Chapter 10

As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"

THE VENGEANCE OF KAFUR.

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD.

From fair Damascus, as the day grew late, Passed Kafur homeward through St. Thomas' gate Betwixt the pleasure-gardens where he heard Vie with the lute the twilight-wakened bird. But song touched not his heavy heart, nor yet The lovely lines of gold and violet, A guerdon left by the departing sun To grace the brow of Anti-Lebanon. Upon his soul a crushing burden weighed, And to his eyes the swiftly-gathering shade Seemed but the presage of his doom to be,-- Death, and the triumph of his enemy.

"_One slain by slander_" cried he, with a laugh, "Thus should the poets frame my epitaph, Above whose mouldering dust it will be said, 'Blessed be Allah that the hound is dead!'" Out rang a rhythmic revel as he spake From joyous bulbuls in the poplar brake, Hailing the night's first blossom in the sky. And now, with failing foot, he drew anigh The orchard-garden where his home was hid Pomegranate shade and jasmine bloom amid.

Despair mocked at him from the latticed gate Where Love and Happiness had lain in wait With tender greetings, and the lights within Gleamed on the grave of Bliss that once had been. Fair Hope who daily poured into his ear Her rainbow promises gave way to Fear Who smote him blindly, leaving him to moan With bitter tears before the gateway prone.

Soft seemed the wind in sympathy to grieve, When lo! a sudden hand touched Kafur's sleeve, And then a voice cried, echoing his name, "Behold the proofs to put thy foe to shame!'" Up sprang the prostrate man, and while he stood Gripping the proffered scrip in marvelhood, He who had brought deliverance slipped from sight; Thus Joy made instant day of Kafur's night.

"Allah is just," he said.... Then burning ire With vengeance visions filled his brain like fire; And to his bosom, anguish-torn but late, Delirious with delight he hugged his hate. "Revenge!" cried he; "why wait until the morn? This night mine enemy shall know my scorn." The stars looked down in wo'nder overhead As backward Kafur toward Damascus sped.

The wind, that erst had joined him in his grief, Now whispered strangely to the walnut leaf; Into the bird's song pleading notes had crept, The happy fountains in the gardens wept, And e'en the river, with its restless roll, Seemed calling "pity" unto Kafur's soul.

"Allah" he cried, "O chasten thou my heart; Move me to mercy, and a nobler part!" Slow strode he on, the while a new-born grace Softened the rigid outlines of his face, Nor paused he till he struck, as ne'er before, A ringing summons on his foeman's door.

His mantle half across his features thrown, He won the spacious inner court unknown, Where, on a deep divan, lay stretched his foe, Sipping his sherbet cool with Hermon snow; Who, when he looked on Kafur, hurled his hate Upon him, wrathful and infuriate, Bidding him swift begone, and think to feel A judge's sentence and a jailer's steel.

"Hark ye!" cried Kafur, at this burst of rage Holding aloft a rolled parchment page; "Prayers and not threats were more to thy behoof; Thine is the danger, see! I hold the proof. Should I seek out the Caliph in his bower To-morrow when the mid-muezzin hour Has passed, and lay before his eyes this scrip, Silence would seal forevermore thy lip.

"Ay! quail and cringe and crook the supple knee, And beg thy life of me, thine enemy, Whom thou, a moment since, didst doom to death. I will not breathe suspicion's lightest breath Against thy vaunted fame: and even though Before all men thou'st sworn thyself my foe, And pledged thyself wrongly to wreak on me Thy utmost power of mortal injury, In spite of this, should I be first to die And win the bowers of the blest on high, Beside the golden gate of Paradise Thee will I wait with ever-watchful eyes, Ready to plead forgiveness for thy sin, If thou shouldst come, and shouldst not enter in.

"Should Allah hear my plea, how sweet! how sweet! For then would Kafur's vengeance be complete."

THE WISHING WELL.

BY VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD.

Around its shining edge three sat them down, Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring. "I wish," spake one, "the gems of Izza's crown, For then would I be Izza and a King!"

Another, "I the royal robe he wears, To hear men say, 'Behold, a King walks here!'" And cried the third, "Now by his long gray hairs I'd have his throne! Then should men cringe and fear!"

They quaffed the blessed draught and went their way To where the city's gilded turrets shone; Then from the shadowed palms, where rested they, Stepped one, with bowed gray head, and passed alone.

His arms upon his breast, his eyes down bent, Against the fading light a shadow straight; Across the yellow sand, musing, he went Where in the sunset gleamed the city's gate.

Lo, the next morrow a command did bring To three who tarried in that city's wall, Which bade them hasten straightway to the King, Izza, the Great, and straightway went they all,

With questioning and wonder in each mind. Majestic on his gleaming throne was he, Izza the Just, the kingliest of his kind! His eagle gaze upon the strangers three

Bent, to the first he spake, "Something doth tell Me that to-day my jewelled crown should lie Upon thy brow, that it be proven well How any man may be a king thereby."

