Chapter 4

_The lark by his own carol blest_, From thy green harbors eager springs; And his large heart in little breast Exulting sings.

The fly his jocund round unweaves, _With choral strain the birds salute The voiceful flocks_, and nothing grieves, And naught is mute.

To thousand tasks of fruitful hope, With skill against his toil, man bends And finds his work's determined scope Where'er he wends.

From earth, and earthly toil and strife, To deathless aims his love may rise, Each dawn may wake to better life, With purer eyes.

JOHN STERLING.

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IN HOLY BOOKS.

In holy books we read how God hath spoken To holy men in many different ways; But hath the present worked no sign nor token? Is God quite silent in these latter days?

The word were but a blank, a hollow sound, If He that spake it were not speaking still; If all the light and all the shade around Were aught but issues of Almighty Will.

So, then, _believe that every bird that sings_, And every flower that stars the elastic sod, And every thought the happy summer brings, To the pure spirit is a word of God.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

* * * * *

THE BELL OF ATRI.

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown, One of those little places that have run Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun, And then sat down to rest, as if to say, "I climb no farther upward, come what may,"-- The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, So many monarchs since have borne the name, Had a great bell hung in the market-place Beneath a roof, projecting some small space, By way of shelter from the sun and rain. Then rode he through the streets with all his train, And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long, Made proclamation, that whenever wrong Was done to any man, he should but ring The great bell in the square, and he, the King, Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon. Such was the proclamation of King John.

How swift the happy days in Atri sped, What wrongs were righted, need not here be said. Suffice it that, as all things must decay, The hempen rope at length was worn away, Unravelled at the end, and strand by strand, Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand, Till one, who noted this in passing by, Mended the rope with braids of briony, So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt A knight, with spur on heel and sword in belt, Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the woods, Who loved his falcons with their crimson hoods, Who loved his hounds and horses, and all sports And prodigalities of camps and courts;-- Loved, or had loved them: for at last, grown old, His only passion was the love of gold.

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds, Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds, Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all, To starve and shiver in a naked stall, And day by day sat brooding in his chair, Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.

At length he said: "What is the use or need To keep at my own cost this lazy steed, Eating his head off in my stables here, When rents are low and provender is dear? Let him go feed upon the public ways; I want him only for the holidays." So the old steed was turned into the heat Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street; And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn, Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn.

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 couch, 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 naught 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 honor, what repute Can come to you from starving this poor brute? He who serves well and speaks not, merits more Then they who clamor 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 in to 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."

_Tales of a Wayside Inn, second day, 1872._

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AMONG THE NOBLEST.

"Yes, well your story pleads the cause Of those dumb mouths that have no speech, Only a cry from each to each In its own kind, with its own laws; Something that is beyond the reach Of human power to learn or teach,-- An inarticulate moan of pain, Like the immeasurable main Breaking upon an unknown beach."

Thus spake the poet with a sigh; Then added, with impassioned cry, As one who feels the words he speaks, The color flushing in his cheeks, The fervor burning in his eye: "Among the noblest in the land, Though he may count himself the least, That man I honor and revere Who without favor, without fear, In the great city dares to stand The friend of every friendless beast, And tames with his unflinching hand The brutes that wear our form and face, The were-wolves of the human race!"

_Tales of a Wayside Inn, second day, 1872._

* * * * *

THE FALLEN HORSE.

Mr. George Herbert's love to music was such that he went usually twice every week, on certain appointed days, to the Cathedral Church in Salisbury. When rector of Bemerton, in one of his walks to Salisbury, he saw a poor man with a poorer horse, that was fallen under his load; they were both in distress, and needed present help, which Mr. Herbert perceiving, put off his canonical coat and helped the poor man to unload, and after to load his horse. The poor man blessed him for it, and he blessed the poor man; and was so like the good Samaritan, that he gave him money to refresh both himself and his horse; and told him, "_That if he loved himself_, HE SHOULD BE MERCIFUL TO HIS BEAST."

Thus he left the poor man: and at his coming to his musical friends at Salisbury, they began to wonder that Mr. George Herbert, who used to be so trim and clean, came into that company so soiled and discomposed; but he told them the occasion. And when one of the company told him "he had disparaged himself by so dirty an employment," his answer was: "That the thought of what he had done would prove music to him at midnight; and that the omission of it would have upbraided and made discord in his conscience, whensoever he should pass by that place; for if I be bound to pray for all that be in distress, I am sure that I am bound, so far at it is in my power, to practise what I pray for. And though I do not wish for a like occasion every day, yet let me tell you, I would not willingly pass one day of my life without comforting a sad soul, or showing mercy, and I praise God for this occasion."

IZAAK WALTON'S _Lives_.

