Chapter III: Part II: The Summer Palace stood by night (1)

Lit up in dazzling sheen,

The doors unfolded, and the pomp

Stirred in between;

--To a burst of royal music

Came the Queen.

Her eyes like stars of speedwell

Shone down the great saloon;

She came, and all before her

Knew it was June;

The passing of her presence

Was too soon.

The little curls around her head

Were all her crown of gold,

Her delicate arms drooped downward

In slender mould,

As white-veined leaves of lilies

Curve and fold.

All in white,--not ivory

For young bloom past away,--

Blossom-white, rose-white,

White of the May;

'Twixt white dress and white neck,

Who could say?

She moved to measure of music,

As a swan sails the stream;

Where her looks fell was summer,

When she smiled was a dream;

All faces bowing towards her

Sunflowers seem.

O the rose upon her silent mouth,

The perfect rose that lies!

O the roses red, the roses deep,

Within her cheeks that rise!

O the rose of rapture of her face

To our eyes!

The tall fair Princes smile and sigh

For grace of one sweet glance,

The glittering dancers fill the floor,

The Queen leads the dance;

The dial-hands to midnight

Still advance.

Dance down to the melting music!

Hark to the viols' strain!

Their notes are piercing, piercing,

Again, again;

The pulse of the air is beating

Throbs of pain.

Does the dancing languish slower?

Oh, the soft flutes wail and sigh;

In silver falling and calling,

They seek reply;

And the heart is sinking, sinking,

Why, ah why?

Oh, the high harp-strings resounding!

So long, so clear they are:

A cry is ringing in heaven

From star to star,

Rising sharper and fainter

From afar.

The Queen has danced from end to end;

Oh, the candles burn so bright!

But her blue eyes look far away

Into the night;

And the roses on her cheeks and lips

Have grown white.

Oh, why is the Queen so pale to-night?

And why does silence fall,

As one by one they turn to her,

Upon them all?

Whence comes that cold wind shivering

Down the hall?

The hour draws close to midnight,

The banquet board is spread;

The lamps are lit, the guests are set,

The Queen at the head:

For the feasting at kings' tables

Grace be said!

The shaded light of rubies

Streams from every part

Down the golden supper;--

Who is sick at heart?

Oh, hush! for the Queen is listening,

Lips apart.

She sits with wide and open eyes,

The wine-cup in her hand;

And all the guests are ill at ease,

Nor understand;

Is it not some enchanted

Strange far land?

The twelve long strokes of midnight

With clash and clang affright;

The rose-glow seems to darken

Before their sight;

But the Queen has swooned back heavily,

Cold and white.

They lifted her, a burden

Like broken lily-flowers;

They laid her on her own bed,

Within her bowers;

They mourned, and they tended her,

For six hours.

At the first hour after midnight,

The Queen nor spoke nor stirred;

At the second, by her bedside,

No breath they heard;

They said, "Is she living?"

At the third.

At the fourth hour they watched sadly

At her feet and her head;

At the fifth, standing idle,

No word they said;

At the sixth, "Bring candles

For one dead."

Swept low down across the East,

Through the morning grey,

A flock of white clouds swiftly,

Dim, far away;

Like a flight of white wings:--

What were they?

Through the palace suddenly,

Through every floor,

Wailed a wind and whistled,

Shook every door,

Rattled through the windows,

Then passed o'er.

And as they stood with tapers tall

Around the Queen, there came

A soft and far-off fluttering

Over her frame,

And from between her sleeping lips,

One faint flame.

They take her hand, they call on her,

She answers them likewise;

She sits upright, she looks around,

With her blue eyes,

And a smile as of thy secrets,

Paradise!

Winter is here, and has not brought

The Traveller of renown;

Why has he not come back again

To court and town?

Rumours and questionings pass

Up and down.

Is it only the wolves of the Northland

Know where his bones lie white?

Only the swans could tell us,

In southward flight?

Is it only the wind could whisper

To the night?

The Queen sits still and smiling,

She hears the talk prevail,

She speaks no word, she gives no glance,

She tells no tale;

In the golden shadow always

She is pale.

---H. E. Hamilton-King.

LITTLE WILLIE

|Twas good St John's, and the mountain woods

Were gay with summer sheen,

A mother wept for her little Willie,

All in his grave so green.

'Twas Yule, and on the mountain-side

The wind was shrill and cold;

The mother wept for her little Willie,

Who lay within the mould.

O cold, cold is a winter grave,

O but a shroud is thin--

A wee hand tapp'd upon the door,

"O mother, let me in."

"I dare not let thee in, Willie,"

The sister up and said,

"For mother's away at Jane's lykewake,--

Go to thy graveyard bed."

"O cold and lonely is the night,

Madly the fierce winds rave;

How should I sleep?--The shroud is wet

That wraps me in the grave."

She sign'd the cross upon her brow,

The cross upon her breast,

With:--"Avoid thee, ghost, and aroint thee,

ghost,

And get thee to thy rest."

'Twas midnight, brightly glow'd the hearth,

The wind howl'd down the lin;

A wee hand tapp'd upon the door,

"O mother, let me in."

Up sprung the father to his feet,

And many a cross sign'd he,

With:--"Angels defend us from thee, child,

And from the like of thee."

"O cold, cold is the winter snow,

That drifts adown the steep,

But colder far this clammy shroud

Which will not let me sleep."

The wind had swept away the clouds,

But still its laugh was wild;

Before the father slept, he pray'd

The saints to ban his child.

Ah! who shall help a houseless soul?

What refuge shall it win?

