PART IV.

Lad and Lassie

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

The man is wrecked and his ship is sunken before he ever steps on board or sees the water if his heart is hard and his estimate of human beings low. “The Inchcape Rock” is a thrust at hard-heartedness. “What is the use of life?” To bear one another’s burdens, to develop a genius for pulling people through hard places--that’s the use of life. It is the last resort of a mean mind to crack jokes that wreck innocent voyagers on life’s sea. (1774-1843.)

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be; Her sails from heaven received no motion; Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell, The mariners heard the warning Bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay; All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round, And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, A dark spot on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring; It made him whistle, it made him sing: His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float. Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound; The bubbles rose and burst around. Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the Rock Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.”

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; He scoured the sea for many a day; And now grown rich with plundered store, He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.

So thick a haze o’erspread the sky, They cannot see the sun on high: The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be brighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon.”

“Canst hear,” said one, “the broken roar? For methinks we should be near the shore.” “Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.”

They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: “O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!”

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair: The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,-- A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell The Devil below was ringing his knell.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE FINDING OF THE LYRE.

Once a year my pupils teach me “The Finding of the Lyre.” By the time I have learned it they know the meaning of every line and have caught the spirit of the verse. There is an ancient “lyre,” or violin, made in northern Africa, in the possession of a Boston lady, and I have found the mud-turtle rattle among the Indians on the Indian reservation at Syracuse, New York. They use it as a musical instrument in their Thanksgiving dances. The poem helps to build an interest in history and mythology while it develops a child’s reverence and insight. (1819-91.)

There lay upon the ocean’s shore What once a tortoise served to cover; A year and more, with rush and roar, The surf had rolled it over, Had played with it, and flung it by, As wind and weather might decide it, Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry Cheap burial might provide it.

It rested there to bleach or tan, The rains had soaked, the sun had burned it; With many a ban the fisherman Had stumbled o’er and spurned it; And there the fisher-girl would stay, Conjecturing with her brother How in their play the poor estray Might serve some use or other.

So there it lay, through wet and dry, As empty as the last new sonnet, Till by and by came Mercury, And, having mused upon it, “Why, here,” cried he, “the thing of things In shape, material, and dimension! Give it but strings, and, lo, it sings, A wonderful invention!”

So said, so done; the chords he strained, And, as his fingers o’er them hovered, The shell disdained a soul had gained, The lyre had been discovered. O empty world that round us lies, Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, Brought we but eyes like Mercury’s, In thee what songs should waken!

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

A CHRYSALIS.

“A Chrysalis” is a favourite poem with John Burroughs, and is found, too, in Stedman’s collection. We all come to a point in life where we need to burst the shell and fly away into the new realm. (1835-98.)

My little Mädchen found one day A curious something in her play, That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed; It was not anything that grew, Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew; Had neither legs nor wings, indeed; And yet she was not sure, she said, Whether it was alive or dead.

She brought it in her tiny hand To see if I would understand, And wondered when I made reply, “You’ve found a baby butterfly.” “A butterfly is not like this,” With doubtful look she answered me. So then I told her what would be Some day within the chrysalis: How, slowly, in the dull brown thing Now still as death, a spotted wing, And then another, would unfold, Till from the empty shell would fly A pretty creature, by and by, All radiant in blue and gold.

“And will it, truly?” questioned she-- Her laughing lips and eager eyes All in a sparkle of surprise-- “And shall your little Mädchen see?” “She shall!” I said. How could I tell That ere the worm within its shell Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread, My little Mädchen would be dead?

To-day the butterfly has flown,-- She was not here to see it fly,-- And sorrowing I wonder why The empty shell is mine alone. Perhaps the secret lies in this: I too had found a chrysalis, And Death that robbed me of delight Was but the radiant creature’s flight!

MARY EMILY BRADLEY.

FOR A’ THAT.