* * * * *

THE HORSE.

Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with his trembling mane? Hast thou taught him to bound like the locust? How majestic his snorting! how terrible! He paweth in the valley; he exulteth in his strength, And rusheth into the midst of arms. He laugheth at fear; he trembleth not, And turneth not back from the sword. Against him rattle the quiver, The flaming spear, and the lance. With rage and fury he devoureth the ground; He will not believe that the trumpet soundeth. At every blast of the trumpet, he saith, Aha! And snuffeth the battle afar off,-- The thunder of the captains, and the war-shout.

_Job, chap._ 39, NOYES' _Translation_.

* * * * *

THE BIRTH OF THE HORSE.

FROM THE ARABIC.

When Allah's breath created first The noble Arab steed,-- The conqueror of all his race In courage and in speed,--

To the South-wind He spake: From thee A creature shall have birth, To be the bearer of my arms And my renown on earth.

Then to the perfect horse He spake: Fortune to thee I bring; Fortune, as long as rolls the earth, Shall to thy forelock cling.

Without a pinion winged thou art, And fleetest with thy load; Bridled art thou without a rein, And spurred without a goad.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

* * * * *

TO HIS HORSE.

Come, my beauty! come, my desert darling! On my shoulder lay thy glossy head! Fear not, though the barley-sack be empty, Here's the half of Hassan's scanty bread.

Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty! And thou know'st my water-skin is free: Drink and welcome, for the wells are distant, And my strength and safety lie in thee.

Bend thy forehead now, to take my kisses! Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye: Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle,-- Thou art proud he owns thee: so am I.

Let the Sultan bring his boasted horses, Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness When they course with thee the desert plains!

We have seen Damascus, O my beauty! And the splendor of the Pashas there; What's their pomp and riches? why, I would not Take them for a handful of thy hair!

BAYARD TAYLOR.

* * * * *

SYMPATHY FOR HORSE AND HOUND.

Yet pity for a horse o'erdriven, And love in which my hound has part, Can hang no weight upon my heart, In its assumptions up to heaven:

And I am so much more than these As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I would spare them sympathy, And I would set their pains at ease.

TENNYSON'S _In Memoriam._

* * * * *

THE BLOOD HORSE.

Gamarra is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within! His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light.

Look,--how 'round his straining throat Grace and shining beauty float! Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins-- Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire,-- Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He, who hath no peer, was born, Here upon a red March morn; But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arabs bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine! And yet,--he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun By some lone fountain fringed with green; With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day),-- And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands!

BARRY CORNWALL.

* * * * *

THE CID AND BAVIECA.

The king looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true; Then to the king Ruy Diaz spake, after reverence due, "O king! the thing is shameful, that any man beside The liege lord of Castile himself, should Bavieca ride.

"For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring So good as he, and certes, the best befits my king, But, that you may behold him, and know him to the core, I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the Moor."

With that the Cid, clad as he was, in mantle furred and wide, On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side; And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career, Streamed like a pennon on the wind, Ruy Diaz' minivere.

And all that saw them praised them,--they lauded man and horse, As matchéd well, and rivals for gallantry and force; Ne'er had they looked on horsemen might to this knight come near, Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.

Thus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed, He snapped in twain his nether rein: "God pity now the Cid! God pity Diaz!" cried the lords,--but when they looked again, They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him with the fragment of his rein; They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm, Like a true lord commanding, and obeyed as by a lamb.

And so he led him foaming and panting to the king, But, "No," said Don Alphonso, "it were a shameful thing, That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid By any mortal but Bivar,--mount, mount again, my Cid!"

LOCKHART'S _Spanish Ballads._

* * * * *

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.

Word was brought to the Danish king, (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (Oh! ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl; And his Rose of the Isles is dying.

Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounted a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (Oh! ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst: But ride as they would, the king rode first; For his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying, The king looked back at that faithful child: Wan was the face that answering smiled. They passed the drawbridge with clattering din: Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence!) No answer came, but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For, dead in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying.

The panting steed with a drooping crest Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And that dumb companion eying, The tears gushed forth, which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck: "O steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, To the halls where my love lay dying!"

CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON.

* * * * *

Go forth under the open sky and list To Nature's teachings.

BRYANT.

* * * * *

DO YOU KNOW?

"Yesterday we buried my pretty brown mare under the wild-cherry tree. End of poor Bess."

When a human being dies, Seeming scarce so good or wise, Scarce so high in scale of mind As the horse he leaves behind, "Lo," we cry, "the fleeting spirit Doth a newer garb inherit; Through eternity doth soar, Growing, greatening, evermore." But our beautiful dumb creatures Yield their gentle, generous natures, With their mute, appealing eyes, Haunted by earth's mysteries, Wistfully upon us cast, Loving, trusting, to the last; And we arrogantly say, "They have had their little day; Nothing of them but was clay."