Again the hand tapp'd on the door:

"O mother, let me in."

Quick was her ear to catch the cry,

Her foot upon the floor,

Her hand to draw away the bolt,

And open wide the door.

"Come in, come in, thou child of mine,

Right welcome unto me,

Come in, and warm thee in the breast

That erewhile suckled thee."

She took him up within her arms

Or ere a word was said,

She set him down before the hearth,

All wan and damp and dead.

"Cold was the snow that beat on me,

The grave that let me out,

O take away this wet wet shroud

That wraps me round about.

"Your tears fall on my face, mother,

Your tears fall on my feet,

Your tears drip through the coffin-lid

Upon my winding-sheet.

"Now weep no more for me, mother,

It lets me in my rest,

But wrap me in another shroud

And warm me in thy breast."

The sister peep'd from out her bed,

Her face was pale with fear,--

"O mother, give him nought of mine

Or I shall die this year."

Out spoke the father from his bed,

Harsh was his voice and wild,--

"O woman, take not aught of mine,

To wrap about the child."

A strange strange smile was on her lips,

But ne'er a word she said;

Her best seem'd hardly good enough

To wrap around the dead.

She bore him to and fro, and sang

Old songs and lullabies;

He laid his hands upon her cheeks

And smiled into her eyes.

'Twas good St John's, and the mountain woods

Were gay with summer sheen,

The mother slept with her little Willie

All in the grave so green.

----Charles Grant.

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT

|Twas the body of Judas Iscariot

Lay in the Field of Blood;

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot

Beside the body stood.

Black was the earth by night,

And black was the sky;

Black, black were the broken clouds,

Tho' the red moon went by.

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot

Strangled and dead lay there;

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot

Look'd on it in despair.

The breath of the world came and went

Like a sick man's in rest;

Drop by drop on the world's eyes

The dews fell cool and blest.

Then the soul of Judas Iscariot

Did make a gentle moan--

"I will bury underneath the ground

My flesh and blood and bone.

"I will bury deep beneath the soil,

Lest mortals look thereon,

And when the wolf and raven come

The body will be gone!

"The stones of the field are sharp as steel,

And hard and cold, God wot;

And I must bear my body hence

Until I find a spot!"

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,

So grim, and gaunt, and gray,

Raised the body of Judas Iscariot,

And carried it away.

And as he bare it from the field

Its touch was cold as ice,

And the ivory teeth within the jaw

Rattled aloud, like dice.

As the soul of Judas Iscariot

Carried its load with pain,

The Eye of Heaven, like a lanthorn's eye,

Opened and shut again.

Half he walk'd, and half he seem'd

Lifted on the cold wind;

He did not turn, for chilly hands

Were pushing from behind.

The first place that he came unto

It was the open wold,

And underneath were prickly whins,

And a wind that blew so cold.

The next place that he came unto

It was a stagnant pool,

And when he threw the body in

It floated light as wool.

He drew the body on his back,

And it was dripping chill,

And the next place he came unto

Was a Cross upon a hill.

A Cross upon the windy hill,

And a cross on either side,

Three skeletons that swing thereon,

Who had been crucified.

And on the middle cross bar sat

A white Dove slumbering;

Dim it sat in the dim light,

With its head beneath its wing.

And underneath the middle cross

A grave yawn'd wide and vast,

But the soul of Judas Iscariot

Shiver'd, and glided past.

The fourth place that he came unto

It was the Brig of Dread,

And the great torrents rushing down

Were deep, and swift, and red.

He dared not fling the body in

For fear of faces dim,

And arms were waved in the wild water

To thrust it back to him.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot

Turned from the Brig of Dread,

And the dreadful foam of the wild water

Had splashed the body red.

For days and nights he wandered on,

Upon an open plain,

And the days went by like blinding mist,

And the nights like rushing rain.

For days and nights he wandered on,

All thro' the Wood of Woe;

And the nights went by like moaning wind,

And the days like drifting snow.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot

Came with a weary face--

Alone, alone, and all alone,

Alone in a lonely place!

He wandered east, he wandered west,

And heard no human sound;

For months and years, in grief and tears,

He wandered round and round.

For months and years, in grief and tears,

He walked the silent night;

Then the soul of Judas Iscariot

Perceived a far-off light.

A far-off light across the waste,

As dim as dim might be,

That came and went like the lighthouse

gleam

On a black night at sea.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot

Crawl'd to the distant gleam;

And the rain came down, and the rain was

blown

Against him with a scream.

For days and nights he wandered on,

Push'd on by hands behind;

And the days went by like black, black rain,

And the nights like rushing wind.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,

Strange, and sad, and tall

Stood all alone at dead of night

Before a lighted hall.

And the wold was white with snow,

And his foot-marks black and damp,

And the ghost of the silvern moon arose,

Holding her yellow lamp.

And the icicles were on the eaves,

And the walls were deep with white,

And the shadows of the guests within

Pass'd on the window light.

The shadows of the wedding guests

Did strangely come and go,

And the body of Judas Iscariot

Lay stretch'd along the snow.

The body of Judas Iscariot

Lay stretched along the snow;

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot

Ran swiftly to and fro.

To and fro, and up and down,

He ran so swiftly there,

As round and round the frozen pole

Glideth the lean white bear.

'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head,

And the lights burnt bright and clear--

"Oh, who is that," the Bridegroom said,

"Whose weary feet I hear?"

'Twas one looked from the lighted hall.

And answered soft and slow,

"It is a wolf runs up and down

With a black track in the snow."

