OLMSTEAD'S 
 
 RECITATIONS 
 
 A CHOICE COLLECTION OF 
 
 BEAUTIFUL COMPOSITIONS, 
 
 Which have Always and Everywhere Given 
 Universal Satisfaction. 
 
 EVERY ONE A PRIZE SELECTION. 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 PROF. SEYMOUR OLMSTEAD 
 
 For Public and Private Entertainment. 
 
 1893: 
 A. M. Eddy, Printer and Binder, 
 
 Albion, N. Y. WASHW&lSi* 
 
 35y' 
 
^ 
 
 
 Copyright 1893 by Seymour Olmstead. 
 
To The Public. 
 
 Ill accordance with the laws of progress, our literature is receiving 
 constant accession of beautiful thoughts expressed in poetry and in 
 prose, which come and go — like Macbeth's shadow — or like flashing 
 meteors along life's pathway — or like beautiful flowers, that bloom for a 
 season and vanish from our gaze. Not mine the task to gatht r and 
 save all these beautiful lines, but — "I am an . old soldier in my way, 
 Monsieur!" Twenty years of my life have been devoted to "the art 
 which ennobles" and I have endeavored to present in this book a few of 
 those masterpieces which have always, and everywhere given universal 
 satisfaction. These have been gathered from old scrap-books, maga- 
 zines, publications, papers and manuscripts, and represent the faithful 
 and careful hoardings of many years. I take pleasurein calling your at- 
 tention to the contents of this book. 
 
 To my pupils, and you are numbered by the score, you are re- 
 sponsible for this work; you have led me "on and on!" ever pressing- 
 forward, ever striving for something higher and better. 
 
 "Years have passed since together we gathered, a joyous 
 
 and light-hearted baud. 
 The living far distant are scattered; the dead Valk the 
 
 bright summer land. 
 
 You will find all the "good old pieces" here. As you glance at the 
 familiar titles memory will lead you back to happy days, — "act well 
 your part, therein the honor lies." 
 
 I dedicate this work to you 
 
 The Compiler. 
 
OlmsteacTs Recitations 
 
 Santa Claus iD the Mines. 
 
 In a small cabin in a California min- 
 ing town, av\ ay up amid the snow-clad, 
 rock-bound peaks of the Sierra Nevada 
 Mountains, sat a woman, in widow's 
 weeds, holding upon her knee a bright- 
 eyed, sunny-faced little girl, about 
 live years old, while a little cherub of a 
 boy lay upon a bear skin before the 
 open fireplace. It was Christmas Eve, 
 and the woman sat gazing abstractedly 
 into the fireplace. She was yet young, 
 and as the glowing flames lit up her sad 
 face they invested it with a wiercl 
 beauty. 
 
 Mary Stewart was the widow of 
 Aleck Stewart, and but two years be- 
 fore they had lived comfortably and 
 happy, in a camp on the American 
 River. Aleck was a brawny miner; 
 but the premature explosion of a blast 
 in an underground tunnel had blotted 
 out his life in an instant, leaving his 
 family without a protector, and in 
 straitened circumstances. His daily 
 wages had been their sole support, and 
 now that he was gone, what could 
 they do? 
 
 With her little family Mrs. Stewart 
 had emigrated to the camp in which we 
 lind them, and there she earned a pre- 
 carious livelihood by washing clothes 
 for the miners. Hers was a hard lot; 
 but the brave little woman toiled on, 
 cheered by the thought that her daily 
 labors stood between her darling litt.e 
 ones and the gaunt wolf of starvation. 
 
 Jack Dawson, a strong honest miner, 
 was passing the cabin this Christmas 
 Eve, when the voice of the little girl 
 within attracted his attention. Jack 
 possessed an inordinate love for child- 
 
 ren, and although his manly spirit, 
 would abhor the sneaking practice of 
 eavesdropping, he could not resist the 
 temptation to steal up to the window 
 just a moment to listen to the sweet, 
 prattling, voice. The first words he 
 caught were: 
 
 "Before papa died we always had 
 Christmas, didn't we, mamma?" 
 
 "Yes, Totty, darling; but papa earned 
 money enough to afford to make his 
 little pets happy at least once a year. 
 You must remember, Totty, that we 
 are very poor, and although mamma 
 works very, very hard, she can scarcely 
 earn enough to supply us with food and 
 clothes." 
 
 Jack Dawson still lingered upon the 
 outside. He could not leave, although 
 he felt ashamed of himself for listening. 
 
 "We hung up our stockings last 
 Christmas, didn't we, mamma?" con- 
 tinued the little girl. 
 
 "Yes, Totty; but we w r ere poor then, 
 and Santa Claus never notices real 
 poor people. He gave you a little can- 
 dy then, just because you were such 
 good children." 
 
 "Is we any poorer now, mamma?" 
 
 "Oh! yes, much poorer. He would 
 never notice us at all now." 
 
 Jack Dawson detected a tremor of 
 sadness in the widow's voice as she- 
 uttered the last words, and he wiped 
 a suspicious dampness from his eyes. 
 
 "Where's our clean stockings, mam- 
 ma? I'm going to hang mine up, any- 
 how; maybe he will come like he did 
 before, just because we try to be good 
 children, said Totty. 
 
 "It will be no use, my darling, I am 
 sure he will not come," and tears- 
 
Olmsteae's Recitations. 
 
 gathered in the mother's eves as she 
 thought of her empty purse. 
 
 "1 don't care, I'm going to try, any- 
 how. Please get one of my stockings, 
 mamma." 
 
 Jack Dawsons generous heart swelled 
 until it seemed bursting from his bosom. 
 He heard the patter of little bare feet 
 upon the cabin floor as Totty ran about 
 hunting hers and Benny's stockings, 
 and after she had hunted ihem up, 
 heard her sweet voice again as she won- 
 dered over and over if Santa really 
 would forget them. He heard the mother, 
 in a choking voice, tell her treasures to 
 get ready for bed ; heard them lisp their 
 childish prayers, the little girl con- 
 cluding: "And, O, Lord! please tell 
 good* Santa Claus that we are very 
 poor but that we love him as much as 
 rich children do, fur dear Jesus' sake 
 — Amen!" 
 
 : t they were in bed, through a small 
 rent in the plain white curtain he saw 
 the widow sitting before the fire her 
 face buried in her hands, and weeping 
 bitterly. On a peg, just over the tire- 
 place, hung two little patched and 
 faded stockings, aud then he could 
 stand it no longer- He softly moved 
 away from the window to the rear of 
 the cabin, where some objects fluttering 
 to the wind met his eye- Among these 
 he searched until he found a little blue 
 stocking which he removed from the 
 line, folded tenderly, and placed in his 
 overcoat pocket, and then set out for 
 the main street of the camp. He en- 
 tered Harry Hawk's gambling hall, the 
 largest in the place, where a host of 
 miners and gamblers were at play. 
 Jack was well known in the camp, and 
 when he got up on a chair and called 
 for attention, the hum of voices and 
 clicking of ivory checks suddenly 
 ceased. Then in an earnest Aoice he 
 told what he had seen and heard, re- 
 peating every word of the conversation 
 between the mother and her children. 
 In conclusion he said: 
 
 "Boys, I think I know you, every one 
 of you, an' I know jist what kind o' 
 metal yer made of. I've an idee that 
 Santy r Claus knows jist whar thet cabin's 
 sitiwated, an' I've an idee he'll find it 
 afore mornin'. Hyar's one of the little 
 gal's stock'n's thet I hooked offn the 
 line. The daddy o' them little ones was 
 a good, hard-working miner, an' he 
 crossed the range in the line o' duty, 
 jist as any one of us is liable to do in 
 our dangerous business. Hyar goes a 
 twenty-dollar piece right down in the 
 toe. and hyar I lay the stockiu' on this 
 card table — now chip in much or little, 
 as ye kin affor 
 
 Brocky Clark, a gambler, left the ta- 
 ble, picked the little stocking up care- 
 full}', looked at it tenderly, and when 
 he laid it down another twenty had 
 gone into the toe to keep company with 
 the one placed there by Dawson. 
 
 Another and another came up until 
 the foot of the stocking was well filled, 
 and then came the cry from the gamb- 
 ling tables: 
 
 '•Pass her around. Jack.'' 
 
 At the word he lifted it from the ta. 
 bie and started aron: I. Uefore 
 
 he had circulated it at half a dozen 
 tables it showed signs of bursting be- 
 neath the weight of gold and silver coin, 
 and a strong coin bag, such as he used 
 for sending treasure by express, was 
 procured and the .stocking placed inside 
 of it. The round of the large hall was 
 made, and in the meantime the story 
 had spread all over the camp. From 
 the various saloons came messages say- 
 ing: 
 
 "Send the stockin' 'round the camp: 
 re a-waitin' for ir!" 
 
 With a party at his heels, Jack went 
 from saloon to saloon. Games ceased 
 and tipplers left the bars as they en- 
 tered each place, and miners, gamblers, 
 speculators, everybody, crowded up to 
 tender their Christmas gift to the mi- 
 ner's widow and orphans. Any one 
 who has lived in the far Western camps 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 and is acquainted with the generosity 
 of Western men will feel no surprise or 
 doubt my truthfulness, when 1 say that 
 alter the round had been made the little 
 blue stocking and the heavy canvas bag 
 contained over eight thousand dollars 
 in gold and silver coin. 
 
 Horses were procured, and a party 
 dispatched to the larger town down on 
 the Consiliums, from which they re- 
 turned near daybreak with toys, cloth- 
 ing, provisions, etc., in almost endless 
 variety. Arranging their gifts in prop- 
 er shape, and securely tying the mouth 
 of the bag of coin, the party noislessly 
 repaired to the widow's humble cabin. 
 The bag was first laid on the step, and 
 the other articl d up in a heap 
 
 over it. On the top was laid the lid of 
 a large pasteboard box, on which was 
 written with a piece of charcoal: 
 
 "Santy Clans dosen't allways Giv 
 poor Folks The Cold Shoulder in This 
 camp." 
 
 Christmas dawned bright and beauti- 
 ful. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart arose, and a shade of 
 pain crossed her handsome face as the 
 empty little stockings caught her ma- 
 ternal eye She cast a hurried glance 
 toward the bed where her darlings laj r 
 sleeping, and whispered: 
 
 "O God! how dreadful is poverty!' 1 
 built a glowing lire, set about, 
 preparing the frugal breakfast, and 
 when it was almost ready she ap- 
 proached the bed, kissed the little ones 
 until they were wide awake, and lifted 
 them to the floor. With eager haste 
 Totty ran to the stockings, only to turn 
 away, sobbing as though her heart 
 would break. Tears blinded the moth- 
 er, and clasping her little girl to her 
 heart she said in a choking voice: 
 
 "Never mind my darling; next Christ- 
 mas I am sine mamma will be richer, 
 and then Santa l laus will bring us lots 
 of nice things. " 
 
 "O mamma!!' 
 
 The exclamation came from little 
 
 Benny, who had opened the door and 
 
 was standing gazing in amazement upon 
 the wealth of gifts there disylayed. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart sprang to his side and 
 looked in speechless astonishment. Six- 
 read the card, and then, causing her 
 little ones to kneel down with her in 
 the open doorway, she poured out her 
 soul in a torrent of praise and thanks- 
 giving to God. 
 
 Jack Dawson's burly form moved 
 from behind a tree a short distance 
 away, and sneaked off up the gulch, 
 great crystal tears chasing each other 
 down his face. 
 
 The family arose from their knees, 
 and began to move the stores into the 
 room There were several sacks of 
 flour, hams, canned fruits, pounds and 
 pounds of coffee, tea, and sugar. neAV 
 dress goods, and a handsome, warm 
 woolen shawl for the widow, shoes, 
 stockings, hats, mittens, and clothing 
 for the children, a great big wax doll 
 that could cry and move its eyes for 
 Totty, and a beautiful md sled for Ben- 
 ny. All were carried inside amidst al- 
 ternate laughs and tears. 
 
 "Bring in the sack of salt, Totty, and 
 that is all," said the mother. 'Ts not 
 God good to us?" 
 
 "I can't lift it, mamma, it's frozed to 
 the step!'' 
 
 The mother stooped and took hold of 
 it and lifted harder and harder; until 
 she raised it from tjie step. Her cheek 
 blanched as she noted its great weight, 
 and breathlessly she carried it in and 
 laid if upon the breakfast table. With 
 trembling fingers she loosened the 
 string and emptied the contents upon 
 the table. Gold and silver — more than 
 she had ever thought of in her wildest 
 dreams of comfort, and almost buried 
 in the pile of treasure lay Totty's little 
 blue slocking. 
 
 We will not intrude longer upon such 
 happiness; but leave the joyful family 
 sounding praises to Heaven and Santa 
 Clans. — Anox. 
 
8 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 The Skeleton's Story. 
 
 It is two miles ahead to the foot-hills 
 —two miles of parched and rocky- 
 space. To the right— the left— behind, 
 is the rolling prairie. This broad val- 
 ley strikes the Sierra Nevadas and stops 
 as if a wall had been built across it. 
 
 Ride closer! What is this on the 
 grass ? A skull here— a rib there— bones 
 scattered about as the wild beasts left 
 them after the horrible feast. The 
 elean-picked skull grins and stares 
 —every bone and scattered lock of 
 hair has its story of a tragedy. And 
 what besides these relics? More bones 
 — not scattered, but lying in heaps — 
 a vertebra with ribs attached— a Mesh- 
 less skull bleaching under the summer 
 sun. Wolves! Yes. Count the heaps 
 of bones and you will rind nearly a 
 score. Open boats are picked up at sea 
 with neither life nor sign to betray 
 their secret. Skeletons are found up- 
 on the prairie, but they tell a plain 
 story to those who halt beside them. 
 Let us listen: 
 
 Away off to the right you can see 
 treetops. Away off to the left 3-011 can 
 see the same sight The skeletons are 
 in line between the two points. He 
 left one grove to ride to the other; To 
 ride! Certainly, a mile away is the skele- 
 ton of a horse or mule. The beast fell 
 and was left there. 
 
 It is months since that ride, and the 
 trail has been obliterated. Were it 
 otherwise, and you took it up from the 
 spot where the skeleton horse now lies, 
 you would find the last three or four 
 miles made at a tremendous pace, 
 
 "Step! step! step! 1 ' 
 
 What is it? Darkness has gathered 
 over mountain and prairie as the hunt- 
 er jogs along over the broken ground. 
 Overhead the countless stars look down 
 upon him — around him is the pall of 
 night. There was a patter of footsteps 
 on the dry grass. Pie halts and peers 
 around him, but the darkness is too 
 deep for him to discover any cause for 
 alarm 
 
 "Patter! patter! patter!" 
 
 There it is again! It is not fifty yards 
 from where he has last halted. The 
 steps are too light for those of an Indian . 
 
 " Wolves'" whispers the hunter, as a 
 howl suddenly breaks upon his ear. 
 
 Wolves! The gaunt, grizzly wolves 
 of the foot-hills — thin and poor and 
 hungry and savage — the legs tireless — 
 the mouth full of teeth which can crack 
 the shoulder-bone of a buffalo He can 
 see their dark forms flitting from point 
 to point — the patter of their feet upon 
 the parched grass proves that he is sur- 
 rounded. 
 
 Now the race begins. A line of 
 wolves spreads out to the right and 
 left, and gallops after— tongues out — 
 eyes flashing— great flakes of foam fly- 
 ing back to blotch stone and grass and 
 leaves a trail to be followed by the 
 cowardly co^yotes. 
 
 Men ride thus only when life is the 
 stake, A horse puts forth |uch speed 
 only when terror follows close behind 
 and causes every nerve to tighten like 
 a wire drawn until the scratch of a 
 finger makes it chord with a wail of de- 
 spair. The line is there— aye it is 
 gaining! Inch by inch it creeps up, and 
 the red eye takes on a more savage 
 gleam as the hunter cries out to his 
 horse and opens fire from his revolvers. 
 A wolf falls on the right — a second on 
 the left. Does the wind cease blowing 
 because it meets a forest? The fall of 
 one man in a mad mob increases the 
 determination of the rest. 
 
