Chapter 4
NOTE--Isles of Demons: one of two islands north-east of Newfoundland supposed to have been given over to the fiends, from whom they derive their name, variously called by Thevet Isle de Fische, Isle de Roberval, and Isle of Demons. The Isle Fichet of Sanson and the Fishot Island of some modern maps.
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THE BROOKLYN CATASTROPHE OF DECEMBER 5TH, 1876.
Twas eve in Brooklyn, and the bracing air Of northern regions fanned the city fair, Urging life's currents to a generous flow And quick'ning nerve and pulse to joyful glow.
A touching tragedy had been installed Within the theatre, "The Orphans" called, One of the most successful dramas sage, America has placed upon the stage.
To it for peaceful recreation strayed Scores of the citizens, _en fête_ arrayed, Some with beloved ones whom they hoped one day, Might be their partners through life's checkered way.
Others formed parties from the family group, Maidens and children in the joy of youth, Glad schoolboys taken for reward or treat, And worthless idlers sauntering from the street.
Many a fond and loving pair were there Who in each other's joys and griefs had share; Grave statesmen, merchants, all in that brief hour, Sat spell-bound by the dramatist's rare power.
When in an instant the appalling cry Of fire! fire!! fire!!! was heard resounding high; The terror-stricken crowd in blank dismay Rushed frantically towards each narrow way.
No ears had they for the brave girl who sought To counsel in that hour with horror fraught, Who cried "We are between you and the fire, Be calm, for God's sake, in this danger dire."
[Footnote: On the first alarm of fire and whilst others were escaping, Miss Kate Claxton with three other actors came bravely forward to the footlights uttering these words of passionate entreaty.]
Those nearest haply reached the narrow way, And thanking God, emerged from the affray, Whilst others stumbled, dazed with terror wild And soon in tangled heaps lay powerless piled.
In wildest proxysms of fear and pain, Each sought his giddy footing to retain, Whilst piercing cries of agonized despair, Rose through the gloomy smoke-charged stifling air.
Then suffocation, oft more merciful Than fire, its victims claimed to lull, Scared victims, gasping for that precious air, Which fire and smoke alike refused them there.
Fast hurried on the greedy tongues of fire, To make of those dread mounds a funeral pyre, As raging onward o'er their victims broke, The fearful conflict of the fire and smoke.
Dread was the scene o'er which the Fire King laughed As he his bowl of frantic pleasure quaffed, Whilst the doomed structure tottered in the girth Of his wild, bellowing, satanic mirth.
Strong men and feeble women, young and old, Statesmen, financiers, and warriors bold, Who were a short hour since elate with pride. Now charred and calcined, slumber side by side.
The fierce insatiate fire-fiend raging flew In wild demoniac rage the structure through, Tearing down rafters, hurling to the ground, Props, pillars roof-beams with appalling sound.
Oh! what a scene of strife raged wildly there, 'Mid cries for help and struggles of despair; All human efforts powerless to assuage, The greedy fire-fiend's devastating rage.
The fiery monster dashed away all trace, Of that late mimic world of beauteous grace, Swallowing in a fleet, wrathful breath of rage, All the vain baubles of the tinseled stage.
All the wild tumult has subsided now, Hushed is the pleading prayer and woe strung vow, Breathed by fond parents, brothers, husbands, wives Of near three hundred late exultant lives!
Then, as the demon's rage was well nigh spent, He o'er the drenched and trampled corses bent, Effacing as he best could, every trace Of recognition from each ghastly face.
Drunken and gorged the sated fire-fiend spread His gloomy sable shroud about the dead, And left the fort he could not longer hold Conquered by man's heroic efforts bold.
Too painful 'twould be to prolong the tale, Of that which followed, or the piteous wail Of friends bereaved, who sought with harrowing dread, To single out their loved ones from the dead.
Close we, by urging those in power to do What well becomes all rulers wise and true, To make new laws, enforced by vigorous means, To spare all repetition of such scenes.
Oft will Columbia sing to future time, Of her centennial union sublime But ever with the memorable year, Will mingle memories of this history drear.
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THE NAINI TAL CATASTROPHE OF THE 18TH SEPTEMBER, 1880.
