Chapter 12

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime It is the custom in the summer time, With bolted doors and window-shutters closed, The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed; When suddenly upon their senses fell The loud alarum of the accusing bell! The Syndic started from his deep repose, Turned on his coach, and listened, and then rose And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace Went panting forth into the market-place, Where the great bell upon its cross-beam swung, Reiterating with persistent tongue, In half-articulate jargon, the old song: "Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong!" But ere he reached the belfry's light arcade, He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade, No shape of human form of woman born, But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, Who with uplifted head and eager eye Was tugging at the vines of briony. "Domeneddio!" cried the Syndic straight, "This is the Knight of Atri's steed of state! He calls for justice, being sore distressed, And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd Had rolled together like a summer cloud, And told the story of the wretched beast In five-and-twenty different ways at least, With much gesticulation and appeal To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. The Knight was called and questioned; in reply Did not confess the fact, did not deny;

Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, And set at nought the Syndic and the rest, Maintaining, in an angry undertone, That he should do what pleased him with his own. And thereupon the Syndic gravely read The proclamation of the King; then said: "Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay, But cometh back on foot, and begs its way; Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds Of flowers of chivalry, and not of weeds! These are familiar proverbs; but I fear They never yet have reached your knightly ear. What fair renown, what honour, what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute? He who serves well and speaks not, merits more Than they who clamour loudest at the door. Therefore the law decrees that as this steed Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed To comfort his old age, and to provide Shelter in stall, and food and field beside."

The Knight withdrew abashed; the people all Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee, And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me! Church-bells at best but ring us to the door; But go not into mass; my bell doth more: It cometh into court and pleads the cause Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws; And this shall make, in every Christian clime, The Bell of Atri famous for all time."

THE STORM.

BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

The tempest rages wild and high, The waves lift up their voice and cry Fierce answers to the angry sky,-- Miserere Domine.

Through the black night and driving rain, A ship is struggling, all in vain To live upon the stormy main;-- Miserere Domine.

The thunders roar, the lightnings glare, Vain is it now to strive or dare; A cry goes up of great despair,-- Miserere Domine.

The stormy voices of the main, The moaning wind, the pelting rain Beat on the nursery window pane:-- Miserere Domine.

Warm curtained was the little bed, Soft pillowed was the little head; "The storm will wake the child," they said: Miserere Domine.

Cowering among his pillows white He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright, "Father save those at sea to-night!" Miserere Domine.

The morning shone all clear and gay, On a ship at anchor in the bay, And on a little child at play,-- Gloria tibi Domine!

THE THREE RULERS.

BY ADELAIDE PROCTOR.

I saw a Ruler take his stand And trample on a mighty land; The People crouched before his beck, His iron heel was on their neck, His name shone bright through blood and pain, His sword flashed back their praise again.

I saw another Ruler rise-- His words were noble, good and wise; With the calm sceptre of his pen He ruled the minds, and thoughts of men; Some scoffed, some praised, while many heard, Only a few obeyed his word.

Another Ruler then I saw-- Love and sweet Pity were his law: The greatest and the least had part (Yet most the unhappy) in his heart-- The People in a mighty band, Rose up and drove him from the land!

THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Ere the brothers though the gateway Issued forth with old and young, To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed, Which for ages there had hung. Horn it was which none could sound, No one upon living ground, Save He who came as rightful Heir To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.

Heirs from times of earliest record Had the House of Lucie borne, Who of right had held the lordship Claimed by proof upon the horn: Each at the appointed hour Tried the horn--it owned his power; He was acknowledged; and the blast Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the last.

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed, And to Hubert thus said he: "What I speak this horn shall witness For thy better memory. Hear, then, and neglect me not! At this time, and on this spot, The words are uttered from my heart, As my last earnest prayer ere we depart.

"On good service we are going, Life to risk by sea and land, In which course if Christ our Saviour Do my sinful soul demand, Hither come thou back straightway, Hubert, if alive that day; Return, and sound the horn, that we May have a living house still left in thee!"

"Fear not," quickly answered Hubert: "As I am thy father's son, What thou askest, noble brother, With God's favour, shall be done." So were both right well content: Forth they from the castle went, And at the head of their array To Palestine the brothers took their way.

Side by side they fought (the Lucies Were a line for valour famed), And where'er their strokes alighted, There the Saracens were tamed. Whence, then, could it come--the thought-- By what evil spirit brought? Oh! can a brave man wish to take His brother's life, for lands' and castle's sake?