 With a cry so full of the despair that 
 wells up from the heart of the strong 
 man when he gives up his struggle for 
 life that the hunter almost belie ves a 
 companion rides beside him, the horse 
 staggers — recovers — plunges forward — 
 falls to the earth. It was a glorious 
 struggle; but he has lost. 
 
 There is a confused heap of snarling, 
 fighting, maddened beasts and the line 
 rushes forward again. Saddle, bridle, 
 and blanket are in shreds— the horse a 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 9 
 
 skeleton. And now the chase is after 
 the hunter. He has half a mile the 
 start, and as he rims the veins stand 
 out, the muscles tighten, and he won- 
 ders at his own speed. Behind him are 
 the gaunt bodies and the tireless legs. 
 Closer, closer, and now he is going to 
 faee fate like a brave man should. He 
 has halted. In an instant a circle is 
 formed about him— a circle of red eve-. 
 foaming mouths, and yellow fangs 
 which are to meet in his flesh. 
 
 There is an interval— a breathing 
 spell. He looks up at the stars -out 
 upon the night. It is his last hour, but 
 there is no quaking— no crying out to 
 the night to send him aid. As the 
 wolves rest, a flash blinds their eyes— 
 a second— a third— and a fourth, and 
 they give before the man they had 
 looked tipon as their certain prey. But 
 it is only for a momeuc. He sees them 
 gathering for the rush, and firing his 
 remaining bnllets among them he seizes 
 his long rifle by the barrel and braces 
 to meet the shock. Even a savage 
 would have admired the heroic fight he 
 made for life. He sounds the war-cry 
 and whirls his weapon around him, and 
 wolf after wolf falls disabled. He feels 
 a strange exultation over the desperate 
 combat, and as the pack gives way be- 
 fore his mighty blows a gleam of hope 
 springs up in his heart. 
 
 It is only for a moment; then the cir- 
 cle narrows. Each disabled beast is re- 
 placed by three which hungers for blood. 
 There is a rush — a swirl — and the cry 
 of despair is drowned in the chorus of 
 snarls as the pack fight over the feast. 
 ******** 
 The gray of morning — the sunlight of 
 noonday — the stars of evening will look 
 down upon grinning skull and whiten- 
 ing bones, and the wolf will return to 
 crunch them again. Men will not bury 
 them. They will look dowu upon them 
 as we look, and ride away with a feel- 
 ing that 'tis but another dark secret of 
 the wonderful prairie. 
 
 The Monster Gannon.— Victor Hugo. 
 
 They heard a noise unlike anything 
 usually heard. The cry and the noise 
 came from inside the vessel. 
 
 One of the carronades of the battery, 
 a twenty-four pounder, had become de- 
 tached. 
 
 This, perhaps, is the most formidable of 
 ocean events. Nothing more terrible 
 can happen to a war vessel, at sea, and 
 under full sail. 
 
 A cannon which breaks its moorings 
 becomes suddenly some indescribable, 
 supernatural beast. It is a machine 
 which transforms itself into a monster. 
 This mass runs on its wheels, like bil- 
 liard-balls, inclines with the rolling, 
 plunges with the pitching, goes, comes. 
 stops, seems to meditate, resumes its 
 course, shoots from one side of the ship 
 to the other like an arrow, whirls, steals 
 away, evades, prances, strikes, breaks, 
 kills, exterminates. It is a ram which 
 capriciously assails a wall. Add this — 
 the ram is of iron, the wall is of wood. 
 This furious bulk has the leaps of the 
 panther, the weight of the elephant, the 
 agility of the mouse, the pertinacity of 
 the axe, the unexpectedness of the 
 surge, the rapidity of lightning, the si- 
 lence of the sepulcher. It weighs ten 
 thousand pounds, and it rebounds like 
 a child's ball. Its whirlings are sud- 
 denly cut at right angles. What is to 
 be done? How stall an end be put to 
 this? A tempest ceases; a cyclone pass- 
 es, a wiud goes down, a broken mast is 
 replaced, a leak is stopped, a fire put 
 out; but what shall be doue with this 
 enormous brute of bronze? How try to 
 secure it? You can reason with a bull- 
 dog, astonish a bull, fascinate a boa^ 
 frighten a tiger, soften a lion; no re- 
 source with such a monster as a loose 
 cannon. You cannot kill it, it is dead; 
 and at the same time it lives with a sin- 
 ister life which comes from the infinite. 
 It is moved by the ship, which is 
 moved by the wind. This exterminator 
 is a plaything. The horrible cannon 
 
IO 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 struggles, advances, retreats, strikes to 
 right, strikes the left, (lees, passes, dis- 
 concerts expectation, grinds obstacles, 
 crushes men like flies. 
 
 The carronade, hurled by the pitch- 
 ing, made havoc in the group of men. 
 crushing four at the lir.-t blow; then re- 
 ceding and brought back by the rolling, 
 it cut a fifth unfortunate man in two, 
 and dashed against the larboard side a 
 piece of the battery which it dismount- 
 ed. Thence came the cry of distiess 
 which had been heard. All the men 
 rushed towards the ladder. The bat- 
 tery was emptied in a twinkling of an 
 eye 
 
 The captain and lieutenant, although 
 both intrepid men, had halted at the 
 head of the ladder, and dumb, pale, 
 ting, looked down into the lower 
 deck. Some cue pushed them to one 
 side with his elbow and descended. 
 
 It was an old man, a passenger. 
 
 Once at the foot of the ladder, lie 
 stood 
 
 Hither and thither along the lower 
 deck came the caunon. One might 
 have thought it the living chariot of the 
 Apocalypse. 
 
 The lour wheels passed and repassed 
 over the dead men, cutting, carving, 
 and slashing them, and of the five corp- 
 ses made twenty fragments which 
 rolled across the battery: the lifeless 
 head seemed to cry out; streams of 
 blood wreathed on the floor following 
 the rolling of the ship. The ceiling, 
 damaged in several places, commenced 
 to open a little. All the vessel was filled 
 with a monstrous noise. 
 
 The ciptain promptly regained his 
 ice <»f mind, and caused to be 
 thrown into the lower deck all that 
 could allay and fetter the unbridled 
 course of the cannon, — mattresses, 
 hammocks, spare sails, rolls of cord- 
 age, bags of equipments, and bales of 
 counterfeit assign ats, of which the cor- 
 vette had a full cargo. 
 
 But of what avail these rags? No- 
 
 body daring to go down and place them 
 properly, in a few minutes they were 
 lint. 
 
 There was just sea enough to make 
 the accident as complete as possible. A 
 tempest would have been desirable; it 
 might have thrown the cannon upside 
 down, and, once the four wheels were 
 in the air, it could have been mastered. 
 As it was, the havoc increased. There 
 were dialings and even fractures in the 
 masts, which, jointed into the frame of 
 the keel, go through the floors of ves- 
 sels and are like great round pillars. 
 Under the convulsive blows of the can- 
 non, the foremast had cracked, the 
 mainmast itself was cut. The battery 
 was disjointed, Ten pieces out of the 
 thirty were kors de combat; the breaches 
 in the sides multiplied, and the corvette 
 commenced to take in water. 
 
 The old passenger who had gone 
 down to the lower deck seemed a man 
 of stone at the bottom of the ladder. 
 He did not stir. It seemed impossible 
 to take a step in the battery. 
 
 They must perish, or cut short the 
 disaster; something must be done, but 
 what V 
 
 What a combatant that carronade 
 was ! 
 
 That frightful maniac must be 
 stopped. 
 
 That lightning must be averted. 
 
 That thunder-bolt must be conquered. 
 
 The captain said to the lieutenant: 
 
 "Do you believe in God, Cheveiier?" 
 
 "Yes. No. Sometimes. " 
 
 'In the tempest?" 
 
 "Yes. And in moments like this." 
 
 "In reality God only can rid us of 
 this trouble." 
 
 All were hushed, leaving the cannon 
 to do its horrible work. 
 
 Outside, the billows beating the ves- 
 sel answered the blows of the cannon. 
 It was like two hammers alternately. 
 
 All of a sudden, iu that kiud of una] - 
 proachable circuit wherein the escaped 
 cannon bounded, a man appeared, with 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 i i 
 
 in iron bar in his hand. It was the au- 
 thor of the catastrophe, the chief gun- 
 ner, guilty of negligence and the cause 
 of the accident, the master of. the car- 
 ronade. Having done the harm, he 
 wished to repair it. lie had grasped a 
 handpike in one hand, some gun-tackle 
 with a slip-knot in the other, and jump- 
 ped upon the lower deck. 
 
 Then a wild exploit commenced; a 
 Titanic spectacle; the combat of the 
 gun with the gunner; the battle of mat- 
 ter and intelligence; the duel of the 
 animate and the inanimate. 
 
 The man had posted himself in a 
 corner, and with his bar and rope in 
 his two fists, leaning against one of the 
 riders, standing firmly on his legs 
 which iike two pillars of steel, 
 
 livid, calm, tragic, as though rooted to 
 the floor, he waited. 
 
 He was waiting for the cannon to 
 pass near him. 
 
 The gunner knew his piece, and it 
 seemed to him that it must know him. 
 He had lived for some time with it. 
 How many times he had thrust his hand 
 into its jaws! It was his tamed monster. 
 He commenced talking to it as he would 
 to his dog. 
 
 "Come," said he. He loved it, maybe. 
 
 He seemed to wish that it would come 
 towards him. 
 
 But to come towards him would he to 
 come upon him. And then he was lost. 
 How avoid the crush? That was the 
 question. All looked upon the scene, 
 terrified. 
 
 Not a breast breathed freely, except, 
 perhaps, that of the old man who alone 
 was on the lower deck with the two 
 •combatants, a sinister witness. 
 
 He might himself be- crushed by the 
 piece. He stirred not. 
 
 Under them the blinded see directed 
 the combat. 
 
 At the moment when, accepting this 
 dreadful hand-to-hand encounter, the 
 gunner challenged the cannon, a chance 
 rolling of the sea kept it immovable as 
 
 if stupefied. "Come then!" said the 
 man. It seemed to Listen. 
 Suddenly it jumped towards him. 
 
 The man escaped the shock. 
 
 Thestruggle began. A struggle un- 
 heard of. The fragile wrestling with 
 invulnerable. The monster of flesh at- 
 tacking the brazen beast. On one side 
 force, on the other a soul. 
 
 All this was passing in a shadow. It 
 was like the indistinct vision of a prod- 
 igy- 
 
 Asoul! a strange tiling! one would 
 have thought the cannon had one also, 
 but a soul of hate and rage. This sight- 
 ling seemed to have eyes. The 
 monster appeared to watch the man. 
 There' was— one would have thought so 
 at least — running in this mass. 
 
 its moment, it was a kind of 
 gigantic insect of iron, having or seem- 
 ing to have, the will of a demon. At 
 limes, this colossal grasshopper would 
 strike the low ceiling of the battery, 
 then fall back on its four wheels like a 
 tiger on its claws, and commence again 
 to dart upon the man. He, supple, 
 agile, adroit, writhed like an adder in 
 guarding against all these lightning- 
 like movements. He avoided encount- 
 ers, but the blows he shunned were 
 received by the vessel, and continued 
 to demolish it. 
 
 An end of broken chain had remain- 
 ed hanging to the carronade. One end 
 of it was fastenecWto the carriage. The 
 other, free, turned desperately around 
 tiie cannon and exaggerated all its 
 shocks. The chain, multiplying the 
 blows and the ram by its lashings, 
 caused a terrible whirl around the can- 
 non. — an iron whip in a fist of brass — 
 and complicated the combat. 
 
 Yet the man struggled. At times, 
 even, it was the man who attacked the 
 cannon; he crouched along the side, 
 holding his bar and his rope; and the 
 cannon seemed to understand, and as 
 though divining a snare, tied. The 
 man, formidable, pursued it. 
 
12 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Such things cannot last long. The 
 cannon seemed to say all at once — 
 "Come! there must be an eud to this!" 
 and it stopped. The approach of the 
 denouement was felt. The cannon, as 
 in suspense, seemed to have, or did 
 have, — because for all it was like a 
 living thing— a ferocious premeditation, 
 Suddenly, it precipitated itself on the 
 gunner. The gunner drew to one side, 
 let it pass, and called to it, laughing — 
 "Try again." The cannon, as though 
 furious, broke a carronade to larboard; 
 then, seized again by the invisible sling 
 which held it, bounded to starboard 
 towards the man. who escaped. Three 
 carronades sunk down under the pres- 
 sure of the cannon; then as though 
 blind, and knowing no longer what it 
 was doing, it turned its back to the 
 men. rolled backward and forward, put 
 the stem out of order, and made a 
 breach in the wall of the prow. The 
 man had taken refuge at the foot of the 
 ladder a few steps from the old man 
 who was present. The gunner held his 
 handspike at rest. The cannon seemed 
 to perceive him, and without taking the 
 trouble to turn around, fell back on the 
 man with the promptness of an axe- 
 stroke. The man if driven against the 
 side was lost. And the crew gave a cry. 
 
 But the old passenger, till then im- 
 movable, sprang forward, more rapidly 
 than all those wild rapidities. He has 
 seized a bale of false assignats, and, at 
 the risk of being crushed he had suc- 
 ceeded in throwing it between the 
 wheels of the cannon. This decisive 
 and perilous movement could not have 
 been executed with more promptness 
 and precision by a man accustomed to all 
 the manoeuvres of sea gunnery. 
 
 The bale had the effect of a plug. A 
 pebble stops a bulk a branch of a tree 
 diverts an avalanche. The cannon 
 stumbled. The'gunner in his turu, tak- 
 ing advantage of the terrible juncture, 
 plunged his iron bar between the spokes 
 of one of the hind wheels The cannon 
 stopped 
 
 It leaned forward. The man using 
 his bar as a lever, made it rock. The 
 heavy mass turned over with the noise 
 of the bell tumbling down, and the 
 man, rushing headlong, trickling with 
 sweat, attached the slip-knot of the 
 gun-tackle to the bronze neck of the 
 conquered monster. 
 
 It was finished. The man had van- 
 quished. The ant had subdued the 
 mastodon; the pigmy had made a 
 prisoner of the thunderbolt. 
 
 — From " Ninety Three." 
 
 Death-bed of Benedict Arnold. 
 
 GEORGE LEPARD. 
 
 Fifty years ago, in a rude garret, near 
 the loneliest suburbs of the city of 
 London, lay a dying man. He was but 
 half dressed; though his legs were con- 
 cealed in long military boots. An aged 
 minister stood beside the rough couch. 
 The form was that of a strong man 
 grown old through care more than age. 
 There was a face that } t ou might look 
 upon but once, and yet wear it in your 
 memory forever. 
 
 Let us bend over the bed, and look 
 upon that face. A bold forehead seam- 
 ed by one deep wrinkle visible between 
 the brows — long locks of dark hair, 
 sprinkled with gray; lips firmly set, yet 
 quivering, as though they had a life 
 separate from the life of the man; and 
 then, two large eyes — vivid, burning, 
 unnatural in their steady glare. Ay, 
 there was something terrible in that 
 face — something so full of unnatural 
 loneliness— unspeakable despair, that 
 the aged minister started back in horror. 
 But look! those strong arms are clutch- 
 ing at the vacant air: the death-sweat 
 stands in drops on that bold brow — the 
 man is dying. Throb — throb — throb — 
 beats the death-watch in the shattered 
 wall. "Would you die in the faith of the 
 Christian V" faltered the j)reachei\ as 
 he knelt there on the damp fioor. 
 
 The white lips of the death-stricken 
 man trembled, but made no sound. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Then with the strong agony of death 
 upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. 
 
 F( r the iirst time he spoke. "Christian I" 
 he echoed in that deep tone which 
 thrilled the preacher to the heart: 
 Will that faith give me back my honor? 
 Come with me, old man, come with me, 
 far over the waters. Ha! we are there! 
 This is my native town. Yonder is the 
 church in which I knelt in childhood: 
 yonder the green on which I sported 
 when a boy. But another flag waves 
 yonder, in place of the flag that waved 
 when I was a child. 
 