Robert Burns, the plowman and poet, “dinnered wi’ a lord.” The story goes that he was put at the second table. That lord is dead, but Robert Burns still lives. He is immortal. It is “the survival of the fittest” “For a’ That and a’ That” is a poem that wipes out the superficial value put on money and other externalities. This poem is more valuable in education than good penmanship or good spelling. (1759-96.)

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a’ that? The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that; For a’ that, and a’ that, Our toils obscure, and a’ that; The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that!

What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin-gray,[1] and a’ that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man’s a man for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Their tinsel show, and a’ that; The honest man, though e’er sae poor, Is king o’ men for a’ that!

Ye see yon birkie[2] ca’d a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a coof[3] for a’ that; For a’ that, and a’ that, His riband, star, and a’ that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a’ that.

A prince can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that; But an honest man’s aboon his might. Guid faith he maunna fa’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Their dignities, and a’ that, The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth, Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may-- As come it will for a’ that-- That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth, May bear the gree, and a’ that; For a’ that, and a’ that, It’s coming yet for a’ that, That man to man, the warld o’er, Shall brothers be for a’ that!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Coarse woolen clothes.

[2] Impudent fellow.

[3] Fool: blockhead.

ROBERT BURNS.

A NEW ARRIVAL.

“The New Arrival” is a valuable poem because it expresses the joy of a young father over his new baby. If girls should be educated to be good mothers, so should boys be taught that fatherhood is the highest and holiest joy and right of man. The child is educator to the man. He teaches him how to take responsibility, how to give unbiased judgments, and how to be fatherly like “Our Father who is in Heaven.” (1844-.)

There came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked and laughed. It seemed so curious that she Should cross the Unknown water, And moor herself right in my room, My daughter, O my daughter!

Yet by these presents witness all She’s welcome fifty times, And comes consigned to Hope and Love And common-meter rhymes. She has no manifest but this, No flag floats o’er the water, She’s too new for the British Lloyds-- My daughter, O my daughter!

Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones too! Ring out the lover’s moon! Ring in the little worsted socks! Ring in the bib and spoon! Ring out the muse! ring in the nurse! Ring in the milk and water! Away with paper, pen, and ink-- My daughter, O my daughter!

GEORGE W. CABLE.

THE BROOK.

Tennyson’s “The Brook” is included out of love to a dear old schoolmate in Colorado. The real brook, near Cambridge, England, is tame compared to your Colorado streams, O beloved comrade. This poem is well liked by the majority of pupils. (1809-92.)

I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeams dance Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses.

And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN.”

“The Ballad of the _Clampherdown_,” by Rudyard Kipling, is included because my boys always like it. It needs a great deal of explanation, and few boys will hold out to the end in learning it. But “it pays.” (1865-.)

It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_ Would sweep the Channel clean, Wherefore she kept her hatches close When the merry Channel chops arose, To save the bleached marine.

She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton, And a great stern-gun beside; They dipped their noses deep in the sea, They racked their stays and stanchions free In the wash of the wind-whipped tide.

It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, Fell in with a cruiser light That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun And a pair o’ heels wherewith to run, From the grip of a close-fought fight.

She opened fire at seven miles-- As ye shoot at a bobbing cork-- And once she fired and twice she fired, Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired That lolls upon the stalk.

“Captain, the bow-gun melts apace, The deck-beams break below, ’Twere well to rest for an hour or twain, And botch the shattered plates again.” And he answered, “Make it so.”

She opened fire within the mile-- As ye shoot at the flying duck-- And the great stern-gun shot fair and true, With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue, And the great stern-turret stuck.

“Captain, the turret fills with steam, The feed-pipes burst below-- You can hear the hiss of helpless ram, You can hear the twisted runners jam.” And he answered, “Turn and go!”

It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, And grimly did she roll; Swung round to take the cruiser’s fire As the White Whale faces the Thresher’s ire, When they war by the frozen Pole.

“Captain, the shells are falling fast, And faster still fall we; And it is not meet for English stock, To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock, The death they cannot see.”

“Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B., We drift upon her beam; We dare not ram, for she can run; And dare ye fire another gun, And die in the peeling steam?”