The Bridegroom in his robe of white

Sat at the table-head--

"Oh, who is that who moans without?"

The blessed Bridegroom said.

'Twas one looked from the lighted hall,

And answered fierce and low,

"'Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot

Gliding to and fro."

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot

Did hush itself and stand,

And saw the Bridegroom at the door

With a light in his hand.

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,

And he was clad in white,

And far within the Lord's Supper

Was spread so broad and bright.

The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and look'd,

And his face was bright to see--

"What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper

With thy body's sins?" said he.

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot

Stood black, and sad, and bare--

"I have wandered many nights and days:

There is no light elsewhere."

'Twas the wedding guests cried out within,

And their eyes were fierce and bright--

"Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot

Away into the night!"

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,

And he waved hands still and slow,

And the third time that he waved his hands

The air was thick with snow.

And of every flake of falling snow,

Before it touch'd the ground,

There came a dove, and a thousand doves

Made sweet sound.

'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot

Floated away full fleet,

And the wings of the doves that bare it off

Were like its winding-sheet.

'Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open

door,

And beckon'd, smiling sweet;

'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot

Stole in, and fell at his feet.

"The Holy Supper is spread within,

And the many candles shine,

And I have waited long for thee

Before I poured the wine!"

The supper wine is poured at last,

The lights burn bright and fair,

Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet

And dries them with his hair.

----R. Buchanan.

PHIL BLOOD'S LEAP

_A Tale of the Gold Seekers_.

|There's some think Injins p'ison."--(It was

Parson Pete who spoke,

As we sat there, in the camp-fire glare, like

shadows among the smoke.

'Twas the dead of night, and in the light our

faces burned bright red,

And the wind all round made a screeching sound,

and the pines roared overhead.

Ay, Parson Pete was talking; we called him

Parson Pete,

For you must learn he'd a talking turn, and

handled things so neat;

He'd a preaching style, and a winning smile, and,

when all talk was spent,

Six shooter had he, and a sharp bowie, to p'int

his argyment.

Some one had spoke of the Injin folk, and we

had a guess, you bet,

They might be creeping, while we were sleeping,

to catch us in the net;

And half were asleep and snoring deep, while

the others vigil kept,

But devil a one let go his gun, whether he woke

or slept.)

"There's some think Injins p'ison, and others

count'em scum,

And night and day they are melting away, clean

into Kingdom Come;

But don't you go and make mistakes, like many

derned fools I've known,

For dirt is dirt, and snakes is snakes, but an

Injin's flesh and bone!

We were seeking gold in the Texan hold, and

we'd had a blaze of luck,

More rich and rare the stuff ran there at every

foot we struck;

Like men gone wild we t'iled and t'iled, and

never seemed to tire,

The hot sun beamed, and our faces streamed

with the sweat of a mad desire.

I was captain then of the mining men, and I had

a precious life,

For a wilder set I never met at derringer and

knife;

Nigh every day there was some new fray, a

bullet in some one's brain,

And the viciousest brute to stab and to shoot,

was an Imp of Hell from Maine.

Phil Blood. Well, he was six foot three, with

a squint to make you skeer'd,

His face all scabb'd, and twisted and stabb'd,

with carroty hair and beard,

Sour as the drink in Bitter Chink, sharp as a

grizzly's squeal,

Limp in one leg, for a leaden egg had nick'd

him in the heel.

No beauty was he, but a sight to see, all stript

to the waist and bare,

With his grim-set jaws, and his panther-paws,

and his hawk's eye all aglare;

With pick and spade in sun and shade he labour'd

like darnation,

But when his spell was over,--well! he was

fond of his recreation!

And being a crusty kind of cuss, the only sport

he had,

When work was over, seemed to us a bit too

rough and bad;

For to put some lead in a comrade's head was

the greatest fun in life,

And the sharpest joke he was known to poke

was the p'int of his precious knife.

But game to the bone was Phil, I'll own, and

he always fought most fair,

With as good a will to be killed as kill, true

grit as any there:

Of honour too, like me or you, he'd a scent,

though not so keen,

Would rather be riddled thro' and thro', than do

what he thought mean.

But his eddication to his ruination had not been

over nice,

And his stupid skull was choking full of vulgar

prejudice;

With anything white he'd drink, or he'd fight in

fair and open fray;

But to murder and kill was his wicked will, if

an Injin came his way!

* A sarpent's hide has p'ison inside, and an

Injin's heart's the same,

If he seems your friend for to gain his end,

look out for the sarpent's game;

Of the snakes that crawl, the worst of all is the

snake in a skin of red,

A spotted Snake, and no mistake?' that's what

he always said.

Well, we'd jest struck our bit of luck, and were

wild as raving men,

When who should stray to our camp one day,

but Black Panther, the Cheyenne;

Drest like a Christian, all a-grin, the old one

joins our band,

And though the rest look'd black as sin, he

shakes _me_ by the hand.

Now, the poor old cuss had been good to us,

and I knew that he was true,--

I'd have trusted him with life and limb as soon

as I*d trust _you_;

For tho' his wit was gone a bit, and he drank

like any fish,

His heart was kind, he was well inclined, as

even a white could wish.

Food had got low, for we didn't know the run

of the hunting-ground,

And our hunters were sick, when, jest in the

nick, the friend in need was found;

For he knew the place like his mother's face (or

better, a heap, you'd say,

Since she was a squaw of the roaming race,

and himself a castaway).