The morning broke with streams of welcome rain, Such as the two preceding ones had brought. Rain, that in tropic climes means life and joy To man and beast as to the thirsty soil And though the sky hung like a sable pall Over the fair oasis, nestling calm Beneath the trusted shelter of the hills, And o'er the broad lake-outlet of the floods, What cause had they to fear? 'Twas often thus, And the long wished-for rains would bring forth joy So reasoned they who, peaceful, viewed unmoved Th' outpouring of that sullen ocean cloud, When suddenly, they who had calmly felt So safe one little span of time before, Discovered in dismay the swollen floods Meant danger--that the safety of their homes. Was menaced, walls were tottering, waters rose, Sapping foundations, threatening precious life. Security was lost in maddening fear, And, panic-stricken in disordered haste And direst plight, they quit their homes, and fly To seek a refuge from the merciless, Relentless flood. On, on, they wildly rush, No matter where, so they preserve the lives Of those they dearly, passionately love. Some o'er fierce rolling streams are helped by men In mercy sent to render priceless aid, And happy they, the rescued, who escape, For scarcely had they timely refuge found, Than a huge limb of the great mountain fell, Sweeping the fair hill-side of house and land, And burying dozens of their fellow men In one uncompromising, living tomb!
Brave men with tender hearts and stalwart arms, Regardless of their lives flew quickly there. Seeking to save their fellows; but, alas! The task is useless, they are past all aid; The cold earth sepulchres their mortal frames-- Still, hope's star-beacon lures the toilers on, And with stout hearts and mercy sinewed arms, They, toiling, dig, if haply they may save But one poor soul from out the piteous heap. But as they worked, their honest hearts elate With love-inspiring toil, Oh, sad to tell! Another mass, far larger than the last, Fell from the dark flood-loosened mountain side, Burying those noble men beneath the deep Dank heap, like those they fondly hoped to save.
O noble band! thy Christ-like heroism Shall be enshrined in deathless memories Outliving time; for rolling ages love To chronicle the history of brave deeds, That spur by their example other minds To acts of heroism such as thine!
Oh! fearful was that avalanche of earth, That in its fury, e'en with lightning speed, Swept to eternity such precious freight! Strong men in the proud glory of life's prime, Women in joyful trustfulness of love With little children in full bloom of life; All in the twinkling of an eye cut down, In that rude harvest of the tyrant Death!
Now the late lovely valley, Naini Tal Stands as a witness of the frailty Of human strength 'gainst the o'erwhelming might Of forces, which the All Mighty only guides; Proving, that great as oftimes is man's force, It is as nothing, when the elements Proclaim Him monarch of all power and might, In language for the world to comprehend.
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TO OUR POLAR EXPLORERS.
Now, welcome home, ye valiant band, By science lured to roam, Thrice welcome to your native land, To Britain's hearth and home; For ye have conquered many a foe, And vanquished many a fear, Since in your country's name ye sailed So bravely forth last year.
Then many a fervent "Good speed ye" Was wafted from the land, That blent with blessings from the ships, For those left on the strand. Hope streaming through each hot tear formed Rainbows of promise sweet, To comfort each lone sundered heart, Till blest again to meet.
But eighteen months have passed away Since those farewells were breathed, And ye've accomplished what was wished Without a sword unsheathed. And with her royal chaplets light Of honour and renown, Your brows of manly fortitude Britain delights to crown.
Ye've had the courage, nerve, and skill, To do, and bravely dare, That which none other save yourselves Have had the joy to share. In penetrating furthest yet, Into that region lone, Where grim uncompromising ice Girdles the Polar Zone.
"The sea of ancient ice," henceforth Inscribed on the world's chart, Though never of that world to be A sympathetic part; Since mighty floating fortresses, With adamantine towers, Form everlasting barriers grim, That mock man's feebler powers.
Heroic Nares! Commander bold Of the well-ordered band, Accept with thy intrepid crews, Thanks from thy native land, For having with determined zeal, Reached a much longed-for goal, And solved the mystery that veiled The regions of the Pole.
Thus proving inacessible The ice-ribbed polar sea, Ye've earned your laurels valiantly, Still it is well that we Join ye in rendering fervent thanks, To the Supreme above, For safe return in joyous health, To country, home and love.
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TO THE INCONSTANT.
