Part 10

Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never repented his sin. How do they know it? are _they_ his mother? are you of his kin? Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began, The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 'ill moan like a man?

XV.

Election, Election and Reprobation--it's all very well. But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell. For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has looked into my care, And He means me I'm sure to be happy with Willy, I know not where.

XVI.

And if _he_ be lost--but to save _my_ soul, that is all your desire: Do you think that I care for _my_ soul if my boy be gone to the fire? I have been with God in the dark--go, go, you may leave me alone-- You never have borne a child--you are just as hard as a stone.

XVII.

Madam, I beg your pardon! I think that you mean to be kind, But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice in the wind-- The snow and the sky so bright--he used but to call in the dark, And he calls to me now from the church and not from the gibbet--for hark! Nay--you can hear it yourself--it is coming--shaking the walls-- Willy--the moon's in a cloud--Good night. I am going. He calls.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.

'T was in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school; There were some that ran, and some that leapt Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds And souls untouched by sin; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in: Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran. Turning to mirth all things of earth As only boyhood can; But the usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessèd breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease; So he leaned his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees.

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside,-- For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide; Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome; With a fast and fervent grasp He strained the dusky covers close, And fixed the brazen hasp: "O God! could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp!"

Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took,-- Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook,-- And, lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book.

"My gentle lad, what is 't you read,-- Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance,-- "It is 'The Death of Abel.'"

The usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain,-- Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again; And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain;

And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves; And lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn; And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod; Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God.

He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain,-- With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain; For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain!

"And well," quoth he, "I know for truth Their pangs must be extreme-- Woe, woe, unutterable woe!-- Who spill life's sacred stream. For why? Methought, last night I wrought A murder, in a dream!

"One that had never done me wrong,-- A feeble man and old; I led him to a lonely field,-- The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold!

"Two sudden blows with a raggèd stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a hasty knife,-- And then the deed was done: There was nothing lying at my feet But lifeless flesh and bone!

"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill; And yet I feared him all the more For lying there so still: There was a manhood in his look That murder could not kill!

"And, lo! the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flame,-- Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame; I took the dead man by his hand, And called upon his name.

"O God! it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain; But, when I touched the lifeless clay, The blood gushed out amain! For every clot a burning spot Was scorching in my brain!

"My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the Devil's price. A dozen times I groaned,--the dead Had never groaned but twice.

"And now, from forth the frowning sky, From heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice,--the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite: 'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead, And hide it from my sight!'

"And I took the dreary body up, And cast it in a stream,-- The sluggish water black as ink, The depth was so extreme:-- My gentle boy, remember, this Is nothing but a dream!

"Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanished in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And washed my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young, That evening, in the school.

"O Heaven! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in evening hymn; Like a devil of the pit I seemed, Mid holy cherubim!

"And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread; But Guilt was my grim chamberlain, That lighted me to bed, And drew my midnight curtains round With fingers bloody red!

"All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; My fevered eyes I dared not close, But stared aghast at Sleep; For Sin had rendered unto her The keys of hell to keep!

"All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime; With one besetting horrid hint That racked me all the time,-- A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime,--

"One stern tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave! Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave,-- Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave!

"Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky, And sought the black accursèd pool With a wild, misgiving eye; And I saw the dead in the river-bed, For the faithless stream was dry.

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never marked its morning flight, I never heard it sing, For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing.

"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran; There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began,-- In a lonesome wood with heaps of leaves, I hid the murdered man!

"And all that day I read in school, But my thought was otherwhere; As soon as the midday task was done, In secret I was there,-- And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare!

"Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep, For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep,-- Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep.

"So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Till blood for blood atones! Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh,-- The world shall see his bones!

"O God! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! Again--again, with dizzy brain, The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake.

"And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mold allow; The horrid thing pursues my soul,-- It stands before me now!" The fearful boy looked up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin's eyelids kissed, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist.

THOMAS HOOD.

IN THE ENGINE-SHED.

Through air made heavy with vapors murk, O'er slack and cinders in heaps and holes, The engine-driver came to his work, Burly and bluff as a bag of coals; With a thick gold chain where he bulged the most, And a beard like a brush, and a face like a toast, And a hat half-eaten by fire and frost; And a diamond pin in the folded dirt Of the shawl that served him for collar and shirt. Whenever he harnessed his steed of mettle:-- The shovel-fed monster that could not tire, With limbs of steel and entrails of fire; Above us it sang like a tea-time kettle.