Well, I took the Panther into camp, and the

critter was well content,

And off with him, on the hunting tramp, next

day our hunters went,

And I reckon that day and the next we didn't

want for food,

And only one in the camp looked vext--that

Imp of Hell, Phil Blood.

Nothing would please his contrairy ideas! an

Injin made him rile!

He didn't speak, but I saw on his cheek, a kind

of an ugly smile;

And I knew his skin was hatching sin, and I

kept the Panther apart,

For the Injin he was too blind to see the dirt

in a white man's heart!

Well, one fine day, we a-resting lay at noon-

time by the creek,

The red sun blazed, and we felt half-dazed, too

beat to stir or speak;

'Neath the alder trees we stretched at ease, and

we couldn't see the sky,

For the lian-flowers in bright blue showers

hung through the branches high.

It was like the gleam of a fairy-dream, and I

felt like earth's first Man,

In an Eden bower with the yellow flower of a

cactus for a fan;

Oranges, peaches, grapes, and figs, cluster'd,

ripen'd, and fell,

And the cedar scent was pleasant, blent with

the soothing 'cacia smell.

The squirrels red ran overhead, and I saw the

lizards creep,

And the woodpecker bright with the chest so

white tapt like a sound in sleep;

I dreamed and dozed, with eyes half-closed,

and felt like a three-year child,

And, a plantain blade on his brow for a shade,

even Phil Blood look'd mild.

Well, back, jest then, came our hunting men,

with the Panther at their head,

Full of his fun was every one, and the Panther's

eyes were red,

And he skipt about with grin and shout, for he'd

had a drop that day,

And he twisted and twirled, and squeal'd and

skirl'd, in the foolish Injin way.

To the waist all bare Phil Blood lay there, with

only his knife in his belt,

And I saw his bloodshot eye-balls stare, and I

knew how fierce he felt,--

When the Injin dances with grinning glances

around him as he lies,

With his painted skin and his monkey grin,--

and leers into his eyes!

Then before I knew what I should do Phil Blood

was on his feet,

And the Injin could trace the hate in his face,

and his heart began to beat,

And, "Git out o' the way," he heard them say,

"for he means to hev your life!"

But before he could fly at the warning cry, he

saw the flash of the knife.

"Run, Panther run!" cried each mother's son,

and the Panther took the track;

With a wicked glare, like a wounded bear, Phil

Blood sprang at his back.

Up the side so steep of the canon deep the poor

old critter sped,

And the devil's limb ran after him, till they

faded overhead.

Now, the spot of ground where our luck was

found, was a queerish place, you'll mark,

Jest under the jags of the mountain crags and

the precipices dark,

Far up on high, close to the sky, the two crags

leant together,

Leaving a gap, like an open trap, with a gleam

of golden weather.

A pathway led from the beck's dark bed up to

the crags on high,

And along that path the Injin fled, fast as a man

could fly.

Some shots were fired, for I desired to keep the

white beast back;

But I missed my man, and away he ran on the

flying Injin's track.

Now all below is thick, you know, with 'cacia,

alder, and pine,

And the bright shrubs deck the side of the

beck, and the lian flowers so fine,

For the forest creeps all under the steeps, and

feathers the feet of the crags

With boughs So thick that your path you pick,

like a steamer among the snags.

But right above you, the crags, Lord love you!

are bare as this here hand,

And your eyes you wink at the bright blue

chink, as looking up you stand,

If a man should pop in that trap at the top, he'd

never rest arm or leg,

Till neck and crop to the bottom he'd drop--

and smash on the stones like an egg!

'Come back, you cuss! come back to us! and

let the critter be!'

I screamed out loud, while the men in a crowd

stood grinning at them and me....

But up they went, and my shots were spent, and

at last they disappeared,--

One minute more, and we gave a roar, for the

Injin had leapt,--and _cleared!_

A leap for a deer, not a man, to clear,--and the

bloodiest grave below!

But the critter was smart and mad with fear,

and he went like a bolt from a bow!

Close after him came the devil's limb, with his

eyes as dark as death,

But when he came to the gulch's brim, I reckon

he paused for breath!

For breath at the brink! but--a white man

shrink, when a red had passed so neat?

I knew Phil Blood too well to think he'd turn

his back dead beat!

He takes one run, leaps up in the sun, and bounds

from the slippery ledge,

And he clears the hole, but--God help his soul!

just touches the tother edge!

One scrambling fall, one shriek, one call, from

the men that stand and stare,--

Black in the blue, where the sky looks thro', he

staggers, dwarfd up there;

The edge he touches, then sinks, and clutches

the rock--our eyes grow dim--

I turn away--what's that they say?--he's hang-

ing on to the brim!

... On the very brink of the fatal chink a

ragged shrub there grew,

And to that he clung, and in silence swung

betwixt us and the blue,

And as soon as a man could run I ran the way I

had seen them flee,

And I came mad-eyed to the chasm's side, and--

what do you think I see?

All up? Not quite. Still hanging? Right!

but he'd torn away the shrub;

With lolling tongue, he clutched and swung--

to what? Ay, that's the rub!

I saw him glare, and dangle in air,--for the

empty hole he trod--

Helped by a _pair of hands_ up there!--the InJin's?

Yes, by God!

Now, boys, look here! for many a year I've

roamed in this here land--

And many a sight both day and night I've seen

that I think grand;

Over the whole wide world I've been, and I

know both things and men,

But the biggest sight I've ever seen was the

sight I saw jest then.

I held my breath--so nigh to death Phil Blood

swung hand and limb,

And it seemed to us all that down he'd fall, with

the Panther after him,

But the Injin at length put out his strength--

and another minute past,--

Then safe and sound to the solid ground he

drew Phil Blood, at last!!