Oh! what a change since last we met, when thou wert all my own, And love dictated every word, and sweetened every tone. Cold and repelling was the gaze that rested on the one Whose heart's devotion, true as steel, thy treachery had won. Who could have thought that vows exchanged before the God of heaven, And pledged so solemnly, could be so soon, so rudely riven? But, false one, I fling back to thee thy hollow, withering gaze, And spurn thee in the bitterest tones my scorn-strung voice can raise.
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THANKSGIVING.
Arise, ye valiant warrior hosts, arise! Now, in the flush of victory, pierce the skies With grateful outbursts of exultant praise. Such as victorious hosts alone can raise,
To the great God of nations, Lord of lords, Who in your pride of conquests sheathes your swords, And claims your rapturous homage from afar, For all the brilliant exploits of the war.
Let the majestic paeans heavenward sent, Be with united voice of Britain blent; Like measured thunders the grand anthem swell, A nation's fervent gratitude to tell.
And yet another strain of prayer outpour For the lamented victims of the war. And for our Queen, who now delights to crown Her brave commanders with deserved renown.
God bless these mighty men of mind and power, Who led the well-trained hosts in war's dread hour, Crushing rebellion, bidding rapine cease; Then, with heroic valour, courting peace.
And as each soul is heavenward winged to raise To the Creator this grand psalm of praise, Forget not the crest-fallen hosts, but bear Their country's troubles to the throne of prayer.
Sons are we all of the same Father wise. Who rules in sovereign pomp the earth and skies, Who bids all live in brotherhood divine, Without distinction of race, creed or clime.
God speed the day when cruel wars shall cease, And all the wrestling earth shall be at peace, When liberty's proud flag shall be unfurled, And justice, not the sword, shall rule the world.
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"PEACE, WITH HONOUR."
"Peace with honour," glorious, joy-lit words! Britons, lay down your arms, re-sheath your swords, For the red demon War lies foiled and chained, And Britain's prestige is anew proclaimed. With re-united Europe, grateful raise To Heaven glad paeans of exultant praise; For see, crest-fallen strife, abashed, retreats, As Berlin's congress her design defeats. While Justice, Peace and Hope effulgent stand, Aiding the Council of the patriot band. Grand conclave of the wise, 'twas well ye bade Such Heaven-born guests lend to your council aid, Well for the good and welfare of the world That ye your Heaven-blest flag of peace unfurled!
Great Emperor Peacemaker! well hast, thou done, To link to thy long list of victories won, This bloodless one, where all alike contend, With cultured courtesy, as friend with friend, To help the fallen, bid rude passions cease, Through moral suasion, and re-throne blest peace. And thou, Disraeli, pillar of the State, With the proud flush of triumph now elate, Well hast thou earned thy laurels, nobly won Thy Queen's and country's verdict of "well done," For with far-seeing mind, unflinching skill, Rare tact and talent, calm, consummate skill, Thou hast, with thy brave colleagues, fought our fight, And made stern right triumphant over might.
Since to the foremost and most honoured place A subject could aspire to, or could grace, Thou hast ascended by the nation's will, Let "Peace with Honour" be thy motto still. Thus shall our civilizing mission be To future ages a reality, That where the flag of Britain is unfurled, Peace and good-will may flow to all the world, Till throughout every nation wars shall cease, And honour reign triumphantly with peace.
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THE NEW YEAR.
The long day of the year is nearly done, The atoms through its sand-glass almost run, Another bridge is well-nigh swung--by Time O'er the grand current of life's course sublime.
For see! through floods of eastern glory high The morn's fair chariot swoops athwart the sky, And from its circling rose-lit atmosphere Steps, beaming with young hope, the infant year!
Knowing no bygones, he points gaily on To battles to be waged and victories won, Struggles with self, o'ercomings that will crown The combatants with honour and renown.
Battles which make the men of mark on earth. Men who feel culture of all God's gifts worth, A thorough abnegation of self-will, To fit them life's work rightly to fulfil.
Then let each with the glad New Year begin To act so they may fadeless victories win, Since heaven's choice gifts and deathless wreaths of fame Wait for the good, and great, their joys to claim.
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HOME.
Home! magic name of sweetest sound, That thrills us like a spell; That consecrates the humblest cot Where loved ones kindly dwell.
