Part 3

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Asshur are loud in their wail; And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! --GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

THE ARROW AND THE SONG

I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterwards, in an oak, I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. --HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

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Fear to do base, unworthy things, is valor! I never thought an angry person valiant; Virtue is never aided by a vice. --BEN JONSON.

THE BATTLE OF THE ANTS

One day when I went out to my woodpile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having once got hold, they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were covered with such combatants; that it was a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one black.

The legions of these warriors covered all the hills and vales in my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, both red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, the only battlefield I ever trod while the battle was raging; internecine war: the red republicans on the one hand, and the black imperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers never fought so resolutely.

I watched a couple that were fast locked in each other’s embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at noonday prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out. The smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vise to his adversary’s front, and through all the tumblings on that field, never for an instant ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already divested him of several of his members.

In the meanwhile there came along a single red ant, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, or had not yet taken part in the battle. He saw this unequal combat from afar,--for the blacks were nearly twice the size of the red;--he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his operations near the root of his right fore-leg, leaving the foe to select among his own members. So there were three united for life, as if a new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and cements to shame.

I took up the chip on which the three were struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tumbler on my window-sill, in order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was assiduously gnawing at the near fore-leg of his enemy, having severed his remaining feeler, his own breast was all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to the jaws of the black warrior, whose breastplate was too thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of the sufferer’s eyes shone with ferocity such as only war could excite.

They struggled half an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked again, the black soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the still living heads were hanging on either side of him like ghastly trophies at his saddle-bow, still apparently as firmly fastened as ever, and he was endeavoring with feeble struggles, being without feelers and with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how many other wounds, to divest himself of them; which at length, after an hour more, he accomplished. I raised the glass, and he went off over the window-sill in that crippled state. Whether he finally survived that combat, I do not know; but I thought that his industry would not be worth much thereafter. I never learned which party was victorious, nor the cause of the war; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity, and carnage of a human battle before my door.--HENRY DAVID THOREAU.

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Oh, many a shaft at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant! And many a word at random spoken, May soothe, or wound, a heart that’s broken.

THE CURATE AND THE MULBERRY TREE

Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare? And merrily trotted along to the fair? Of creature more tractable none ever heard; In the height of her speed she would stop at a word; But again, with a word, when the curate said “Hey!” She put forth her mettle and galloped away.

As near to the gates of the city he rode, While the sun of September all brilliantly glowed, The good man discovered, with eyes of desire, A mulberry tree in a hedge of wild-brier; On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot, Hung, large, black, and glossy, the beautiful fruit.

The curate was hungry and thirsty to boot; He shrunk from the thorns, though he longed for the fruit; With a word he arrested his courser’s keen speed, And he stood up erect on the back of his steed; On the saddle he stood while the creature stood still, And he gathered the fruit till he took his good fill.

“Sure never,” he thought, “was a creature so rare, So docile, so true, as my excellent mare: Lo, here now I stand,” and he gazed all around, “As safe and as steady as if on the ground; Yet how had it been if some traveller this way Had, dreaming no mischief, but chanced to cry ‘Hey’?”

He stood with his head in the mulberry tree, And he spoke out aloud in his fond reverie; At the sound of the word the good mare made a push, And the curate went down in the wild-brier bush. He remembered too late, on his thorny green bed, Much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said. --THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

MIRIAM’S SONG

Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea! Jehovah has triumphed,--His people are free! Sing,--for the pride of the tyrant is broken, His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave,-- How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea! Jehovah has triumphed,--His people are free!

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord! His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword. Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the Lord has looked out from His pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea! Jehovah has triumphed,--His people are free! --THOMAS MOORE.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As that vale, in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o’er the scene Her purest of crystals and brightest of green; ’Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or rill, Oh! no--it was something more exquisite still.

’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. --THOMAS MOORE.

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But truth shall conquer at the last, For round and round we run, And ever the right comes uppermost And ever is justice done.

THE BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA

The cavalry, who had been pursuing the Turks on the right, are coming up to the ridge beneath us, which conceals our cavalry from view. The heavy brigade in advance is drawn up in two lines. The first line consists of the Scots Greys and of their old companions in glory, the Enniskillens; the second, of the 4th Royal Irish, of the 5th Dragoon Guards, and of the 1st Royal Dragoons. The Light Cavalry Brigade is on their left, in two lines also. The silence is oppressive; between the cannon bursts one can hear the champing of bits and the clink of sabres in the valley below. The Russians on their left drew breath for a moment, and then in one grand line dashed at the Highlanders. The ground flies beneath their horses’ feet; gathering speed at every stride, they dash on towards that thin red streak topped with a line of steel.

