Chapter V: Preface (5)

"Your majesty," the widow said,
"I can't deny the truth;
I love the Lord--my Lord and yours--
And so in simple sooth,
I broke your Majesty's command
(I crave your royal ruth).

"And since I had no money, Sire,
Why, I could only pray
That God would bless your Majesty;'
And when along the way
The horses drew the stones, I gave
To one a wisp of hay!"

"Ah! now I see," the king exclaimed,
"Self-glory was my aim:
The woman gave for love of God,
And not for worldly fame--
'Tis my command the tablet bear
The pious widow's name!"

THE CAPTAIN OF THE NORTHFLEET,

BY GERALD MASSEY.

So often is the proud deed done
By men like this at Duty's call;
So many are the honours won
For us, we cannot wear them all!

They make the heroic common-place,
And dying thus the natural way;
And yet, our world-wide English race
Feels nobler, for that death, To-day!

It stirs us with a sense of wings
That strive to lift the earthiest soul;
It brings the thoughts that fathom things
To anchor fast where billows roll.

Love was so new, and life so sweet,
But at the call he left the wine,
And sprang full-statured to his feet,
Responsive to the touch divine.

"_ Nay, dear, I cannot see you die.
For me, I have my work to do
Up here. Down to the boat. Good-bye,
God bless you. I shall see it through_."

We read, until the vision dims
And drowns; but, ere the pang be past,
A tide of triumph overbrims
And breaks with light from heaven at last.

Through all the blackness of that night
A glory streams from out the gloom;
His steadfast spirit lifts the light
That shines till Night is overcome.

The sea will do its worst, and life
Be sobbed out in a bubbling breath;
But firmly in the coward strife
There stands a man who has conquered Death!

A soul that masters wind and wave,
And towers above a sinking deck;
A bridge across the gaping grave;
A rainbow rising o'er the wreck.

Others he saved; he saved the name
Unsullied that he gave his wife:
And dying with so pure an aim,
He had no need to save his life!

Lord! how they shame the life we live,
These sailors of our sea-girt isle,
Who cheerily take what Thou mayst give,
And go down with a heavenward smile!

The men who sow their lives to yield
A glorious crop in lives to be:
Who turn to England's harvest-field
The unfruitful furrows of the sea.

With such a breed of men so brave,
The Old Land has not had her day;
But long her strength, with crested wave,
Shall ride the Seas, the proud old way.

THE HAPPIEST LAND.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

There sat one day in quiet,
By an alehouse on the Rhine,
Four hale and hearty fellows,
And drank the precious wine.

The landlord's daughter filled their cups
Around the rustic board;
Then sat they all so calm and still,
And spake not one rude word.

But when the maid departed,
A Swabian raised his hand,
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,
"Long live the Swabian land!

"The greatest kingdom upon earth
Cannot with that compare;
With all the stout and hardy men
And the nut-brown maidens there."

"Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing,--
And dashed his beard with wine;
"I had rather live in Lapland,
Than that Swabian land of thine!

"The goodliest land on all this earth
It is the Saxon land!
There have I as many maidens
As fingers on this hand!"

"Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!"
A bold Bohemian cries;
"If there's a heaven upon this earth,
In Bohemia it lies:

"There the tailor blows the flute,
And the cobbler blows the horn,
And the miner blows the bugle,
Over mountain gorge and bourn!"

* * * * *

And then the landlord's daughter
Up to heaven raised her hand,
And said, "Ye may no more contend--
There lies the happiest land."

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

September 24th, 1857.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

Pipes of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills!
Not the braes of broom and heather,
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower
Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the lowland reaper,
And plaided mountaineer,--
To the cottage and the castle
The Scottish pipes are dear;--
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch
O'er mountain, loch, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger
Louder yelled and nearer crept;
Round and round the jungle serpent
Near and nearer circles swept.
"Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,--
Pray to-day!" the soldier said;
"To-morrow, death's between us
And the wrong and shame we dread."

Oh! they listened, looked, and waited,
Till their hope became despair;
And the sobs of low bewailing
Filled the pauses of their prayer.
Then up spake a Scottish maiden,
With her ear unto the ground:
"Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it?
The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Hushed the wounded man his groaning;
Hushed the wife her little ones;
Alone they heard the drum-roll
And the roar of Sepoy guns.
But to sounds of home and childhood
The Highland ear was true;
As her mother's cradle crooning
The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music
Through the vision of the seer,--
More of feeling than of hearing,
Of the heart than of the ear,--
She knew the droning pibroch
She knew the Campbell's call:
"Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,--
The grandest o' them all."

