Part 10

Then Abner Dean of Angel’s raised a point of order, when— A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a paleozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain and my name is Truthful James; And I’ve told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

NATHAN HALE. BY FRANCIS MILES FINCH.

These verses were written by the author of “The Blue and the Gray.” Nathan Hale, great-uncle of Edward Everett Hale, was born at Coventry, Conn., June 6, 1755. He was sent to New York by Washington to get information about the British, and was arrested while on that mission. He was hanged as a spy by order of Sir William Howe, Sept. 22, 1776. By his executioner he was denied the use of a Bible, and his family letters were burned.

To drum beat and heart beat, A soldier marches by; There is color in his cheek, There is courage in his eye, Yet to drum beat and heart beat In a moment he must die.

By the starlight and moonlight, He seeks the Briton’s camp; He hears the rustling flag And the armed sentry’s tramp; And the starlight and the moonlight His silent wanderings lamp.

With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns, By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Gives no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave, It meets his eager glance; And it sparkles ’neath the stars, Like the glimmer of a lance— A dark wave, a plumed wave, On an emerald expanse.

A sharp clang, a still clang, And terror in the sound! For the sentry, falcon eyed, In the camp a spy hath found; With a sharp clang, a steel clang, The patriot is bound.

With a calm brow and a steady brow, He listens to his doom; In his look there is no fear, Nor a shadowy trace of gloom; But with calm brow and steady brow, He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night, He kneels upon the sod; And the brutal guards withhold E’en the solemn word of God! In the long night, the still night, He walks where Christ hath trod.

’Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn, He dies upon the tree; And he mourns that he can lose But one life for liberty; And in the blue morn, the sunny morn, His spent wings are free.

But his last words, his message words, They burn, lest friendly eye Should read how proud and calm A patriot could die. With his last words, his dying words, A soldier’s battle cry.

From fame leaf and angel leaf, From monument and urn, The sad earth, the glad of heaven, His tragic fate shall learn; And on fame leaf and angel leaf The name of HALE shall burn!

THE SONG OF CALLICLES. BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts Thick breaks the red flame. All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed flame.

Not here, O, Apollo, Are haunts meet for thee, But where Helicon breaks down In cliff to the sea.

Where the moon-silver’d inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe, O, speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-top Lie strewn the white flocks; On the cliff-side the pigeons Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds, Soft-lull’d by the rills, Lie wrapped in their blankets, Asleep on the hills.

What forms are those coming, So white through the gloom? What garments out-glistening The gold-flower’d broom?

What sweet-breathing Presence Out-perfumes the thyme? What voices enrapture The night’s balmy prime?

’Tis Apollo comes leading His choir, the Nine— The Leader is fairest, But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollow, They stream up again. What seeks on this mountain The glorified train?

They bathe in this mountain, In the spring by their road. Then on to Olympus, Their endless abode.

Whose praise do they mention? Of what is it told, What will be forever, What was from of old.

First hymn they the Father Of all things; and then, The rest of Immortals, The action of men.

The Day in his hotness, The strife with the palm; The Night in her silence, The Stars in their calm.

SONG FROM “MARMION.” BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden’s breast, Parted forever? Where through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow.

There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving. There thy rest shalt thou take, Parted forever, Never again to wake, Never, O, never!

Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden’s breast, Ruin and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war’s rattle With groans of the dying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap, O’er the false hearted. His warm blood the wolf shall lap, E’er life be parted. Shame and dishonor sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it— Never, O, never!

THE GRASS. BY EMILY DICKINSON.

The grass so little has to do— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the sunshine in its lap And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine— A duchess were too common For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass In odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away— The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay!

THE WIDOW MALONE. BY CHARLES LEVER.

Charles James Lever was born at Dublin in 1806. He was a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and afterwards became a physician, as well as a journalist, and the editor of the Dublin University Magazine. He was consul at Spezzia in 1858, and later at Trieste, where he died in 1872. His poems, when he did not try to be serious, are full of humor and rhythm. He wrote, among other novels, “Harry Lorrequer,” “Charles O’Malley,” and “Tom Burke of Ours.”

Did you hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone! Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone? Oh! she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts— So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone! So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score Or more; And fortunes they all had galore, In store; From the minister down To the clerk of the crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone! All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mistress Malone, ’Twas known That no one could see her alone, Ohone! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne’er catch her eye— So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone! So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Misther O’Brien from Clare— How quare! It’s little for blushing they care Down there— Put his arm round her waist, Gave ten kisses at laste— “Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone— My own!” “Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”

And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye! Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh— For why? But, “Lucius,” says she, “Since you’ve now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone! You may marry your Mary Malone.”