He came to his salamander toils In what seemed a devil's cast-off suit, All charred, and discolored with rain and oils, And smeared and sooted from muffler to boot. Some wiping--it struck him--his paws might suffer With a wisp of thread he found on the buffer (The improvement effected was not very great); Then he spat, and passed his pipe to his mate.

And his whole face laughed with an honest mirth, As any extant on this grimy earth, Welcoming me to his murky region; And had you known him, I tell you this-- Though your bright hair shiver and sink at its roots, O piano-fingering fellow-collegian-- You would have returned no cold salutes To the cheery greeting of old Chris, But locked your hand in the vise of his.

For at night when the sleet-storm shatters and scatters, And clangs on the pane like a pile of fetters, He flies through it all with the world's love-letters: The master of mighty leviathan motions, That make for him storm when the nights are fair, And cook him with fire and carve him with air, While we sleep soft on the carriage cushions, And he looks sharp for the signals, blear-eyed. Often had Chris over England rolled me; You shall hear a story he told me-- A dream of his rugged watch unwearied.

THE STORY.

We were driving the down express; Will at the steam, and I at the coal; Over the valleys and villages, Over the marshes and coppices, Over the river, deep and broad; Through the mountain, under the road, Flying along, Tearing along. Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong, Fifty tons she was, whole and sole!

I had been promoted to the express: I warrant I was proud and gay. It was the evening that ended May, And the sky was a glory of tenderness. We were thundering down to a midland town,-- It doesn't matter about the name, For we didn't stop there, or anywhere For a dozen miles on either side. Well, as I say, just there you slide, With your steam shut off and your brakes in hand, Down the steepest and longest grade in the land, At a pace that, I promise you, is grand. We were just there with the express, When I caught sight of a girl's white dress On the bank ahead; and as we passed-- You have no notion how fast-- She sank back scared from our baleful blast.

We were going--a mile and a quarter a minute-- With vans and carriages--down the incline! But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it; I looked in her eyes, and she looked in mine As the train went by, like a shot from a mortar: A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke. And it was a minute before I woke, When she lay behind us--a mile and a quarter.

And the years went on, and the express Leaped in her black resistlessness, Evening by evening, England through.-- Will--God rest him!--was found--a mash Of bleeding rags, in a fearful smash He made of Christmas train at Crewe. It chanced I was ill the night of the mess, Or I shouldn't now be here alive; But thereafter, the five o'clock out express, Evening by evening, I used to drive.

And often I saw her: that lady, I mean, That I spoke of before. She often stood Atop of the bank;--it was pretty high, Say, twenty feet, and backed by a wood.-- She would pick daisies out of the green To fling down at us as we went by. We had grown to be friends, too, she and I. Though I was a stalwart, grimy chap, And she a lady! I'd wave my cap Evening by evening, when I'd spy That she was there, in the summer air, Watching the sun sink out of the sky.

Oh, I didn't see her every night: Bless you! no; just now and then, And not at all for a twelvemonth quite. Then, one evening, I saw her again, Alone, as ever--but wild and pale-- Climbing down on the line, on the very rail, While a light as of hell from our wild wheels broke, Tearing down the slope with their devilish clamors And deafening din, as of giant hammers That smote in a whirlwind of dust and smoke All the instant or so that we sped to meet her. Never, O never, had she seemed sweeter!-- I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke, Down that awful incline; and signalled the guard To put on his brakes at once, and HARD!-- Though we couldn't have stopped. We tattered the rail Into splinters and sparks, but without avail. We couldn't stop; and she wouldn't stir, Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch Her arms to us:--and the desperate wretch I pitied, comprehending her. So the brakes let off, and the steam full again, Sprang down on the lady the terrible train.-- She never flinched. We beat her down, And ran on through the lighted length of the town Before we could stop to see what was done.

Yes, I've run over more than one! Full a dozen, I should say; but none That I pitied as I pitied her. If I could have stopped--with all the spur Of the train's weight on, and cannily-- But it never would do with a lad like me And she a lady,--or had been.--Sir?-- We won't say any more of her; The world is hard. But I'm her friend, Right through--down to the world's end. It is a curl of her sunny hair Set in this locket that I wear; I picked it off the big wheel there.-- Time's up, Jack--Stand clear, sir. Yes, We're going out with the express.

WILLIAM WILKINS.

REVELRY OF THE DYING.

[Supposed to be written in India, while the plague was raging, and playing havoc among the British residents and troops stationed there.]

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, And the walls around are bare; As they shout to our peals of laughter, It seems that the dead are there. But stand to your glasses, steady! We drink to our comrades' eyes; Quaff a cup to the dead already-- And hurrah for the next that dies!