Oh! they listened, dumb and breathless,
And they caught the sound at last;
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee
Rose and fell the piper's blast!
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving
Mingled woman's voice and man's;
"God be praised!--the march of Havelock!
The piping of the clans!"

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,
Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,
Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,
Stinging all the air to life.
But when the far-off dust cloud
To plaided legions grew,
Full tenderly and blithsomely
The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow,
Moslem mosque and pagan shrine,
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,
The air of Auld Lang Syne;
O'er the cruel roll of war-drums
Rose that sweet and homelike strain;
And the tartan clove the turban,
As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper,
And plaided mountaineer,--
To the cottage and the castle
The piper's song is dear;
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch
O'er mountain, glen, and glade,
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played!

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.--

Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.--

But the might of England flush'd
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rush'd
O'er the deadly space between.
"Hearts of Oak!" our captains cried; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.

Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;--
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--
Then ceased--and all is wail,
As they strike the shatter'd sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.--

Out spoke the victor then,
As he hail'd them o'er the wave;
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save:--
So peace instead of death let us bring:
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king."--

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As Death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun look'd smiling bright
O'er a wild and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,--
With the gallant good Riou,
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the hollow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!

THE GRAVE SPOILERS.

BY HERCULES ELLIS.

They dragged our heroes from the graves,
In which their honoured dust was lying;
They dragged them forth--base, coward slaves
And hung their bones on gibbets flying.
Ireton, our dauntless Ironside,
And Bradshaw, faithful judge, and fearless,
And Cromwell, Britain's chosen guide,
In fight in faith, and council, peerless.
The bravest of our glorious brave!
The tyrant's terror in his grave.

In felon chains, they hung the dead--
The noble dead, in glory lying:
Before whose living face they fled,
Like chaff before the tempest flying.
They fled before them, foot and horse,
In craven flight their safety seeking;
And now they gloat around each corse,
In coward scoff their hatred wreaking.
Oh! God, that men could own, as kings,
Such paltry, dastard, soulless things.

Their dust is scattered o'er the land
They loved, and freed, and crowned with glory;
Their great names bear the felon's brand;
'Mongst murderers is placed their story.
But idly their grave-spoilers thought,
Disgrace, which fled in life before them,
By craven judges could be brought,
To spread in death, its shadow o'er them.
For chain, nor judge, nor dastard king,
Can make disgrace around them cling.

Their dry bones rattle in the wind,
That sweeps the land they died in freeing;
But the brave heroes rest enshrined,
In cenotaphs of God's decreeing:
Embalmed in every noble breast,
Inscribed on each brave heart their story,
All honoured shall the heroes rest,
Their country's boast--their race's glory.
On every tongue shall be their name;
In every land shall live their fame.

But fouler than the noisome dust,
That reeks your rotting bones encasing,
Shall be your fame, ye sons of lust,
And sloth, and every vice debasing!
Insulters of the glorious dead,
While honour in our land is dwelling,
Above your tombs shall Britons tread,
And cry, while scorn each breast is swelling--
"HERE LIE THE DASTARD, CAITIFF SLAVES,
WHO DRAGGED OUR HEROES FROM THEIR GRAVES."

BOW-MEETING SONG.

BY REGINALD HEBER.

Ye spirits of our fathers,
The hardy, bold, and free,
Who chased o'er Cressy's gory field
A fourfold enemy!
From us who love your sylvan game,
To you the song shall flow,
To the fame of your name
Who so bravely bent the bow.

'Twas merry then in England
(Our ancient records tell),
With Robin Hood and Little John
Who dwelt by down and dell;
And yet we love the bold outlaw
Who braved a tyrant foe,
Whose cheer was the deer,
And his only friend the bow.

'Twas merry then in England
In autumn's dewy morn,
When echo started from her hill
To hear the bugle-horn.
And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth
In garb of green did go
The shade to invade
With the arrow and the bow.

Ye spirits of our fathers!
Extend to us your care,
Among your children yet are found
The valiant and the fair,
'Tis merry yet in Old England,
Full well her archers know,
And shame on their name
Who despise the British bow!

THE BALLAD OF ROU.

BY LORD LYTTON.