There’s a moral contained in my song, Not wrong, And, one comfort, it’s not very long, But strong; If for widows you die Learn to kiss, not to sigh, For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone! Ohone! Oh! they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone!

MY WIFE AND CHILD. BY GENERAL HENRY R. JACKSON.

This poem, which has often been attributed to General “Stonewall” Jackson, was written by General Henry R. Jackson, a lawyer and diplomat, of Savannah, Ga.

The tattoo beats—the lights are gone, The camp around in slumber lies; The night with solemn pace moves on, The shadows thicken o’er the skies; But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.

I think of thee, Oh, dearest one, Whose love my early life hath blest— Of thee and him—our baby son— Who slumbers on thy gentle breast. God of the tender, frail and lone, Oh, guard the tender sleeper’s rest.

And hover gently, hover near, To her, whose watchful eye is wet— To mother, wife—the doubly dear, In whose young heart have freshly met Two streams of love so deep and clear And clear her drooping spirits yet.

Whatever fate those forms may show, Loved with a passion almost wild— By day—by night—in joy or woe— By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled, From every danger, every foe, O God! protect my wife and child!

Now, while she kneels before Thy throne, Oh, teach her, ruler of the skies, That, while by thy behest alone, Earth’s mightiest powers fall or rise, No tear is wept to Thee unknown, No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!

That Thou can’st stay the ruthless hands Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; That only by Thy stern command The battle’s lost, the soldier’s slain— That from the distant sea or land Thou bring’st the wanderer home again.

And when upon her pillow lone Her tear-wet cheek is sadly prest, May happier visions beam upon The brightening current of her breast, No frowning look nor angry tone Disturb the Sabbath of her rest.

JONATHAN TO JOHN. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Lowell was born at Cambridge, Mass., in 1819. He went to Harvard college and was Longfellow’s successor as professor of modern languages at the same college. From 1857–’62 he was editor of the Atlantic Monthly; in 1863–’72 he was editor of the North American Review. He held the office of United States minister, first to Spain–1877–’80—and later to Great Britain–1880–’85. Lowell died at Cambridge in 1891. Among his poems are the “Biglow Papers,” the “Vision of Sir Launfal,” “A Tale for Critics.” Some of his prose works are “Among My Books,” “My Study Windows,” and “Political Essays.”

It don’t seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John— Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess We know it now,” sez he; “The lion’s paw is all the law, According to J. B., Thet’s fit for you an’ me!”

You wonder why we’re hot, John? Your mark wuz on the guns— The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an’ our sons. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess There’s human blood,” sez he, “By fits an’ starts, in Yankee hearts, Though’t may surprise J. B. More ’n it would you an’ me.”

When your rights was our wrongs, John, You didn’t stop for fuss— Britanny’s trident prongs, John, Was good ’nough law for us. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, Though physic’s good,” sez he, “It doesn’t foller thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed ‘J. B.’, Put up by you an’ me!”

We own the ocean, tu, John; You mus’n’t take it hard, Ef we can’t think with you, John, It’s jest your own back yard. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess, Ef thet’s his claim,” sez he, “The fencin’ stuff’ll cost enough To bust up friend J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

We know we’ve got a cause, John, Thet’s honest, just, an’ true; We thought ’twould win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess His love of right,” sez he, “Hangs by a rotten fibre o’ cotton; There’s natur’ in J. B., Ez wal ez you an’ me!”

God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an’ understand, John, The wuth o’ being free. Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess God’s price is high,” sez he; “But nothin’ else than wut he sells Wears long, an’ thet J. B. May larn, like you an’ me.”

SOLILOQUY FROM “HAMLET.” BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

To be, or not to be; that is the question; Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep: No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to; ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die; to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death— The undiscover’d country from whose bourn No traveler returns—puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turns awry And lose the name of action.

TO A WATER FOWL. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Whither, ’midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler’s eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

* * *

There is a power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast— The desert and illimitable air— Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere. Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

* * *

Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will lead my steps aright.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. BY GENL. WILLIAM H. LYTLE.

William Haines Lytle was born at Cincinnati, O., in 1826, and died a hero’s death at Chickamauga in 1863. He enlisted in the Mexican war in 1846, and served with distinction. Afterwards he attained prominence as a lawyer and politician. When the civil war broke out he was appointed major general of volunteers. At Carnifex ferry he was desperately wounded, but recovered and took charge of a brigade. He was again wounded at Perryville and captured. Being exchanged, he was promoted to brigadier general and fought in many engagements till Sept. 29, 1863. His poems were never collected in book form. This one was written in 1857.

