Chapter 5

We cannot kindle when we will, The fire that in the heart resides; But tasks in hours of insight willed, Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.

M. ARNOLD.

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THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES.--(Extracts.)

AN INCIDENT OF THE FLOOD IN MASSACHUSETTS, MAY 16, 1874.

What was it, that passed like an ominous breath-- Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death? What is it? The valley is peaceful still, And the leaves are afire on top of the hill. It was not a sound--nor a thing of sense-- But a pain, like the pang of the short suspense That thrills the being of those who see At their feet the gulf of Eternity!

The air of the valley has felt the chill: The workers pause at the door of the mill; The housewife, keen to the shivering air, Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, Instinctive taught by the mother-love, And thinks of the sleeping ones above. Why start the listeners? Why does the course Of the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse-- Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say-- That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way! God! what was that, like a human shriek From the winding valley? Will nobody speak? Will nobody answer those women who cry As the awful warnings thunder by?

Whence come they? Listen! And now they hear The sound of galloping horse-hoofs near; They watch the trend of the vale, and see The rider who thunders so menacingly, With waving arms and warning scream To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. He draws no rein, but he shakes the street With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet; And this the cry he flings to the wind; "To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!"

But onward still, In front of the roaring flood is heard The galloping horse and the warning word. Thank God! the brave man's life is spared! From Williamsburg town he nobly dared To race with the flood and take the road In front of the terrible swath it mowed. For miles it thundered and crashed behind, But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind; "They must be warned!" was all he said, As away on his terrible ride he sped.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

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PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! and yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

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SHERIDAN'S RIDE.--(Extracts.)

Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down; And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night, Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, As if he knew the terrible need; He stretched away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind, And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the general saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops, What was done? what to do? a glance told him both, Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, "I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down, to save the day!"

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldiers' Temple of Fame; There with the glorious general's name, Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, "Here is the steed that saved the day, By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester, twenty miles away!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

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GOOD NEWS TO AIX.--(Extract.)

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 by 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 check-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas 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 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln 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 spray. * * * * *

(But "Roos" and the "Roan" fell dead on the way; the latter, when Aix was in sight!)

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 sat 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.

ROBERT BROWNING.

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DYING IN HARNESS.

Only a fallen horse, stretched out there on the road, Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by the heavy load; Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering eyes Watching the 'frighted teamster goading the beast to rise.

Hold! for his toil is over--no more labor for him; See the poor neck outstretched, and the patient eyes grow dim; See on the friendly stones now peacefully rests his head-- Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is to be dead; After the burdened journey, how restful it is to lie With the broken shafts and the cruel load--waiting only to die.

Watchers, he died in harness--died in the shafts and straps-- Fell, and the great load killed him; one of the day's mishaps-- One of the passing wonders marking the city road-- A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or goad.

Passers, crowding the pathway, staying your steps awhile, What is the symbol? "Only death? why should you cease to smile At death for a beast of burden?" On through the busy street That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the hurrying feet!

What was the sign? A symbol to touch the tireless will. Does he who taught in parables speak in parables still? The seed on the rock is wasted--on heedless hearts of men, That gather and sow and grasp and lose--labor and sleep--and then-- Then for the prize! A crowd in the street of ever-echoing tread-- The toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in his harness--dead.

JOHN BOYLE

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PLUTARCH'S HUMANITY.

For my part, I cannot but charge his using his servants like so many beasts of burden, and turning them off, or selling them when they grew old, to the account of a mean and ungenerous spirit which thinks that the sole tie between man and man is interest or necessity. But goodness moves in a larger sphere than justice. The obligations of law and equity reach only to mankind, but kindness and beneficence should be extended to creatures of every species; and these still flow from the breast of a well-natured man, as streams that issue from the living fountain. A good man will take care of his horses and dogs, not only while they are young, but when old and past service. Thus the people of Athens, when they had finished the temple called Hecatompedon, set at liberty the beasts of burden that had been chiefly employed in the work, suffering them to pasture at large, free from any other service. It is said that one of these afterwards came of its own accord to work, and, putting itself at the head of the laboring cattle, marched before them to the citadel. This pleased the people, and they made a decree that it should be kept at the public charge so long as it lived. The graves of Cimon's mares, with which he thrice conquered at the Olympic games, are still to be seen near his own tomb. Many have shown particular marks of regard, in burying the dogs which they had cherished and been fond of; and amongst the rest Xantippus of old, whose dog swam by the side of his galley to Salamis, when the Athenians were forced to abandon their city, and was afterwards buried by him upon a promontory, which to this day is called the Dog's Grave. We certainly ought not to treat living creatures like shoes or household goods, which, when worn out with use, we throw away; and were it only to learn benevolence to humankind, we should be merciful to other creatures. For my own part, I would not sell even an old ox that had labored for me; much less would I remove, for the sake of a little money, a man grown old in my service, from his usual lodgings and diet; for to him, poor man! it would be as bad as banishment, since he could be of no more use to the buyer than he was to the seller. But Cato, as if he took a pride in these things, tells us, that when consul, he left his war-horse in Spain to save the public the charge of his conveyance. Whether such things as these are instances of greatness or littleness of soul, let the reader judge for himself.

