Chapter 2

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

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FRANCIS SCOTT KEY AMERICA, 1780-1843

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER[1]

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming-- Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the fight O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. O! say, does the star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On that shore dimly see through the mists of the deep Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and war's desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto--"_In God is our trust_:" And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

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[Footnote:1. The song is taken as it appears in Stedman and Hutchinson's _Library of American Literature_, vol. iv. p. 419. The text, slightly different from the common one, corresponds to the facsimile of a copy made by Mr. Key in 1840.]

THOMAS CAMPBELL SCOTLAND, 1777-1844

HOHENLINDEN

On Linden when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And darker yet shall be the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulcher.

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THOMAS MOORE IRELAND, 1779-1852

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

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GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON ENGLAND, 1788-1824

CHILDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL TO ENGLAND

Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea, We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land--Good-night.

A few short hours and he will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate.

"Come hither, hither, my little page! Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong; Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along."

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind: Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friends, save thee alone, But thee--and One above.

"My father blessed me fervently, Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again."-- "Enough, enough, my little lad! Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry."

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THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! They come! they come!"

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms--the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!

--From "CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE."

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HENRY FRANCIS LYTE ENGLAND, 1793-1847

ABIDE WITH ME

Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide: When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away; Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

I need Thy presence every passing hour; What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power? Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless: Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is Death's sting? Where, Grave, thy victory? I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes, Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies; Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee; In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

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THOMAS B. MACAULAY ENGLAND, 1800-1859

HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE

The consul's brow was sad, and the consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. "Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?" Then out spoke brave Horatius, the captain of the gate: "To every man upon this earth death cometh, soon or late. Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopped by three.

Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?" Then out spake Spurius Lartius--a Ramnian proud was he-- "Lo! I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Herminius--of Titian blood was he-- "I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee." "Horatius," quoth the consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be." And straight against that great array, forth went the dauntless three. Soon all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless three. And from the ghastly entrance, where those bold Romans stood, The bravest shrank like boys who rouse an old bear in the wood. But meanwhile ax and lever have manfully been plied, And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cried the fathers all; "Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!" Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back; And, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack; But when they turned their faces, and on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed once more. But, with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream. And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam.

And, like a horse unbroken, when first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free, And battlement, and plank, and pier whirled headlong to the sea.

Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee!" cried Lars Porsena, "now yield thee to our grace!"

Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home, And he spoke to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome: "O Tiber! Father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!" So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his side, And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank; But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, stood gazing where he sank, And when above the surges they saw his crest appear, Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer.

But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain: And fast his blood was flowing; and he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking--but still again he rose.

Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing place: But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within, And our good Father Tiber bare bravely up his chin.

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain drown? But for his stay, ere close of day we should have sacked the town!" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena; "and bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before."

And now he feels the bottom;--now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the fathers to press his gory hands. And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, He enters through the river gate, borne by the joyous crowd.

SEVENTH YEAR--SECOND HALF

ALFRED TENNYSON ENGLAND, 1809-1892

EARLY SPRING

Once more the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And domes the red-plow'd hills With loving blue; The blackbirds have their wills, The throstles too.

Opens a door in Heaven; From skies of glass A Jacob's ladder falls On greening grass, And o'er the mountain-walls Young angels pass.

Before them fleets the shower, And bursts the buds, And shine the level lands, And flash the floods; The stars are from their hands Flung thro' the woods.

The woods with living airs How softly fann'd, Light airs from where the deep, All down the sand, Is breathing in his sleep, Heard by the land.

O follow, leaping blood, The season's lure! O heart, look down and up Serene, secure. Warm as the crocus cup, Like snowdrops, pure!

Past, Future, glimpse and fade Thro' some slight spell, A gleam from yonder vale, Some far blue fell, And sympathies, how frail, In sound and smell.

Till at thy chuckled note, Thou twinkling bird, The fairy fancies range, And, lightly stirr'd, Ring little bells of change From word to word.

For now the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And thaws the cold, and fills The flower with dew; The blackbirds have their wills, The poets too.

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SIR GALAHAD

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splintered spear shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel; They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall; But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair through faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the Holy Grail; With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And starlike mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne Through dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight--to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams, And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky, And through the mountain walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All armed I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the Holy Grail.

* * * * *

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said; Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered; Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabers bare, Flashed as they turned in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered. Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the saber-stroke-- Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not-- Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of death, Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made, Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!

* * * * *

RING OUT, WILD BELLS

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night: Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

--From "IN MEMORIAM."

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ALFRED DOMETT ENGLAND, 1811-1887

A CHRISTMAS HYMN

It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars; Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain: Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago.

'Twas in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome, Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home; Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell. His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago.

Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor A streak of light before him lay, Fallen through a half-shut stable-door Across his path. He passed--for naught Told what was going on within; How keen the stars, his only thought; The air how calm and cold and thin, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

Oh, strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; The earth was still--but knew not why; The world was listening, unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world for ever! To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever-- In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

It is the calm and solemn night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness--charmed and holy now! The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

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ROBERT BROWNING ENGLAND, 1812-1889

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now!

And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops, at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower-- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

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PHEIDIPPIDES

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all! Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise --Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and spear! Also ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer, Now, henceforth and forever,--O latest to whom I upraise Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock! Present to help, potent to save, Pan--patron I call!

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return! See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no specter that speaks! Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, "Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed, Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through Was the space between city and city; two days, two nights did I burn

Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come! Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth; Razed to the ground is Eretria--but Athens, shall Athens sink, Drop into dust and die--the flower of Hellas utterly die, Die with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by? Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's brink? How--when? No care for my limbs!--there's lightning in all and some-- Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!"