From Blois to Senlis, wave by wave, rolled on the Norman flood, And Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering tide of blood; There was not left in all the land a castle wall to fire, And not a wife but wailed a lord, a child but mourned a sire. To Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailèd barons flew, While, shaking earth, behind them strode, the thunder march of Rou.

"O king," then cried those barons bold, "in vain are mace and mail, We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the flail." "And vainly," cry the pious monks, "by Mary's shrine we kneel, For prayers, like arrows glance aside, against the Norman steel." The barons groaned, the shavelings wept, while near and nearer drew, As death-birds round their scented feast, the raven flags of Rou.

Then said King Charles, "Where thousands fail, what king can stand alone? The strength of kings is in the men that gather round the throne. When war dismays my barons bold, 'tis time for war to cease; When Heaven forsakes my pious monks the will of Heaven is peace. Go forth, my monks, with mass and rood the Norman camp unto, And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this grisly Rou.

"I'll give him all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him fast and sure; Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe the heathen sword, And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles his lord." Forth went the pastors of the Church, the Shepherd's work to do, And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins of Rou.

Psalm-chanting came the shaven monks, within the camp of dread; Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by a head. Out spoke the Frank archbishop then, a priest devout and sage, "When peace and plenty wait thy word, what need of war and rage? Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue, Which might be thine to sow and reap?--Thus saith the king to Rou:

"'I'll give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure, And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee fast and sure; If thou but kneel to Christ our God, and sheathe thy paynim sword, And hold thy land, the Church's son, a fief from Charles thy lord.'" The Norman on his warriors looked--to counsel they withdrew; The Saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou.

So back he strode, and thus he spoke, to that archbishop meek, "I take the land thy king bestows, from Eure to Michael-peak, I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the coast, And for thy creed,--a sea-king's gods are those that give the most. So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer true, And he shall find a docile son, and ye a saint in Rou."

So o'er the border stream of Epte came Rou the Norman, where, Begirt with barons, sat the king, enthroned at green St. Clair; He placed his hand in Charles's hand,--loud shouted all the throng, But tears were in King Charles's eyes--the grip of Rou was strong. "Now kiss the foot," the bishop said, "that homage still is due;" Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert Rou.

He takes the foot, as if the foot to slavish lips to bring; The Normans scowl; he tilts the throne and backward falls the king. Loud laugh the joyous Norman men.--pale stare the Franks aghast; And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs up the mast: "I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal too; The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss!" said Rou.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers-- There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my Brothers and Companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground. That we fought the battle bravely--and, when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,-- The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars! But some were young,--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,-- And one there came from Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my Mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would--but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage-wall at Bingen,--calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my Sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too,--and not afraid to die. And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honour of old Bingen,--dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another--not a Sister,--in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye: Too innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;-- Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her, the last night of my life--(for, ere this moon be risen, My body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with _her_, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along--I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear! And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path belov'd of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine... But we'll meet no more at Bingen,--loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarser,--his grasp was childish weak,-- His eyes put on a dying look,--he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, ... but the spark of life had fled! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

DEEDS NOT WORDS.

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT.

The Captain stood on the carronade--first lieutenant, says he, Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me; I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons--because I'm bred to the sea; That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we.

Odds blood, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea,
I've fought 'gainst every odds--but I've gained the victory.

That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take _she_, 'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture _we_; I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun, If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son.

Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea,
I've fought 'gainst every odds--and I've gained the victory.

We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enough I little thought, he said, that your men were of such stuff; The Captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made to he; I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I wish to be.

Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea,
I've fought 'gainst every odds--and I've gained the victory.

Our Captain sent for all of us; my merry men said he, I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be: You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun; If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged each mother's son.

Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm at sea,
I'll fight 'gainst every odds--and I'll gain the victory.

OLD KING COLE.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
A merry old soul was he!
He would call for his pipe, he would call for his glass,
He would call for his fiddlers three;
With loving care and reason rare,
He ruled his subjects true--
Who used to sing, "Long live the King!"
And He--"the people too!"

Old King Cole was a musical soul,
A musical soul was he!
He used to boast what pleased him most
Was nothing but fiddle-de-dee!
But his pipe and his glass he loved--alas!
As much as his fiddlers three,
And by time he was done with the other and the one,
He was pretty well done, was he!

Old King Cole was a kingly soul,
A kingly soul was he!
He governed well, the records tell,
The brave, the fair, the free;
He used to say, by night and day,
"I rule by right divine!
My subjects free belong to me,
And all that's theirs is mine!"

