Part 7

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix,"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, for "Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

_Robert Browning._

THE LANDLORD'S TALE.

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-- One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,-- A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! and yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

_H. W. Longfellow._

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down; And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night, Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, As if he knew the terrible need; He stretched away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind, And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the general saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops, What was done? what to do? a glance told him both, Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down, to save the day!"

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldiers' Temple of Fame; There with the glorious general's name, Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, "Here is the steed that saved the day, By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester, twenty miles away!"

_Thomas Buchanan Read._

KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES.

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,-- That story of Kearny who knew not to yield! 'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine; Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,-- No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground, He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound; He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder,-- His sword waved us on, and we answered the sign: Loud our cheers as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder, "There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!"

How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten In the one hand still left,--and the reins in his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,--through the clearing or pine? "Oh, anywhere! Forward! 'Tis all the same, Colonel: You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!"

Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried! Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride! Yet we dream that he still,--in that shadowy region, Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign,-- Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, And the word still is Forward! along the whole line.

_Edmund Clarence Stedman._

THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES.

AN INCIDENT OF THE FLOOD IN MASSACHUSETTS, ON MAY 16, 1874.

No song of a soldier riding down To the raging fight from Winchester town; No song of a time that shook the earth With the nations' throe at a nation's birth; But the song of a brave man, free from fear As Sheridan's self, or Paul Revere; Who risked what they risked, free from strife, And its promise of glorious pay--his life!

The peaceful valley has waked and stirred, And the answering echoes of life are heard: The dew still clings to the trees and grass, And the early toilers smiling pass, As they glance aside at the white-walled homes, Or up the valley, where merrily comes The brook that sparkles in diamond rills As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills.

What was it, that passed like an ominous breath-- Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death? What was it? The valley is peaceful still, And the leaves are afire on top of the hill. It was not a sound--nor a thing of sense-- But a pain, like the pang of the short suspense That thrills the being of those who see At their feet the gulf of Eternity!

The air of the valley has felt the chill: The workers pause at the door of the mill; The housewife, keen to the shivering air, Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, Instinctive taught by the mother-love, And thinks of the sleeping ones above. Why start the listeners? Why does the course Of the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse-- Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say-- That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way!

God! what was that, like a human shriek From the winding valley? Will nobody speak? Will nobody answer those women who cry As the awful warnings thunder by?

Whence come they? Listen! And now they hear The sound of the galloping horse-hoofs near; They watch the trend of the vale, and see The rider who thunders so menacingly, With waving arms and warning scream To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. He draws no rein, but he shakes the street With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet; And this the cry he flings to the wind: "To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!"

He cries and is gone; but they know the worst-- The breast of the Williamsburg dam has burst! The basin that nourished their happy homes Is changed to a demon--It comes! it comes!

A monster in aspect, with shaggy front Of shattered dwellings, to take the brunt Of the homes they shatter--white-maned and hoarse, The merciless Terror fills the course Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves, With Death on the first of its hissing waves, Till cottage and street and crowded mill Are crumbled and crushed.

But onward still, In front of the roaring flood is heard The galloping horse and the warning word. Thank God! the brave man's life is spared! From Williamsburg town he nobly dared To race with the flood and take the road In front of the terrible swath it mowed. For miles it thundered and crashed behind, But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind; "They must be warned!" was all he said, As away on his terrible ride he sped.

When heroes are called for, bring the crown To this Yankee rider: send him down On the stream of time with the Curtius old; His deed as the Roman's was brave and bold, And the tale can as noble a thrill awake, For he offered his life for the people's sake.

_John Boyle O'Reilly._

A TALE OF PROVIDENCE.

The tall green tree its shadow cast Upon Howe's army that southward passed From Gordon's Ford to the Quaker town, Intending in quarters to settle down Till snows were gone, and spring again Should easier make a new campaign.

Beyond the fences that lined the way, The fields of Captain Richardson lay; His woodland and meadows reached far and wide, From the hills behind to the Schuylkill's side, Across the stream, in the mountain gorge, He could see the smoke of the valley forge.

The Captain had fought in the frontier war; When the fight was done, bearing seam and scar, He marched back home to tread once more The same tame round he had trod before, And turn his thoughts with sighs of regret To his ploughshares, wishing them sword-blades yet.

He put the meadow in corn that year, And swore till his blacks were white with fear. He plowed, and planted, and married a wife, But life grew weary with inward strife. His blood was hot and his throbbing brain Beat with the surf of some far main.

Should he sack a town, or rob the mail, Or on the wide seas a pirate sail? He pondered it over, concluding instead, To buy three steeds in Arabia bred, On Sopus, Fearnaught, or Scipio, He felt his blood more evenly flow.