Saved? True for you, by an Injin too!--and the

man he meant to kill!

There, all alone, on the brink of stone, I see

them standing still;

Phil Blood gone white, with the struggle and

fright, like a great mad bull at bay,

And the Injin meanwhile, with a half skeer'd

smile, ready to spring away.

What did Phil do? Well I watched the two,

and I saw Phil Blood turn back,

Bend over the brink and take a blink right down

the chasm black,

Then stooping low for a moment or so, he

sheath'd his bowie bright,

Spat slowly down, and watch'd with a frown, as

the spittle sank from sight!

Hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, silent,

thoughtful, and grim,

While the Panther, grinning as he passed, still

kept his eyes on him,

Phil Blood strolled slow to his mates below,

down by the mountain track,

With his lips set tight, and his face all white,

and the Panther at his back.

I reckon they stared when the two appeared!

but never a word Phil spoke;

Some of them laughed and others jeered,--but

he let them have their joke;

He seemed amazed, like a man gone dazed, the

sun in his eyes too bright,

And for many a week, in spite of their cheek,

he never offered to fight.

And after that day he changed his play, and kept

a civiller tongue,

And whenever an Injin came that way, his con-

trary head he hung;

But whenever he heard the lying word, 'It's a

Lie!' Phil Blood would groan;

'_A Snake is a Snake, make no mistake! but an Injin's

flesh and bone!_'"

----R. Buchanan.

THE RED THREAD OF HONOUR

|Among the hills of India

Dwelt warriors fierce and bold,

The sons of robber chieftains

Who, in the days of old,

Fought for their mountain freedom,

And, if by Fate laid low,

Fell ever crowned with honour--

Their faces to the foe.

Now'twas an ancient custom

Among those hillsmen brave,

When thus they found their kinsman,

To dig for him no grave;

But the torn blood-stained garments

They stripped from off the dead,

And then his wrist they circled

With green or crimson thread.

Many the green-decked warriors,

But only for a few

Was kept that highest honour,

The thread of sanguine hue;

For'twas alone the bravest

Of those who nobly shed

Their life-blood in the battle

Whose wrists were bound with red.

And when they thus had graced them

Who fell before the foe,

They hurled their lifeless bodies

Into the plain below.

The earth did ne'er imprison

Those hillsmen brave and free,

The sky alone should cover

The warriors of Trukkee.

There came a time of conflict,

And a great armed throng

Of England's bravest soldiers,--

Avengers of the wrong,--

Marched through the gloomy gorges,

Forded the mountain rills,

Vowing that they would vanquish

Those robbers of the hills.

The road was strange and dubious;

Easy it was to stray;

And of those English soldiers

Eleven lost their way.

Led by a trusty leader,

They reached a fearful glen,

And saw a mountain stronghold

Guarded by forty men.

Guarded by forty veterans

Of that fierce robber band,

In every face defiance,

Weapons in every hand.

"Back!" cried the trusty leader;

The soldiers would not hear,

But up the foe-crowned mountain

Charged with their English cheer.

With loud huzzas they stormed it,

Nor thought to turn from death,

But for old England's honour

Yielded their latest breath.

Short was the fight but deadly,

For, when our last man fell,

But sixteen of that forty

Were left to tell the tale.

But those sixteen were noble--

They loved a brave deed done;

They knew a worthy foeman,

And treated him as one.

And when the English soldiers

Sought for their comrades slain,

They found their stiff stark corpses

Prostrate upon the plain:

They lay with blood-stained faces,

Fixed eyes, and firm-clenched fists,

But the Red Thread of Honour,

Was twined around their wrists.

----J. A. Noble.

TICONDEROGA

|This is the tale of the man

Who heard a word in the night

In the land of the heathery hills,

In the days of the feud and the fight.

By the sides of the rainy sea,

Where never a stranger came,

On the awful lips of the dead,

He heard the outlandish name.

It sang in his sleeping ears,

It hummed in his waking head:

The name--Ticonderoga,

The utterance of the dead.

I.

THE SAYING OF THE NAME.

On the loch-sides of Appin,

When the mist blew from the sea,

A Stewart stood with a Cameron:

An angry man was he.

The blood beat in his ears,

The blood ran hot to his head,

The mist blew from the sea

And there was the Cameron dead.

"O, what have I done to my friend,

O, what have I done to mysel',

That he should be cold and dead,

And I in the danger of all?

"Nothing but danger about me,

Danger behind and before,

Death at wait in the heather

In Appin and Mamore,

Hate at all of the ferries

And death at each of the fords,

Camerons priming gunlocks

And Camerons sharpening swords."

But this was a man of counsel,

This was a man of score,

There dwelt no pawkier Stewart

In Appin or Mamore.

He looked on the blowing mist,

He looked on the awful dead,

And there came a smile on his face,

And there slipped a thought in his head.

Out over cairn and moss,

Out over scrog and scaur,

He ran as runs the clansman

That bears the cross of war.

His heart beat in his body,

His hair clove to his face,

When he came at last in the gloaming

To the dead man's brother's place.

The east was white with the moon,

The west with the sun was red,

And there, in the house-doorway,

Stood the brother of the dead.

"I have slain a man to my danger,

I have slain a man to my death.

I put my soul in your hands,"

The panting Stewart saith.

"I lay it bare in your hands,

For I know your hands are leal;

And be you my targe and bulwark

From the bullet and the steel."