Old King Cole was a worthy soul,
A worthy soul was he!
From motives pure he tried to cure
All greed and vanity;
So if he found--the country round
A slave to gold inclined,
He would take it away, and bid him pray
For a more contented mind.

Old King Cole was a good old soul,
A good old soul was he!
And social life from civil strife
He guarded royally,
For when he caught the knaves who fought
O'er houses, land, or store,
He would take it himself, whether kind or pelf,
That they shouldn't fall out any more.

Old King Cole was a thoughtful soul,
A thoughtful soul was he!
And he said it may be, if they all agree,
They may all disagree with me.
I must organise routs and tournament bouts,
And open a Senate, said he;
Play the outs on the ins and the ins on the outs,
And the party that wins wins me.

So Old King Cole, constitutional soul,
(Constitutional soul was he)!
With royal nous, a parliament house
He built for his people free.
And they talked all day and they talked all night,
And they'd die, but they wouldn't agree
Until black was white, and wrong was right,
And he said, "It works to a T."

Old King Cole was a gay old soul,
A gay old soul was he!
If he chanced to meet a maiden sweet,
He'd be sure to say "kitchi kitchi kee;"
And then if her papa, her auntie or mamma,
Should suddenly appear upon the scene,
He would put the matter straight with an office in the state
If they'd promise not to go and tell the queen.

Old Queen Cole was a dear old soul,
A dear old soul was she!
Her hair was as red as a rose--'tis said--
Her eyes were as green as a pea;
At beck and call for rout and ball,
She won the world's huzzahs.
At fêtes and plays and matinees
Receptions and bazaars.

When Old King Cole, with his pipe and bowl,
At a smoking concert presided,
His queen would be at a five-o'clock tea,
At the palace where she resided;
And so they governed, ruled, and reigned,
O'er subjects great and small,
And never was heard a seditious word
In castle, cot, or hall.

THE GREEN DOMINO.

In the latter part of the reign of Louis XV. of France the masquerade was an entertainment in high estimation, and was often given, at an immense cost, on court days, and such occasions of rejoicing. As persons of all ranks might gain admission to these spectacles, provided they could afford the purchase of the ticket, very strange _rencontres_ frequently took place at them, and exhibitions almost as curious, in the way of disguise or assumption of character. But perhaps the most whimsical among the genuine surprises recorded at any of these spectacles was that which occurred in Paris on the 15th of October, on the day when the Dauphin (son of Louis XV.) attained the age of one-and-twenty.

At this fête, which was of a peculiarly glittering character--so much so, that the details of it are given at great length by the historians of the day--the strange demeanour of a man in a green domino, early in the evening, excited attention. This mask, who showed nothing remarkable as to figure--though tall, rather, and of robust proportion--seemed to be gifted with an _appetite_, not merely past human conception, but passing the fancies of even romance.

The dragon of old, who churches ate
(He used to come on a Sunday),
Whole congregations were to him
But a dish of Salmagundi,--

he was but a nibbler--a mere fool--to this stranger of the green domino. He passed from chamber to chamber--from table to table of refreshments--not tasting, but devouring--devastating--all before him. At one board he despatched a fowl, two-thirds of a ham, and half-a-dozen bottles of champagne; and, the very next moment, he was found seated in another apartment performing the same feat, with a stomach better than at first. This strange course went on until the company (who at first had been amused by it) became alarmed and tumultuous.

"Is it the same mask--or are there several dressed alike?" demanded an officer of guards as the green domino rose from a seat opposite to him and quitted the apartment.

"I have seen but one--and, by Heaven, here he is again," exclaimed the party to whom the query was addressed.

The green domino spoke not a word, but proceeded straight to the vacant seat which he had just left, and again commenced supping, as though he had fasted for the half of a campaign.

At length the confusion which this proceeding created became universal; and the cause reached the ear of the Dauphin.

"He is the very devil, your highness!" exclaimed an old nobleman--"saving your Highness's presence--or wants but a tail to be so!"

"Say, rather he should be some famished poet, by his appetite," replied the Prince, laughing. "But there must be some juggling; he spills all his wine, and hides the provisions under his robe."

Even while they were speaking, the green domino entered the room in which they were talking, and, as usual, proceeded to the table of refreshments.

"See here, my lord!" cried one--"I have seen him do this thrice!"