How much that simple name recalls Of happy childhood's days, When the old homestead was illumed By love's inspiring rays.
Visions of beauty unsurpassed, Are conjured by that word That thrills a Briton's heart where'er The English tongue is heard.
And when in exile wandering, On fairer, brighter plains; How the melodious name of home Our best affection claims.
The roof-tree may be stricken down, And loved ones be no more; But the sweet memories of our home Live on for evermore.
Wealth may attract and pleasure lure When far away we roam; But ah! how joyful we return To the pure shrine of home.
There we find sweet repose and peace, There too our holiest love; And there we gain a foretaste pure Of coming joys above.
Then "Home, sweet home," shall be our song On earth, and when on high 'Twill still be home, dear, happy home, In the glad "by-and-by."
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IT IS BUT A FADED ROSEBUD.
It is but a lone faded rosebud That a dearly loved one gave to me, In years now long past but remembered And shrined for the years yet to be.
It opens the floodgates of memory, Discoursing of dear days gone by, Dead and buried except to rememb'rance Which never can slumber or die.
For hearts that have once truly mingled, In sympathy, love and esteem, Can never be really sundered Though oceans and seas roll between.
And still I will cherish my rosebud, Though it never may bloom to a flower, As a symbol of love that was strangled In life's saddest yet happiest hour.
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CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE.
(_Erected on the Thames Embankment, 1878_).
Thou reverend relic from a far-off clime, Of ancient days, triumphant over Time. Thou ocean traveller, brought with peril o'er, To rise again on London's busy shore.
Superb exponent of Egyptian art, What wondrous secrets load thy granite heart Since thou wert fashioned from the ribs of earth To show the great sun's golden glory forth!
Thou with six noble compeers hast surveyed The birth and death of empires undismayed. Some of them saw at On the guiding light Shed o'er the Holy Family in their flight.
The oldest still ennobles Goshen's brow, Almost the sole surviving relic now Of her foundation, and upon whose sod, When years had rolled their courses, Jesus trod.
And one in Turkey, yet one more in Rome, Captives and aliens from their childhood's home, Tower in lone majesty, recording still The grandest era of Egyptian skill.
A fifth in Alexandria calmly rears Its stately form, and o'er it kindly peers A noble landmark, like an angel guide To wanderers o'er Egypt's sand plains wide.
Ask of the ages where the sixth has gone, For naught of that stone mountain now is known. Thus perish all things, save the spirit free, Inheritor of immortality!
Past ages fondly raised to Ra and Tum (Whose morn and evening glory robed the sun), These sacred fanes, to grace the sun shrine high, Full in the golden splendour of the sky.
Where now is Heliopolis? ah, where Her sun-shrine, raised in classic beauty rare? Crumbled, and lost in rainless Egypt's dust, Save what these columns guard in sacred trust.
And shall we fondly consecrate and raise Vast monuments to sing of mortal praise, And then presume to criticise and scorn Fanes raised the sun-god's temple to adorn?
Ah no, but let us rather consecrate Anew this worship-sign of ancient date, Than join in scoff by sneering cynic thrown On faith and on religion not his own.
Upon the generous donor's aged brow Let Britain place her graceful chaplet now, Since unto him is due that she doth hold This precious relic of the faith of old.
And let us not forget what thanks are due To skilful Dixon and his gallant crew, And as is just, be honour also paid. To useful Dmetri for his timely aid.
Then plant the precious fane on Britain's shore. In solemn tribute of the faith of yore, That coming ages may revere the sod That shrines this tribute to the living God.
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A VOICE FROM ST. GEORGE'S HALL, LIVERPOOL.
Inhabitants of Liverpool, List to the urgent call, Which summons you in crowds to-day, Within St. George's Hall.
There earnest Women are convened, In purpose strong to seek, Through your kind help and influence, To aid the Faint and Weak.
The Convalescent Hospital Stands burdened with a debt, Which we resolve (if you permit) Shall now be promptly met.
To this intent, a Grand Bazaar Is held by us to-day; And fifteen hundred pounds the sum We fondly hope to pay.
The cause is good; then quickly prove Your gratitude for health, By giving with a willing heart Of your abundant wealth.