 "And listen, old man, were I to pass 
 along the streets; as I passed when but 
 a child, the very babes in their cradles 
 would raise their tiny hands and curse 
 me! The g r a \* e s i u y o u d e r c h u re h -3' ard 
 would shrink from my footsteps, and 
 yonder flag would rain a baptism of 
 blood upon my head!" 
 
 That was an awful death- bed. The 
 minister had watched "the last night" 
 with a hundred convicts in their cells, 
 but had never beheld a scene so terrible 
 as this. Suddenly the dying man arose: 
 he tottered along the floor. With 
 those white fingers, whose nails were 
 blue with the death-chill, he threw open 
 a valise. He drew from thence a laded 
 coat of blue, faced with silver, and the 
 wreck of a battle-flag. 
 
 "Look ye priest! this faded coat is 
 spotted with my blood!" he cried, as old 
 memories seemed stirring in his heart. 
 " This coat I wore, when I first heard 
 the news of Lexington: this coat I wore, 
 when I planted the banner of the stars 
 on Ticonderoga! that bullet-hole was 
 pierced in the fight of Quebec; and now, 
 I am a — let me whisper it in your ear!" 
 He hissed that single burning word into 
 the minister's ear: Now help me, priest 
 help me to put on this coat of blue; for 
 you see" — and a gastly smile came over 
 his face — "there is no one here to wipe 
 the cold drops from my brow: no wife: 
 no child. I must meet Death alone; 
 but I will meet him, as I have met him 
 in battle, without a fear!" 
 
 And, while he stood arraying his 
 Limbs in that worm-eaten coat of blue 
 and silver, the good minister -poke to 
 him of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that 
 great faith, which pierces the clouds 
 of human guilt, and rolls them back 
 from the face of God. "Faith!" echoed 
 that strange man, who stood erect, 
 with the death-chill on his brow, "Faith! 
 Can it give me back my honor V Look 
 ye priest! there over the waves, sits 
 George Washington, telling to his com 
 rades the pleasant story of the eight 
 years' war: there, in his royal halls, -sits 
 George of England, bewailing, in his 
 idiotic voice, the loss of the colonies! 
 And here am I ! — I, who was the first 
 to raise the flag of freedom, the first to 
 strike a blow against that king — here 
 am I, dying! oh, dying like a dog!" 
 
 The awe-striken preacher started 
 back from the look of the dying man, 
 while throb— throb — beats the death- 
 watch, in the shattered wall. "Hush! 
 silence along the lines there!" he mut 
 tered, in that wild, absent tone, as 
 though speaking to the dead; "silence 
 along the lines! not a word — not a word, 
 on peril of your lives! Hark you, 
 Montgomery! we will meet in the cen- 
 tre of the town: — we will meet there in 
 victory, or die! Hist! silence, my men 
 — not a whisper, as we move up those 
 steep rocks! Now on, my boys — now 
 on! Men of the wilderness, we will 
 gain the town! ^ow up with the ban 
 ner of the stars— up with the flag of 
 freedom, though the night is dark, and 
 the snow falls! Now! now, one more 
 blow, and Quebec is ours!" 
 
 And look! his eye grows glassy. 
 With that word on his lips, he stauils 
 there ah! what a hideous picture of de- 
 spair: erect, livid, ghastly: there for a 
 moment, and then he falls! — he is dead! 
 Ah, look at that proud form, thrown 
 cold and stiff upon the damp floor. In 
 that glassy eye there lingers, even yet. 
 a horrible energy — a sublimity of de- 
 spair. Who is this strange man tying 
 
H 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 there alone, in this rude garret: this 
 man. who. in all his crimes, still treas- 
 ured up in that blue uniform, that faded 
 
 flag? Who is this being of horrible re- 
 morse—this man. whose memories seem 
 to liuk something with heaven, aud 
 more with hell V 
 
 Let us look at that parchment and 
 flag. The aged minister unrolls that 
 faded Hag; it is a blue banner gleaming 
 with thirteen stars. He unrolls that 
 parchment: it is a colonel's commis- 
 sion in the Continental army addressed 
 to Benedict Arnold! And there, in 
 that rude hut, while the death-watch 
 throbbed like a heart in the shattered 
 wall: there, unknown, unwept, in all 
 the bitterness of desolation, lay the 
 corpse of the patroit and the traitor. 
 
 Oh that our own true Washington 
 had been there, to sever that good right 
 arm from the corpse; and, while the dis- 
 honored body rotted into dust, to bring 
 home that noble arm, and embalm it 
 among the holiest memories of the past. 
 For that right arm struck many a gal- 
 lant blow for freedom: yonder at Ticon- 
 dergo, at Quebec, Champlaiu, and Sar- 
 atoga — that arm, yonder, beneath the 
 snow white mountains, in the deep sil- 
 ence of the river of the dead, first rais- 
 ed into light the Banner of the Stars. 
 
 The Two Roads. 
 
 JEAN PAUL KICHTEK. 
 
 1. It was New Year's night. An 
 aged man was standing at a window. 
 He raised his mournful eyes toward the 
 deep blue sky, where the stars were 
 floating, like white lillies, on the sur- 
 face of a clear calm lake. Then he cast 
 them on the earth, where few more 
 hopeless beings than himself now moved 
 toward their certain goal — the tomb. 
 
 Already he had passed sixty of 
 the stages which lead to it, and he had 
 brought from his journey nothing but 
 errors and remorse. His health was 
 destroyed, his mind vacant, his heart 
 
 sorrowful, and his old age devoid of 
 comfort. 
 
 3. The days of his youth rose up in 
 a vision before him, and he recalled the 
 solemn moment when his father had 
 placed him at the entrance of two 
 roads.— one leading into a peaceful, 
 sunny land, covered with a fertile har- 
 vest, and resounding with soft sweet 
 songs; while the other conducted the 
 wanderer into a deep dark cave, whence 
 there was no issue, where poison flow- 
 ed instead of water, and where serpents 
 hissed and crawled. 
 
 4. He looked toward the sky, and 
 cried out in his agony: "O youth, re- 
 turn! O my father, place me once 
 more at the entrance to life, that I may 
 choose the better way!" But the days 
 of his youth and his father had both 
 passed away. 
 
 5. He saw wandering lights floating 
 away over dark marshes, and then dis- 
 appear. These were the days of his. 
 wasted life. He saw a star fall from 
 heaven, and vanish in darkness. This 
 was an emblem of himself; and the 
 sharp arrows of unavailing remorse 
 struck home to his heart. Then he re- 
 membered his early companions who 
 entered on life with him, but who hav- 
 ing trod the paths of virtue and of la- 
 bor, were now honored aud happy on 
 this New Year's night. 
 
 6. The clock, in the high church 
 tower, struck, and the sound, falling 
 on his ear, recalled his parents early 
 love for him, their erring son; the les- 
 sous they taught him; the prayers they 
 had offered up in his behalf. Over- 
 whelmed with shame aud grief he dar- 
 ed no longer look toward that heaven 
 where his father dwelt; his darkened 
 
 dropped tears, and with one de- 
 sparing effort,, he cried aloud: "Come 
 back, my early days! come back!" 
 
 7. And his youth did return; fur all 
 this was but a dream which visited his 
 slumbers on New- Year's night. He 
 was still young; his faults alone were 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 i5 
 
 real. Be thanked God fervently, that 
 time was still his own; that he had not 
 yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but 
 that he was free to tread the road lead- 
 ing to the peaceful land, where; sunny 
 harvests wave. 
 
 8. Ye who still linger on t lie thres- 
 hold of life, doubting which path to 
 choose, remember that, when years are 
 passed, and your feet stumble on the 
 dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, 
 but cry in vain : "O youth, return! 
 
 O GIVE ME BACK MY EARLY DAYS!" 
 
 The Fireman's Prayer. 
 
 IUSSELL A. CONWELL. 
 
 It was in the gray of the early morn- 
 ing, in the season of Lent. Broad 
 (street, from Fort Hill to State street, 
 was crowded with hastening worship- 
 ers, attendants on early mass. Maid- 
 ens, matrons, boys and men jostled and 
 hurried on toward the churches: some 
 with countenances sincerely sad, others 
 with apparent attempts to appear in ac- 
 cord with the sombre season; while 
 many thoughtless and careless ones 
 joked and chatted, laughed and scuffled 
 along in the hurrying multitude. Sud- 
 denly a passer by noticed tiny wreaths 
 and purl's of smoke starting from the 
 shingles of a large warehouse. The great 
 structure stood upon the corner, silent, 
 bolted, and tenantless; and all the win- 
 dows, save a small round light in the 
 upper story, were closely and securely 
 covered with heavy shutters. Scarcely- 
 had the smoke been seen by one, when 
 others of the crowd looked up in the 
 same direction, and detected the unus- 
 ual occurrence. Then others joined 
 them, and still others followed, until a 
 swelling multitude gazed upward to 
 the roof over which the smoke soon 
 hung like a fog; while from eaves and 
 shutters of the upper story little jets of 
 black smoke burst suddenly out into 
 the clear morning air. Then came a 
 Hash, like tlie lightning's glare, through 
 
 the frame of the little gable window, 
 and then another, brighter, ghastlier, 
 and more prolonged. "Fire:" "Fire!" 
 screamed the throng, as, moved by a 
 single impulse^ they pointed with ex- 
 cited gestures towards the window. 
 Quicker than tin; time it takes to tell, 
 the cry reached the corner, and was 
 Hashed on messenger wires to tower 
 and steeple, engine and hose-house, 
 over the then half-sleeping city, Great 
 bells with ponderous tongues repeated 
 the cry with logy strokes, little bells 
 with sharp and spiteful clicks recited 
 the news; while half conscious firemen, 
 watching through the long night, leap- 
 ed upon engines and hose carriages, 
 and rattled into the street. 
 
 Soon the roof of the burning ware- 
 house was drenched with floods of 
 water, poured upon it from the hose of 
 many engines; while the surging multi- 
 tude in Broad street had grown to 
 thousands of excited spectators. The 
 engines puffed and hooted, the hoo k- 
 and-ladder boys clambered upon roof 
 and cornice, shattered the shutters and 
 burst in the doors, making way for the 
 rescuer of merchandise, and for the 
 surging nozzles of available hose-pipes. 
 But the wooden structure was a seeth- 
 ing furnace throughout all its upper 
 portions; while the water and ventila- 
 tion seemed only to increase its power 
 and fury. 
 
 "Come down! £.'ome down! Off 
 that roof! Come out of that building!" 
 shouted an excited man in the crowd, 
 struggling with all his power in the 
 meshes of the solid mass of mei., women 
 and children in the strret. •'Come 
 down For God's sake come down! The 
 rear store is filled with gunpowder!" 
 
 "Powder! Powder!" screamed the en- 
 gineer through ids trumpet. "Powder" 
 shouted the hosemen. "Powder!" call- 
 ed the brave boys on roof ami cornice. 
 "Powder" answered the trumpet of the 
 chief. "Powder!" "Powder!" ' Pow- 
 der! 1 ' echoed the men in the burning 
 
i6 
 
 Olmsteda's Recitations. 
 
 pile; and from ladder, casement, win- 
 dow, roof, and cornice, leaped terrified 
 firemen with pale faces and terror- 
 stricken limbs. 
 
 'Tush back the croud:" shouted the 
 engineer. "Run for your lives! Run! 
 Run! Run!" roared the trumpets. 
 
 But alas! the crowd was dense, and 
 spread so far through cross streets and 
 alleys, that away on the outskirts, 
 through the shouts of men, the whist- 
 ling of the engines, and the roar of the 
 heaven-piercing flames, the orders could 
 not be heard. The frantic beings in 
 front, understanding the danger, press- 
 ed wildly back. The firemen pushed 
 their engines and their carriages against 
 the breasts of the crowd but the throng 
 moved not. So densely packed was 
 the street and square, and so various 
 and deafening the noises, that the army 
 of excited spectators in the rear still 
 pressed forward with irresistible force, 
 unconscious of danger, and regarding 
 any out cry as a mere ruse to disperse 
 them for convenience' sake. The great 
 mass swayed and heaved like the waves 
 of the sea; but beyond the terrible surg- 
 ing of those in front, whose heart-rend- 
 ing screams half drowned the whistles, 
 there was no sign of retreat. As far as 
 one could see, the streets were crowded 
 with living human flesh and blood. 
 
 "My God! My God!" said the en- 
 gineer in despair. What can be done? 
 Lord have mercy on us all What can 
 be done:'" 
 
 'What can be done? I'll tell you 
 what can be done," said one of Boston's 
 firemen, whose hair was not yet sprinkl- 
 ed with gray. Yes, bring out that pow- 
 der! And I'm the man to do it. Better 
 one man perish than perish all. Follow 
 me with the water, and, if God lets me 
 live long enough, I'll have it out." 
 
 Perhaps, as the hero rushed into the 
 burning pile, into a darkness of smoke 
 and a withering heat, he thought of the 
 wife and children at home, of the 
 cheeks he had kissed in the evening, of 
 
 the cheerful good-by of the prattling 
 ones, and the laugh as he gave the "last 
 tag;" for as he rushed from the hose- 
 man who tied the handkerchief over his 
 mouth, he muttered, "God care for my 
 little ones when I am gone." Away up 
 through smoke and flames and cloud to 
 the heights of Heaven's throne, ascend- 
 ed that prayer, "God care for my little 
 ones when I am gone." and the mighty 
 Father and the loving Son heard the 
 fireman's petition. 
 
 Into the flame of the rear store rush- 
 ed the hero, and gropiug to the barrels, 
 rolled them speedily into the alley, 
 where surged the stream from the en- 
 gines; rushiug back and forth with 
 power superhuman, in the deepest 
 smoke, when even the hoops that bound 
 the powder-barrels had already parted 
 with fire, while deadly harpoons loaded 
 to pierce the whales of the Arctic s^as 
 began to explode, and while iron darts 
 flashed by him in all directions, pene- 
 trating the walls and piercing the ad- 
 jacent buildings. But as if his heroic 
 soul was armor-proof, or a charm 
 impenetrable, neither harpoon nor 
 bomb, crumbling timbers nor showers 
 of naming brands, did him aught of in- 
 jnry, beyond the scorching of his hair 
 and eye brows, and the blistering of his 
 hands and face. 'Twas a heroic deed. 
 Did ever field of battle, wreck, or mar- 
 t}-dom, show a braver? No act in all 
 list of song and story, no self-sacrifice 
 in the history of the rise and fall of em- 
 pires, was nobler than that, save one, 
 and then the Son of God himself hung 
 bleeding on the cross. 
 
 The Ambitious Youth- 
 Elihu Burritt. 
 The scene opens with a \ iew of the 
 great Natural Bridge in Virginia. 
 There are three or four lads standing 
 in the channel below, looking up with 
 awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks, 
 which the Almighty bridged over those 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 17 
 
 everlasting abutments "when the morn- 
 ing stars sung together." The little 
 piece of sky spanning those measure- 
 less piers is full of stars, a!t hough it is 
 mid-day. 
 
 It is almost five hundred feet from 
 Where they Stand, up those perpendicu- 
 lar bulwarks of limestone, to the key- 
 rock of that vast arch, which appears 
 to them only the size of a man's 
 hand. The silence of death is rendered 
 more impressive by the little stream 
 that falls from rock to rock down the 
 channel. The sun is darkened, and the 
 boys have unconsciously uncovered 
 their heads, as if standing in the pres- 
 ence-chamber of the Majesty of the 
 Whole earth. 
 
 At last this feeling begins to wear 
 •away; they begin to look around them; 
 they find that others have been there 
 before them. They see the names of hun- 
 dreds cut in the limestone abutments. 
 A new feeling comes over their young 
 hearts, and their knives are in their 
 hands in an instant. "What man has 
 done, man can do," is their watchword, 
 while they draw themselves Up, and 
 carve their names a foot above those of 
 a hundred full-grown men who have 
 been there before them. 
 