"I, twice!"--"I, five times!"--"and I, fifteen."

This was too much. The master of the ceremonies was questioned. He knew nothing--and the green domino was interrupted as he was carrying a bumper of claret to his lips.

"The Prince's desire is, that Monsieur who wears the green domino should unmask." The stranger hesitated.

"The command with which his Highness honours Monsieur is perfectly absolute."

Against that which is absolute there is no contending. The green man threw off his mask and domino; and proved to be a private trooper of the Irish dragoons!

"And in the name of gluttony, my good friend (not to ask how you gained admission), how have you contrived," said the Prince, "to sup to-night so many times?"

"Sire, I was but beginning to sup, with reverence be it said, when your royal message interrupted me."

"Beginning!" exclaimed the Dauphin in amazement; "then what is it I have heard and seen? Where are the herds of oxen that have disappeared, and the hampers of Burgundy? I insist upon knowing how this is!"

"It is Sire," returned the soldier, "may it please your Grace, that the troop to which I belong is to-day on guard. We have purchased one ticket among us, and provided this green domino, which fits us all. By which means the whole of the front rank, being myself the last man, have supped, if the truth must be told, at discretion; and the leader of the rear rank, saving your Highness's commands, is now waiting outside the door to take his turn."

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"
That is what the vision said.

In his chamber all alone,
Kneeling on the floor of stone,
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition
For his sins of indecision,
Prayed for greater self-denial
In temptation and in trial;
It was noonday by the dial,
And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lightened,
An unwonted splendour brightened
All within him and without him
In that narrow cell of stone;
And he saw the Blessed Vision
Of our Lord, with light Elysian
Like a vesture wrapped about Him,
Like a garment round Him thrown.
Not as crucified and slain,
Not in agonies of pain,
Not with bleeding hands and feet,
Did the Monk his Master see;
But as in the village street,
In the house or harvest-field,
Halt and lame and blind He healed,
When He walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring,
Hands upon his bosom crossed,
Wondering, worshipping, adoring,
Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.
"Lord," he thought, "in Heaven that reignest,
Who am I that thus Thou deignest
To reveal Thyself to me?
Who am I, that from the centre
Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter
This poor cell my guest to be?"

Then amid his exaltation,
Loud the convent-bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor,
With persistent iteration
He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour
When alike, in shine or shower,
Winter's cold or summer's heat,
To the convent portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood;
And their almoner was he
Who upon his bended knee,
Wrapt in silent ecstasy
Of divinest self-surrender,
Saw the Vision and the splendour.

Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration;
Should he go or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait
Hungry at the convent gate
Till the Vision passed away?
Should he slight his heavenly guest,
Slight this visitant celestial,
For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent gate?
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?

Then a voice within his breast
Whispered, audible and clear,
As if to the outward ear:
"Do thy duty; that is best;
Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

Straightway to his feet he started,
And, with longing look intent
On the Blessed Vision bent,
Slowly from his cell departed,
Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating,
With that terror in the eye
That is only seen in those
Who amid their wants and woes
Hear the sound of doors that close
And of feet that pass them by;
Grown familiar with disfavour,
Grown familiar with the savour
Of the bread by which men die!
But to-day, they know not why,
Like the gate of Paradise
Seemed the convent gate to rise,
Like a sacrament divine
Seemed to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the Monk was praying,
Thinking of the homeless poor,
What they suffer and endure;
What we see not, what we see;
And the inward voice was saying:
"Whatsoever thing thou doest
To the least of Mine and lowest
That thou doest unto Me."

Unto Me! But had the Vision
Come to him in beggar's clothing,
Come a mendicant imploring,
Would he then have knelt adoring,
Or have listened with derision
And have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question,
Full of troublesome suggestion,
As at length, with hurried pace,
Toward his cell he turned his face,
And beheld the convent bright
With a supernatural light,
Like a luminous cloud expanding
Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling
At the threshold of his door;
For the Vision still was standing
As he left it there before,
When the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Summoned him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening
It had waited his return,
And he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending all the meaning,
When the Blessed Vision said:
"Hadst thou stayed I must have fled!"