Not here are the goblets glowing, Not here is the vintage sweet; 'T is cold, as our hearts are growing, And dark as the doom we meet. But stand to your glasses, steady! And soon shall our pulses rise; A cup to the dead already-- Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, Not a tear for the friends that sink; We'll fall, midst the wine-cup's sparkles, As mute as the wine we drink. So stand to your glasses, steady! 'T is this that the respite buys; One cup to the dead already-- Hurrah for the next that dies!

Time was when we frowned at others; We thought we were wiser then; Ha! ha! let those think of their mothers, Who hope to see them again. No! stand to your glasses, steady! The thoughtless are here the wise; A cup to the dead already-- Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's many a hand that's shaking, There's many a cheek that's sunk; But soon, though our hearts are breaking, They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. So stand to your glasses, steady! 'T is here the revival lies; A cup to the dead already-- Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's a mist on the glass congealing, 'T is the hurricane's fiery breath; And thus does the warmth of feeling Turn ice in the grasp of Death. Ho! stand to your glasses, steady! For a moment the vapor flies; A cup to the dead already-- Hurrah for the next that dies!

Who dreads to the dust returning? Who shrinks from the sable shore, Where the high and haughty yearning Of the soul shall sting no more! Ho! stand to your glasses, steady! The world is a world of lies; A cup to the dead already-- Hurrah for the next that dies!

Cut off from the land that bore us, Betrayed by the land we find, Where the brightest have gone before us, And the dullest remain behind-- Stand, stand to your glasses, steady! 'T is all we have left to prize; A cup to the dead already-- And hurrah for the next that dies!

BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING.

THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL.

ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept; All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept.

O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night! O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light!

One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke; But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.

Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day, And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay.

Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer, For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.

But the foeman held possession of that hard-won battle-plain, In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain.

Once again the night dropped round them,--night so holy and so calm That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest, Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.

Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep; Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep.

For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face, And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace

To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose, Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.

And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told: How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled.

Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.

Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low, Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow?

Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,

Came two little maidens,--sisters, with a light and hasty tread, And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.

And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood Where the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude.

They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store, And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.

And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.

For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need, And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed.

But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er, And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the sun.

Gently then those little maidens--they were children of our foes-- Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undisturbed repose.

ANONYMOUS.

RAMON.

REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO.

Drunk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man Alive or dead,-- By his great pump out of gear, Lay the peon engineer, Waking only just to hear, Overhead, Angry tones that called his name, Oaths and cries of bitter blame,-- Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and fled!

"To the man who'll bring to me," Cried Intendant Harry Lee,-- Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,-- "Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, "Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine: Since but death Deserves the man whose deed, Be it vice or want of heed, Stops the pumps that give us breath,-- Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower level of the mine!"

No one answered, for a cry From the shaft rose up on high; And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, Came the miners each, the bolder Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, Grappling, clinging to their hold or Letting go, As the weaker gasped and fell From the ladder to the well,-- To the poisoned pit of hell Down below!

"To the man who sets them free," Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,-- Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,-- "Brings them out and sets them free, I will give that man," said he, "Twice that sum, who with a rope Face to face with death shall cope: Let him come who dares to hope!" "Hold your peace!" some one replied, Standing by the foreman's side; "There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!"

Then they held their breath with awe, Pulling on the rope, and saw Fainting figures reappear, On the black ropes swinging clear, Fastened by some skilful hand from below; Till a score the level gained, And but one alone remained,-- He the hero and the last, He whose skilful hand made fast The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!

Haggard, gasping, down dropped he At the feet of Harry Lee,-- Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine; "I have come," he gasped, "to claim Both rewards, Señior,--my name Is Ramon! I'm the drunken engineer,-- I'm the coward, Señior--" Here He fell over, by that sign Dead as stone!

BRET HARTE.

AT THE CEDARS.

You had two girls--Baptiste-- One is Virginie-- Hold hard--Baptiste! Listen to me.

The whole drive was jammed, In that bend at the Cedars; The rapids were dammed With the logs tight rammed And crammed; you might know The devil had clinched them below.

We worked three days--not a budge! "She's as tight as a wedge On the ledge," Says our foreman:

"Mon Dieu! boys, look here, We must get this thing clear." He cursed at the men, And we went for it then; With our cant-dogs arow, We just gave he-yo-ho, When she gave a big shove From above.

The gang yelled, and tore For the shore; The logs gave a grind, Like a wolf's jaws behind, And as quick as a flash, With a shove and a crash, They were down in a mash. But I and ten more, All but Isaàc Dufour, Were ashore.