 They are all satisfied with this feat of 
 physical exertion, except one, whose 
 example illustrates perfectly the forgot- 
 ten truth. that there is no royal road to 
 intellectual eminence. This ambitious 
 youth sees a name just above his reach 
 — a name that will be green in the 
 memory of the world, when those of 
 Alexander, Ca'sar and Bonaparte shall 
 be lost in oblivion. It is the name of 
 Washington. 
 
 Before he marched with Braddock to 
 that fatal field, he had been there, and 
 left his name above all his predecessors. 
 It was a glorious thought of the boy, to 
 Write his name side by side with that 
 of the great father of his country. He 
 grasped his knife with a firmer hand, 
 and clinging to a little jutting crag, he 
 
 cuts a gain into the limestone, about a 
 foot above where he stands; he then 
 reaches up and cuts another lor his 
 hands. 
 
 Tis a dangerous adventure: but as he 
 puts his feci and hands into those gains, 
 and draws himself up carefully to his 
 full length, he finds himself a foot above 
 every name chronicled in that mighty 
 wall. While his companions are re- 
 garding him with concern and admira- 
 tion, he cuts his name in rude capitals, 
 large and deep in that flinty album. 
 
 His knife is still in his hand, and 
 strength in his sinews, and a new 
 created aspiration in his heart. Again 
 he cuts another niche, and again he 
 carves Ids name in larger capitals. 
 This is not enough. Heedless of the 
 entreaties of his companions, he cuts 
 and climbs again. The gradations of 
 his ascending scale grow wider apart. 
 He measures his length at every gain he 
 cuts. The voices of his friends wax 
 weaker and weaker, till their words are 
 finally lost on his ear. 
 
 He now for the first time, cast a look 
 beneath him. Had that glance lasted a 
 moment, that moment would have 
 been his last He clings with a con- 
 vulsive shudder to his little niche in the 
 rock. An awful abyss awaits his al- 
 most certain fall. He is faint with 
 severe exertion, and trembling from 
 the sudden view of the dreadful de- 
 struction to which he is exposed. His 
 kuife is worn half way to the haft. 
 He can hear the voices, but not the 
 words of his terror-stricken companions 
 below. What a moment! W 7 hat a 
 meagre chance to escape destruction! 
 There is no retracing his steps. It is 
 impossible to put his hand into the 
 same niche with his feet, and retain his 
 slender hold a moment. 
 
 His companions instantly perceive 
 this new and fearful dilemma, and 
 await his fall with emotions that "freeze 
 their young blood." He is too high, 
 to faint, to ask for his lather and moth- 
 
[8 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 er, and brothers and sisters, to come 
 and witness or avert his destruction. 
 But one of his companions anticipates 
 
 his desire. Swift as the wind, he 
 hounds down the channel, and the 
 situation of the fated boy is told upon 
 his father's hearth-stone. 
 
 Minutes of almost eternal length roll 
 on, and there are hundreds standing in 
 that rocky ehaunel, and hundreds on 
 the bridge above. ail holding their breath, 
 and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. 
 The poor boy hears the hum of new 
 and numerous voices both above and 
 below. He can distinguish the tones of 
 his father, who is shouting, with all the 
 energy of despair, "William! William! 
 don't look down! Your mother, and 
 Henry, and Harriet, are all here, pray- 
 ing for you! Don't look down! Keep 
 your eye towards the top!" 
 
 The boy did not look down. His eye 
 is fixed like a flint towards heaven, and 
 his young heart on Him who reigns 
 there. He grasps again his knife. He 
 cuts another niche, and another 
 foot is added to the hundreds that re- 
 move him from the reach of human 
 help from below. How earefully he 
 uses his wasting blade! How anxiously 
 he seleets the softest places in that vast 
 pier! How he avoids every flinty grain. 
 How he economizes his physical pow- 
 ers, resting a moment at each gain he 
 cuts! How every motion is watched 
 from below! There stands his father, 
 mother brother, and sister, on the 
 very spot, where, if he falls, he will not 
 fall alone. 
 
 The sun is half way down the west. 
 The lad has made fifty additional niches 
 in that mighty wall, and now finds 
 himself directly under the middle of 
 that vast arch of rocks, earth and trees. 
 He must cut his way in a new direction, 
 to get from under the overhanging 
 mountain. The inspiration of hope is 
 dying in his bosom; its vital heat is fed 
 by the increasing shouts of hundreds, 
 perched upon cliffs and trees and 
 
 others who stand with ropes in their 
 hands on the bridge above, or with lad- 
 ders below. 
 
 Fifty more gains must be cut before 
 the longest rope can reach him. His 
 wasting blade strikes again into the 
 limestone. The boy is emerging pain- 
 fully, foot by foot, from under that 
 lofty arch. Spliced ropes are ready in 
 the hands of those who are leaning over 
 the outer edge of the bridge. Two min- 
 utes more and all must be over. The 
 blade is worn to the last half inch. 
 The boys head reels; his eyes are start- 
 ing from their sockets. His last hope 
 is dviug in his heart; his life must hang 
 on the next gain he cuts. That niche is 
 his last. 
 
 At the last faint gash he makes, his 
 knife — his faithful knife — falls from his 
 little nerveless hand, and ringing along 
 the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. 
 An involuntary groan of despair runs 
 like a death-knell through the channel 
 below, and all is still as the grave. At 
 the height of nearly three hundred feet, 
 the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart 
 and closes his eyes to commend his soul 
 to God. 
 
 Tis but a moment — there! one foot 
 swings off — he is reeling — trembling — 
 toppling over into eternity! Hark! a 
 shout falls on his ear from above! The 
 man who is lying with half his length 
 over the bridge, has caught a glimpse 
 of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick 
 as thought the noosed rope is within 
 reach of the sinking youth. No one 
 breathes. With a faint convulsive ef- 
 fort, the swooning boy drops his arms 
 into the noose. Darkness comes over 
 him, and with the words "God-Mother v 
 — whispered on his lips just loud enough 
 to be heard in heaven — the tightening 
 rope lifts him out of his last shallow 
 niche. Not a lip moves while he is 
 dangling over that fearful abyss; but 
 when a sturdy Virginian reaehe: down 
 and draws up the lad, and holds him up 
 in his arms before the tearful, breath- 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 19 
 
 less multitude, such shouting — such 
 leaping and weeping for joy — never 
 greeted the ear of human being so re- 
 covered from the yawning gulf of 
 eternity. 
 
 Regulus to the Carthaginians. 
 
 E. Kellogg. 
 
 The beams of the rising sun had gild- 
 ed the lofty summits of Carthage, and 
 given, with its rich and mellow tinge of 
 beauty even to the frowning ramparts 
 of the outer harbor. Sheltered by the 
 verdant shores, an hundred triremes 
 were riding proudly at their ancnors, 
 their brazen beaks glittering in the sun, 
 their streamers dancing iu the morning 
 breeze, while many a shattered plank 
 and timber gave evidence of desperate 
 conflict with the fleets of Rome. 
 
 No murmur of business or of revelry 
 arose from the city. The artisan had 
 forsaken his shop, the judge his 
 tribunal, the priest the sanctuary, and 
 even the stern stoic had come forth 
 from his retirement to mingle with the 
 crowd that, anxious and agitated, were 
 rushing towards the senate-house, 
 startled by the report that Regulus had 
 returned to Carthage. 
 
 Onward, still onward, (trampling each 
 other under foot,) they rushed, furious 
 with anger and eager for revenge. Fa- 
 thers were there, whose sons were 
 groaning in fetters; maidens, whose 
 lovers, weak and wounded were dyiug 
 in the dungeons of Rome, and gray- 
 haired men and matrons, whom the 
 Roman sword had left childless. 
 
 But when the stern features of Regu- 
 lus were seen, and his colossal form 
 towering above the ambassadors who 
 hart returned with him from Rome; 
 when the news passed from lip to lip 
 that the dreaded warrior, so far from 
 advising the Roman senate to consent 
 to an exchange of prisoners, had urged 
 them to pursue, with exterminating 
 
 vengeance, Carthage and Carthaginians, 
 
 — the multitude swayed to a id fro like 
 a forest beneath a tempest, and the 
 rage and hate of that tumultous throng 
 vented itself in groans, and curses, and 
 yells of vengeance, But calm, cold and 
 immovable as the marble walls around 
 him, stood the Roman; and he stretch- 
 ed out his hand over that frenzied 
 crowd, with gesture as proudly com- 
 manding as though he still stood at the 
 head of the gleaming cohorts of Rome. 
 
 The tumult ceased; the curse, half 
 muttered, died upon the lip; and so 
 intense w T as the silence, that the clank- 
 ing of the brazen manacles upon the 
 wrists of the captive fell sharp and full 
 upon every ear in that vast assembly, 
 as he thus addressed them: — 
 
 "Ye doubtless thought — for ye judge 
 of Roman virture by your own — that 
 I would break my plighted oath, rather 
 than, returning, brook your vengeance. 
 I might give reason for this, in Punic 
 comprehension, most foolish act of 
 mine. I might speak of those eternal 
 principles which make death for one's 
 country a pleasure, not a pain. But, 
 by great Jupiter! methinksl should de- 
 base myself to talk of such high things 
 to you; to you, expert in womanly in- 
 ventions; fo you well-skilled to drive a 
 treacherous trade with simple Africans 
 for ivory and gold! If the bright blood 
 that fills my veins, transmitted free 
 from godlike ancestry, were like that 
 slimy ooze which stagnates in your 
 arteries, I had remained at home, and 
 broke my plighted oath to save my life. 
 "I am a Roman citizen; therefore 
 have I returned, that ye might work 
 your will upon this mass of flesh and 
 bones, that I esteem no higher than the 
 rags that cover them. Here, in your 
 capital, do I defy you. Have I not 
 conquered your armies, tired your 
 towns, • and dragged your generals at 
 my chariot wheels, since first my youth- 
 ful arms could wield a spear? And do 
 you think to see me crouch and cower 
 
20 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 before a tamed and shattered senate? 
 The tearing of flesh and rending of 
 
 sinews is but pastime compared with 
 the mental agony that heaves my frame. 
 
 "The moon has searce yet waned 
 since the proudest of Rome's proud 
 matrons, the mother upon whose breast 
 I slept, and whose fair brow so oft had 
 bent over me before the noise of battle 
 had stirred my blood, or the tieree toil of 
 war nerved my sinews, did with fond- 
 est memory of bygone hours entreat 
 me to remain. I have seen her, who, 
 when my country called me to the field 
 did buckle on my harness with tremb- 
 ling hands, while the tears fell thick 
 and fast down the hard corselet scales, 
 — I have seen her tear her gray locks 
 and beat her aged breast, as on her 
 knees she begged me not to return to 
 Carthage; and all the assembled senate 
 of Rome, grave and reverend men, 
 proffered the same request. The puny 
 torments which ye have in store for to 
 welcome me withal, shall be, to what I 
 have endured, even as the murmur of a 
 summer's brook to the fierce roar of 
 angry surges on a rocky beach. 
 
 "Last night, as I lay fettered in my 
 dungeon, I heard a strange ominous 
 sound, it seemed like the distant march 
 of some vast army, their harness clang- 
 ing as they marched, when suddenly 
 there stood by me Xanthippus, the 
 Spartan general, by whose' aid you 
 conquered me, and, with a voice low 
 as when the solemn wind moans through 
 the leafless forest, he thus addressed 
 me: ' Roman, I come to bid thee curse, 
 with thy dying breath this, fated 
 city; know that in an evil moment, the 
 Carthaginians generals, f rious with 
 rage that I had conquered thee, their 
 conqueror, did basely murder me. 
 And then they thought to stain my 
 brightest honor. But for this foul deed, 
 the wrath of Jove shall rest upon them 
 here and hereafter.' And then he 
 vanished. 
 
 " And now, go bring your sharpest 
 
 torments. The woes I see impending 
 over this guilty realm shall be enough 
 to sweeten death, though every nerve 
 and artery were a shooting pang. I 
 die! but my death shall prove a proud 
 triumph; and, for every drop of blood 
 ye from my veins do draw, your own 
 shall liow in rivers. Woe to thee, Car- 
 thage! Woe to the proud city of the 
 waters! I see thy nobles wailing at the 
 feet of Roman senators! thy citizens 
 in terror! thy ships in flames I hear 
 the victorious shouts of R me! I see 
 her eagles glittering on thy ramparts. 
 Proud city thou art doomed! The 
 curse of God is on thet — a clinging, 
 wasting curse. It shall not leave thy 
 gates till hungry flames shall lick the 
 fretted gold from off thy proud palaces, 
 and every brook runs crimson to the 
 sea." 
 
 At the Tomb of Grant. 
 
 The following is the closing portion 
 of the eloquent address of Hon. John 
 S. Wise of Virginia, at Riverside Park, 
 by the tomb of Grant, Memorial Da}': 
 
 "And this, my brethren of the North 
 and South, is the vision which I saw of 
 late. 
 
 Through the open portals of the 
 Great Beyond I saw the boundless 
 plains of Walhalls— where, far as the 
 eye could reach, were spread the snowy 
 tents of Ghostly Legions ranged be- 
 neath the banner of Eternal Peace. 
 
 I heard the booming of Heaven's Ar- 
 tillery, the strains of Celestial Bands, 
 and the hoarse roar of shouting thous- 
 ands. 
 
 Here and there, out of the hurrying 
 hosts stood out the faces of the Long 
 Ago, young and fresh, as we kuew them 
 when they volunteered, the scars all 
 gone — the blood stains washed away. 
 
 Now and again, came forth clarion 
 voices of command; voices silent since 
 we heard them in the beleaguered line 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 21 
 
 of Petersburg, or in the blood angle of 
 Spottsylvania; voices which startle the 
 doting memory, and make the old heart 
 leap, if but for one throb, with the 
 pulse of a long dead youth. 
 
 I saw and heard them all. Just as 
 we knew them. Your brothers and 
 ours. Your old General ami ours. No 
 longer arrayed in opposing ranks, but 
 side by side, as brethren. 
 
 Once again I heard the steady tramp 
 and saw the wheel and flash of march- 
 ing thousands, at a grand review. 
 
 On a sunny slope, in a most pellucid 
 air beneath a streaming standard fan- 
 ned by supernal breezes, I saw the 
 tield and staff of the Army of Peace. 
 
 There sat Grant on Egypt, and by 
 his side was Lee on Traveler, the same 
 Grant and Lee we knew of old, save 
 that the lines of strife and care were 
 smoothed away. — Clustered around 
 them in fraternal groups, were all our 
 early loved and lost. 
 
 There were Sedgwick and Key u olds, 
 and Wadsworth — Albert Sidney Johns- 
 ton, Stonewall Jackson and Pat Cle- 
 burne. 
 
 There were McPerson and Phil Kear- 
 ney. There were Garnet and Armi- 
 stead with their Gettysburg smile — 
 there were the Pegrams, standing near 
 to Meade. 
 
 Hancock and Brekenridge were side 
 by side — Bragg and McClellan — Thom- 
 as and Hood — Stuart and Sheridan. 
 Thus w as the hillside thronged. Thus 
 were they mingling in indiscriminate 
 fraternity. 
 
 From the Willowy Ferry, where the 
 river of time is crossed, where, so long 
 ago, Stonewall Jackson crossed over 
 and rested beneath the shadow of the 
 trees, I saw an escort advancing — up 
 the lines it came, surrounding two aged 
 warriors, walking arm inarm. From 
 right to left, swelling and rolling and 
 dying away along the lines, with the 
 thrill of the olden days came the wild 
 cheering, as Sherman and Johnson pass- 
 ed on to rejoin their long lost hosts. 
 
 Then there was massing of men, and 
 bushed expectant stilness, as the Great 
 
 Silent spoke — thus: 
 
 ' Soldiers of the army of the Hero Dead. 
 This day let all rejoice. 
 
 "By the clearer light of truth and 
 
 broader view which we possess, we have; 
 been brethren, since; long ago in the 
 Land of Eternal Peace. 
 
