Chapter 5

The Arab horse will not shrink back, Though death confront him in his track, The Arab horse will not shrink back, And shall his rider's arm be slack? No!--By the God who gave us life, Our souls are ready for the strife. We need no serried lines, to show A gallant bearing to the foe. We need no trumpet to awake The thirst, which blood alone can slake. What is it that can stop our course, Free riders of the Arab horse?

Go--brave the desert wind of fire; Go--beard the lightning's look of ire; Drive back the ravening flames, which leap In thunder from the mountain steep; But dream not, men of fifes and drums, To stop the Arab when he comes: Not tides of fire, not walls of rock, Could shield you from that earthquake shock. Come, brethren, come, too long we stay, The shades of night have rolled away, Too fast the golden moments fleet, Charge, ere another pulse has beat; Charge--like the tiger on the fawn-- Before another breath is drawn.

MY LADY'S LEAP.

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

My lady's leap! that's it, sir,-- That's what we call it 'ere;-- It's a nasty jump for a man, sir, Let alone for a woman to clear. D'ye see the fencing around it? And the cross as folk can tell, That this is the very spot, sir, Where her sweet young ladyship fell?

I've lived in his lordship's family For goin' on forty year. And the tears will come a wellin' Whenever I think of her; For my mem'ry takes me backwards To the days when by my side She would sit in her tiny saddle As I taught her the way to ride.

But she didn't want much teachin';-- Lor' bless ye, afore she was eight There wasn't a fence in the county Nor ever a five-barred gate But what she'd leap, aye, and laugh at. I think now I hear the ring Of her voice, shouting, "Now then, lassie!" As over a ditch she'd spring.

How proud I was of my mistress, When round the country-side I'd hear folks talking of her, sir, And how she used to ride! Every one knew my young mistress, "My lady of Hislop Chase;" And, what's more, every one loved her, And her sunny, angel face.

Lord Hislop lost his wife, sir, When Lady Vi' was born. And never man aged so quickly: He grew haggard and white and worn In less than a week. Then after, At times, he'd grow queer and wild; And only one thing saved him-- His love for his only child. He worshipped her like an idol; He loved her, folks said too well; And God sent the end as a judgment,-- But how that may be who can tell?

I don't know how it all happened-- I heard the story you see, In bits and scraps,--just here and there; But, sir, 'atween you and me, In putting them all together, I think I've a good idea As how the Master got swindled, And things at the "Chase" went queer. He'd a notion to leave Miss Vi'let Rich, I fancy, you know; For now and ag'in I noticed He'd take in his head to go Away for a time--to London,-- And I, who knew him so well, Could see as he came home worried. Aye, sir! I could read--could tell As things had gone wrong with Master. I was right: 'twas that tale so old! He'd lost in that great big gamble, In that cursed greed for gold.

And then the worst came to the worst, sir. "The old Chase must go from us, Vi'!" Her father told her one morning, "My child! oh, my child! I would die Ten thousand deaths rather than tell you What price our freedom would cost." And then, in a voice hoarse and broken, He told her how all had been lost. They say, sir, the girl answered proudly, "I know, father, what you would say: The man who has swindled you, duped you, Will return you your own if you pay His price--my hand. Don't speak, father! You know what I'm saying is true; And, father, I know Paul Delaunay, Yes, better, far better, than you. Go, tell him I'll wed him to-morrow, On this one condition--list here,-- That he beats me across the country From Hislop to Motecombe Mere. But say that should I chance to beat him He must give back everything--all Of what he has robbed you, father: That's the message I send Sir Paul."

Two men watched that ride across country At the break of an autumn day: Young Hilton, the son of the Squire, And I, sir. They started away And came through the first field together, Then leaped the first fence neck and neck; On, on again, riding like mad, sir, Jumping all without hinder or check. In this, the last field 'fore the finish, You could save half a minute or more By leaping the stone wall and brooklet; But never, sir, never before, Had anyone ever attempted That leap; it was madness, but, sir, My young mistress knew that Delaunay Was too great a coward and cur To follow; and, what's more, she knew, sir, That she _must_ be first in the race-- For the sake of the Hislop honour, To win back the dear old Chase.