It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_ That carried an armour-belt; But fifty feet at stern and bow, Lay bare as the paunch of the purser’s sow, To the hail of the Nordenfeldt.

“Captain, they lack us through and through; The chilled steel bolts are swift! We have emptied the bunkers in open sea, Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be.” And he answered, “Let her drift.”

It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, Swung round upon the tide. Her two dumb guns glared south and north, And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth, And she ground the cruiser’s side.

“Captain, they cry the fight is done, They bid you send your sword.” And he answered, “Grapple her stern and bow. They have asked for the steel. They shall have it now; Out cutlasses and board!”

It was our war-ship _Clampherdown_, Spewed up four hundred men; And the scalded stokers yelped delight, As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight, Stamp o’er their steel-walled pen.

They cleared the cruiser end to end, From conning-tower to hold. They fought as they fought in Nelson’s fleet; They were stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet, As it was in the days of old.

It was the sinking _Clampherdown_ Heaved up her battered side-- And carried a million pounds in steel, To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel, And the scour of the Channel tide.

It was the crew of the _Clampherdown_ Stood out to sweep the sea, On a cruiser won from an ancient foe, As it was in the days of long-ago, And as it still shall be.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

“The Destruction of Sennacherib,” by Lord Byron, finds a place in this collection because Johnnie, a ten-year-old, and many of his friends say, “It’s great.” (1788-1824.)

The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when the 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 Ashur 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!

LORD BYRON.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups-- Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,-- The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now ’tis little joy To know I’m farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.

THOMAS HOOD.

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again.

Under the willows and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go: Two already were lying dead, Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the footpath damp.

Across the clover, and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim: Though the dew was on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat’s flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; And now, when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man’s tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son’s again.

The summer day grew cool and late: He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming one by one:

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, But who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Looked out a face that the father knew.

For close-barred prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn, In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

KRINKEN.

“Krinken” is the dearest of poems.

“Krinken was a little child. It was summer when he smiled!”

Eugene Field, above all other poets, paid the finest tribute to children. This poet only, could make the whole ocean warm because a child’s heart was there to warm it.

Krinken was a little child,-- It was summer when he smiled. Oft the hoary sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to him, Calling, “Sun-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!” But the child heard not the sea Calling, yearning evermore For the summer on the shore.

Krinken on the beach one day Saw a maiden Nis at play; On the pebbly beach she played In the summer Krinken made. Fair, and very fair, was she, Just a little child was he. “Krinken,” said the maiden Nis, “Let me have a little kiss,-- Just a kiss, and go with me To the summer-lands that be Down within the silver sea.”

Krinken was a little child-- By the maiden Nis beguiled, Hand in hand with her went he And ’twas summer in the sea. And the hoary sea and grim To its bosom folded him-- Clasped and kissed the little form, And the ocean’s heart was warm.

Now the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,-- Winter where that little child Made sweet summer when he smiled; Though ’tis summer on the sea Where with maiden Nis went he,-- It is winter on the shore, Winter, winter evermore.

Of the summer on the deep Come sweet visions in my sleep; _His_ fair face lifts from the sea, _His_ dear voice calls out to me,-- These my dreams of summer be.

Krinken was a little child, By the maiden Nis beguiled; Oft the hoary sea and grim Reached its longing arms to him, Crying, “Sim-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart with thee!” But the sea calls out no more; It is winter on the shore,-- Winter, cold and dark and wild.

Krinken was a little child,-- It was summer when he smiled; Down he went into the sea, And the winter bides with me, Just a little child was he.

EUGENE FIELD.

STEVENSON’S BIRTHDAY.

“How I should like a birthday!” said the child, “I have so few, and they so far apart.” She spoke to Stevenson--the Master smiled-- “Mine is to-day; I would with all my heart That it were yours; too many years have I! Too swift they come, and all too swiftly fly”

So by a formal deed he there conveyed All right and title in his natal day, To have and hold, to sell or give away,-- Then signed, and gave it to the little maid.