Then up and spake the Cameron,

And gave him his hand again:

"There shall never a man in Scotland

Set faith in me in vain;

And whatever man you have slaughtered,

Of whatever name or line,

By my sword and yonder mountain,

I make your quarrel mine.

I bid you in to my fireside,

I share with you house and hall;

It stands upon my honour

To see you safe from all."

It fell in the time of midnight,

When the fox barked in the den

And the plaids were over the faces

In all the houses of men,

That as the living Cameron

Lay sleepless on his bed,

Out of the night and the other world,

Came in to him the dead.

"My blood is on the heather,

My bones are on the hill;

There is joy in the home of ravens

That the young shall eat their fill.

My blood is poured in the dust,

My soul is spilled in the air;

And the man that has undone me

Sleeps in my brother's care."

"I'm wae for your death, my brother,

But if all of my house were dead,

I couldnae withdraw the plighted hand,

Nor break the word once said."

"O, what shall I say to our father,

In the place to which I fare?

O, what shall I say to our mother

Who greets to see me there?

And to all the kindly Camerons

That have lived and died long-syne--

Is this the word you send them

Fause-hearted brother mine?"

"It's neither fear nor duty,

It's neither quick nor dead

Shall gar me withdraw the plighted hand,

Or break the word once said."

Thrice in the time of midnight,

When the fox barked in the den,

And the plaids were over the faces

In all the houses of men,

Thrice as the living Cameron

Lay sleepless on his bed,

Out of the night and the other world

Came in to him the dead,

And cried to him for vengeance

On the man that laid him low;

And thrice the living Cameron

Told the dead Cameron, no.

"Thrice have you seen me, brother,

But now shall see me no more,

Till you meet your angry fathers

Upon the farther shore.

Thrice have I spoken, and now,

Before the cock be heard,

I take my leave for ever

With the naming of a word.

It shall sing in your sleeping ears,

It shall hum in your waking head,

The name--Ticonderoga,

And the warning of the dead."

Now when the night was over

And the time of people's fears,

The Cameron walked abroad,

And the word was in his ears.

"Many a name I know,

But never a name like this;

O, where shall I find a skilly man

Shall tell me what it is?"

With many a man he counselled

Of high and low degree,

With the herdsmen on the mountains

And the fishers of the sea.

And he came and went unweary,

And read the books of yore,

And the runes that were written of old,

On stones upon the moor.

And many a name he was told,

But never the name of his fears--

Never, in east or west,

The name that rang in his ears:

Names of men and of clans;

Names for the grass and the tree,

For the smallest tarn in the mountains,

The smallest reef in the sea:

Names for the high and low,

The names of the craig and the flat;

But in all the land of Scotland,

Never a name like that.

II.

THE SEEKING OF THE NAME.

And now there was speech in the south,

And a man of the south that was wise,

A periwig'd lord of London, *

Called on the clans to rise.

And the riders rode, and the summons

Came to the western shore,

To the land of the sea and the heather,

To Appin and Mamore.

It called on all to gather

From every scrog and scaur,

That loved their fathers' tartan

And the ancient game of war.

And down the watery valley

And up the windy hill,

Once more, as in the olden,

The pipes were sounding shrill;

Again in highland sunshine

The naked steel was bright;

And the lads, once more in tartan,

Went forth again to fight.

"O, why should I dwell here

With a weird upon my life,

When the clansmen shout for battle

And the war-swords clash in strife?

* The first Pitt.

I cannae joy at feast,

I cannae sleep in bed,

For the wonder of the word

And the warning of the dead.

It sings in my sleeping ears,

It hums in my waking head,

The name--Ticonderoga,

The utterance of the dead.

Then up, and with the fighting men

To march away from here,

Till the cry of the great war-pipe

Shall drown it in my ear!"

Where flew King George's ensign

The plaided soldiers went:

They drew the sword in Germany,

In Flanders pitched the tent.

The bells of foreign cities

Rang far across the plain:

They passed the happy Rhine,

They drank the rapid Main.

Through Asiatic jungles

The Tartans filed their way,

And the neighing of the war-pipes

Struck terror in Cathay.

"Many a name have I heard," he thought,

"In all the tongues of men,

Full many a name both here and there,

Full many both now and then.

When I was at home in my father's house

In the land of the naked knee,

Between the eagles that fly in the lift

And the herrings that swim in the sea,

And now that I am a captain-man

With a braw cockade in my hat--

Many a name have I heard," he thought,

"But never a name like that."

III.

THE PLACE OF THE NAME.

There fell a war in a woody place,

Lay far across the sea,

A war of the march in the mirk midnight,

And the shot from behind the tree,

The shaven head and the painted face,

The silent foot in the wood,

In a land of a strange, outlandish tongue

That was hard to be understood.

It fell about the gloaming

The general stood with his staff,

He stood and he looked east and west

With little mind to laugh.

"Far have I been and much have I seen,

And kent both gain and loss,

But here we have woods on every hand

And a kittle water to cross.

Far have I been and much have I seen,

But never the beat of this;

And there's one must go down to that

waterside

To see how deep it is."

It fell in the dusk of the night

When unco things betide,

The skilly captain, the Cameron,

Went down to that waterside.

Canny and soft the captain went;

And a man of the woody land,

With the shaven head and the painted face,

Went down at his right hand.

It fell in the quiet night,

There was never a sound to ken;

But all of the woods to the right and the left

Lay filled with the painted men.

"Far have I been and much have I seen,

Both as a man and as boy,

But never have I set forth a foot

On so perilous an employ."

It fell in the dusk of the night

When unco things betide,

That he was aware of a captain-man

Drew near to the waterside.