 Yet hath our happiness been ever 
 tempered by regret at thought of our 
 earthly brethren — still divided in fra- 
 tercidal strife. 
 
 This day dispells that gloom. 
 
 Arm in arm; no longer foes, but 
 brethren in a reunited land; Sherman 
 and Johnson this day rejoin us, with 
 these glad tidings of great joy, more 
 prized by us than any earthly treasure. 
 
 It was I who first proclaimed it. 
 
 It was Lee who counselled it 
 
 It is the morning and the evening 
 prayer in the camp of the hero dead. 
 
 "Let us have peace." 
 
 At last the boon is granted to our 
 brethren in the land for which we died." 
 
 As joy unutterable lit the countenan 
 ces of the throng— as the heavens were 
 shaken with thundering salvos mingled 
 with mighty cheering — the vision pass- 
 ed away. 
 
 I awoke au old man on, the spot 
 where I had been young, alone on the 
 highway which had been thronged— yet 
 filled with the joy of that vision, and 
 the task of its euterpretation. 
 
 May it linger with the old soldiers of 
 the North and South till they realize its 
 full significance. 
 
 May its contemplation till their hearts 
 with Hope, Faith and Charity: ''and the 
 greatest of these is Charity." • 
 
 The Little Match-Girl. 
 
 Hans Christian Anderson. 
 
 It was very cold, the snow fell, and it 
 was almost quite dark; for it was eve- 
 ning—yes, the last evening of the year. 
 
22 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Amid the cold and the darkness, a poor 
 little girl, with bare head and naked 
 feet, was roaming through the streets. 
 It is true she had a pair of slippers 
 when she left home, but they were not 
 of much use. They were very large 
 slippers; so large, indeed, that they had 
 hitherto been used by her mother; be- 
 sides, the little creature lost them as 
 she hurried across the street, to avoid 
 two carriages that were driving very 
 quickly past. One of the slippers was 
 not to be found, and the other was 
 pounced upon by a boy who ran away 
 with it saying that it would serve for a 
 cradle when he should have children of 
 his own. So the little girl went along, 
 with her little bare feet that were red 
 and blue with cold. She carried a 
 number of matches in an old apron, 
 and she held a bundle of them in her 
 hand. Nobody had bought anything 
 from her the whole livelong day; no- 
 body had even given her a penny. 
 
 Shivering with cold and hunger, she 
 crept along, a perfect picture of misery 
 — poor little thing! The snow-flakes 
 covered her long flaxen hair, which 
 hung in pretty curls round her throat; 
 but she heeded them not now. Lights 
 were- streaming from all the windows, 
 and there was a savory j-mell of roast 
 goose; for it was New Year's Eve. And 
 this she did heed. 
 
 She now sat down, cowering in a 
 corner formed by two houses, one of 
 which projected beyoud the other. She 
 had drawn her little feet under her, but 
 she felt colder than ever; yet she dared 
 not return home, for she had not sold a 
 match, and could not bring home a 
 peony! She would certainly be beaten 
 by her father; and it was cold enough 
 at home, besides — for they had only the 
 roof above them, and the wind came 
 howling through it, though the largest 
 holes had been stopped with straw and 
 rags. Her little hands were nearly 
 frozen with cold. Alas! a single match 
 might do her some good, if she might 
 
 only draw one out of the bundle, and 
 rub it against the wall, and warm her 
 fingers. 
 
 So at last she drew one out. Ah! 
 how it sheds sparks, and how it burns! 
 It gave out a warm, bright flame, like a 
 little candle, as she held her hands over 
 it, — truly it was a wonderful little light! 
 It really seemed to the little girl as if 
 she were sitting before a large iron 
 stove, with polished brass feet, and 
 brass shovel and tongs. The tire burn- 
 ed so brightly, and warmed so nicely, 
 that the little creature stretched out her 
 feet to warm them likewise, when lo! 
 the flame expired, the stove vanished, 
 and left nothing but the little half- 
 burned match in her hand. 
 
 She rubbed another match against 
 the wall. It gave a light, and Avhere it 
 shone upon the wall, the latter became 
 as transparent as a veil, and she could 
 see into the room. A snow-white table 
 cloth was spread upon the table, on 
 which stood a splendid china dinner 
 service, while roast goose stuffed with 
 apples and prunes, sent forth the most 
 savor}^ fumes. And what was more de- 
 lightful still to see, the goose jumped 
 down from the dish, and waddled along 
 the ground with a knife and fork in its 
 breast, up to the poor girl. The match 
 then went out, aud nothing remained 
 but the thick, damp wall. 
 
 She lit yet another match. She now 
 sat under the most magnificent Christ- 
 mas tree, that was larger, and more 
 superbly decked, th?,n even the one she 
 had seen through the glass door at the 
 rich merchant's. A thousand tapers 
 burned on its green branches, and gay 
 pictures, such as one sees on shields, 
 seemed to be looking down upon her. 
 She stretched out her hands, but the 
 match then went out. The Christmas 
 lights kept rising higher and higher. 
 They now looked like stars in the sky. 
 One of them fell down, and left a 
 long streak of fire. "Somebody is now 
 dying," thought the little girl, — for her 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 23 
 
 old grandmother, the only person who 
 had ever loved her, and who was now 
 dead, had told her, that when a star 
 falls, it is a sign thai a soul is going up 
 to heaven. 
 
 She again rubbed a match upon the 
 wall, and it was again light all round; 
 and in the brightness stood her old 
 grandmother, clear and shining like a 
 spirit, yet looking so mild and loving. 
 "Grandmother," cried the little one, 
 oh, take me with yon! I know yon will 
 go away when the match goes out,— 
 yon will vanish like the warm stove, 
 and the delieions roast goose, and the 
 fine, large Christmas tree'." And she 
 made haste to nib the whole bundle of 
 matches, for she wished to hold her 
 grandmother fast. And the matches 
 gave a light that was brighter than 
 noonday. Her grandmother had never 
 appeared so beautiful and so large. She 
 took the little girl in her arms, and both 
 flew upwards, all radiant and joyful, 
 far, far above mortal ken, where there 
 was neither cold, nor hunger, nor care 
 to be found; where there was no rain 
 no snow, or stormy wind, but calm 
 sunny days the whole year round. 
 
 But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl 
 might be seen leaning against the wall, 
 with red cheeks and smiling month; 
 she had been frozen on the last night of 
 the old year. The new year's sun shone 
 upon the little dead girl. She sat still 
 holding the matches, one bundle of 
 which was burned. People said: "She 
 tried to warm herself." Nobody 
 
 dreamed of the tine things she had 
 seen, nor in what splendor she had en- 
 tered, along with her grandmother, up- 
 on the joys of the New Year. 
 
 Siarticus to the Gladiators. 
 
 Ye call me chief; and ye do well to 
 call him chief, who, for twelve long 
 years has met upon the arena, every 
 
 shape of man or beast the broad empire 
 of Rome could furnish, and who never 
 yet lowered his arm. If there be one 
 among you who can say that, ever in 
 public fight or private brawl, my act- 
 ions did belie my tongue, let him stand 
 forth and say it. If there be three in all 
 your company dare face me on the 
 bloody sands, let them come on, and 
 yet 1 was not always thus— a hired 
 butcher, a savage chief of still more 
 savage men ! 
 
 My ancestors came from old Sparta, 
 and settled among the vine-clad rocks 
 and citron-groves of Cyrasella, my ear- 
 ly life ran quiet as the brooks by which 
 I sported; and when at noon I gathered 
 the sheep beneath the shade, and played 
 upon the shepherd flute, there was a 
 friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me 
 in the pastime, we led our flocks to the 
 same pasture, and partook together our 
 rustic meal. One evening alter the 
 sheep were folded, and we were all 
 seated beneath the myrtle which shad- 
 ed our cottage, my grandsire, an old 
 man, was telling of Marathon and 
 Leuctra; and how, in ancient times a 
 little band of Spartans, in a defile of 
 the mountains, had withstood a whole 
 army. 
 
 I did not know then what war was. 
 but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, 
 and I clasped the knees of that venera- 
 ble man, until my mother, parting the 
 hair from off my forehead, 
 kissed my throbbing temples and bade 
 me go to rest, ancl think no more of 
 those old tales and savage wars. That 
 very night the Romans landed on our 
 coast. I saw the breast that had nour- 
 ished me trampled beneath the hoofs of 
 the war- horse; the bleeding body of my 
 father flung amid the blazing rafters of 
 our dwelling! To-day I killed a man 
 in the arena; and when I broke his 
 helmet-clasps behold! he was my friend. 
 He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, 
 and died— the same sweet smile upon 
 his lips that I had marked when, in ad- 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 venturous boj-hood, we scaled the lofty 
 cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, 
 and bear them home in childish tri- 
 umph. I told the praetor that the dead 
 man had been my friend, generous and 
 brave, and I begged that I might bear 
 away the body, burn it on a funeral 
 pile, and mourn over its ashes, ay, up- 
 on my knees, amid the dust and blood 
 of the arena, I begged that poor boon, 
 while all the assembled maids and mat- 
 rons, and the holy virgin they call ves- 
 tals, and the rabble shouted in derision, 
 deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see 
 Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale ami 
 tremble at sight of that piece of bleed- 
 ing clay, and the praetor drew back as 
 I were pollution, and sternly said, 'Met 
 the carrion rot; there are no noble men 
 but Romans!" and so fellow-gladitors, 
 must you and so must I die like dogs. 
 O Rome! Rome! thou hast been a 
 tender nurse to me, ay thou hast given 
 to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd 
 lad, who never knew a harsher tone than 
 a flute note, muscles of iron and a heart 
 of flint; taught him to drive the sword 
 through plated mail and links of rug- 
 ged brass, and warm it in the marrow 
 of his foe; to gaze into the glaring eye- 
 balls of the fierce Mumidian lion, even 
 as a boy upon a laughing girl; and he 
 shall pay thee back, until the yellow 
 Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its 
 deepest ooze life blood lies curdled! Ye 
 stand there now like frowning giants, as 
 ye are, the strength of brass is in your 
 toughened sinews; but to-morrow, 
 some Roman Adonis breathing sweet 
 perfume from his curly locks, shall, 
 with his lily fingers, pat your red brawn, 
 and bet his sesterces upon your blood. 
 Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his 
 den? Tis three days since he tasted 
 flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his 
 fast upon yours, and a dainty meal for 
 him ye will be. If ye are beasts, then 
 stand there like fat oxen, waiting for 
 the butcher's knife If ye are men — 
 follow me! strike down your guard, 
 
 gain the mountain passes, and there do 
 bloody work, as did your sires in old 
 Thermop-ylae! Is Sparta dead? Is. 
 the old Grecian spirit frozen in your 
 veins, that you do crouch and cower 
 like a belabored hound beneath his. 
 master's lash? O comrads! Warriors!: 
 Tharacians! If we must fight, let us 
 fight for ourselves! If we must slaugh- 
 ter, let us slaughter our oppressors! If 
 we must die, let it be under the clear 
 sky, by the bright waters, in noble, 
 honorable battle! 
 
 E. Kellogg, 
 
 The Survivors of the Battle of Bunker Hill s 
 
 Venerable men, you have come down 
 to us from a former generation. Heav-. 
 en has bountiously lengthened out your 
 lives, that you might behold this joyous, 
 day, you are now where you stood fifty- 
 years ago, this very hour, with your 
 brethren and your neighbors, shoulder 
 to shoulder, in the strife of your coun- 
 try, 
 
 Behold hew altered! the same heav-. 
 ens are, indeed, over your heads; the 
 same ocean rolls at your feet; but all 
 else, how changed! You hear now no 
 roar of hostile cannon; you sec no mix- 
 ed volumes of smoke and flame rising- 
 from burning Charleston The ground 
 strewed with the dead and dying; the 
 impetuous charge; the steady and suc- 
 cessful repulse; the loud calls to repeat 
 assaults; the summoning of all that is 
 manly to repeated resistance; a thousand, 
 bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in 
 an instant to whatever terror there may 
 be in war and death — all these j'ou have 
 witnessed, but you witness them no. 
 more. All is peace, the heights of yon- 
 der metropolis, its towers and roofs, 
 which you then saw tilled with wives 
 and children, and countrymen, in dis- 
 tress and terror, and looking with un- 
 utterable emotion for the issue of the. 
 combat, have presented you to-day with. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 25 
 
 the sight of its whole happy population, 
 conic out to welcome and greet you 
 with a universal jubilee. Yonder 
 proud ships, by a felicity of position ap- 
 propriately lying at the foot of this 
 mount, and seeming fondly to cling 
 around it, are not means of annoyance 
 to you, but your country's own means 
 of distinction and defense. 
 
 All is peace; and God has granted 
 you this sight of your country's happi- 
 ness ere you slumber in the grave for- 
 ever. He has allowed you to behold 
 and partake of your patriotic toils; and 
 He has allowed us, your sons and 
 countrynam, to meet you here, and, in 
 the name of your country, in the name 
 of liberty, to thank you. But, alas! 
 you aie not all here. Time and the 
 sword have thinned your ranks. Pres- 
 cott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Reede, 
 Pomeroy, Bridge — our eyes seek for you 
 in vain amidst this broken band; you 
 are gathered to your fathers and live 
 only to your country in her grateful 
 rememberance, and your own bright 
 example. But let us not too much 
 grieve that you have met the common 
 fate of men; you lived, at least, long, 
 enough to know that your work had 
 been nobly and successfully accomplish- 
 ed. You lived to see your country's in- 
 dependence established, and to sheathe 
 your swords from war. 
 
 On the light of liberty you saw arise 
 the light of peace, and the sky on which 
 you closed your eyes was cloudless. 
 But — ah!— him! The first great Martyr 
 in this great cause! Him, the prema- 
 ture victim of his own self-devoted 
 heart! Him, the head of our civil coun- 
 cils and the destined leader of our mili- 
 tary bands; whom nothing brought 
 thither but the unquenchable fire of his 
 own spirit; him, cut off by providence, 
 in the hour of overwhelming anxiety 
 and thick gloom; falling, ere he saw 
 the star of his country rise; pouring out 
 his generous blood, like water, before 
 he knew whether it would fertilize a 
 
 land of freedom or of bondage? How 
 shall I struggle with the emotions that 
 stitle the utterances of thy name; our 
 poor work may perish, but thine shall 
 endnre! This monument may moulder 
 away; the solid ground it rests upon 
 may sink down to a level with the sea; 
 but thy memory shall not fail! Where- 
 soever among men a heart shall be 
 found that beats to the transports of 
 patriotism and liberty, its aspirations 
 shall be to claim kindred with thy 
 spirit. 
 
 Daniel Webster. 
 
 The Veteran Soldiers. 
 
 The past as it were, rises before me 
 like a dream. Again we are in the 
 great struggle for national life. We 
 hear the sound of preparations -the 
 music of the boisterous drums — the sil- 
 ver voices of heroic bugles. We see 
 thousands of assemblages aud hear the 
 appeals or orators. We see the 
 pale cheeks of women and the flushed 
 faces of men; and in those assemblages 
 we see all the dead whose dust we have 
 covered with ilowers. We lose sight of 
 them no more. We are with them 
 when they enlist in the great army of 
 freedom. We see them part with those 
 they love. Some are walking for the 
 last time in quiet woody places with the 
 maidens they adore. We hear the 
 whisperings and the sweet vows of eter- 
 nal love, as they lingeringly part for- 
 ever. Others are bending over cradles, 
 kissing babes that are asleep. Some 
 are recisving the blessings of old men. 
 Some are parting with mothers who 
 hold them aud press them to their 
 hearts again and again, and say nothing; 
 and some are talking with wives, and 
 endeavoring with brave words spoken 
 in the old tones to drive away the fear- 
 ful fear. We see them part. We see 
 the wife standing in the door with the 
 babe in her arms — standing in the sun- 
 
20 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 light sobbing— at the turn of the road a 
 hand waves — she answers by holding 
 high in her loving hands the child. He 
 is gone, and forever! 
 