As the Russians come within six hundred yards, down goes that line of steel in front and out rings a rolling volley of musketry. The distance is too great; the Russians are not checked, but still sweep onward through the smoke, with the whole force of horse and man, here and there knocked over by the shot of our batteries above.

With breathless suspense every one awaits the bursting of the wave upon the line of Gaelic rock; but ere they come within a hundred and fifty yards, another deadly volley flashes from the levelled rifles, and carries death and terror into the Russians. They wheel about, open files right and left, and fly back faster than they came. “Bravo, Highlanders! well done!” shout the excited spectators. But events thicken. The Highlanders and their splendid front are soon forgotten; men scarcely have a moment to think of this fact, that the 93d never altered their formation to receive that tide of horsemen. “No,” said Sir Colin Campbell, “I did not think it worth while to form them even four deep!” The ordinary British line, two deep, was quite sufficient to repel the attack of these Muscovite cavaliers.

Our eyes were, however, turned in a moment on our own cavalry. We saw Brigadier-General Scarlett ride along in front of his massive squadrons. The Russians, their light blue jackets embroidered with silver lace, were advancing on their left, at an easy gallop, towards the brow of the hill. A forest of lances glistened in their rear, and several squadrons of gray-coated dragoons moved up quickly to support them as they reached the summit. The instant they came in sight, the trumpets of our cavalry gave out a warning blast which told us all that in another moment we should see the shock of battle beneath our very eyes. Lord Raglan, all his staff and escort, and groups of officers, the Zouaves, French generals and officers, and bodies of French infantry on the height, were spectators of the scene, as though they were looking on the stage from the boxes of a theatre. Nearly every one dismounted and sat down, and not a word was said.

The Russians advanced down the hill at a slow canter, which they changed to a trot, and at last nearly halted. Their first line was at least double the length of ours--it was three times as deep. Behind them was a similar line, equally strong and compact. They evidently despised their insignificant-looking enemy; but their time was come. The trumpets rang out again through the valley, and the Greys and Enniskilleners went right at the centre of the Russian cavalry. The space between them was only a few hundred yards; it was scarce enough to let the horses “gather way,” nor had the men quite space sufficient for the full play of their sword-arms. The Russian line brings forward each wing as our cavalry advance, and threatens to annihilate them as they pass on. Turning a little to their left so as to meet the Russian right, the Greys rush on with a cheer that thrills to every heart--the wild shout of the Enniskilleners rises through the air at the same instant. As lightning flashes through a cloud, the Greys and Enniskilleners pierced through the dark masses of the Russians. The shock was but for a moment. There was a clash of steel and a light play of sword-blades in the air, and then the Greys and the Red-coats disappear in the midst of the shaken and quivering columns. In another moment we see them emerging and dashing on with diminished numbers and in broken order against the second line, which is advancing against them as fast as it can, to retrieve the fortune of the charge. It was a terrible moment. “God help them! they are lost!” was the exclamation of more than one man, and the thought of many.

It was a fight of heroes. The first line of Russians--which had been smashed utterly by our charge, and had fled off at one flank and towards the centre--were coming back to swallow up our handful of men. By sheer steel and sheer courage, Enniskillener and Scot were winning their desperate way right through the enemy’s squadrons, and already gray horses and red coats had appeared right at the rear of the second mass, when, with irresistible force, like a bolt from a bow, the 1st Royals, the 4th Dragoon Guards, and the 5th Dragoon Guards rushed at the remnants of the first line of the enemy, went through it as though it were made of pasteboard, and, dashing on the second body of Russians, as they were still disordered by the terrible assault of the Greys and their companions, put them to utter rout.

--WILLIAM HOWARD RUSSELL.

TRUE WORTH

It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be, Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear. A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light! In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be. --BEN JONSON.

LOVE OF COUNTRY

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d, As home his footsteps he hath turn’d From wand’ring on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim:-- Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung. --SIR WALTER SCOTT.

HOME AND COUNTRY

There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved of Heaven o’er all the world beside, Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons imparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth. The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so beautiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.

In every clime, the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven’s peculiar race, The heritage of Nature’s noblest grace, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation’s tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.

Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life; In the clear heaven of her delightful eye The angel-guard of love and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? Art thou a man?--a patriot?--look around; Oh, thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home. --JAMES MONTGOMERY.

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What’s brave, what’s noble, let’s do it.

THE FATHERLAND

Where is the true man’s fatherland? Is it where he by chance is born? Doth not the yearning spirit scorn In such scant borders to be spanned? O yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is, Where God is God, and man is man? Doth he not claim a broader span For the soul’s love of home than this? O yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

Where’er a human heart doth wear Joy’s myrtle-wreath or sorrow’s gyves, Where’er a human spirit strives After a life more true and fair-- There is the true man’s birthplace grand; His is a world-wide fatherland!