He was aware of his coming

Down in the gloaming alone;

And he looked in the face of the man

And lo! the face was his own.

"This is my weird," he said,

"And now I ken the worst;

For many shall fall the morn,

But I shall fall with the first.

O, you of the outland tongue,

You of the painted face,

This is the place of my death;

Can you tell me the name of the place?"

"Since the Frenchmen have been here

They have called it Sault-Marie;

But that is a name for priests,

And not for you and me.

It went by another word,"

Quoth he of the shaven head:

"It was called Ticonderoga

In the days of the great dead."

And it fell on the morrow's morning,

In the fiercest of the fight,

That the Cameron bit the dust

As he foretold at night;

And far from the hills of heather,

Far from the isles of the sea,

He sleeps in the place of the name

As it was doomed to be.

----R. L. Stevenson.

HEATHER ALE

|From the bonny bells of heather

They brewed a drink long-syne,

Was sweeter far than honey,

Was stronger far than wine.

They brewed it and they drank it,

And lay in a blessed swound

For days and days together

In their dwellings underground.

There rose a king in Scotland,

A fell man to his foes,

He smote the Piets in battle,

He hunted them like roes.

Over miles of the red mountain

He hunted as they fled,

And strewed the dwarfish bodies

Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country,

Red was the heather bell;

But the manner of the brewing

Was none alive to tell.

In graves that were like children's

On many a mountain head,

The Brewsters of the Heather

Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland

Rode on a summer's day;

And the bees hummed, and the curlews

Cried beside the way.

The king rode, and was angry,

Black was his brow and pale,

To rule in a land of heather

And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals,

Riding free on the heath,

Came on a stone that was fallen

And vermin hid beneath.

Rudely plucked from their hiding,

Never a word they spoke:

A son and his aged father--

Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger,

He looked on the little men;

And the dwarfish and swarthy couple

Looked at the king again.

Down by the shore he had them;

And there on the giddy brink--

"I will give you life, ye vermin,

For the secret of the drink."

There stood the son and father

And they looked high and low;

The heather was red around them,

The sea rumbled below.

And up and spoke the father,

Shrill was his voice to hear:

"I have a word in private,

A word for the royal ear.

"Life is dear to the aged,

And honour a little thing;

I would gladly sell the secret,"

Quoth the Piet to the King.

His voice was small as a sparrow's,

And shrill and wonderful clear:

"I would gladly sell my secret,

Only my son I fear.

"For life is a little matter,

And death is nought to the young;

And I dare not sell my honour

Under the eye of my son.

Take _him_, O king, and bind him,

And cast him far in the deep;

And it's I will tell the secret

That I have sworn to keep."

They took the son and bound him,

Neck and heels in a thong,

And a lad took him and swung him,

And flung him far and strong,

And the sea swallowed his body,

Like that of a child of ten;--

And there on the cliff stood the father,

Last of the dwarfish men.

"True was the word I told you:

Only my son I feared;

For I doubt the sapling courage

That goes without the beard.

But now in vain is the torture,

Fire shall never avail:

Here dies in my bosom

The secret of Heather Ale."

----R. L. Stevenson.

CAPTAIN GOLD AND FRENCH JANET

|The first letter our Captain wrote

To the Lord of Mantua:

"Did you ever see French Janet

(He wrote) on any day?

"Did ye ever see French Janet,

That was so blithe and coy?

The little serving-lass I stole

From the mountains of Savoy.

"Last week I lost French Janet:

Hunt for her up and down;

And send her back to me, my Lord,

From the four walls o* the town."

Captain Gold and French Janet,

For thirty days and thirty nights

There came no news to us.

Suddenly old grew Captain Gold,

And his voice grew tremulous.

O Mantua's a bonny town,

And she's long been our ally;

But help came none from Mantua-town,

Dim grew our Captain's eye.

"O send me Janet home again!"

Our Captain wrote anew;

"A lass is but a paltry thing,

And yet my heart's in two!

"Ha' ye searched through every convent-

close,

And sought in every den?

Mistress o' man, or bride of Christ,

I'll have her back again!"

O Mantua's a bonny town,

And she's long been our ally;

But help came none from Mantua-town,

And sick at heart am I.

For thirty days and thirty nights

No news came to the camp;

And the life waned old in Captain Gold,

As the oil wanes in a lamp.

The third moon swelled towards the full

When the third letter he wrote:

"What will ye take for Janet?

Red gold to fill your moat?

"Red wine to fill your fountains full?

Red blood to wash your streets?

Ah, send me Janet home, my Lord,

Or ye'll no die in your sheets!"

O Love, that makes strong towers to

sway,

And captains' hearts to fall!

I feared they might have heard his sobs

Right out to Mantua-wall.

For thirteen days and thirteen nights

No messenger came back;

And when the morning rose again,

Our tents were hung with black.

The dead bell rang through all the camp;

But we rung it low and dim,

Lest the Lombard hounds in Mantua

Should know the end of him.

----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).

SIR ELDRIC

|Sir Eldric rode by field and fen

To reach the haunts of heathen men.

About the dusk he came unto

A wood of birchen gray,

And on the other side he knew

The heathen country lay.

"'Tis but a night," he sang, "to ride,

And Christ shall reach the other side."

The moon came peering through the trees,

And found him undismayed;

For still he sang his litanies,

And as he rode he prayed.

He looked as young and pure and glad

As ever looked Sir Galahad.

About the middle of the night

He came upon the brink

Of running waters clear and white,

And lighted there to drink.