To his daughter Tacey, the coming days Brought health, and beauty, and graceful ways. He taught her to ride his fleetest steed At a five-barred fence, or a ditch at need, And the Captain's horses, his hounds, and his child Were famous from sea to forests wild.

*....*....*....*

Master and man from home were gone, And Fearnaught held the stables alone, And Mistress Tacey her spirit showed The morning the British came down the road. She hid the silver, and drove the cows To the island behind the willow boughs.

Was time too short? or did she forget That Fearnaught stood in the stables yet? Across the fields to the gate she ran, And followed the path 'neath the grape-arbors' span; On the doorstep she paused and turned to see The head of the line beneath the green tree.

The last straggler passed, the night came on, And then 'twas discovered that Fearnaught was gone; Sometime, somehow, from his stall he was led, Where an old gray horse was left in his stead, And Tacey must prove to her father that she Had been prepared for the emergency.

For the words he scattered on kind soil fell, And Tacey had learned his maxim well In the stories he read. She remembered the art That concealed the fear in Esther's heart; How the words of the woman Abigail Appeased the king's wrath, the deed of Jael!

How Judith went from the city's gate Across the plain as the day grew late, To the tent of the great Assyrian; The leader exalted with horse and man, And brought back his head, said Tacey: "Of course, A more difficult feat than to bring back a horse."

In the English camp the reveille drum Told the sleeping troops that the dawn had come, And the shadows abroad that with night were blent At the drum's tap startled, crept under each tent As Tacey stole from the sheltering wood Across the wet grass where the horse pound stood.

Hark! was it the twitter of frightened bird, Or was it the challenge of sentry she heard? She entered unseen, but her footsteps she stayed When the old gray horse in the wood still, neighed, Half hid in the mist a shape loomed tall, A steed that answered her well-known call.

With freedom beyond for the recompense She sprang to his back, and leaped the fence; Too late the alarm; but Tacey heard As she sped away how the camp was stirred, The stamping of horses, the shouts of men And the bugle's impatient call again.

Loudly and fast on the Ridge Road beat The regular fall of Fearnaught's feet, On his broad, bare back his rider's seat Was as firm as the tread of the steed so fleet; Small need of saddle, or bridle rein, He answered as well her touch on his mane.

On down the hill by the river shore, Faster and faster she rode than before; Her bonnet fell back, her head was bare, And the river breeze that freed her hair Dispersed the fog, and she heard the shout Of the troopers behind when the sun came out.

The wheel at Van Deering's had dripped nearly dry, In Sabbath-like stillness the morning passed by; Then the clatter of hoofs came down the hill, And the white old miller ran out from the mill. But he only saw through the dust of the road The last red-coat that faintly showed.

To Tacey the sky, and the trees, and the wind Seemed all to rush toward her, and follow behind, Her lips were set firm, and pale was her cheek As she plunged down the hill and through the creek, The tortoise shell comb that she lost that day The Wissahickon carried away.

On the other side up the stony hill The feet of Fearnaught went faster still, But somewhat backward the troopers fell, For the hill, and the pace, began to tell On their horses worn with a long campaign O'er rugged mountains, and weary plain.

The road was deserted, for when men fought A secret path the traveler sought; Two scared idlers in Levering's Inn Fled to the woods at the coming din, The watch dog ran to bark his delight, But pursued and pursuers were out of sight.

Surely the distance between them increased, And the shouts of the troopers had long since ceased, One after another pulled his rein And rode with great oaths to the camp again. Oft a look backward Tacey sent To the fading red of the regiment.

She heard the foremost horseman call; She saw the horse stumble, the rider fall; She patted her steed and checked his pace And leisurely rode the rest of the race. When the Seven-Stars' sign on the horizon showed Behind not a trooper was on the road.

In vain had they shouted who followed in chase, In vain their wild ride; so ended the race. Though fifty strong voices may clamor and call, If she hear not the strongest, she hears not them all; Though fifty fleet horses go galloping fast, One swifter than all shall be furthest at last.

Said the well-pleased Captain when he came home: "The steed shall be thine and a new silver comb. 'Twas a daring deed and bravely done." As proud of the praise as the promise won, The maiden stole from the house to feed With a generous hand her gallant steed.

Unavailing the storms of the century beat With the roar of thunder, or winter's sleet, The mansion still stands, and is heard as of yore The wind in the trees on the island's shore; But the restless river its shore line wears And no longer the island its old name bears.

And years that are gone in obscurity Have enveloped the rider's memory, But in Providence still abide her race, Brave youths with her spirit, fair maids with her grace, Undaunted they stand when fainter hearts flee, Prepared whatsoever the emergency.

_Isaac R. Pennypacker._

KIT CARSON'S RIDE.