Joyful, yet fearing to believe too much, She took the deed, but scarcely dared unfold. Ah, liberal Genius! at whose potent touch All common things shine with transmuted gold! A day of Stevenson’s will prove to be Not part of Time, but Immortality.

KATHERINE MILLER.

A MODEST WIT.

I learned “A Modest Wit” as a reading-lesson when I was a child. It has clung to me and so I cling to it. It is just as good as it ever was. It is a sharp thrust at power that depends on externalities. Selleck Osborne. (----.)

A supercilious nabob of the East-- Haughty, being great--purse-proud, being rich-- A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which-- Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron’s suit, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His honour, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary.

“Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?”-- “He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said, “And in his time was reckon’d good.”

“A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?”

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), “Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father’s trade!”

“My father’s trade! by heaven, that’s too bad! My father’s trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low-- He was a gentleman, I’d have you know.”

“Excuse the liberty I take,” Modestus said, with archness on his brow, “Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?”

SELLECK OSBORNE.

THE LEGEND OF BISHOP HATTO.

“The Legend of Bishop Hatto” is doubtless a myth (Robert Southey, 1774-1843). But “The Mouse-Tower on the Rhine” is an object of interest to travellers, and the story has a point

The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet: ’Twas a piteous sight to see, all around, The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door; For he had a plentiful last-year’s store, And all the neighbourhood could tell His granaries were furnished well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay: He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for winter there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flocked from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old.

Then, when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto, he made fast the door; And while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn and burned them all.

“I’ faith, ’tis an excellent bonfire!” quoth he; “And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it in these times forlorn Of Rats that only consume the corn.”

So then to his palace returnèd he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he entered the hall, Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat-like death all over him came; For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he looked, there came a man from his farm; He had a countenance white with alarm: “My Lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the Rats had eaten all your corn.”

Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be: “Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly!” quoth he, “Ten thousand Rats are coming this way; The Lord forgive you yesterday!”

“I’ll go to my town on the Rhine,” replied he; “’Tis the safest place in Germany; The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong, and the water deep.”

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down, and closed his eyes; But soon a scream made him arise: He started and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.

He listened and looked; it was only the cat: But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that; For she sat screaming, mad with fear At the army of Rats that was drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shore so steep; And up the tower their way is bent, To do the work for which they were sent.

They are not to be told by the dozen or score; By thousands they come, and by myriads and more; Such numbers had never been heard of before, Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore.

Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did tell, As, louder and louder drawing near, The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.

And in at the windows and in at the door, And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour, And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, And all at once to the Bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones; And now they pick the Bishop’s bones: They gnawed the flesh from every limb; For they were sent to do judgment on him!

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

COLUMBUS.

We are greatly indebted to Joaquin Miller for his “Sail On! Sail On!” Endurance is the watchword of the poem and the watchword of our republic. Every man to his gun! Columbus discovered America in his own mind before he realised it or proved its existence. I have often drawn a chart of Columbus’s life and voyages to show what need he had of the motto “Sail On!” to accomplish his end. This is one of our greatest American poems. The writer still lives in California.

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: “Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone; Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?” “Why say, sail on! and on!”

“My men grow mut’nous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak.” The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave wash’d his swarthy cheek. “What shall I say, brave Admiral, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?” “Why, you shall say, at break of day: ‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’”

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanch’d mate said; “Why, now, not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, and say----” He said: “Sail on! and on!”

They sailed, they sailed, then spoke his mate: “This mad sea shows his teeth to-night, He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth as if to bite! Brave Admiral, say but one word; What shall we do when hope is gone?” The words leaped as a leaping sword: “Sail on! sail on! and on!”

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And thro’ the darkness peered that night. Ah, darkest night! and then a speck,-- A light! a light! a light! a light! It grew--a star-lit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn; He gained a world! he gave that world Its watch-word: “On! and on!”

JOAQUIN MILLER.

THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS.