"Sir!" the ruffians said to Hubert, "Deep he lies in Jordan's flood." Stricken by this ill assurance, Pale and trembling Hubert stood. "Take your earnings.--Oh! that I Could have _seen_ my brother die!" It was a pang that vexed him then, And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace! Nor of him were tidings heard; Wherefore, bold as day, the murderer Back again to England steered. To his castle Hubert sped; Nothing has he now to dread. But silent and by stealth he came, And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time, Night or day, at even or morn; No one's eye had seen him enter, No one's ear had heard the horn. But bold Hubert lives in glee: Months and years went smilingly; With plenty was his table spread, And bright the lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters; And, as good men do, he sate At his board by these surrounded, Flourishing in fair estate. And while thus in open day Once he sate, as old books say, A blast was uttered from the horn, Where by the castle-gate it hung forlorn,

'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace! He has come to claim his right: Ancient castle, woods, and mountains Hear the challenge with delight. Hubert! though the blast be blown, He is helpless and alone: Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word! And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord!

Speak!--astounded Hubert cannot; And, if power to speak he had, All are daunted, all the household Smitten to the heart and sad. 'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be Living man it must be he! Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, And by a postern-gate he slunk away.

Long and long was he unheard of: To his brother then he came, Made confession, asked forgiveness, Asked it by a brother's name, And by all the saints in heaven; And of Eustace was forgiven: Then in a convent went to hide His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels Had preserved from murderers' hands, And from pagan chains had rescued, Lived with honour on his lands. Sons he had, saw sons of theirs: And through ages, heirs of heirs, A long posterity renowned Sounded the horn which they alone could sound.

THE MIRACLE OF THE ROSES.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

There dwelt in Bethlehem a Jewish maid, And Zillah was her name, so passing fair That all Judea spake the virgin's praise. He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance, How it revealed her soul, and what a soul Beamed in the mild effulgence, woe to him! For not in solitude, for not in crowds, Might he escape remembrance, nor avoid Her imaged form, which followed everywhere, And filled the heart, and fixed the absent eye. Alas for him! her bosom owned no love Save the strong ardour of religious zeal; For Zillah upon heaven had centred all Her spirit's deep affections. So for her Her tribe's men sighed in vain, yet reverenced The obdurate virtue that destroy'd their hopes.

One man there was, a vain and wretched man, Who saw, desired, despaired, and hated her: His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek E'en till the flush of angry modesty Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. She loathed the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, And the strong workings of brute selfishness Had moulded his broad features; and she feared The bitterness of wounded vanity That with a fiendish hue would overcast His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, For Hamuel vowed revenge, and laid a plot Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports That soon obtain belief; how Zillah's eye, When in the temple heavenward it was raised, Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance With other feelings filled:--that 'twas a task Of easy sort to play the saint by day Before the public eye, but that all eyes Were closed at night;--that Zillah's life was foul, Yea, forfeit to the law.

Shame--shame to man, That he should trust so easily the tongue Which stabs another's fame! The ill report Was heard, repeated, and believed,--and soon, For Hamuel by his well-schemed villainy Produced such semblances of guilt,--the maid Was to the fire condemned!

Without the walls There was a barren field; a place abhorred, For it was there where wretched criminals Received their death! and there they fixed the stake, And piled the fuel round, which should consume The injured maid, abandoned, as it seemed, By God and man.

The assembled Bethlehemites Beheld the scene, and when they saw the maid Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness She lifted up her patient looks to heaven, They doubted of her guilt.--

With other thoughts Stood Hamuel near the pile; him savage joy Led thitherward, but now within his heart Unwonted feelings stirred, and the first pangs Of wakening guilt, anticipant of hell!

The eye of Zillah as it glanced around Fell on the slanderer once, and rested there A moment; like a dagger did it pierce, And struck into his soul a cureless wound. Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour Of triumph dost thou spare the guilty wretch, Not in the hour of infamy and death Forsake the virtuous!--

They draw near the stake-- They bring the torch!--hold, hold your erring hands! Yet quench the rising flames!--O God, protect, They reach the suffering maid!--O God, protect The innocent one! They rose, they spread, they raged;-- The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames, In one long lightning-flash concentrating, Darted and blasted Hamuel--him alone!

Hark what a fearful scream the multitude Pour forth!--and yet more miracles! the stake Branches and buds, and spreading its green leaves, Embowers and canopies the innocent maid Who there stands glorified; and roses, then First seen on earth since Paradise was lost, Profusely blossom round her, white and red, In all their rich variety of hues; And fragrance such as our first parents breathed In Eden, she inhales, vouchsafed to her A presage sure of Paradise regained.

THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE.

BY GERALD GRIFFIN.

The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide, The fresh wind is singing along the seaside; The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers, And the harp-strings are trembling in all the glad bowers

Swell, swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum! 'Mid greetings of pleasure in splendour they come! The chancel is ready, the portal stands wide, For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride.

What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight, The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight! What blissful caresses shall fortune bestow, Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as the snow!

Before the high altar young Maud stands arrayed: With accents that falter her promise is made-- From father and mother for ever to part, For him and no other to treasure her heart.

The words are repeated, the bridal is done, The rite is completed--the two, they are one; The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart, That must not be broken till life shall depart.

Hark! 'Mid the gay clangour that compassed their car, Loud accents in anger come mingling afar! The foe's on the border! his weapons resound Where the lines in disorder unguarded are found!