Or if not quite disposed to give, Then freely buy, I pray, Of the rich stores of wondrous art Displayed for you to-day.
Work marvellously wrought, and rare As beautiful you'll find; With good plain, homely garments, too, Of varied form and kind.
And lovely flowers, in sweet perfume, Breathing delight and love; Discoursing, in mute eloquence, Of fadeless ones above.
Groups, too, of artificial flowers, To serve when others die; Like photos of dear absent friends, Delighting heart and eye.
Presents there are for Boys and Girls, And darling Pets at home, And souvenir for Grandmamma, If too infirm to come.
And, mingling with the festive scene, Is music's witching voice, Swelling, in harmony divine, Man's spirit to rejoice.
Beneath the master hand of "Best" The organ springs to life, Like some roused monster in his lair, Goaded to deadly strife.
Attuned to Angel sweetness, then, And tremblings of delight, It fills the dreamy marble Hall With visions pure and bright.
Then merchant Princes, Tradesmen, too, Dry business leave awhile; And with your dear ones by your side, With us an hour beguile.
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TO THE MUSEUM COMMITTEE.
O ye in power, thus placed to minister To every pressing local, social claim, Of those who gave you this authority, Trusting you to act wisely in their name, See that the precious heirloom of our race, For which our fathers suffered, toiled and bled, Our glorious Constitution, Britain's pride, Be to the people's rights in justice wed.
Withhold not from them what in trust ye guard, For calm enjoyment on the day of rest, By opening parks, museums, libraries, That their closed treasures be enjoyed with zest. Why should our city's priceless treasures not Be freely open on the day of rest, That the inspiring thoughts of noble minds Be to the people thus divinely blest?
And if the masses do not agitate, For free admission to these works of art, This fact adds reason more why cultured men, Should lead them in these joys to share a part. This day was made for man, not he for it, And should he to him of all days the best, For moral, physical and mental life, Since calm exertion may be actual rest.
Surely the study of the Father's laws, And survey of His wondrous works and power, Seen through all nature's grand and wondrous realm, Is fit enployment for a Sunday hour; Think ye the public house a fitter place, In which to spend that blessed afternoon? I fear that many of you must do so, Or you would grant what has been claimed right soon.
Sweet object lessons from the King of Kings Are found in animal and insect life, And birds and fishes, beauteous flowers and trees, Are with such lessons eloquently rife; So are the gracious, light-dispensing heavens, Grand ocean's depths and mountain heights sublime, Day's regent King, night's lovely gentle Queen, Each one discoursing of the Power Divine.
I've lived in Paris and in wonder seen, A mighty host of people wend their way In thousands, to the lovely sylvan park Of Versailles, to spend part of that blest day, In families of husband, children, wife, With basket of refreshments, simple, pure, Which, seated on some verdant bank, they shared, In peaceful happiness, serene and sure.
I've watched them closely, willing to detect, In those past days of prejudice and pride, Some flaw of conduct, wantonness, excess, Which I could criticise, rebuke or chide, But I was staggered not to find save one Excess of drunkenness in that vast throng, And that one was a foreigner, which proved That all my foregone censure had been wrong.
And further careful observation proved Tha wisdom of thus opening freely all Art treasures, which refine and cultivate, Whilst giving joy alike to great and small, For families, who, parted all the week, On this one day could mingle happily, And bodily, as well as mental health, Be thus promoted most agreeably.
The crowd passed pleasantly and peacefully Through the rich treasures in the palace spread, And to his credit, be it here remarked, The priest full oft these happy parties led; They passed the forenoon of the day at church In prayer and praise to the great Lord of all, And now in calm enjoyment praised _Him_ here, Who hears when and where'er his children call.
Then ye who rule this city, pause I pray, Give to this subject your attention best, And make the Sunday to the poor as rich, A day of liberty, a day of rest. Let each be free to exercise his choice; For to keep Britain really great and free, We should not fetter consciences, or yet Deprive its people of true liberty.
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ONLY A FEW LINKS WANTING.
Only a few links wanting, Earth's toilers oft exclaim, Only a few charmed linklets, To make life's perfect chain; Philosophers and statesmen, Poets and courtiers gay, And cunning craftsmen, at life's forge Echo the same each day.