Once a year the children learn “The Shepherd of King Admetus,” which is one of the finest poems ever written as showing the possible growth of real history into mythology, the tendency of mankind to deify what is fine or sublime in human action. Not every child will learn this entire poem, because it is too long. But every child will learn the best lines in it while the children are teaching it to me and when I take my turn in teaching it to them. No child fails to catch the spirit and intent of the poem and to become entirely familiar with it. (1819-91.)

There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plow, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-shell He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men’s bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o’er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman’s eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone, And e’en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a god.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.

I have an old essay written by a lad of fourteen years on “How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.” I should judge from this essay that any boy at that age would like the poem, even if he had not himself been over the ground as this boy had. (1812-89.)

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; “Good speed!” cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew; “Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girth tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time!”

At Aershot, 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 upward 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 voting by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought the good news from Ghent.

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.

“The Burial of Sir John Moore” was one of my reading-lessons when I was a child. A distinguished teacher says: “It has become a part of popular education,” as has also “The Eve of Waterloo” and “The Death of Napoleon.” They are all poems of great rhythmical swing, intense and graphic. (1791-1823.)

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone, And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory!

C. WOLFE.

THE EVE OF WATERLOO.

“The Eve of Waterloo,” by Lord Byron (1788-1824). Here is another old reading-book gem that will always be dear to every boy’s heart if he only reads it a few times.

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gathered 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 looked 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, Blushed 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 thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips, “The foe! They come! They come!”

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, Over the unreturning brave--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which, now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

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 marshalling in arms,--the day, Battle’s magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which, when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider, and horse--friend, foe--in one red burial blent!

LORD BYRON.

IVRY.

A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.

Laddie, aged eleven, do you remember how you studied and recited “King Henry of Navarre” every poetry hour for a year? It was a long poem, but you stuck to it to the end. We did not know the meaning of a certain word, but I found it up in Switzerland. It is the name of a little town. (1800-59.)

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel’s stout infantry, and Egmont’s Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine’s empurpled flood, And good Coligni’s hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, “God save our Lord the King!” “And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.”

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André’s plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies,--upon them with the lance. A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star, Amid the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. D’Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, “Remember St. Bartholomew!” was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, “No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.” Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the Religion have borne us best in fight; And the good lord of Rosny has ta’en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta’en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearman’s souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, the valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

“The Glove and the Lions” was one of my early reading-lessons. It is an incisive thrust at the vanity of “fair” women. A woman be a “true knight” as well as a man. Leigh Hunt (1784-1859.)

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, And ’mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed: And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramp’d and roar’d the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we’re better here than there.”

De Lorge’s love o’erheard the King,--a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seem’d the same: She thought, “The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I’ll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.”

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then look’d at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain’d his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face. “Well done!” cried Francis, “bravely done!” and he rose from where he sat: “No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.”

LEIGH HUNT.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

I found the Well of St. Keyne in Cornwall, England--not the poem, but the real well. The poem is of the great body of world-lore. Southey (1774-1843).

A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west-country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind does an ash tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne: Pleasant it was to his eye, For from cock-crow he had been travelling And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank, Under the willow tree.

There came a man from the neighbouring town At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And bade the stranger hail.

“Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he, “For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

“Or has your good woman, if one you have, In Cornwall ever been? For an if she have, I’ll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne.”

“I have left a good woman who never was here,” The stranger he made reply; “But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why.”

“St. Keyne,” quoth the countryman, “many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell.

“If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.

“But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then!” The stranger stoop’d to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again.

“You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?” He to the countryman said; But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

“I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch, But i’ faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church,”

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE.

“The Nautilus and the Ammonite” finds a place here out of respect to a twelve-year-old girl who recited it at one of our poetry hours years ago. It made a profound impression on the fifty pupils assembled, I never read it without feeling that it stands test. Anonymous.

The nautilus and the ammonite Were launched in friendly strife, Each sent to float in its tiny boat On the wide, wide sea of life.

For each could swim on the ocean’s brim, And, when wearied, its sail could furl, And sink to sleep in the great sea-deep, In its palace all of pearl.

And theirs was a bliss more fair than this Which we taste in our colder clime; For they were rife in a tropic life-- A brighter and better clime.