I looked at young Hilton beside me-- A finer lad never walked: I don't think he thought as I knew, sir, Their secret, for I'd never talked; But I'd known for a long time, you see, sir, As he and my lady Vi' Had loved and would love for ever. At last from his lips came a cry, "Good God! she never will clear it!" Then he turned his face to the ground; While I--I looked on in terror, Watched her, sir, taking that bound. With a cold sweat bathing my forehead, I saw her sweep onward, and gasped-- "For Heaven's sake, stop, Lady Vi'let!" A laugh was her answer. She passed On, on, like a shimmer of lightning, And then came her last great leap-- The next, sir, I saw of my lady Was a crushed and mangled heap. Delaunay? No, he didn't follow, Nor even drew rein when she fell; But rode on, the longest way round, sir. When he came back to claim her--well, She was dead in the arms of her lover-- Claspt tight in his mad embrace;-- With her life-blood staining her tresses, And a sad, sweet smile on her face.

I heard the last words that she uttered-- "My love! tell my father I tried To do what was best for his honour; For you and for him I have died."

A SONG FOR THE END OF THE SEASON.

BY J.R. PLANCHE.

(_FROM THE "DRAMATIC COLLEGE ANNUAL."_)

Sir John has this moment gone by In the brougham that was to be mine, But, my dear, I'm not going to cry, Though I know where he's going to dine. I shall meet him at Lady Gay's ball With that girl to his arm clinging fast, But it won't, love, disturb me at all, I've recovered my spirits at last!

I was horribly low for a week, For I could not go out anywhere Without hearing, "You know they don't speak;" Or, "I'm told it's all broken off there." But the Earl whispered something last night, I sha'n't say exactly what past, But of this, dear, be satisfied quite, I've recovered my spirits at last!

THE AGED PILOT MAN.

BY MARK TWAIN.

On the Erie Canal, it was, All on a summer's day, I sailed forth with my parents Far away to Albany.

From out the clouds at noon that day There came a dreadful storm, That piled the billows high about, And filled us with alarm.

A man came rushing from a house, "Tie up your boat I pray! Tie up your boat, tie up, alas! Tie up while yet you may."

Our captain cast one glance astern, Then forward glanced he, And said, "My wife and little ones I never more shall see."

Said Dollinger the pilot man, In noble words, but few-- "Fear not, but lean on Dollinger, And he will fetch you through."

The boat drove on, the frightened mules Tore through the rain and wind, And bravely still in danger's post, The whip-boy strode behind.

"Come 'board, come 'board," the captain cried, "Nor tempt so wild a storm;" But still the raging mules advanced, And still the boy strode on.

Then said the captain to us all, "Alas, 'tis plain to me, The greater danger is not there, But here upon the sea.

So let us strive, while life remains, To save all souls on board, And then if die at last we must, I ... _cannot_ speak the word!"

Said Dollinger the pilot man, Tow'ring above the crew, "Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, And he will fetch you through."

"Low bridge! low bridge!" all heads went down, The labouring bark sped on; A mill we passed, we passed a church, Hamlets, and fields of corn;

And all the world came out to see, And chased along the shore, Crying, "Alas, the sheeted rain, The wind, the tempest's roar! Alas, the gallant ship and crew, Can _nothing_ help them more?"

And from our deck sad eyes looked out Across the stormy scene: The tossing wake of billows aft, The bending forests green,

The chickens sheltered under carts, In lee of barn the cows, The skurrying swine with straw in mouth, The wild spray from our bows!

"She balances? She wavers! _Now_ let her go about! If she misses stays and broaches to We're all"--[then with a shout,] "Huray! huray! Avast! belay! Take in more sail! Lor! what a gale! Ho, boy, haul taut on the hind mule's tail!"