And as he knelt a hidden foe

Crept from behind and smote him so.

He turned; he felt his heart's blood run;

He sought his enemy:

"And shall I leave my deeds undone,

And die for such as thee?"

And since a knight was either man,

They wrestled till the dawn began.

Then in the dim and rustling place,

Amid the thyme and dew,

Sir Eldric dealt the stroke of grace,

And sank a-dying too,

And thought upon that other's plight

Who was not sure of Heaven to-night.

He dipped his fingers in his breast;

He sought in vain to rise;

He leaned across his foe at rest,

And murmured, "I baptise!"

When lo! the sun broke overhead:

There, at his side, Himself lay dead!

----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).

THE MOWERS

|They were three bonny mowers,

Were mowing half the day;

They were three bonny lasses

A-making of the hay.

"Who'll go and fetch the basket?"

"Not I." "Nor I." "Nor I."

They had no time for falling out

Ere Nancibel came by.

"What's in your basket, Nancibel?"

"There's cakes and currant wine,

There's venison and good cider, lads;

Come quickly, come and dine."

They were two bonny mowers

Fell to among the best;

The youngest sits a-fasting,

His head upon his breast.

"What ails ye, bonny mower,

You sit so mournfully?"

"Alas! what ails me, Nancibel?

'Tis all the love of thee."

"Now laugh and quaff, my bonny lad,

And think no more o' me.

My lover is a finer man

Than any twain o' ye.

"He's bought for me a kirtle,

He's bought for me a coat,

Of three-and-thirty colours,

Wi' tassels at the throat.

"And twenty Maids of Honour

They stitched at it a year,

And sewed in all their needlework

The kisses of my dear!"

----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).

THE TOWER OF ST MAUR

|Where's my little son, Nourrice,

And whither is he gone?

The youngest son of all I have,

He should not gang alone."

"The child is safe enough, lady;

He's barely gone an hour:

He's gone to see the mason-men,

Are building at the tower."

"You should have kept him here, Nourrice,

If I was sleeping then--

He's over young to gang alone

Among the mason-men."

"Lie still, lie still, my sweet lady,

There's nought to sorrow for;

The child is safe enough, I think,

I' the keeping of St Maur!"

An hour's gone by, an hour or two,

And still they're out-of-door--

"I wish they'd come at last, Nourrice,

My heart is sick and sore."

"Now hush, lady, my sweet lady,

The moon's still small and young;

If they're home before the curfew bell

They'll not ha' stayed too long."

St Maur has ta'en his youngest son,

To the riverside they're gone,

To see the busy mason-men

Building a tower of stone.

"O why do they build the tower so strong

Against the riverside?

I never saw the wall, father,

That was so strong and wide."

"God knows the tower had need be strong

Between my foes and thee!

Should once Lord Armour enter, child,

An ill death would ye dee."

"We need not fear Lord Armour, father,

Nor any of his kin;

Since God has given us such a wall,

They cannot enter in."

"O twice, my babe, and thrice, my babe,

Ere ever that I was born,

Lord Armour's men have entered in

Betwixt the night and the morn.

"And once I found my nurse's room

Was red with bloody men...

I would not have thy mother die

As died my mother then.

"And 'tis not seven nights ago

I heard, clear in a dream,

The bugle cry of Armour,

Shrill over wood and stream."

"But if so foul a raid, father,

Fell out so long agone,

Why did they never build before

A wall and tower of stone?"

"Many's the time, my pretty babe,

Ere ever this way you went,

We built the tower both thick and broad--

An' we might as well ha' stent.

"Many's the time we built the tower,

Wi' the grey stone and the brown.

But aye the floods in autumn

Washed all the building down.

"And in my mind I see the morn

When we'll be brought to dee--

Yoursel' and your seven brothers,

And your young mother, and me.

"And oh, were it any but Armour,

Oh God, were it any but she--

Before the Lord, my eyes grow dark

With the ill sight that I see."

Among the busy mason-men,

Are building at the tower,

There's a swarthy gipsy mason,

A lean man and a dour.

He's lain the hammer down at last

Out of his bony hand...

"Did ye never hear the spell, St Maur,

Gars any tower to stand?"

"O what's the spell, thou black gipsy,

I prithee rede it now:

There never was any mason-man

Shall earn such wage as thou."

"I dared not speak the spell, St Maur,

Lest you should do me an ill,

For a cruel spell, and an evil spell,

Is the spell that works your will."

"There's no spell but I'll risk it, man,

An' the price were half my lands--

To keep my wife and children safe

Out of Lord Armour's hands."

"O, more than lands, and more than fee,

You'll pay me for the spell----"

"An' the price were half my heart's red

blood,

I'd pay it down as well."

"O what's the blood of a sinful heart

To bind the stones that fall?

St Maur, you'll build your christened child

Alive into the wall."

St Maur has turned on his heel so light,

And angry he turns away:

"Gang to the devil another time

When ye ask what ye ask to-day."

He's ta'en his young son by the hand--

He's opened wide the gate,

"Your mother's been sick a month by now,

And she'll mourn sore if we're late."

They had not gone a little way,

An' the child began to call--

"See how the flood runs high, father,

And washes at the wall!"

They had not gone a mickle way,

St Maur began to brood,

"'Tis the bugle cry of Armour,

Shrill over stream and wood."

"And must they slay me, father dear,

And my seven brothers tall?"

"Gin that's the blast of Armour, laddie,

I fear they'll slay us all,"

"And will they slay my mother, then,

That looks so bonny and small?"

"Come back, come back, thou little lad