They swam ’mid isles whose summer smiles Were dimmed by no alloy; Whose groves were palm, whose air was balm, And life one only joy.

They sailed all day through creek and bay, And traversed the ocean deep; And at night they sank on a coral bank, In its fairy bowers to sleep.

And the monsters vast of ages past They beheld in their ocean caves; They saw them ride in their power and pride, And sink in their deep-sea graves.

And hand in hand, from strand to strand, They sailed in mirth and glee; These fairy shells, with their crystal cells, Twin sisters of the sea.

And they came at last to a sea long past, But as they reached its shore, The Almighty’s breath spoke out in death, And the ammonite was no more.

So the nautilus now in its shelly prow, As over the deep it strays, Still seems to seek, in bay and creek, Its companion of other days.

And alike do we, on life’s stormy sea, As we roam from shore to shore, Thus tempest-tossed, seek the loved, the lost, And find them on earth no more.

Yet the hope how sweet, again to meet, As we look to a distant strand, Where heart meets heart, and no more they part Who meet in that better land.

ANONYMOUS.

THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK.

I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the center all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity’s reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech,-- I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, Friendship, and Love, Divinely bestow’d upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth.

Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more!

My friends--do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? Oh, tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-wingèd arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the seafowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair, Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There’s mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.

WILLIAM COWPER.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

I wonder if the English people appreciate “The Homes of England.” It is a stately poem worthy of a Goethe or a Shakespeare. England is distinctively a country of homes, pretty, little, humble homes as well as stately palaces and castles, homes well made of stone or brick for the most part, and clad with ivy and roses. Who would not be proud to have had such a home as Ann Hathaway’s humble cottage or one of the little huts in the Lake District? The homes of America are often more palatial, especially in small cities, but the use of wood in America makes them less substantial than the slate-and-brick houses of England. (1749-1835.)

The stately homes of England! How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O’er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman’s voice flows forth in song, Or childish tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.

The blessèd homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell’s chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o’er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlets’ fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England! Long, long, in hut and hall May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall! And green forever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child’s glad spirit loves Its country and its God!

FELICIA HEMANS.

HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.

“Horatius at the Bridge” is too long a poem for children to memorise. But I never saw a boy who did not want some stanzas of it. “Hold the bridge with me!” Boys like that motto instinctively. T.B. Macaulay (1800-59).

Lars Porsena of Clusium, By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting-day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array.

East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet’s blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome!

The horsemen and the footmen Are pouring in amain, From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet, Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle’s nest, hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine.

The harvests of Arretium, This year, old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna, This year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls Whose sires have marched to Rome.

There be thirty chosen prophets, The wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena Both morn and evening stand: Evening and morn the Thirty Have turned the verses o’er, Traced from the right on linen white By mighty seers of yore.

And with one voice the Thirty Have their glad answer given: “Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; Go forth, beloved of Heaven; Go, and return in glory To Clusium’s royal dome; And hang round Nurscia’s altars The golden shields of Rome.”

And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trysting-day.

For all the Etruscan armies Were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banished Roman, And many a stout ally; And with a mighty following To join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name.

But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright: From all the spacious champaign To Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city, The throng stopped up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and days.

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, Could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages Red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City, They sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman came With tidings of dismay.

To eastward and to westward Have spread the Tuscan bands; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecot, In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia Hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath stormed Janiculum, And the stout guards are slain.

I wis, in all the Senate, There was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Consul, Up rose the Fathers all; In haste they girded up their gowns, And hied them to the wall.

They held a council standing Before the River Gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Out spoke the Consul roundly: “The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Naught else can save the town.”

Just then a scout came flying, All wild with haste and fear: “To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; Lars Porsena is here.” On the low hills to westward The Consul fixed his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky.

And nearer, fast, and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still, and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud, The trampling and the hum. And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, The long array of spears.