As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful and bold, When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold, So rises already the chief in his mail, While the new-married lady looks fainting and pale.

"Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife, For sister and mother, for children and wife! O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain, Up, true men, and follow! let dastards remain!"

Farrah! to the battle!--They form into line-- The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine! Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery rue-- On, burgher and yeoman! to die or to do!

The eve is declining in lone Malahide; The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride; She marks them unheeding--her heart is afar, Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war.

Hark!--loud from the mountain--'tis victory's cry! O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky! The foe has retreated! he flees to the shore; The spoiler's defeated--the combat is o'er!

With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come-- But why have they muffled the lance and the drum? What form do they carry aloft on his shield? And where does he tarry, the lord of the field?

Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay! In bridal adorning, the star of the day; Now, weep for the lover--his triumph is sped, His hope it is over! the chieftain is dead!

But, O! for the maiden who mourns for that chief, With heart overladen and rending with grief! She sinks on the meadow--in one morning-tide, A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride!

Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole! Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul: True--true, 'twas a story for ages of pride; He died in his glory--but, oh, he _has_ died!

The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now, And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow; That glance may for ever unaltered remain, But the bridegroom will never return it again.

The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide, The death-wail is rolling along the seaside; The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green, For the sun has departed that brightened the scene!

How scant was the warning, how briefly revealed, Before on that morning, death's chalice was filled! Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply-- Thus joy has its measure--we live but to die!

THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH.

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY.

Turgesius, the chief of a turbulent band, Came over from Norway and conquer'd the land: Rebellion had smooth'd the invader's career, The natives shrank from him, in hate, or in fear; While Erin's proud spirit seem'd slumb'ring in peace, In secret it panted for death--or release.

The tumult of battle was hush'd for awhile,-- Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle, The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath, His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath; The princes of Erin despair'd of relief, And knelt to the lawless Norwegian chief.

His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile; But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful isle, Did he know with what mild, yet resistless control, That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror's soul: And oh! 'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthral, He soon met with one--he thought sweetest of all.

The brave Prince of Meath had a daughter as fair As the pearls of Loch Neagh which encircled her hair; The tyrant beheld her, and cried, "She shall come To reign as the queen of my gay mountain home; Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson'd the sea, Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!"

Awhile paused the Prince--too indignant to speak, There burn'd a reply in his glance--on his cheek: But quickly that hurried expression was gone, And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone. He answered--"Ere sunset hath crimson'd the sea, To-morrow--I'll send my young daughter to thee.

"At sunset to-morrow your palace forsake, With twenty young chiefs seek the isle on yon lake; And there, in its coolest and pleasantest shades, My child shall await you with twenty fair maids: Yes--bright as my armour the damsels shall be I send with my daughter, Turgesius, to thee."

Turgesius return'd to his palace; to him The sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim; And tediously long was the darkness of night, And slowly the morning unfolded its light; The sun seem'd to linger--as if it would be An age ere his setting would crimson the sea.

At length came the moment--the King and his band With rapture push'd out their light boat from the land; And bright shone the gems on the armour, and bright Flash'd their fast-moving oars in the setting sun's light; And long ere they landed, they saw though the trees The maiden's white garments that waved in the breeze.

More strong in the lake was the dash of each oar, More swift the gay vessel flew on to the shore; Its keel touch'd the pebbles--but over the surf The youths in a moment had leap'd to the turf, And rushed to a shady retreat in the wood, Where many veiled forms mute and motionless stood.

"Say, which is Melachlin's fair daughter? away With these veils," cried Turgesius, "no longer delay; Resistance is vain, we will quickly behold Which robe hides the loveliest face in its fold; These clouds shall no longer o'ershadow our bliss, Let each seize a veil--and my trophy be this!"

He seized a white veil, and before him appear'd No fearful, weak girl--but a foe to be fear'd! A youth--who sprang forth from his female disguise, Like lightning that flashes from calm summer skies: His hand grasp'd a weapon, and wild was the joy That shone in the glance of the warrior boy.

And under each white robe a youth was conceal'd, Who met his opponent with sword and with shield. Turgesius was slain--and the maidens were blest, Melachlin's fair daughter more blithe than the rest; And ere the last sunbeam had crimson'd the sea, They hailed the boy-victors--and Erin was free!

GLENARA.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear, And her sire and her people are called to the bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud: Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence--they looked to the ground.

In silence they reached over mountains and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar: "Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed!

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

Oh, pale grew the cheek of the chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen! Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn-- 'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief, I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:-- Glenara! Glenara! now read me MY dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne; Now joy to the house of the fair Ellen of Lorn!

A FABLE FOR MUSICIANS.

BY CLARA DOTY BATES.

He grew as a red-headed thistle Might grow, a mere vagabond weed-- Little Frieder--as gay with his whistle As water-wagtail on a reed-- Blithe that was indeed!

He had a little old fiddle, A shabby and wonderful thing, Patched at end, patched and glued in the middle Oft lacking a key or a string, But, oh, it could sing!