”

The king sat bowed beneath his crown,
Propping his face with listless hand;
Watching the hour glass sifting down
Too slow its shining sand.

“Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?”
The beggar turned, and pitying,
Replied, like one in dream, “Of thee,
Nothing. I want the king.”

Up rose the king, and from his head
Shook off the crown, and threw it by.
“O man, thou must have known,” he said,
“A greater king than I.”

Through all the gates, unquestioned then,
Went king and beggar hand in hand.
Whispered the king, “Shall I know when
Before his throne I stand?”

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste
Were wiping from the king’s hot brow
The crimson lines the crown had traced.
“This is his presence now.”

At the king’s gate, the crafty noon
Unwove its yellow nets of sun;
Out of their sleep in terror soon
The guards waked one by one.

“Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen
The king?” The cry ran to and fro;
Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween,
The laugh that free men know.

On the king’s gate the moss grew gray;
The king came not. They called him dead;
And made his eldest son one day
Slave in his father’s stead.

—Copyright by _Little, Brown & Co._, Boston, Mass., and used by kind permission.

A PRAYER IN KHAKI

BY ROBERT GARLAND

O Lord, my God, accept my prayer of thanks
That Thou hast placed me humbly in the ranks
Where I can do my part, all unafraid—
A simple soldier in Thy great crusade.

I pray thee, Lord, let others take command;
Enough for me, a rifle in my hand;
Thy blood-red banner ever leading me
Where I can fight for liberty and Thee.

Give others, God, the glory; mine the right
To stand beside my comrades in the fight,
To die, if need be, in some foreign land—
Absolved and solaced by a soldier’s hand.

O Lord, my God, pray harken to my prayer
And keep me ever humble, keep me where
The fight is thickest, where, ’midst steel and flame
Thy sons give battle, calling on Thy name.

—From the _Outlook_.

THE YANKEE MAN OF WAR

ANONYMOUS

’Tis of a gallant Yankee ship that flew the stripes and stars,
And the whistling wind from the west-nor’-west blew through the
pitch-pine spars;
With her starboard tacks aboard, my boys, she hung upon the gale;
On an autumn night we raised the light on the old Head of Kinsale.

It was a clear and cloudless night, and the wind blew, steady and strong,
As gayly over the sparkling deep our good ship bowled along;
With the foaming seas beneath her bow the fiery waves she spread,
And bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.

There was no talk of short’ning sail by him who walked the poop,
And under the press of her pond’ring jib, the boom bent like a hoop!
And the groaning water-ways told the strain that held her stout
main-tack,
But he only laughed as he glanced aloft at a white and silvery track.

The mid-tide meets in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore,
And the mist hung heavy upon the land from Featherstone to Dunmore,
And that sterling light in Tusker Rock where the old bell tolls each
hour,
And the beacon light that shone so bright was quench’d on Waterford
Tower.

What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?
’Tis time our good ship hauled her wind abreast the old Saltees,
For by her ponderous press of sail and by her consorts four
We saw our morning visitor was a British man-of-war.

Up spake our noble Captain then, as a shot ahead of us past—
“Haul snug your flowing courses! lay your topsail to the mast!”
Those Englishmen gave three loud hurrahs from the deck of their covered
ark
And we answered back by a solid broadside from the decks of our patriot
bark.

“Out booms! out booms!” our skipper cried, “out booms and give her
sheet,”
And the swiftest keel that was ever launched shot ahead of the British
fleet,
And amidst a thundering shower of shot, with stun’sails hoisting away,
Down the North Channel Paul Jones did steer just at the break of day.

WARREN’S ADDRESS

BY JOHN PIERPONT

Stand! The ground’s your own, my braves!
Will ye give it up to slaves?
Will ye look for greener graves?
Hope ye mercy still?
What’s the mercy despots feel?
Hear it in that battle peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it—ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you!—they’re afire!
And, before you, see
Who have done it! From the vale
On they come!—and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!
Die we may—and die we must;
But, oh, where can dust to dust
Be consign’d so well
As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyr’d patriot’s bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head
Of his deeds to tell?

THE FLAG GOES BY

BY HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT

Hats off!
Along the street there comes
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,
A flash of color beneath the sky:
Hats off!
The flag is passing by!

Blue and crimson and white it shines,
Over the steel-tipped ordered lines.
Hats off!
The colors before us fly;
But more than the flag is passing by:

Sea fights and land fights, grim and great,
Fought to make and to save the state;
Weary marches and sinking ships;
Cheers of victory on dying lips;

Days of plenty and years of peace;
March of a strong land’s swift increase;
Equal justice, right and law,
Stately honor and reverend awe;