 We see them all as they march proud- 
 ly away under the Uauntiug flags, keep- 
 ing time to the wild, grand music of 
 war — marching down the streets of the 
 great cities — through the towns and 
 across the prairies— down to the fields 
 of glory, to do and to die for the eternal 
 right. We go with them, oue and all. 
 We are by their side on all the gory 
 fields, in all the hospitals of pain, on all 
 the weary marches. We stand guard 
 with them in the wild storm, and under 
 the quiet stars. We are with them in 
 ravines running A'ith blood — in the 
 furrows of old lields. We are with them 
 between contending hosts, unable to 
 move, Mild with thirst, the life ebbing 
 slowly away among the withered leaves. 
 We see them pierced by balls and torn 
 with shells in the trenches of forts, and 
 in the whirl-wind of the charge, where 
 men become iron with nerves of steel. 
 We are with them in the prisons of 
 hatred and famine, but human speech 
 can never tell what they endured. 
 
 We are at home when the news came 
 that they were dead. We see the maid- 
 en in the shadow of her sorrow. We 
 see the silvered head of the old man 
 bowed with the last grief. The past 
 rises before us, and we see four mil- 
 lions of human beings .governed by the 
 lash — we see them bound hand and foot 
 — we hear the strokes of cruel whips — 
 we see the hounds tracking women 
 through tangled swamps— we see 
 babes sold from the breast of mothers — 
 cruelty unspeakable: Outrage infinite! 
 Four million bodies in chains — four 
 million souls in fetters. All the sacred 
 relations of wife, mother, father and 
 child, trampled beneath the brutal feet 
 of might. And all this under our own 
 beautiful banner of the free. 
 
 The past rises before us. We hear 
 the roar and shriek of the bursting 
 
 shell. The broken fetters fall, there 
 heroes died, we look. Instead of slaves 
 we see men, women, and children. 
 The wand of progress touches the auc- 
 tion-block, the slave-pen, aud the whip- 
 ping-post, and we see homes aud fire- 
 sides, and school-houses aud books, and 
 where all was want aud crime, and 
 cruelty, and fear, we see the faces of 
 the free. These heroes are dead. They 
 died for liberty — they died for us. 
 They are at rest. They sleep in the 
 land they made free, underthe flag they 
 rendered stainless, under the solemn, 
 pines, the sad hemlocks, thetearlul wil- 
 lows, the embracing vines. They sleep 
 beneath the shadows of the clouds, 
 careless alike of sunshine or storm, 
 each in the windowless palace of rest. 
 Earth ma}* run red with other wars — 
 they are at peace in the midst of battle, 
 in the roar of conflict, the}" found the 
 serenity of death . I have one sentiment 
 statement for the soldiers, living and 
 dead — cheers for the living, and tears 
 for the dead. 
 
 Col. K. G. Ingersoll. 
 
 On The Shores of Tennessee. 
 
 "Move my arm-chair faithful Pompey, 
 
 In the sunshine bright and strong. 
 For this world is lading, Pompey, 
 
 Massa wont be with you long; 
 And I fain would hear the south wind 
 
 Bring once more the sound to me 
 Of the wavelets softly breaking 
 
 On the shores of Tennessee. 
 o 
 
 Mournful though the ripples murmur, 
 
 As they still the story tell, 
 How no vessels float the banner 
 
 That I've loved so long and well. 
 I shall listen to their music. 
 
 Dreaming that again I see 
 Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop, 
 
 Sailing up the Tennessee. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 27 
 
 '•Ami, Pompey, whih < > 1 < 1 fiiassa's wait- 
 ing, 
 
 For death's last despatch to come. 
 
 If thai exiled starry banner 
 Should come proud ly sailing home, 
 
 You shall greet it. slave no longer- 
 Voice and hand shall both be free 
 
 That shouts and points to Union colors 
 On the waves of Tennessee." 
 
 4. 
 •Massa's berykiud to Pompey? 
 
 But old darkey's happy here 
 Where he's tended corn and cotton 
 For dese many a long gone year. 
 Over yonder Missis' sleeping — 
 
 No one tends her grave like me; 
 
 Mebbe she would miss the flowers 
 
 She used to love in Tennessee." 
 
 '"'Pears like, she was watching Massa- 
 
 If Pompey should beside him stay, 
 Mebbe he'd remember better 
 
 How for him she used to pray; 
 "Telling him that 'way up yonder 
 
 White as snow his soul would be, 
 If he served the Lord of heaven. 
 
 While he lived in Tennessee. 
 
 6. 
 
 Silently the tears were rolling- 
 Down the poor old dusky face, 
 
 As he stepped behind his master, 
 In his long accustomed place. 
 
 Then a silence fell around them, 
 As they gazed on rock and tree 
 
 Pictured in the placid waters 
 Of the rolling Tennessee; — 
 
 Master, dreaming of the battle 
 
 Where he fought by Marion's side, 
 Whea he bade the haughty Tarleton 
 
 Stoop his lordly crest of pride; 
 ISlan, remembering how yon sleeper 
 
 Once he held upon his knee, 
 Ere she loved the gallant soldier 
 
 Ralph Vervair, of Tennessee. 
 
 8. 
 Still the south wind fondly lingers 
 
 'Mid the Veteran's silvery hair; 
 Still the bondman, close beside him, 
 
 Stands behind the old arm-chair, 
 With his dark-hucd hand uplifted, 
 
 Shading eyes, he bends to see 
 Where the woodland, boldly jutting, 
 
 Turns aside the Tennessee. 
 
 U. 
 Thus he watches cloud-born shadows 
 
 Glide from tree to mountain crest, 
 Softly creeping, aye and ever 
 
 To the river's yielding breast. 
 Ha! above the foliage yonder, 
 
 Something glitters wild and free! 
 Massa! Massa! Hallelujah! 
 
 The flag's come back to Tennessee.'* 
 
 10. 
 "Pompey hold me on your shoulder, 
 
 Help me stand on foot once more, 
 That I may s-ilute the colors 
 
 As they pass your cabin door. 
 Here's the paper signed that free'syou; 
 
 Give a freeman's shout with me, — 
 'God and Union!' be our watchword 
 
 Evermore in Tennessee." 
 
 11. 
 Then the trembling voice grew fainter, 
 
 And the limbs refused to stand; 
 One prayer to Jesus — and the soldier 
 
 Glided to that better land. 
 When the flag went down the river, 
 
 Man and master both were free, 
 While the ring dove's note was mingled 
 
 With the rippling Tennessee. 
 
 Mrs. Ethel Lynn Beers. 
 
 The Dandy Fifth. 
 
 1, 
 'Twas the time of the workinginan's 
 great strike, 
 When all the land stood still, 
 At the sudden roar from hungry mouths 
 That labor could not fill; 
 
28 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 When the thunder of the railroad ceas- 
 ed, 
 
 And startled towns could spy, 
 A hundred blazing factories 
 Painting each midnight sky. 
 
 Thro* Philadelphia's surging streets, 
 
 Marched the brown ranks of toil, 
 The grimy legions of the shops, 
 
 The tillers of the soil; 
 White-faced militia men looked on 
 
 While women shrank with dread; 
 It was muscle against money then,- 
 
 Twas riches against bread. 
 
 Once, as the mighty mob tramped on, 
 
 A carriage stopped the way. 
 Upon the silken seat of which 
 
 A young Patrician lay. 
 And as with haughty glance he swept 
 
 Along the jeering crowd, 
 A white-haired blacksmith in the ranks 
 
 Took off his hat and bowed. 
 
 4. 
 That night the Labor League was met, 
 
 And soon the chairman said: 
 "There hides a Judus in our midst, 
 
 One man who bows the head, 
 Who bends the cowards servile knee, 
 
 When capital rolls by." 
 "Down with him! Kill the traitor cur!" 
 
 Rang out the savage cry. 
 
 5. 
 Up rose the blacksmith then, 
 
 And held erect his head of gray: 
 "I am no traitor tho' I bowed 
 
 To a rich man's son to-day, 
 
 And tho' you kill me as I stand — 
 As like you mean to do — 
 
 I wan: to tell a story short, 
 And I ask vou'li hear me through. 
 
 I was one of those who enlisted first 
 
 The old flag to defend, 
 With Pope and Halleck, Mac, and Grant 
 
 I followed to the end; 
 And 'twas somewhere down on the 
 Rapid an, 
 
 When the Union cause looked drear, 
 That a regiment of rich young bloods 
 Came down to us from here. 
 
 "Their uniforms were by tailors cut, 
 They brought hampers of good wine. 
 
 And every squad had a servant, too, 
 
 To keep his boots in shine, 
 They'd naught to say to us dusty 'vets* 
 
 And throughout the whole brigade, 
 We called them the kid glove dandy 5th," 
 
 As M T e passed them on parade. 
 
 8. 
 "Well! They were sent to hold a fort„ 
 
 The Rebs tried hard to take, 
 "Twas the key of all our line 
 
 Which naught while it held out could 
 break. 
 
 But a fearful light we lost just then, 
 The reserves came up too late, 
 
 And on that fort and the dandy 5th 
 Hung the whole division's fate. 
 
 9. 
 Three times we tried to take 
 
 Them aid, and each time back we fell x 
 Tho' once we could hear the fort's far 
 guns 
 Boom like a funeral knell, 
 But at length Joe Hooker's core came up 
 
 And then right through we broke. 
 How we cheered as we saw those dandy 
 
 coats 
 Still back of the drifting smoke. 
 
 10. 
 With colors spread, and band in front, 
 
 We marched up the Parapet; 
 And the sorrowing sight that met our 
 eyes 
 I shall never in life forget; 
 Three days before had their water gone, 
 
 They had dreaded that the most; 
 The next and their last scant ration 
 went, 
 And each man looked a ghost. 
 
 11. 
 As he stood, gaunt-eyed, behind his gun, 
 
 And others were in the corner laid, 
 "Grim Sentinels" in gray. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 29 
 
 And the the Colonel,— he could not 
 speak, nor stir, 
 But we saw his proud eye thrill 
 A< he simply glanced at the shot- 
 scarred staff, 
 Where the "old flag" floated still. 
 
 Now 1 hate the tyrants who grind us 
 down 
 While the wolfs snarls at our door, 
 And the men who've risen from us, that 
 laugh 
 At the misery of the poor; 
 But I tell you, mates, while this weak 
 old hand 
 I have yet the strength to lift 
 It will touch my cap to the proudest 
 "swell' 1 
 Who fought in the Dandy Fifth. 
 
 Frank II. Cass a way. 
 
 Curfew Must Not Ring To-night. 
 
 MRS. ROSE H. THORPE. 
 1. 
 
 England's sun was slowly setting 
 
 O'er the hills so far away, 
 Filling all the land with beauty 
 
 At the close of one sad day; 
 And the last rays kissed the forehead 
 
 Of a man and maiden fair. 
 He with steps so slow and weakened, 
 
 She with sunny, iloating hair; 
 He with bowed head sad and thought- 
 ful, 
 
 She with lips so cold and white 
 •Struggling to keep back the the mur- 
 mur. 
 
 "Curfew must not ring to-night." 
 o 
 
 ^'Sexton,'' Bessie's white lips faltered. 
 
 Pointing to the prison old, 
 "With its walls so dark and gloomy, — 
 
 Walls so dark, aud damp, and cold,— 
 "I've a lover in that prison 
 
 Doomed this very night to die. 
 At the ringing of the Curfew, 
 
 And no earthly help is nigh, 
 
 Cromwell will not come till sunset, 
 And her face grew strangely white 
 
 As she spoke in husky whispers. 
 "Curfew must not ring to-night." 
 
 :). 
 "Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton — 
 
 Every word pierced her young heart 
 Like a thousand gleaming arrows — 
 
 Like a deadly poisoned dart; 
 "Long, long years I've rung tin; Curfew 
 
 From that gloomy shadowed tower; 
 Every evening, just at sunset. 
 
 It has told the twilight hour; 
 I have done my duty ever 
 
 Tried to do it just and right, 
 Xow I'm old I will not miss it. 
 
 Girl the Curfew rings to-night. 
 
 4. 
 Wild her eyes and pale her features 
 
 Stern and white her thoughtful brow, 
 And within her heart's deep center 
 
 Bessie made a solem vow 
 She had listened while the Judges read 
 
 Without a tear or sigh 
 "At the tinging of the Curfew — 
 
 Basil Underwood must die." 
 And her breath came fast and faster, 
 
 And her eyes grew large and bright — 
 One low murmur, scarcely spoken — 
 
 "Curfew must not ring to-night!" 
 
 5. 
 
 She with light step bounded forward. 
 
 Sprang within the old church door. 
 Left the old man coming slowly, 
 
 Paths he'd trod so oft' before, 
 Not one moment paused the maiden 
 
 But with cheek and brow aglow 
 Staggered up the gloomy tower. 
 
 Where the bell swung to and fro; 
 Then she climbed the slimy ladders, 
 
 Dark, without one ray of light, 
 Upward still, her pale lips saying: 
 
 Curfew shall not ring to-night, 
 
 G. 
 She has reached the topmost ladder, 
 
 O'er her hangs the great dark bed, 
 Ami the awful gloom beneath her, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Like the pathway down to hell; 
 Sees the ponderous tongue is swinging, 
 
 'Tis the hour of Curfew now — 
 Anil the sight has chilled her bosom 
 
 Stopped her breath, and paled her 
 brow, 
 
 Shall she let it ring? No! never! 
 Her eyes Hash with sudden light, 
 
 As she springs and grasps it firmly — 
 "Curfew shall not ring to-night." 
 
 Out she swung, far out, the city 
 
 Seemed a distant speck below; 
 There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspend- 
 ed, 
 
 As the bell swung to and fro, 
 And the half-deaf sexton ringing; 
 
 (Years he had not heard the bell.) • 
 And he thought the twilight Curfew 
 
 Rang young Basil's funeral knell; • 
 Still the maiden clinging firmly, 
 
 Cheek and brow so pale and white, 
 Still her frightened heart's wild beat- 
 ing— 
 
 "Curfew shall not ring to-night." 
 
 Touched his heart with sudden pity, 
 Lit his eyes with misty light; 
 "Go, your lover lives!" Cried Crom 
 well; 
 "Curfew shall not ring to-night." 
 
 The Gambler's Wife. 
 
 Dark is the night, how dark! 
 
 No light! No fire! 
 Cold on the hearth the last faint sparks.. 
 expire, 
 Shivering she watches by the cradle- 
 side 
 For him who pledged his love; last 
 year a bride. 
 
 2. 
 "Hark! 'tis his footsteps! no! 'tis past t 
 'tis gone!" 
 Tick! tick! "how wearily the time 
 crawls on! 
 Why should he leave me thus? he once 
 was kind! 
 And I believed 'twould last! how mad', 
 how blind! 
 
 It was o'er — the bell ceased swaying, 
 
 And the maiden stepped once more 
 Firmly on the damp old ladder 
 
 Where for hundred years before 
 Human foot had not been planted; 
 
 And what she this night had done, 
 Should be told in long years after — 
 
 As the rays of sitting sun 
 Light the sky with mellow beauty, 
 
 Aged sires with heads of white 
 Tell the children why the Curfew 
 
 Did not ring that one sad night. 
 
 9. 
 O'er the distant hills came Cromwell, 
 
 Bessie saw him, and her brow 
 Lately white with sickening terror 
 
 Glows with sudden beauty now; 
 At his feet she told her story, 
 
 Showed her hands all bruised and 
 torn, 
 And her sweet young face so haggard, 
 
 With a look so sad aod'worn 
 
 "Rest thee, my babe! rest on! 'tis hun- 
 ger's cry! 
 Sleep! for there is no food! the font is 
 dry! 
 Famine and cold their wearying work 
 have done, 
 My heart must break! and tho !" the- 
 clock strikes one. 
 
 4. 
 "Hush! 'tis- the dice-box! Yes, he's. 
 there, he's there, 
 For this! for this he leaves me to de- 
 spair! 
 Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his, 
 child! for what? 
 The wanton's smile — the villain — and, 
 the sot! 
 