"Ho! lighten ship! ho! man the pump! Ho, hostler, heave the lead!" "A quarter-three!--'tis shoaling fast! Three feet large!--three-e feet!-- 'Tis three feet scant!" I cried in fright, "Oh, is there _no_ retreat?"

Said Dollinger the pilot man, As on the vessel flew, "Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, And he will fetch you through."

A panic struck the bravest hearts, The boldest cheek turned pale; For plain to all, this shoaling said A leak had burst the ditch's bed! And, straight as bolt from crossbow sped, Our ship swept on, with shoaling lead, Before the fearful gale!

"Sever the tow-line! Stop the mules!" Too late! .... There comes a shock!

* * * * *

Another length, and the fated craft Would have swum in the saving lock!

Then gathered together the shipwrecked crew And took one last embrace, While sorrowful tears from despairing eyes Ran down each hopeless face; And some did think of their little ones Whom they never more might see, And others of waiting wives at home, And mothers that grieved would be.

But of all the children of misery there On that poor sinking frame, But one spake words of hope and faith, And I worshipped as they came: Said Dollinger the pilot man-- (O brave heart strong and true!)-- "Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, For he will fetch you through."

Lo! scarce the words have passed his lips The dauntless prophet say'th, When every soul about him seeth A wonder crown his faith!

And count ye all, both great and small, As numbered with the dead! For mariner for forty year, On Erie, boy and man, I never yet saw such a storm, Or one 't with it began!

So overboard a keg of nails And anvils three we threw, Likewise four bales of gunny-sacks, Two hundred pounds of glue, Two sacks of corn, four ditto wheat, A box of books, a cow, A violin, Lord Byron's works, A rip-saw and a sow.

A curve! a curve; the dangers grow! "Labbord!--stabbord!--s-t-e-a-d-y!--so!-- _Hard-a.-port_, Dol!--hellum-a-lee! Haw the head mule!--the aft one gee! Luff!--bring her to the wind!"

For straight a farmer brought a plank,-- (Mysteriously inspired)-- And laying it unto the ship, In silent awe retired. Then every sufferer stood amazed That pilot man before; A moment stood. Then wondering turned, And speechless walked ashore.

TIM KEYSER'S NOSE.

BY MAX ADELER.

Tim Keyser lived at Wilmington, He had a monstrous nose, Which was a great deal redder Than the very reddest rose, And was completely capable Of most terrific blows.

He wandered down one Christmas-day To skate upon the creek, And there upon the smoothest ice He slid along so slick, The people were amazed to see Him cut it up so quick;

The exercise excited thirst, And so, to get a drink, He cut an opening in the ice, And lay down on the brink. Says he, "I'll dip my nose right in, And sip it up, I think."

But while his nose was thus immersed Six inches in the stream, A very hungry pickerel Was attracted by the gleam, And darting up, it gave a snap, And Keyser gave a scream.

Tim Keyser then was well assured He had a famous bite; To pull that pickerel up he tried, And tugged with all his might; But the disgusting pickerel had The better of the fight.

And just as Mr. Keyser thought His nose would split in two, The pickerel gave his tail a twist, And pulled Tim Keyser through, And he was scudding through the waves The first thing that he knew.

Then onward swam the savage fish With swiftness towards its nest, Still chewing Mr. Keyser's nose, While Mr. Keyser guessed What kind of policy would suit His circumstances best.

Just then his nose was tickled With a spear of grass close by; Tim Keyser gave a sneeze which burst The pickerel into "pi," And blew its bones, the ice, and waves A thousand feet on high.

Tim Keyser swam up to the top, A breath of air to take, And finding broken ice, he hooked His nose upon a cake, And gloried in a nose that could Such a concussion make.

His Christmas dinner on that day He tackled with a vim; And thanked his stars, as shuddering He thought upon his swim, That that wild pickerel had not Spent Christmas eating him.

THE LOST EXPRESSION.

BY MARSHALL STEELE.

Oh! I fell in love with Dora, and my heart was all a-glow, For I never met before a girl who took my fancy so; She had eyes--no! cheeks a-blushing with the peach's ripening flush, Was ecstatically gushing--and I like a girl to gush. She'd the loveliest of faces, and the goldenest of hair, And all customary graces lovers fancy in the fair.