Has all perished? Was no mind In that graceful form enshrined? Can the love that filled those eyes With most eloquent replies, When the glossy head close pressing, Grateful met your hand's caressing; Can the mute intelligence, Baffling oft our human sense With strange wisdom, buried be "Under the wild-cherry tree?" Are these elements that spring In a daisy's blossoming, Or in long dark grasses wave Plume-like o'er your favorite's grave? Can they live in us, and fade In all else that God has made! Is there aught of harm believing That, some newer form receiving, They may find a wider sphere, Live a larger life than here? That the meek, appealing eyes, Haunted by strange mysteries, Find a more extended field, To new destinies unsealed; Or that in the ripened prime Of some far-off summer time, Ranging that unknown domain, We may find our pets again?

HELEN BARRON BOSTWICK.

* * * * *

THE BEDOUIN'S REBUKE.

A Bedouin of true honor, good Nebar, Possessed a horse whose fame was spread afar; No other horse was half so proud and strong; His feet were like the north wind swept along; In his curved neck, and in his flashing eye, You saw the harbingers of victory.

So, many came to Nebar day by day, And longed to take his noble horse away; Large sums they offered, and with grace besought. But, all in vain; the horse could not be bought.

With these came Daher, of another tribe, To see if he might not the owner bribe; Yet purposeless,--no money, skill, nor breath Could part the owner from his horse till death.

Then Daher, who was subtle, mean, and sly, Concluded, next, some stratagem to try; So, clothed in rags, and masked in form and face, He as a beggar walked with limping pace, And, meeting Nebar with the horse one day, He fell, and prostrate on the desert lay.

The ruse succeeded; for, when Nebar found A helpless man in sorrow on the ground, He took him up, and on the noble steed Gave him a place; but what a thankless deed! For Daher shouted, laughed, and, giving rein, Said, "You will never see your horse again!"

"Take him," said Nebar, "but, for Mercy's sake, Tell no man in what way you choose to take, Lest others, seeing what has happened me, Omit to do some needed charity." Pierced by these words, the robber's keen remorse Thwarted his plan, and he returned the horse, Shame-faced and sorrowful; then slunk away As if he feared the very light of day!

ANON.

* * * * *

FROM "THE LORD OF BUTRAGO."

Your horse is faint, my King, my lord! your gallant horse is sick,-- His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace,--their trampling hoofs are nigh!

My King, my King! you're wounded sore,--the blood runs from your feet; But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat; Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!--I hear their coming cry,-- Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,--I'll save you, though I die!

Stand, noble steed! this hour of need,--be gentle as a lamb; I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,--thy master dear I am,-- Mount, Juan, mount; whate'er betide, away the bridle fling, Drive on, drive on with utmost speed,--My horse shall save my King!

LOCKART'S _Spanish Ballads._

* * * * *

"BAY BILLY."--(Extracts.)

At last from out the centre fight Spurred up a general's aid. "That battery must silenced be!" He cried, as past he sped. Our colonel simply touched his cap, And then, with measured tread,

To lead the crouching line once more The grand old fellow came. No wounded man but raised his head And strove to gasp his name, And those who could not speak nor stir, "God blessed him" just the same.

This time we were not half-way up, When, midst the storm of shell, Our leader, with his sword upraised, Beneath our bayonets fell. And, as we bore him back, the foe Set up a joyous yell.

Just then before the laggard line The colonel's horse we spied, Bay Billy with his trappings on, His nostrils swelling wide, As though still on his gallant back The master sat astride.

Right royally he took the place That was of old his wont, And with a neigh that seemed to say, Above the battle's brunt, "How can the Twenty-second charge If I am not in front?"

No bugle-call could rouse us all As that brave sight had done. Down all the battered line we felt A lightning impulse run. Up! up! the hill we followed Bill, And we captured every gun!

And then the dusk and dew of night Fell softly o'er the plain, As though o'er man's dread work of death The angels wept again, And drew night's curtain gently round A thousand beds of pain.

At last the morning broke. The lark Sang in the merry skies As if to e'en the sleepers there It bade awake, and rise! Though naught but that last trump of all Could ope their heavy eyes.

And as in faltering tone and slow, The last few names were said, Across the field some missing horse Toiled up with weary tread, It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick Bay Billy's name he read.

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth Could still our mighty cheer; And ever from that famous day, When rang the roll-call clear, Bay Billy's name was read, and then The whole line answered, "Here!"

FRANK H. GASSAWAY.

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