And to the second, "Still the same hath told That thou shalt don this robe of royalty, And"--to the third--"that thou this sceptre hold To show a king to such a man as I!"

And straightway it was done. Then Izza spake Unto the guards and said, "Go! Bring thee now From out the city wall a child to make Its first obeisance to the King. Speed thou!"

In Izza's name, Izza, the great and good, Went this strange word 'mid stir and trumpet's ring, And straightway came along and wondering stood A child within the presence of the King.

The King? Her dark eyes, flashing, fearless gazed To where 'mid pomp and splendor three there sate. One, 'neath a glittering crown, shrunk sore amazed; One cringed upon the carven throne of state,

The third, wrapped with a royal robe, hung low His head in awkward shame, and could not see Beyond the blazoned hem, that was to show How any man thus garbed a king might be!

Wondering, paused the child, then turned to where One stood apart, his arms across his breast; No crown upon the silver of his hair, Black-gowned and still, of stately mien possessed;

No 'broidered robe nor gemmed device to tell Whose was that brow, majestic with its mind; But lo, one look, and straight she prostrate fell Before great Izza, kingliest of his kind!

* * * * *

Around the shining Well, at close of day, Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring, Three stopped to quaff a draught and paused to say "Life to great Izza! Long may he be King!"

THE TWO CHURCH-BUILDERS.

BY JOHN G. SAXE.

A famous king would build a church, A temple vast and grand; And that the praise might be his own, He gave a strict command That none should add the smallest gift To aid the work he planned.

And when the mighty dome was done, Within the noble frame, Upon a tablet broad and fair, In letters all aflame With burnished gold, the people read The royal builder's name.

Now when the king, elate with pride, That night had sought his bed, He dreamed he saw an angel come (A halo round his head), Erase the royal name and write Another in its stead.

What could it be? Three times that night That wondrous vision came; Three times he saw that angel hand Erase the royal name, And write a woman's in its stead In letters all aflame.

Whose could it be? He gave command To all about his throne To seek the owner of the name That on the tablet shone; And so it was, the courtiers found A widow poor and lone.

The king, enraged at what he heard, Cried, "Bring the culprit here!" And to the woman trembling sore, He said, "'Tis very clear That thou hast broken my command: Now let the truth appear!"

"Your majesty," the widow said, "I can't deny the truth; I love the Lord--my Lord and yours-- And so in simple sooth, I broke your Majesty's command (I crave your royal ruth).

"And since I had no money, Sire, Why, I could only pray That God would bless your Majesty;' And when along the way The horses drew the stones, I gave To one a wisp of hay!"

"Ah! now I see," the king exclaimed, "Self-glory was my aim: The woman gave for love of God, And not for worldly fame-- 'Tis my command the tablet bear The pious widow's name!"

THE CAPTAIN OF THE NORTHFLEET,

BY GERALD MASSEY.

So often is the proud deed done By men like this at Duty's call; So many are the honours won For us, we cannot wear them all!

They make the heroic common-place, And dying thus the natural way; And yet, our world-wide English race Feels nobler, for that death, To-day!

It stirs us with a sense of wings That strive to lift the earthiest soul; It brings the thoughts that fathom things To anchor fast where billows roll.

Love was so new, and life so sweet, But at the call he left the wine, And sprang full-statured to his feet, Responsive to the touch divine.

"_ Nay, dear, I cannot see you die. For me, I have my work to do Up here. Down to the boat. Good-bye, God bless you. I shall see it through_."

We read, until the vision dims And drowns; but, ere the pang be past, A tide of triumph overbrims And breaks with light from heaven at last.

Through all the blackness of that night A glory streams from out the gloom; His steadfast spirit lifts the light That shines till Night is overcome.

The sea will do its worst, and life Be sobbed out in a bubbling breath; But firmly in the coward strife There stands a man who has conquered Death!

A soul that masters wind and wave, And towers above a sinking deck; A bridge across the gaping grave; A rainbow rising o'er the wreck.

Others he saved; he saved the name Unsullied that he gave his wife: And dying with so pure an aim, He had no need to save his life!

Lord! how they shame the life we live, These sailors of our sea-girt isle, Who cheerily take what Thou mayst give, And go down with a heavenward smile!

The men who sow their lives to yield A glorious crop in lives to be: Who turn to England's harvest-field The unfruitful furrows of the sea.

With such a breed of men so brave, The Old Land has not had her day; But long her strength, with crested wave, Shall ride the Seas, the proud old way.

THE HAPPIEST LAND.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

There sat one day in quiet, By an alehouse on the Rhine, Four hale and hearty fellows, And drank the precious wine.

The landlord's daughter filled their cups Around the rustic board; Then sat they all so calm and still, And spake not one rude word.

But when the maid departed, A Swabian raised his hand, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, "Long live the Swabian land!

