Chapter 28

Ye ice-falls! ye, that from the mountain's brow, Adown enormous ravines slope amain,-- Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? "God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer: and let the ice-plains echo, "God!" "God!" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And, in their perilous fall, shall thunder, "God!"

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth "God!" and fill the hills with praise!

Once more, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depths of clouds, that veil thy breast-- Thou too, again, stupendous mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,-- Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me--Rise, O, ever rise! Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills! Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great Hierarch, tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, "Earth, with her thousand voices, praises god." S. T. Coleridge.

CXCVIIII.

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT T0 AIX."

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 for stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths 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.

'T was 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, 't was morning as plain as could be; And from Mechlin church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot, 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 sprays

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 Loos and past Tongrés, 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 sate 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 voted by common consent,) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. R. Browning.

CXCIX.

THE SWORD.

'T was on the battle-field; and the cold pale moon Looked down on the dead and dying; And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail, Where the young and brave were lying.

With his father's sword in his red right hand, And the hostile dead around him, Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground, And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.

A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Passed a soldier, his plunder seeking; Careless he stepped where friend and foe Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.

Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, The soldier paused beside it; He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength, But the grasp of the dead defied it.

He loosed his hold, and his noble heart Took part with the dead before him; And he honored the brave who died sword in hand, As with softened brow he leaned o'er him.

"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it: Before I would take that sword from thine hand, My own life's blood should dye it.

"Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Or the wolf to batten o'er thee; Or the coward insult the gallant dead, Who in life had trembled before thee."

Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, Where his warrior foe was sleeping; And he laid him there, in honor and rest, With his sword in his own brave keeping. Miss Landon.

CC.

THE FIREMAN.

Hoarse wintry blasts a solemn requiem sung To the departed day, Upon whose bier The velvet pall of midnight lead been flung, And Nature mourned through one wide hemisphere Silence and darkness held their cheerless sway, Save in the haunts of riotous excess; And half the world in dreamy slumbers lay, Lost in the maze of sweet forgetfulness. When lo! upon the startled ear, There broke a sound so dread and drear,-- As, like a sudden peal of thunder, Burst the bands of sleep asunder, And filled a thousand throbbing hearts with fear.

Hark! the faithful watchman's cry Speaks a conflagration nigh!-- See! yon glare upon the sky Confirms the fearful tale. The deep-mouthed bells with rapid tone, Combine to make the tidings known; Affrighted silence now has flown, And sounds of terror freight the chilly gale!

At the first note of this discordant din, The gallant fireman from his slumber starts; Reckless of toil and danger, if he win The tributary meed of grateful hearts. From pavement rough, or frozen ground, His engine's rattling wheels resound, And soon before his eyes The lurid flames, with horrid glare, Mingled with murky vapors rise, In wreathy folds upon the air, And veil the frowning skies!

Sudden a shriek assails his heart,-- A female shriek, so piercing wild, As makes his very life-blood start:-- "My child! Almighty God, my child!" He hears, And 'gainst the tottering wall The ponderous ladder rears: While blazing fragments round him fall, And crackling sounds assail his ears, His sinewy arm, with one rude crash, Hurls to the earth the opposing sash; And, heedless of the startling din, Though smoky volumes round him roll, The mother's shriek has pierced his soul,-- See! see! he plunges in! The admiring crowd, with hopes and fears, In breathless expectation stands, When, lo! the daring youth appears, Hailed by a burst of warm, ecstatic cheers, Bearing the child triumphant in his arms. Anonymous.

CCI. SPEAK GENTLY.

Speak gently: it is better far To rule by love than fear. Speak gently: let no harsh words mar The good we might do here.

Speak gently; love doth whisper low The vows that true hearts bind; And gently friendship's accents flow,-- Affection's voice is kind.

Speak gently to the little child, Its love be sure to gain; Teach it in accents soft and mild,-- It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the young; for they Will leave enough to bear: Pass through this life as best we may, 'T is full of anxious care.

Speak gently to the aged one, Grieve not the care-worn heart; The sands of life are nearly run,-- Let such in peace depart.

Speak gently, kindly to the poor; Let no harsh tone be heard; They have enough they must endure, Without an unkind word.

Speak gently to the erring;--know They must have toiled in vain; Perchance unkindness made them so;-- O! win them back again.

Speak gently! He who gave His life To bend man's stubborn will, When elements were fierce with strife, Said to them, "Peace! be still."

Speak gently: 't is a little thing Dropped in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy which it may bring, Eternity shall tell. Anonymous.

CCII.

THE PASSIONS.

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:

Till once, 't is said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatched her instruments of sound,

And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rustled, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair-- Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled, A solemn, strange, and mingled air, 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still through all the song; And, where her sweetest notes she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;--

And longer had she sung:--but with a frown, Revenge impatient rose: He threw the blood-stained sword in thunder down; And with a withering look The war-denouncing trumpet took And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And, though sometimes, each dreamy pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed: Sad proof of thy distressful state! Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And, from her wild, sequestered seat, In notes, by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And, dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung!-- The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known! The oak-crowned Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest: But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet, entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unworried minstrel dancing; While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:-- Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;-- And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. W. Collins.

CCIII.

NEW ENGLAND.

Hail to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast; The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on glory's brightest bed, A fearless host: No slave is here--our unchained feet Walk freely, as the waves that beat Our coast.

Our fathers crossed the ocean's wave To seek this shore; They left behind the coward slave To welter in his living grave;-- With hearts unbent, and spirits brave, They sternly bore Such toils as meaner souls had quelled; But souls like these, such toils impelled To soar.

Hail to the acorn, when first they stood. On Bunker's height, And, fearless stemmed the invading flood, And wrote our dearest rights in blood, And mowed in ranks the hireling brood, In desperate fight! O! 't was a proud, exulting day, For even our fallen fortunes lay In light.

There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore; Thou art the shelter of the free; The home, the port of liberty Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, Till time is o'er. Ere I forget to think upon Thy land, shall mother curse the son She bore.

Thou art the firm unshaken rock, On which we rest; And rising from thy hardy stock, Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, And slavery's galling chains unlock, And free the oppressed: All, who the wreath of freedom twine, Beneath the shadow of their vine Are blest.

We love thy rude and rocky shore, And here we stand-- Let foreign navies hasten o'er, And on our heads their fury pour, And peal their cannon's loudest roar, And storm our land: They still shall find, our lives are given To die for home;--and leant on Heaven Our hand. J. G. Percival.

CCIV.

SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began: When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead! Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony, to harmony, Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum, Cries, "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat!"

The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach, What human voice can reach The sacred Organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race, And trees uprooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher; When to her Organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appeared-- Mistaking earth for heaven!

As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on highs The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky. J. Dryden.

CCV.

THE SAILOR'S SONG.