 5. 
 "Yet I'll not curse hi'ml No! 'tis all in 
 vain ! 
 'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come- 
 again! 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 3i 
 
 And I could starve and bless him, but 
 for you, 
 My child!— his child— O fiend!" The 
 clock strikes two. 
 
 (i. 
 "Hark! how the sideboard creaks! The 
 blast howls by! 
 Moan! moan! A dirge swells through 
 the cloudy sky! 
 Ha! 'tis his knock! becomes! — becomes 
 ouce more! 
 Tis bub the lattice flaps! Thy hope is 
 o'er. 
 
 7. 
 "Can he desert mc thus? He knows I 
 stay 
 
 Night after night in lonliness to pray 
 For his return — and yet he sees no tear! 
 No! no! it cannot be. He will be 
 here. 
 
 "Nestle more closely, dear one, to my 
 heart! 
 Thou'rt cold! thou'rt freezing! But 
 we will not part. 
 Husband! — I die! — Father!— It is not he! 
 Oh God! protect my child!" The 
 clock strikes three. 
 
 They're gone! they're gone! the glim- 
 mering spark hath lied. 
 The wife and child are numbered 
 with the dead! 
 On the cold hearth, out-stretched in 
 solemn rest, 
 The child lies frozen on its mother's 
 breast! 
 The gambler came at last — but all was 
 o'er — 
 Dead silence reigned around — The 
 clock struck four! 
 
 The Vagabonds. 
 J. 
 We are two travelers, Roger and 1, 
 Roger's my dog: — come here you 
 scamp! 
 
 Jump for the gentleman, mind your eye' 
 Over the table,— look out for the 
 lamp! — 
 
 The rogue is growing a little old; 
 
 Five years we've tramped through 
 wind and weather, 
 And slept out doors when nights were 
 cold, 
 And ate and drank and starved to- 
 gether. 
 
 We've learned what comfort is I tell 
 you! 
 A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin 
 A tire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow.) 
 The paw he holds up there's been 
 frozen. 
 Plenty of c;it-gut for my fiddle, 
 This out-door business is bad for 
 strings, 
 Than a few nice buckwheats fresh from 
 the griddle, 
 And Roger and I set up for Kings. 
 
 No, thank you, sir,— I never drink, 
 
 Roger and I are exceedingly moral, 
 Ar'nt we Roger? See him wink!— 
 Well, something hot, then, we won't 
 quarrel. 
 He's thirsty, too,— see him nod his head ! 
 What a pity, sir, that dog can't talk; 
 He understands every word that's 
 said, — 
 And he knows good'milk from water 
 and chalk. 
 
 The tiuth is, sir, now I reflect, 
 
 I've been so sadly given to grog, 
 I wonder I've not lost the respect, 
 
 (Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. 
 But he sticks by, through thick and 
 thin; 
 And this old coat, with its empty 
 pockets, 
 And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, 
 He'll follow while he has eyes in his 
 sockets. 
 

 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 There isn't another creature living 
 would do it. 
 And prove through every disaster. 
 So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving 
 
 To sia-h a miserable, thankless master: 
 No, sir:— see him wag his ail and grin: 
 
 By George :it makes ray old eyes water! 
 That is, there's something in this gin 
 
 That chokes a fellow. But no matter: 
 
 0. 
 
 We'll have some music, if you're willing, 
 And Roger (hem! what a plague a 
 cough is sir!) 
 Shall march a little. — Start, youvillian! 
 
 Stand straight: 'Bout face: Salute 
 your officer: 
 Put up that paw: Dress: Take your 
 rifle: 
 (Some dogshave armsyousee!) Now 
 hold your 
 Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle. 
 To aid a poor old patriot soldier'. 
 
 March: Halt: Now show how the 
 rebel shakes 
 When he stands up to hear his sen- 
 tence. 
 Now tell us how many drams it takes 
 To honor a jollv new acquaint:! nee. 
 Five yelps, — that's Ave; he's mighty 
 knowing: 
 The night's before us, fill the glasses: — 
 Quick, sir: Tin ill,— my brain is 
 going:— 
 Some brandy, — thank you, — there: — 
 It passes: 
 
 Why not reform? That's easily said; 
 But I've gone through such wretched 
 treatment, 
 Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 
 And scarce remembering what meat 
 meant, 
 That my poor stomach's past reform: 
 And there are times when, mad with 
 thinking. 
 
 I'd sell out heaven for something warm 
 To prop a horrible inward sinking. 
 
 9. 
 Is there a way to forget to think? 
 
 At your age, sir, home, fortune, 
 friends, 
 A dear girl's love— but I took tod link; — 
 The same old story; you know how it 
 ends. 
 If you could have seen these classic 
 features. — 
 You needn't laugh, sir. they were not 
 then 
 Such a burniug libel on God's creatures: 
 I was one of your handsome men ! 
 
 10. 
 
 If you had seen her, so fair and young, 
 Whose head weshappy on this breast! 
 If you could have heard the songs I 
 sung 
 When the wine went round, yon 
 wouldn't have guessed 
 That ever I, sir. should be straying 
 From door to door, with fiddle and 
 dog, 
 Ragged and penniless, and playing 
 To you to-night for a glass of grog! 
 
 11. 
 
 She's married since, — a parson's wife: 
 'Twas better for her that we should 
 part, — 
 Better the soberest, prosiest life, 
 Than a blasted home and a broken 
 heart. 
 I have seen her — once: I was weak and 
 spent 
 On the dusty road — a carriage stopped : 
 But little she dreamed, as on she went. 
 Who kissed the coiu that her fingers 
 dropped! 
 
 12. 
 You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry. 
 It makes me wild to think of the 
 change! 
 What do you care for a beggar's story? 
 
 1> ir amusing? you find it strange? 
 I bad a mother so proud of me! 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 33 
 
 'Twafl well she died before . 
 
 Do you know 
 If the happy spirits in heaven can Bee 
 The ruin and wretchedness here 
 
 below? 
 
 13. 
 Another ghiss, and str . ng, to deaden 
 
 This pain; then Roger and I will start 
 I wonder has he such a lumpish leaden 
 
 Aching tiling in place of a heart? 
 He is sad sometimes, and would weep 
 if he could 
 No doubt remembering things that 
 were, 
 A virtuous kennel with plenty of food, 
 And himself a sober respectable cur. 
 
 14. 
 I'm better now, that glass was warming, 
 
 You rascal; limber your lazy feet! 
 We must be fiddling and preforming 
 For supper and bed, or storm in the 
 street. 
 Not a very gay life to lead, you think? 
 Well soon we shall go where lodgings 
 are free, 
 And the sleepers need neither victuals 
 nor drink; 
 The sooner the better, for Roger and 
 me; 
 
 J. T. Trowbridge. 
 
 Kentucky Belle- 
 Summer of sixty-three Sir, and Conrad 
 
 was gone away, 
 Gone to the country town sir, to sell 
 our first load of hay. 
 We lived in the log house yonder, poor 
 as ever you've seen, 
 Rooschen, there, was a baby, and I 
 was only nineteen, 
 
 Conrad he took the oxen but he left 
 Kentucky Belle. 
 How much we thought of Kentuck, I 
 couldn't begin to toll. 
 Came from the bine grass country; my 
 father gav her to me. 
 When I rode north with Conrad away 
 from the Tennessee. 
 
 Conrad lived in Ohio— a germ an he Is, 
 
 you know. 
 The house, stood in broad cornfields 
 stretching on, row after row 
 The old folks made me welcome, they 
 were kind as kind could be 
 But I kept longing, longing for the 
 hills of the Tennessee. 
 
 Oh! for a sight of water, the shadowed 
 slope of a hill; 
 Clouds that hang on the summit, a 
 wind that never is still, 
 But the level land went stretching away 
 to meet the sky; 
 Never a rise from north to south, to 
 rest the weary eye. 
 
 From east to west, no river to shine out 
 under the moon 
 Nothing to make a shadow in the 
 yellow afternoon, 
 Only the breathless sunshine, as I looked 
 out all forlorn; 
 Only the "rustle, rustle," as I walked 
 among the corn. 
 
 When I fell sick with pining, we didn't 
 wait any more, 
 But moved away from the corn-lands 
 out to this river shore. 
 The Tuscarauas its called, sir — off there's 
 the hill, you see, 
 And now I've grown to like it next 
 best to the Tennessee 
 
 I was at work that morning, some one 
 came riding like mad 
 Over the bridge and up the road— 
 farmer Roup's little lad, 
 Bareback he rode; he had no hat; lie 
 hardly stopped to say 
 "'Morgan's men are coming Fran; 
 they're galloping on this way. 
 
 I'm sent to warn the neighbors, he is'nt 
 a mile behind, 
 He sweeps up all the horses— every 
 horse that he can find. 
 Morgan, Morgan the Raider, and Mor- 
 gan's terrible men 
 With bowie-knives and pistols, are 
 galloping up the glen." 
 
34 
 
 Olmsieads Recitations. 
 
 The lad rode down the valley, and I 
 
 stood still at the door: 
 The baby laughed andprattled, pay- 
 ing with spools on the floor. 
 
 Keutuek was out in the pasture. Conrad 
 ruy man was gone. 
 Nearer, nearer Morgan's men were 
 galloping galloping on; 
 Sudden I pieked up baby, and ran to 
 the pasture bar. 
 "Ken tuck" I called— "Kentucky ;" she 
 knew me ever so far; 
 I led her down the gully that turns off 
 there to the right. 
 And tied her to the bushes; her head 
 was just out of sight. 
 
 As I ran back to the log house, at once 
 there came a sound. — 
 The ring of hoofs, — galloping hoofs, 
 — trembling over the ground. 
 Coming into the turnpike out from the 
 white woman glen — 
 Morgan. Morgan trie raider, and Mor- 
 gan's terrible men. 
 
 As near they drew, and nearer, 1113* 
 heart beat fast in alarm. 
 But still I stood iu the doorway with 
 baby on my arm; 
 They came; they passed; with spur and 
 n hip in haste they sped aloug, 
 Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his 
 band, six-hundred strong. 
 
 Weary they looked, and jaded; riding 
 thro' night and thro' day; 
 Pushing on east to the river, many 
 long miles away; 
 To the border strip where Virginia runs 
 up into the west, 
 And ford the upper Ohio before they 
 could stop to rest. 
 
 0~ like the wind they hurried, and Mor- 
 gan rode iu advance, 
 Bright were his eyes like live coals, as 
 he gave me a side way's glance; 
 And I was just breathing freely, after 
 my choking pain, 
 When the last one of the troopers 
 suddenly drew his rein. 
 
 —Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce 
 dared look in his face; 
 As he asked for a drink of water and 
 glanced around the place. 
 I gave him a cup and he smiled— twas 
 only a boy you see. 
 Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; 
 and he'il sailed on the Tennessee. 
 
 Only sixteen he was, sir,— a fond moth- 
 er's only son. 
 Off aud away with Morgan before his 
 life had begun. 
 The damp drops stood on his temples, 
 drawn was the boyish mouth. 
 And I thought me of the mother wait- 
 ing down in the south. 
 
 Oh: pluck was be to the backbone, and 
 clear grit through and through. 
 Boasted, and bragged like a trooper, 
 but the big words would'nt do; 
 The boy was dying.sir, dying as plaiu as 
 plain could be. 
 Worn out by his ride wilh Morgan, up 
 from the Tennessee. 
 
 But when I told the laddie, that I too 
 was from the south, 
 Water came iu his dim eyes, and 
 quivers around his mouth. 
 '"Do you know the blue grass country'-" 
 he wistful began to say; 
 Then swayed like a willow sapling 
 and faiuted dead away. 
 
 I had him into the loghouse and worked 
 and brought him too, 
 I fed him, and coaxed him as I thought 
 his moiher'd do; 
 And when the lad got better, and the 
 noise in his head was gone, 
 Morgan's men were miles away, gal- 
 loping galloping on. 
 
 "Oh! I must go "he muttered, I must 
 be up and away — 
 Morgan, Morgan is waiting for me. oh 
 what will Morgan sayr 
 But I heard a sound of tramping, and 
 kept him Lack Irom the door: 
 The ringiug sound ot horses hoofs that 
 1 had heard before. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 35 
 
 Ami on, on, came the soldiers, the 
 Michigan cavalry, 
 And last they rode and black they 
 looked, galloping rapidly, 
 
 They had followed hard on Morgan's 
 track they had followed day and 
 night; 
 But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders 
 they had never caught a sight. 
 
 And rich Ohio sat startled through all 
 those summer days; 
 For strong wild men were galloping 
 over the broad highways. 
 Now here, now there, now seen, now 
 gone, now north, now east, now 
 west 
 Thro' river, valleys and cornland 
 farms, sweeping away her best 1 
 
 A bold ride and a long ride; but they 
 were taken at last. 
 They almost reached the river by gal- 
 loping hard and fast. 
 But the boys in blue were upon them 
 ere ever they gained the ford — , 
 And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid 
 down his terrible sword: 
 
 Well! I kept the boy till evening, kept 
 him against his will, 
 But he was too weak to follow, and 
 sat there pale and still — 
 When it was cool and dusky — you'll 
 wonder to hear me tell — 
 But I stole down to the gully and 
 brought up Kentucky Belle* 
 
 I kissed the star on her forehead, my 
 pretty gentle lass, 
 But 1 knew that she'd be happy, back 
 in the old blue grass. 
 A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all 
 the money I had. 
 And Kentucky, pretty Kentuck, I gave 
 to the worn out lad. 
 
 I guided him to southward as well as [ 
 
 knew ho w; 
 The boy rode off with many tnanks 
 
 aud many a backward bow; 
 And then the glow r it faded and my 
 
 heart began to swell, 
 
 A> down the glen away she went my 
 lost Kentucky Belle. 
 
 When Conrad came in the evening, the 
 moon was shining high; 
 Baby and I were both crying, I could- 
 n't tell him why — 
 But a battered suit of rebel gray was. 
 hanging on the wall, 
 And a thin old horse with drooping 
 head stood in Kentucky's stall. 
 
 Well, he was kind and never said a hard 
 word to me; 
 He knew 1 couldn't help it— 'twas all 
 for the Tennessee. 
 But after the war was over, just think 
 what came to pass — 
 A letter, sir, and the two were safe, 
 back in the old blue grass. 
 
 The lad had crossed the Border, riding 
 Kentucky Belle, 
 Aud Kentuck, she was thriving and 
 fat and hearty and well; 
 He cared for her, and kept her, nor 
 touched her with whip or spur; 
 Oh! we've had many horses, but nev- 
 er a horse like her. 
 Constance Fenimoke Woolston. 
 
 The Polish Boy. 
 
 ANN S. STEPHENS. 
 
 Whence come those shrieks so wild and 
 shrill, 
 
 That cut, like blades of steel, the air, 
 Causing the creeping blood to chill 
 
 With the sharp cadence of despair? 
 Again they come, as if a heart 
 
 Were cleft in twain by one quick 
 blow. 
 And every string had voice apart 
 
 To utter its peculiar woe. 
 
 Whence came they? from you temple, 
 
 where 
 An altar, raised for private prayer, 
 Now forms the warriors marble bed 
 Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. 
 The dim funeral tapers throw 
 A holy lustre o'er his brow, 
 
36 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Ami burnish with their rays of light., 
 The mass of curls that gather bright 
 Above the haughty brow ami eye 
 Of a young boy, that's kneeling by: 
 
 What hand is that, whose icy press 
 
 Clings to the dead with death's own 
 grasp, 
 But meets no answering caress? 
 
 No thrilling ringers seek its clasp. 
 It is the hand of her whose cry 
 
 Rang wildly, late, upon the air, 
 When the dead warrior met her eye 
 
 Outstretched upon the altar there. 
 
 With pallid lip and stony brow 
 She murmurs forth her anguish now. 
 But hark! the tramp of heavy feet 
 Is heard along the bloody street; 
 Nearer, and nearer yet they come, 
 With clanking arms and noiseless 
 
 drum. 
 Now whispered curses, low and deep, 
 Around the holy temple creep; 
 The gate is burst; a ruffian band 
 Rush in and savagely demand, 
 With brutal voice and oath profane, 
 The startled boy for exile's chain. 
 