"The greatest kingdom upon earth Cannot with that compare; With all the stout and hardy men And the nut-brown maidens there."

"Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing,-- And dashed his beard with wine; "I had rather live in Lapland, Than that Swabian land of thine!

"The goodliest land on all this earth It is the Saxon land! There have I as many maidens As fingers on this hand!"

"Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!" A bold Bohemian cries; "If there's a heaven upon this earth, In Bohemia it lies:

"There the tailor blows the flute, And the cobbler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle, Over mountain gorge and bourn!"

* * * * *

And then the landlord's daughter Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, "Ye may no more contend-- There lies the happiest land."

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

September 24th, 1857.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear;-- Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled and nearer crept; Round and round the jungle serpent Near and nearer circles swept. "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- Pray to-day!" the soldier said; "To-morrow, death's between us And the wrong and shame we dread."

Oh! they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it? The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Hushed the wounded man his groaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true; As her mother's cradle crooning The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer,-- More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear,-- She knew the droning pibroch She knew the Campbell's call: "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,-- The grandest o' them all."

Oh! they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's; "God be praised!--the march of Havelock! The piping of the clans!"

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithsomely The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne; O'er the cruel roll of war-drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear; Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade, But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played!

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on.--

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time.--

But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of Oak!" our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.--

Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:-- So peace instead of death let us bring: But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king."--

Then Denmark bless'd our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wild and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, While the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died,-- With the gallant good Riou, Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! While the hollow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!

THE GRAVE SPOILERS.

BY HERCULES ELLIS.

They dragged our heroes from the graves, In which their honoured dust was lying; They dragged them forth--base, coward slaves And hung their bones on gibbets flying. Ireton, our dauntless Ironside, And Bradshaw, faithful judge, and fearless, And Cromwell, Britain's chosen guide, In fight in faith, and council, peerless. The bravest of our glorious brave! The tyrant's terror in his grave.

In felon chains, they hung the dead-- The noble dead, in glory lying: Before whose living face they fled, Like chaff before the tempest flying. They fled before them, foot and horse, In craven flight their safety seeking; And now they gloat around each corse, In coward scoff their hatred wreaking. Oh! God, that men could own, as kings, Such paltry, dastard, soulless things.

Their dust is scattered o'er the land They loved, and freed, and crowned with glory; Their great names bear the felon's brand; 'Mongst murderers is placed their story. But idly their grave-spoilers thought, Disgrace, which fled in life before them, By craven judges could be brought, To spread in death, its shadow o'er them. For chain, nor judge, nor dastard king, Can make disgrace around them cling.

Their dry bones rattle in the wind, That sweeps the land they died in freeing; But the brave heroes rest enshrined, In cenotaphs of God's decreeing: Embalmed in every noble breast, Inscribed on each brave heart their story, All honoured shall the heroes rest, Their country's boast--their race's glory. On every tongue shall be their name; In every land shall live their fame.

But fouler than the noisome dust, That reeks your rotting bones encasing, Shall be your fame, ye sons of lust, And sloth, and every vice debasing! Insulters of the glorious dead, While honour in our land is dwelling, Above your tombs shall Britons tread, And cry, while scorn each breast is swelling-- "HERE LIE THE DASTARD, CAITIFF SLAVES, WHO DRAGGED OUR HEROES FROM THEIR GRAVES."

BOW-MEETING SONG.

BY REGINALD HEBER.

Ye spirits of our fathers, The hardy, bold, and free, Who chased o'er Cressy's gory field A fourfold enemy! From us who love your sylvan game, To you the song shall flow, To the fame of your name Who so bravely bent the bow.

'Twas merry then in England (Our ancient records tell), With Robin Hood and Little John Who dwelt by down and dell; And yet we love the bold outlaw Who braved a tyrant foe, Whose cheer was the deer, And his only friend the bow.

'Twas merry then in England In autumn's dewy morn, When echo started from her hill To hear the bugle-horn. And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth In garb of green did go The shade to invade With the arrow and the bow.

Ye spirits of our fathers! Extend to us your care, Among your children yet are found The valiant and the fair, 'Tis merry yet in Old England, Full well her archers know, And shame on their name Who despise the British bow!

THE BALLAD OF ROU.

BY LORD LYTTON.

From Blois to Senlis, wave by wave, rolled on the Norman flood, And Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering tide of blood; There was not left in all the land a castle wall to fire, And not a wife but wailed a lord, a child but mourned a sire. To Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailèd barons flew, While, shaking earth, behind them strode, the thunder march of Rou.

"O king," then cried those barons bold, "in vain are mace and mail, We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the flail." "And vainly," cry the pious monks, "by Mary's shrine we kneel, For prayers, like arrows glance aside, against the Norman steel." The barons groaned, the shavelings wept, while near and nearer drew, As death-birds round their scented feast, the raven flags of Rou.