And plainly and more plainly, Above the glimmering line, Now might ye see the banners Of twelve fair cities shine; But the banner of proud Clusium Was the highest of them all, The terror of the Umbrian, The terror of the Gaul.

Fast by the royal standard, O’erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium Sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name, And by the left false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame.

But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament From all the town arose. On the house-tops was no woman But spat toward him and hissed, No child but screamed out curses, And shook its little fist.

But 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 spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: “To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late; And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods.

“And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame?

“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 straight 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-- 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 say’st, so let it be,” And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome’s quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old.

Now while the Three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an ax; And Fathers mixed with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold.

Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly toward the bridge’s head, Where stood the dauntless Three.

The Three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose: And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way;

Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva’s mines; And Picus, long to Clusium Vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers O’er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath; Herminius struck at Seius, And clove him to the teeth; At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust.

Then Ocnus of Falerii Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den Amid the reeds of Cosa’s fen. And wasted fields and slaughtered men Along Albinia’s shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns; Lartius laid Ocnus low; Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. “Lie there,” he cried, “fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark The tracks of thy destroying bark, No more Campania’s hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice accurséd sail.”

But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathful clamour From all the vanguard rose. Six spears’ length from the entrance Halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow way.

But hark! the cry is Astur: And lo! the ranks divide; And the great Lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the fourfold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield.

He smiled on those bold Romans, A smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he: “The she-wolf’s litter Stand savagely at bay; But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way?”

Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow.

He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing space; Then, like a wildcat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur’s face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, So fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a handbreadth out Behind the Tuscan’s head.

And the great Lord of Luna Fell at the deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder-smitten oak. Far o’er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head.

On Astur’s throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain Ere he wrenched out the steel. “And see,” he cried, “the welcome, Fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucumo comes next To taste our Roman cheer?”

But at his haughty challenge A sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, Along that glittering van. There lacked not men of prowess, Nor men of lordly race; For all Etruria’s noblest Were round the fatal place.

But 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, All shrank, like boys who unaware, Ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amid bones and blood.

Was none who would be foremost To lead such dire attack? But those behind cried “Forward!” And those before cried “Back!” And backward now and forward Wavers the deep array; And on the tossing sea of steel To and fro the standards reel; And the victorious trumpet peal Dies fitfully away.

Yet one man for one moment Strode out before the crowd; Well known was he to all the Three, And they gave him greeting loud: “Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! Now welcome to thy home! Why dost thou stay, and turn away? Here lies the road to Rome.”

Thrice looked he at the city; Thrice looked he at the dead; And thrice came on in fury, And thrice turned back in dread: And, white with fear and hatred, Scowled at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay.

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 whirling down, in fierce career, Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rushed 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; Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus naught spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake 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, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer.

And 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 armour, 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 Bore bravely up his chin.

“Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus; “Will not the villain drown? But for this 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.

They gave him of the corn land, That was of public right. As much as two strong oxen Could plow from morn till night: And they made a molten image, And set it up on high, And there it stands unto this day To witness if I lie.

It stands in the Comitium, Plain for all folk to see,-- Horatius in his harness, Halting upon one knee: And underneath is written, In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge In the brave days of old.

And still his name sounds stirring Unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet blast that cries to them To charge the Volscian home; And wives still pray to Juno For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well In the brave days of old.

And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amid the snow; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest’s din, And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within;

When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows;

When the goodman mends his armour, And trims his helmet’s plume; When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom,-- With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old.

THOMAS B. MACAULAY.

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE.

“The Planting of the Apple-Tree” has become a favourite for “Arbour Day” exercises. The planting of trees as against their destruction is a vital point in our political and national welfare. William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878).

Come, let us plant the apple-tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o’er them tenderly, As round the sleeping infant’s feet We softly fold the cradle sheet; So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs, To load the May wind’s restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple-tree.

And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, The winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose eyes o’erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine, And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree, Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood’s careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree.

And time shall waste this apple-tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still! What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple-tree?

“Who planted this old apple-tree?” The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: “A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; ’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple-tree.”

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.