_From "Cato the Censor," in the "Lives."_

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THE HORSES OF ACHILLES.

The gentleness of chivalry, properly so called, depends on the recognition of the order and awe of lower and loftier animal life, first clearly taught in the myth of Chiron, and in his bringing up of Jason, Æsculapius, and Achilles, but most perfectly by Homer, in the fable of the horses of Achilles, and the part assigned to them, in relation to the death of his friend, and in prophecy of his own. There is, perhaps, in all the "Iliad," nothing more deep in significance--there is nothing in all literature more perfect in human tenderness, and honor for the mystery of inferior life--than the verses that describe the sorrow of the divine horses at the death of Patroclus, and the comfort given them by the greatest of gods.

RUSKIN.

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THE WAR HORSE.

Sir Robert Clayton, a British cavalry officer, says of some war horses which had been humanely turned out to perpetual pasture, that while the horses were grazing on one occasion, a violent thunderstorm arose; at once the animals fell into line and faced the blazing lightning under an impression that it was the flash of artillery and the fire of battle.

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PEGASUS IN POUND.

Once into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's wingèd steed.

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim; 'Twas the daily call to labor, Not a triumph meant for him.

Not the less he saw the landscape, In its gleaming vapor veiled; Not the less he breathed the odors That the dying leaves exhaled.

Thus, upon the village common, By the school-boys he was found; And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound.

Then the sombre village crier, Ringing loud his brazen bell, Wandered down the street proclaiming: There was an estray to sell.

And the curious country people, Rich and poor, and young and old, Came in haste to see the wondrous Wingèd steed with mane of gold.

Thus the day passed, and the evening Fell, with vapors cold and dim; But it brought no food nor shelter, Brought no straw nor stall, for him.

Patiently, and still expectant, Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape. Saw the tranquil, patient stars;

Till at length the bell at midnight Sounded from its dark abode, And, from out a neighboring farm-yard, Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.

Then, with nostrils wide distended, Breaking from his iron chain, And unfolding far his pinions, To those stars he soared again.

On the morrow, when the village Woke to all its toil and care, Lo! the strange steed had departed, And they knew not when nor where.

But they found, upon the greensward Where his struggling hoofs had trod, Pure and bright, a fountain flowing From the hoof-marks in the sod.

From that hour, the fount unfailing Gladdens the whole region round, Strengthening all who drink its waters, While it soothes them with its sound.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

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THE HORSE.

Nay, the man hath no wit, that cannot, from the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey; it is a theme as fluent as the sea; turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is argument for them all; 'tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for a sovereign's sovereign to ride on; and for the world (familiar to us and unknown), to lay apart their particular functions and wonder at him.

_Henry V._ Act 3, Sec. 7.

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FROM "THE FORAY."

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray! There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh; Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain.

WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

ON LANDSEER'S PICTURE, "WAITING FOR MASTER."

The proud steed bends his stately neck And patient waits his master's word, While Fido listens for his step, Welcome, whenever heard. King Charlie shakes his curly ears, Secure his home, no harm he fears; Above the peaceful pigeons coo Their happy hymn, the long day through.

What means this scene of quiet joy, This peaceful scene without alloy! Kind words, kind care, and tender thought This picture beautiful have wrought. Its lesson tells of care for all God's creatures, whether great or small, And they who love "the least of these," Are sure a loving God to please.

_Our Dumb Animals._

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THE BIRDS.

* * * * *

THE WATERFOWL.

Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Some o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone--the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form--yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will lead my steps aright.

W. C. BRYANT.

* * * * *

SEA FOWL.

Through my north window, in the wintry weather,-- My airy oriel on the river shore,-- I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.

I see the solemn gulls in council sitting On some broad ice-floe, pondering long and late, While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting, And leave the tardy conclave in debate,

Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving, Whose deeper meaning science never learns, Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving, The speechless senate silently adjourns.

He knows you! "sportsman" from suburban alleys, Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt; Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies Forth to waste powder--as _he_ says, to "hunt."

I watch you with a patient satisfaction, Well pleased to discount your predestined luck; The float that figures in your sly transaction Will carry back a goose, but not a duck.

Shrewd is our bird; not easy to outwit him! Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes; Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him; One cannot always miss him if he tries!

O Thou who carest for the falling sparrow, Canst Thou the sinless sufferer's pang forget? Or is thy dread account-book's page so narrow Its one long column scores thy creature's debt?

Poor, gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished, A world grows dark with thee in blinding death; One little gasp,--thy universe has perished, Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath!

_From "My Aviary," by_ O. W. HOLMES.

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THE SANDPIPER.

Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit,-- One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach, I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach,-- One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong; He scans me with a fearless eye. Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky: For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

CELIA THAXTER.

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THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH.

The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: "Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!"

* * * * *

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, That mingled with the universal mirth, Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words To swift destruction the whole race of birds.