THE BELL OF ATRI.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town
Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown,
One of those little places that have run
Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun,
And then sat down to rest, as if to say,
"I climb no further upward, come what may,"--
The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame,
So many monarchs since have borne the name,
Had a great bell hung in the market-place
Beneath a roof, projecting some small space,
By way of shelter from the sun and rain.
Then rode he through the streets with all his train,
And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long;
Made proclamation, that whenever wrong
Was done to any man, he should but ring
The great bell in the square, and he, the King,
Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.
Such was the proclamation of King John.

How swift the happy days in Atri sped,
What wrongs were righted, need not here be said.
Suffice it that, as all things must decay,
The hempen rope at length was worn away,
Unravelled at the end, and, strand by strand,
Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand,
Till one, who noted this in passing by,
Mended the rope with braids of briony,
So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt
A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt,
Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods,
Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods,
Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports
And prodigalities of camps and courts;--
Loved, or had loved them; for at last, grown old,
His only passion was the love of gold.

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds,
Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds,
Kept but one steed, his favourite steed of all,
To starve and shiver in a naked stall,
And day by day sat brooding in his chair,
Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.
At length he said: "What is the use or need
To keep at my own cost this lazy steed,
Eating his head off in my stables here,
When rents are low and provender is dear?
Let him go feed upon the public ways:
I want him only for the holidays."
So the old steed was turned into the heat
Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street;
And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,
Barked at by dogs, and torn by briar and thorn.

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime
It is the custom in the summer time,
With bolted doors and window-shutters closed,
The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed;
When suddenly upon their senses fell
The loud alarum of the accusing bell!
The Syndic started from his deep repose,
Turned on his coach, and listened, and then rose
And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace
Went panting forth into the market-place,
Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung,
Reiterating with persistent tongue,
In half-articulate jargon, the old song:
"Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!"
But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade,
He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade,
No shape of human form of woman born,
But a poor steed dejected and forlorn,
Who with uplifted head and eager eye
Was tugging at the vines of briony.
"Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight,
"This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state!
He calls for justice, being sore distressed,
And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd
Had rolled together like a summer cloud,
And told the story of the wretched beast
In five-and-twenty different ways at least,
With much gesticulation and appeal
To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal.
The Knight was called and questioned; in reply
Did not confess the fact, did not deny;

Treated the matter as a pleasant jest,
And set at nought the Syndic and the rest,
Maintaining, in an angry undertone,
That he should do what pleased him with his own.
And thereupon the Syndic gravely read
The proclamation of the King; then said:
"Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay,
But cometh back on foot, and begs its way;
Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds
Of flowers of chivalry, and not of weeds!
These are familiar proverbs; but I fear
They never yet have reached your knightly ear.
What fair renown, what honour, what repute
Can come to you from starving this poor brute?
He who serves well and speaks not, merits more
Than they who clamour loudest at the door.
Therefore the law decrees that as this steed
Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed
To comfort his old age, and to provide
Shelter in stall, and food and field beside."

The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all
Led home the steed in triumph to his stall.
The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee,
And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me!
Church-bells at best but ring us to the door;
But go not into mass; my bell doth more:
It cometh into court and pleads the cause
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws;
And this shall make, in every Christian clime,
The Bell of Atri famous for all time."

THE STORM.

BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

The tempest rages wild and high,
The waves lift up their voice and cry
Fierce answers to the angry sky,--
Miserere Domine.

Through the black night and driving rain,
A ship is struggling, all in vain
To live upon the stormy main;--
Miserere Domine.

The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,
Vain is it now to strive or dare;
A cry goes up of great despair,--
Miserere Domine.

The stormy voices of the main,
The moaning wind, the pelting rain
Beat on the nursery window pane:--
Miserere Domine.

Warm curtained was the little bed,
Soft pillowed was the little head;
"The storm will wake the child," they said:
Miserere Domine.

Cowering among his pillows white
He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright,
"Father save those at sea to-night!"
Miserere Domine.

The morning shone all clear and gay,
On a ship at anchor in the bay,
And on a little child at play,--
Gloria tibi Domine!

THE THREE RULERS.

BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

I saw a Ruler take his stand
And trample on a mighty land;
The People crouched before his beck,
His iron heel was on their neck,
His name shone bright through blood and pain,
His sword flashed back their praise again.

I saw another Ruler rise--
His words were noble, good and wise;
With the calm sceptre of his pen
He ruled the minds, and thoughts of men;
Some scoffed, some praised, while many heard,
Only a few obeyed his word.

Another Ruler then I saw--
Love and sweet Pity were his law:
The greatest and the least had part
(Yet most the unhappy) in his heart--
The People in a mighty band,
Rose up and drove him from the land!

THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Ere the brothers though the gateway
Issued forth with old and young,
To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed,
Which for ages there had hung.
Horn it was which none could sound,
No one upon living ground,
Save He who came as rightful Heir
To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.

Heirs from times of earliest record
Had the House of Lucie borne,
Who of right had held the lordship
Claimed by proof upon the horn:
Each at the appointed hour
Tried the horn--it owned his power;
He was acknowledged; and the blast
Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the last.

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
And to Hubert thus said he:
"What I speak this horn shall witness
For thy better memory.
Hear, then, and neglect me not!
At this time, and on this spot,
The words are uttered from my heart,
As my last earnest prayer ere we depart.

"On good service we are going,
Life to risk by sea and land,
In which course if Christ our Saviour
Do my sinful soul demand,
Hither come thou back straightway,
Hubert, if alive that day;
Return, and sound the horn, that we
May have a living house still left in thee!"

"Fear not," quickly answered Hubert:
"As I am thy father's son,
What thou askest, noble brother,
With God's favour, shall be done."
So were both right well content:
Forth they from the castle went,
And at the head of their array
To Palestine the brothers took their way.

Side by side they fought (the Lucies
Were a line for valour famed),
And where'er their strokes alighted,
There the Saracens were tamed.
Whence, then, could it come--the thought--
By what evil spirit brought?
Oh! can a brave man wish to take
His brother's life, for lands' and castle's sake?

"Sir!" the ruffians said to Hubert,
"Deep he lies in Jordan's flood."
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
"Take your earnings.--Oh! that I
Could have _seen_ my brother die!"
It was a pang that vexed him then,
And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard;
Wherefore, bold as day, the murderer
Back again to England steered.
To his castle Hubert sped;
Nothing has he now to dread.
But silent and by stealth he came,
And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn;
No one's eye had seen him enter,
No one's ear had heard the horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months and years went smilingly;
With plenty was his table spread,
And bright the lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters;
And, as good men do, he sate
At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.
And while thus in open day
Once he sate, as old books say,
A blast was uttered from the horn,
Where by the castle-gate it hung forlorn,

'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He has come to claim his right:
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown,
He is helpless and alone:
Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord!

Speak!--astounded Hubert cannot;
And, if power to speak he had,
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart and sad.
'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living man it must be he!
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a postern-gate he slunk away.

Long and long was he unheard of:
To his brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven:
Then in a convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs:
And through ages, heirs of heirs,
A long posterity renowned
Sounded the horn which they alone could sound.

THE MIRACLE OF THE ROSES.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

There dwelt in Bethlehem a Jewish maid,
And Zillah was her name, so passing fair
That all Judea spake the virgin's praise.
He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance,
How it revealed her soul, and what a soul
Beamed in the mild effulgence, woe to him!
For not in solitude, for not in crowds,
Might he escape remembrance, nor avoid
Her imaged form, which followed everywhere,
And filled the heart, and fixed the absent eye.
Alas for him! her bosom owned no love
Save the strong ardour of religious zeal;
For Zillah upon heaven had centred all
Her spirit's deep affections. So for her
Her tribe's men sighed in vain, yet reverenced
The obdurate virtue that destroy'd their hopes.

One man there was, a vain and wretched man,
Who saw, desired, despaired, and hated her:
His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek
E'en till the flush of angry modesty
Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more.
She loathed the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold,
And the strong workings of brute selfishness
Had moulded his broad features; and she feared
The bitterness of wounded vanity
That with a fiendish hue would overcast
His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear,
For Hamuel vowed revenge, and laid a plot
Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad
Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports
That soon obtain belief; how Zillah's eye,
When in the temple heavenward it was raised,
Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those
Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance
With other feelings filled:--that 'twas a task
Of easy sort to play the saint by day
Before the public eye, but that all eyes
Were closed at night;--that Zillah's life was foul,
Yea, forfeit to the law.

Shame--shame to man,
That he should trust so easily the tongue
Which stabs another's fame! The ill report
Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon,
For Hamuel by his well-schemed villainy
Produced such semblances of guilt,--the maid
Was to the fire condemned!

Without the walls
There was a barren field; a place abhorred,
For it was there where wretched criminals
Received their death! and there they fixed the stake,
And piled the fuel round, which should consume
The injured maid, abandoned, as it seemed,
By God and man.