Now, she doated on romances, she was yearnful and refined, She had sentimental fancies of a most æsthetic kind, She was sensitive, fantastic, tender, too, as she was fair, But alas! she was not plastic, as I owned in my despair. And, for all she was so gentle, yet she gave me this rebuff-- Though I might be sentimental, I'd not sentiment enough.

Then I _did_ grow sentimental, for that seemed to be my part, And I talked in transcendental fashion that might move her heart, Sighed to live in fairy grottoes with my Dora all alone, And I studied cracker mottoes, which I quoted as my own. Thus I strove to be romantic, but I failed upon the whole, And she nearly drove me frantic when she said I had not "soul."

So, despair tinged all my passion, sorrow mingled with my love, Though I wooed her in a fashion which the stones of Rome might move, Though I wrote her fervid sonnets with the fervour underlined, Though I bought her gloves and bonnets of the most artistic kind, Yet for me life held no pleasure, and my sorrow grew acute That she smiled upon my presents, but she frowned upon my suit.

All in vain seemed love and longing till upon one fateful day Hopes anew came on me thronging, as I heard my Dora say-- "Richard mine, I saw you sobbing o'er my photograph last night, With a look that set me throbbing with unspeakable delight. Wide your eyelids you were oping and your look was far from hence With a passionate wild hoping that was soulful and intense.

"I have seen that look on Irving and sometimes on Beerbohm Tree, And it seems to be observing joy and rapture yet to be. In the nostril elevated and the lip that lightly curled Was a cold scorn indicated of this vulgar nether world. I could marry that expression. Show it once again then, do! And I meekly make profession--I--I--I will marry you!"

Joy was then my heart's possession, joy and rapturous content, For I'd practised that expression, and I knew just what she meant: So my eyebrows up I lifted and I stared with all my might And my right-hand nostril shifted somewhat further to the right, But I quite forgot--sad error was this dire mnemonic slip!-- I forgot in doubt and terror how to move my lower lip!

With one eyebrow elevated down I dropped my dexter lid, Never mortal dislocated all his features as I did, For I moved them in my folly right and left and up and down, Till she asked if I was qualifying for the part of clown. And I left in deep depression when she showed me to the door, Saying, "Bring back that expression, sir, or never see me more!"

Then before my looking-glass I sought, and sought for months in vain, That expression which, alas! I had forgotten, to my pain, And I said then, feeling poorly, "I'll go seek the haunts of men, I could reproduce it surely, if I met with it again: For, whose-ever--peer's or peasant's--face that heavenly look might wear, He should never leave my presence till I copied it, I swear."

Could I meet a schoolboy, madly pleased the day that school begins, Or a father smiling gladly, when the nurse says "Sir, it's twins!" Or a well-placed politician who no better place desires, But achieves his one ambition on the day that he retires, That expression--'tis my sure hope--on their faces I should get, So I searched for them through Europe, but I haven't found them yet.

Then I lunched one day with Irving, once I dined with Mr. Tree, Who in intervals of serving made such faces up at me. But they failed me, though the former once a look upon me hurled, Which expressed how the barn-stormer shows disdain of all the world, And his look of rapture when I rose to go was quite immense, Though not either now or then I thought it soulful or intense.

But at last, some long months later--'twas a dinner I was at In the City--"Bring me, waiter," someone said, "some more green fat." 'Twas my _vis-à-vis_ was speaking, and an Alderman was he; On his radiant face, and reeking, was the hope of joy to be. He had all that lost expression, every detail showing plain, Soulfulness, hope of possession, joy, intensity, disdain.

Then I sought to make him merry, and I plied him with old port, Claret, burgundy, Bass, sherry, and a little something short; And this guzzler, by me aided, kept on soaking all the while, Till that lost expression faded to an idiotic smile, And his speech grew thick and thicker, and his mind began to roam, Till he finished off his liquor and I drove him to my home.