I am dying, Egypt, dying! Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, And the dark Plutonian shadows Gather on the evening blast. Let thine arms, O queen, enfold me; Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear. Listen to the great heart secrets Thou, and thou alone, must hear.

Though my scarred and veteran legions Bear their eagles high no more, And my wrecked and scattered galleys Strew dark Actium’s fatal shore; Though no glittering guards surround me, Prompt to do their master’s will, I must perish like a Roman— Die the great Triumvir still!

Let no Cesar’s servile minions Mock the lion thus laid low; ’Twas no foeman’s arm that felled him; ’Twas his own that struck the blow— His who, pillowed on thy bosom, Turned aside from glory’s ray— His who, drunk with thy caresses, Madly threw a world away.

Should the base plebeian rabble Dare assail my name at Rome, Where my noble spouse, Octavia, Weeps within her widowed home, Seek her; say the gods bear witness— Altars, augurs, circling wings— That her blood with mine commingled, Yet shall mount the throne of kings.

As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian! Glorious sorceress of the Nile! Light the path to Stygian horrors With the splendors of thy smile. Give to Cæsar crowns and arches, Let his brow the laurel twine; I can scorn the senate’s triumphs, Triumphing in love like thine.

I am dying, Egypt, dying; Hark! the insulting foeman’s cry. They are coming—quick, my falchion! Let me front them ere I die. Ah! no more amid the battle Shall my heart exulting swell; Isis and Osiris guard thee! Cleopatra—Rome—farewell!

O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? BY WILLIAM KNOX.

The following poem was a particular favorite with Abraham Lincoln. It was first shown to him when a young man by a friend, and afterwards he cut it from a newspaper and learned it by heart. He said to a friend: “I would give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain.” He did afterwards learn the name of the author.

William Knox was a Scottish poet who was born in 1789 at Firth and died in 1825 at Edinburgh. His “Lonely Hearth and Other Poems” was published in 1818, and “The Songs of Israel,” from which “O, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud” is taken, in 1824. Sir Walter Scott was an admirer of Knox’s poems, and befriended the author when his habits brought him into need.

O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be laid; As the young and the old, the low and the high, Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant’s affection who proved, The father that mother and infant who blest— Each, all, are away to that dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure—her triumphs are by; And alike from the minds of the living erased Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised.

The head of the King, that the scepter hath borne; The brow of the priest, that the miter hath worn; The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave— Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap; The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread— Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed, That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been; We see the same sights our fathers have seen; We drink the same stream, we see the same sun, And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers did shrink; To the life we are clinging our fathers did cling, But it speeds from us all like the bird on the wing.

They loved—but the story we cannot unfold; They scorned—but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved—but no wail from their slumbers will come; They joyed—but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died—ah! they died—we, things that are now, That walk on the turf that lies over their brow, And make in their dwelling a transient abode, Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, Are mingled together in sunshine and rain, And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

’Tis the wink of an eye; ’tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud; O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

THE THREE FISHERS. BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Charles Kingsley was born in Devonshire in 1819; he died in 1875. His poetical works consist of “The Saint’s Tragedy” and “Andromeda and Other Poems.”

Three fishers went sailing out into the West, Out into the West as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best; And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work and women must weep, And there’s little to earn, and many to keep; Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall and they looked at the shower, And the rack it came rolling up ragged and brown! But men must work and women must weep, Though storms be sudden and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come back to the town; For men must work and women must weep, And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep— And good-by to the bar and its moaning.

PSALM XLVIII.

Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised In the city of our God, in the mountain of his holiness, Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, Is Mount Zion, on the sides of the north, the city of the great King. God is known in her palaces for a refuge, For, lo, the kings were assembled, They passed by together. They saw it and so they marveled; They were troubled, and hasted away. Fear took hold upon them there, And pain, as of a woman in travail. Thou breakest the ships of Tarshish with an east wind, As we have heard, so have we seen In the city of the Lord of hosts, in the city of our God; God will establish it forever. We have thought of thy loving-kindness, O God, In the midst of thy temple. According to thy name, O God, So is thy praise unto the ends of the earth; Thy right hand is full of righteousness. Let Mount Zion rejoice, Let the daughters of Judah be glad, because of thy judgments. Walk about Zion, and go round about her; Tell the towers thereof. Mark ye well her bulwarks, consider her palaces; That ye may tell it to the generation following. For this God is our God for ever and ever; He will be our guide even unto death.

THE ISLES OF GREECE. BY LORD BYRON.