Where’er a single slave doth pine, Where’er one man may help another-- Thank God for such a birthright, brother-- That spot of earth is thine and mine! There is the true man’s birthplace grand; His is a world-wide fatherland! --JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE OAK TREE AND THE IVY

In the greenwood stood a mighty oak. So majestic was he that all who came that way paused to admire his strength and beauty, and all the other trees of the greenwood acknowledged him to be their monarch.

Now it came to pass that the ivy loved the oak tree, and inclining her graceful tendrils where he stood, she crept about his feet, and twined herself around his sturdy and knotted trunk. And the oak tree pitied the ivy.

“Oho!” he cried, laughing boisterously but good-naturedly,--“oho! so you love me, do you, little vine? Very well then; play about my feet, and I shall keep the storms from you and shall tell you pretty stories about the clouds, the birds, and the stars.”

The ivy marvelled greatly at the strange stories the oak tree told; they were stories the oak tree heard from the wind that loitered about his lofty head and whispered to the leaves of his topmost branches. Sometimes the story was about the great ocean in the east, sometimes of the broad prairies in the west, sometimes of the ice king who lived in the north, sometimes of the flower queen who dwelt in the south. Then, too, the moon told a story to the oak tree every night,--or at least every night that she came to the greenwood, which was very often, for the greenwood is a very charming spot, as we all know. And the oak tree repeated to the ivy every story the moon told and every song the stars sang.

“Pray, what are the winds saying now?” or “What song is that I hear?” the ivy would ask; and then the oak tree would repeat the story or the song, and the ivy would listen in great wonderment.

Whenever the storms came, the oak tree cried to the little ivy: “Cling close to me, and no harm shall befall thee! See how strong I am; the tempest does not so much as stir me--I mock its fury!”

Then, seeing how strong and brave he was, the ivy hugged him closely; his brown, rugged breast protected her from every harm, and she was secure.

The years went by; how quickly they flew,--spring, summer, winter, and then again spring, summer, winter,--ah, life is short in the greenwood, as elsewhere! And now the ivy was no longer a weakly little vine to excite the pity of the passer-by. Her thousand beautiful arms had twined hither and thither about the oak tree, covering his brown and knotted trunk, shooting forth a bright, delicious foliage, and stretching far up among his lower branches.

The oak tree was always good and gentle to the ivy. “There is a storm coming over the hills,” he would say. “The east wind tells me so; the swallows fly low in the air. Cling close to me, and no harm shall befall thee.”

Then the ivy would cling more closely to the oak tree, and no harm came to her.

Although the ivy was the most luxuriant vine in all the greenwood, the oak tree regarded her still as the tender little thing he had laughingly called to his feet that spring day many years before,--the same little ivy he had told about the stars, the clouds, and the birds. And just as patiently as in those days, he now repeated other tales the winds whispered to his topmost boughs,--tales of the ocean in the east, the prairies in the west, the ice king in the north, and the flower queen in the south. And the ivy heard him tell these wondrous things, and she never wearied with the listening.

“How good the oak tree is to the ivy!” said the ash. “The lazy vine has naught to do but to twine herself about the strong oak tree and hear him tell his stories!”

The ivy heard these envious words, and they made her very sad; but she said nothing of them to the oak tree, and that night the oak tree rocked her to sleep as he repeated the lullaby a zephyr was singing to him.

“There is a storm coming over the hills,” said the oak tree one day. “The east wind tells me so; the swallows fly low in the air, and the sky is dark. Clasp me round about with thy arms, and nestle close to me, and no harm shall befall thee.”

“I have no fear,” murmured the ivy.

The storm came over the hills and swept down upon the greenwood with deafening thunder and vivid lightning. The storm king himself rode upon the blast; his horses breathed flames, and his chariot trailed through the air like a serpent of fire. The ash fell before the violence of the storm king’s fury, and the cedars, groaning, fell, and the hemlocks, and the pines; but the oak tree alone quailed not.

“Oho!” cried the storm king, angrily, “the oak tree does not bow to me; he does not tremble in my presence. Well, we shall see.”

With that the storm king hurled a mighty thunderbolt at the oak tree, and the brave, strong monarch of the greenwood was riven. Then, with a shout of triumph, the storm king rode away.

“Dear oak tree, you are riven by the storm king’s thunderbolt!” cried the ivy, in anguish.

“Ay,” said the oak tree, feebly, “my end has come; see, I am shattered and helpless.”

“But I am unhurt,” remonstrated the ivy; “and I shall bind up your wounds and nurse you back to health and vigor.”

And so it was that, although the oak tree was ever afterwards a riven and broken thing, the ivy concealed the scars upon his shattered form and covered his wounds all over with her soft foliage.