The assembled Bethlehemites
Beheld the scene, and when they saw the maid
Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness
She lifted up her patient looks to heaven,
They doubted of her guilt.--

With other thoughts
Stood Hamuel near the pile; him savage joy
Led thitherward, but now within his heart
Unwonted feelings stirred, and the first pangs
Of wakening guilt, anticipant of hell!

The eye of Zillah as it glanced around
Fell on the slanderer once, and rested there
A moment; like a dagger did it pierce,
And struck into his soul a cureless wound.
Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour
Of triumph dost thou spare the guilty wretch,
Not in the hour of infamy and death
Forsake the virtuous!--

They draw near the stake--
They bring the torch!--hold, hold your erring hands!
Yet quench the rising flames!--O God, protect,
They reach the suffering maid!--O God, protect
The innocent one! They rose, they spread, they raged;--
The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire
Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames,
In one long lightning-flash concentrating,
Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone!

Hark what a fearful scream the multitude
Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake
Branches and buds, and spreading its green leaves,
Embowers and canopies the innocent maid
Who there stands glorified; and roses, then
First seen on earth since Paradise was lost,
Profusely blossom round her, white and red,
In all their rich variety of hues;
And fragrance such as our first parents breathed
In Eden, she inhales, vouchsafed to her
A presage sure of Paradise regained.

THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE.

BY GERALD GRIFFIN.

The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide,
The fresh wind is singing along the seaside;
The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers,
And the harp-strings are trembling in all the glad bowers

Swell, swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum!
'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendour they come!
The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide,
For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride.

What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight,
The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight!
What blissful caresses shall fortune bestow,
Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as the snow!

Before the high altar young Maud stands arrayed:
With accents that falter her promise is made--
From father and mother for ever to part,
For him and no other to treasure her heart.

The words are repeated, the bridal is done,
The rite is completed--the two, they are one;
The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart,
That must not be broken till life shall depart.

Hark! 'Mid the gay clangour that compassed their car,
Loud accents in anger come mingling afar!
The foe's on the border! his weapons resound
Where the lines in disorder unguarded are found!

As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold,
When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold,
So rises already the chief in his mail,
While the new-married lady looks fainting and pale.

"Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife,
For sister and mother, for children and wife!
O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain,
Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!"

Farrah! to the battle!--They form into line--
The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine!
Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue--
On, burgher and yeoman! to die or to do!

The eve is declining in lone Malahide;
The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride;
She marks them unheeding--her heart is afar,
Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war.

Hark!--loud from the mountain--'tis victory's cry!
O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky!
The foe has retreated! he flees to the shore;
The spoiler's defeated--the combat is o'er!

With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come--
But why have they muffled the lance and the drum?
What form do they carry aloft on his shield?
And where does he tarry, the lord of the field?

Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay!
In bridal adorning, the star of the day;
Now, weep for the lover--his triumph is sped,
His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead!

But, O! for the maiden who mourns for that chief,
With heart overladen and rending with grief!
She sinks on the meadow--in one morning-tide,
A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!

Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole!
Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul:
True--true, 'twas a story for ages of pride;
He died in his glory--but, oh, he _has_ died!

The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now,
And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow;
That glance may for ever unaltered remain,
But the bridegroom will never return it again.

The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide,
The death-wail is rolling along the seaside;
The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green,
For the sun has departed that brightened the scene!

How scant was the warning, how briefly revealed,
Before on that morning, death's chalice was filled!
Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply--
Thus joy has its measure--we live but to die!

THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

Turgesius, the chief of a turbulent band,
Came over from Norway and conquer'd the land:
Rebellion had smooth'd the invader's career,
The natives shrank from him, in hate, or in fear;
While Erin's proud spirit seem'd slumb'ring in peace,
In secret it panted for death--or release.

The tumult of battle was hush'd for awhile,--
Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle,
The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath,
His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath;
The princes of Erin despair'd of relief,
And knelt to the lawless Norwegian chief.

His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile;
But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful isle,
Did he know with what mild, yet resistless control,
That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror's soul:
And oh! 'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthral,
He soon met with one--he thought sweetest of all.

The brave Prince of Meath had a daughter as fair
As the pearls of Loch Neagh which encircled her hair;
The tyrant beheld her, and cried, "She shall come
To reign as the queen of my gay mountain home;
Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson'd the sea,
Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!"