 The mother sprang with gesture wild, 
 And to her bosom clasped her child; 
 Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, 
 Shouted with fearful energy, 
 "Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread 
 Too near the body of my dead; 
 Nor touch the living boy; I stand 
 Between him and your lawless band. 
 Take mc, and bind these arms, these 
 
 hands, 
 With Russia's heaviest iron bands, 
 And drag me to Siberia'-' wild 
 To perish, if 'twill save 1113' child!" 
 
 "Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, 
 
 Tearing the pale boy from her side. 
 
 And in his ruffian grasp he bore 
 
 His vietim to the temple door. 
 
 "One moment!" shrieked the mother, 
 
 "one! 
 Will land or gold redeem my son? 
 Take heritage, take name, take all, 
 But leave him free from Russian thrall ! 
 
 Take these!" and her white arms and 
 
 hands 
 She stripped of rings and diamond 
 
 bauds, 
 And tore from braids of long black hair 
 The gems that gleamed like starlight 
 
 there; 
 Her cross of blazing rubies, last, 
 Down at the Russian's feet she cast. 
 He stooped to seize the glitteringjstore; — 
 Up springing from the marble tloor, 
 The mother, with a cry of joy, 
 Snateheil to her leaping heart the boy. 
 But no! the Russian's iron gra.-.i> 
 Again undid the mother's eiasp. 
 Forward she fell, with one long cry 
 Of more than mortal agony. 
 
 But the brave child is roused at length, 
 
 And, breaking from the Russian's 
 hold, 
 He stands, a giant in his strength 
 
 Of his young spirit, tierce and bold. 
 Proudly he towers; his Hashing eye, 
 
 So blue, and yet i-o bright, 
 Seems kiudled from the eternal sky, 
 
 So brilliant is its light. 
 
 His curling lips and crimson cheeks 
 Foretell the thought before he speaks; 
 With a full voiee of proud command 
 He turned upon the wondering band: 
 "Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can; 
 This hour has made the boy a man; 
 I knelt beside my slaughtered sire, 
 Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. 
 I wept upon his marble brow. 
 Yes wept! I was a child; but now 
 My noble mother, on her knee, 
 Hath done the work of years for me!" 
 
 He drew aside his broidered vest, 
 
 Aud there, like slumbering serpent's 
 
 crest, 
 The jeweled haft of poniard bright 
 Glittered a moment on the sight. 
 "Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! 
 
 knave! 
 Think ye my noble father's glave 
 Would drink the life-blood of a slave? 
 The pearls that on the handle flame 
 Would blush to rubies in thier shame; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 37 
 
 The blade would quiver in thy breasl 
 Ashamed of such ignoble rest. 
 No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, 
 
 And fling him back a hoy's disdain:" 
 
 A moment, and the funeral light 
 flashed on the jeweled weapon bright. 
 
 Another, and his young heart's blood 
 Leaped to the floor a crimson flood. 
 Quick to his mother's side he sprang, 
 And on the air his clear voice rang: 
 "Up mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! 
 The choice was death or slavery. 
 Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! 
 His freedom is forever won: 
 And now. he waits one holy kiss 
 To bear his father home in bliss, 
 One last embrace, one blessing, — one! 
 To prove thou kuowest, approvest thy 
 
 son. 
 What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel 
 My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? 
 Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! 
 What ! silent still ? Then art thou dead ! 
 
 Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I 
 
 Rejoice with thee,— and thus— to die." 
 
 One long, deep breath, and his pale 
 
 head 
 Lay on his mother's bosom. — dead. 
 
 Shamus O'Brien, the Bold Boy of Glingall 
 A Tale of '98. 
 
 BY SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 Jist afther the war, in the year '98, 
 
 As soon as the boys were all scattered 
 
 and bate, 
 Twas the custom, whenever a pisant 
 
 was got, 
 To hang him by thrial— barrin' sich as 
 
 was shot. 
 There was trial by jury goin' on by day- 
 
 light, 
 And the marshal-law hangin' the lavins 
 
 by night, 
 It's them was hard times for an honest 
 
 gossoon: 
 If he missed in the judges— he'd meet 
 
 a dragoon; 
 
 An' whether the sodgers or judgi 
 
 sentence, 
 The divil a much time they allowed lor 
 
 repentence. 
 
 An' it's many the line boy was then mi 
 
 his keepin'. 
 Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or 
 
 sleepen', ' 
 An' beease they loved Erin, an' scorned 
 
 to sell it, 
 A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for 
 
 the bullet — 
 Unsheltered by night, and un rested by 
 
 day. 
 With the heath for their barrack, re- 
 venge for their pay; 
 An' the bravest and heartiest boy iv 
 
 them all 
 Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town 
 
 iv Glingall. 
 His limbs were , well set, an' his body 
 
 was light, 
 An' the keen-fauged hound had not 
 
 teeth half so white; 
 But his face was as pale as the face of 
 
 the dead. 
 Aud his cheek never warmed with the 
 
 blush of the red ; 
 But for all that he wans't an ugly 
 
 young bye, 
 For the divil himself couldn't blaze 
 
 with his eye, 
 So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so 
 
 bright, 
 Like a tire-flash that crosses the depth 
 
 of the night! 
 An' he was the best mower that ever 
 
 has been, 
 An' the illigautest hurler that ever 
 
 was seen. 
 An' his dancin' was sich that the men 
 
 used to stare, 
 An' the women turn crazy, he done it 
 
 so quare; 
 An' by gorra, the whole world gev it 
 
 into him there. 
 An' it's he was the boy that was hard 
 
 to be caught, 
 An' it's often he run, an' it's often he 
 
 fought, 
 
38 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Aq' it's many the one can remember As gentle an' soft as the sweet sum- 
 right well mer air; 
 The squar things he done; an' it's often An' happy remembrances crowding on 
 I heerd tell ever, 
 How he lathered the yoemeu, himself As fast as the foam-Hakes dhrift down 
 agin four, on the river, 
 Au' stretched the two strongest on old Bringing fresh to his heart merry days 
 Galtimore. long gone by, 
 But the fox must sleep sometimes, the Till the tears gathered heavy and 
 wild deer must rest thick in his eye. 
 An' treachery prey on the blood iv the Bat the tears didn't fall, for the pride 
 best; of his heart 
 Afther many a brave action of power Would not suffer one drop down his 
 and pride, pale cheek to start; 
 An' many a hard night on the mountain's An' he sprang to his feet in the dark 
 bleak side, prison cave, 
 An' a thousand great dangers and An' he swore with the fierceness that 
 toils over past, misery gave, 
 In the darkness of night he was taken By the hopes of the good, an' the cause 
 
 at last. 
 
 Now, Shamus, look back ou the beauti- 
 ful moon, 
 For the door of the prison must close 
 on you soon, 
 An' take your last look at the dim lovely 
 light, 
 That falls on the mountain and valley 
 this night; 
 One look at the village, one look at the 
 
 of the brave. 
 
 That when he was mouldering in the 
 cold grave 
 His enemies never should have it to 
 boast 
 
 His scorn of their'vengeance one mo- 
 ment was lost; 
 His bosom might bleed, but his cheek 
 should be dhry. 
 
 For, undaunted he lived, and un- 
 daunted he'd die. 
 
 flood, 
 
 An' one at the sheltering, far-distant Well, as soon as a few weeks was over 
 
 wood; and gone. 
 
 Farwell to the forest, farewell to the The terrible day iv the thrial kem on, 
 
 hill, 
 An' farewell to the friends that will 
 think of you still; 
 Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' 
 wake, 
 And farewell to the girl that would 
 die for your sake. 
 An' twelve sodgers brought him to 
 Marybrough jail; 
 An' the turnke}^ resaved him, refusin' 
 all bail; 
 The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the 
 sthrong hands wor bound, 
 An' he laid down his length on the 
 cowld prison-ground, 
 An' the dreams of his childhood kem 
 over him there 
 
 There was sich a crowd there was 
 scarce room to stand, 
 An' sodgers on guard, an' dhragoons 
 sword-in-hand; 
 An' the court-house so full that the peo- 
 ple were bothered, 
 An' attorneys an' criers on the point 
 iv bein' smothered; 
 An' counsellors almost gev over for 
 dead, 
 An' the jury sittin' up in their box 
 overhead; 
 An' the judge settled out so detarmin- 
 ed an' big, 
 With his gown on his back, and an 
 illegent new wig; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 39 
 
 An' silence was called, an' the minute 
 
 it was said 
 The court was as still as the heart of 
 the dead, 
 An' they heard but the open in 1 of one 
 prison lock, 
 An' Sua Mi's O'BRIEN kern into the 
 doek. 
 Pol" one minute he turned his eye round 
 ou the throng. 
 An' he looded at the bars, so firm and 
 so strong, 
 An' he saw that he had not a hope nor 
 a friend, 
 A chance to escape, nor a word to de- 
 fend; 
 An' he folded his arms as he stood there 
 alone. 
 As calm and as cold as a statue of 
 stone; 
 And they read a big writin' a yard long 
 at least. 
 An 1 Jim didn't uuderstaud it, nor 
 mind it a taste: 
 An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, 
 and he says. 
 ■Aie you gilty or not, Jim O'Brien, 
 av you plase?" 
 
 An' a.l held their breath in the silence 
 of dhivad, 
 An' Shamus O'Brien made answer 
 and said : 
 "My lord, if you ask me, if in my life- 
 time 
 I thought any treason, or did any 
 crime 
 That should call to my cheek, as 1 stand 
 alone here, 
 The hot blush of shame, or the cold- 
 ness of fear, 
 Though I stood by the grave to receive 
 my death-blow 
 Before God and the world I would 
 answer \ ou, no! 
 But if you would ask me. as I think it 
 like, 
 If in the rebellion I carried a pike, 
 An' fought for mild Ireland from the 
 first to the close, 
 An' shed the heart's blood of her bit- 
 terest foes. 
 
 I answer you, yes, and 1 tell you again; 
 Though I stand here to perish, it's my 
 glory that then 
 In her cause I was willing my veins 
 should run dhry, 
 An' that now for her sake I am ready 
 to die." 
 
 Then the silence was great, and the jury 
 smiled bright; 
 An' the judge wasn't sorry the job 
 was made light; 
 By my sowl, it's himself was the crab- 
 bed ould chap ! 
 In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly 
 black cap. 
 Then Shamus' mother in the crowd 
 standi n' by, 
 Called out to the Judge with a pitiful 
 cry: 
 ",0 judge! darlin', don't, O,- don't say 
 the word! 
 The crathur is 3-oung, have mercy, my 
 lord; 
 He was foolish, he didn't know what he 
 was doiu'; 
 You don't know him, my lord — O, 
 don't give him to ruin! 
 He's the kindliest crathur, the tendher- 
 est-hearted; 
 Don't part us forever, Ave that's so 
 long parted. 
 Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, my 
 lord, 
 An' God will forgive you— O, don't 
 say the word!" 
 That was the first minute that O'Brien 
 was shaken, 
 When he saw that he was not quite 
 forgot or forsaken; 
 An' down his pale cheek, at the words 
 of his mother, 
 The big tears wor runuin' fast, one 
 after th' other; 
 An' two or three times he endeavored 
 to spak, 
 But the stbrong, manly voice to fal- 
 ther and break; 
 But at last, by the strength of his high- 
 mountaiug pride; 
 He conquered and masthered his 
 grief's swelling tide. 
 
40 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 'An'," says he, "mother, darlin', dou't Au' old men antTyonng- women eu joy- 
 break your poor heart, ing the view. 
 For. sooner or later, the dearest must An' ould Tim Mulvany, lie med the 
 part; remark, 
 And God knows it's betther than The wasn't sieh a sight since the time 
 wandering- in fear of Noah's ark, 
 On the bleak, trackless mountain, An' be gorry, 'twas thrue for him, for 
 among the wild deer, divil sich a scruge, 
 To die in the grave, where the head, Sich divarshin and crowds, was 
 
 heart, and breast, 
 From thought, labor, and sorrow, for- 
 ever shall rest. 
 Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any 
 
 more, 
 Don't make me seem broken, in this, 
 
 my last hour; 
 For I wish, when my head's lyin' tin- 
 
 dher the raven, 
 No thrue man ean sa} 7 that I died like 
 
 a craven!" 
 Then towards the judge Shamus bent 
 
 down his head, 
 An' that minute the solemn death- 
 
 sentince was said. 
 
 The mornin' was bright, an' the mists 
 rose on high, 
 
 known since the deluge 
 For thousands were gathered there, if 
 there was one, 
 Waitin' till such time as the hangm' 
 'id come on, 
 
 At last they threw open the big prison- 
 gate, 
 An' out came the snerifTs and sodgers 
 in state, 
 An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus 
 was in it, 
 Not paler, but prouder than ever, 
 that minute. 
 An' as soon as the people saw Shamus 
 O'Brien, 
 Wid prayin' and biessin', and all the 
 girls cryin', 
 
 An' the lark whistled merrily in the A wild wailin' sound came on by degrees 
 
 clear sky; 
 But why are the men standin' idle so 
 late? 
 An' why do the crowds gather fast in 
 the street? 
 What come they to talk of? what come 
 they to see? 
 An' why does the long rope hang from 
 the cross-tree? 
 O, Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and 
 fast, 
 May the saints take your soul, for 
 this day is your last; 
 Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the mo- 
 ment is nigh, 
 When, sthrong. proud, an' great as 
 you are, you must die. 
 An' fasther an' fasther, the crowd 
 gathered there, 
 Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just 
 like a fair; 
 An' whiskey was selling and cussa- 
 muck too, 
 
 Like the sound of the lonesome wind 
 bio win' through trees. 
 On, on to the gallows the sheriff's are 
 gone, 
 An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadi- 
 ly on; 
 An' at every side swellin'* around of 
 the cart, 
 A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open 
 your heart. 
 Now under the gallows the cart takes 
 its stand, 
 An' the hangman gets up with the 
 rope in his hand; 
 An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes 
 down on the ground, 
 An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last 
 look round. 
 Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the 
 people grew still, 
 Young faces turned sickly, and warm 
 hearts grew chill; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 4i 
 
 An* the rope bein' ready, his neck was 
 ma«1e bare, 
 For the grip iv the life-strangling 
 chord to prepare; 
 An' th<. good priest has left him, flavin' 
 said his last prayer, 
 But the good priest done more, for 
 his hands he unbound, 
 And with one daring spring Jim has 
 leaped on the ground: 
 Bang! bang! goes the carbines, and 
 clash goes the sabres; 
 He' Dot down! he's alive still! now 
 stand to him neighbors 
 Through the smoke and the horses 
 he's into the crowd, — 
 By the heavens, he's free! — than thun- 
 der more loud, 
 By one shout from the people the 
 heavens were shaken — 
 One shout that the dead of the world 
 might awaken. 
 The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs 
 ran that, 
 An' Father Ma LONE lost his new Sun- 
 day hat; 
 To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe 
 Glin. 
 An' the divil's in the dice if you catch 
 him ag'in. 
 Your swords they may glitter, your 
 carbines go bang, 
 But if you want hanging it's yourself 
 you must hang. 
 
 Well a week after this time without tir- 
 ing a cannon, 
 A sharp Yankee schooner sailed out 
 of the shannon; 
 And the captain left word he was going 
 to Cork, 
 But the divil a bit, he was bound for 
 New York. 
 The very next spring, a bright morning 
 in May, 
 Just six months after the great hang- 
 in' day, 
 A letter was brought to the town of Kil- 
 dare, 
 An' on the outside was written out- 
 fair, 
 
 "To ouhl Mistress O'Brien in Ireland or 
 elsewhere," 
 
 An' the inside began: "my dear good 
 old mother; 
 I'm safe, and I'm happy— and not wish- 
 ing to bother, 
 You in the realm (wiLhthe help of the 
 priest,) 
 1 -end you inclosed in this letter at 
 least, 
 Enough to pay him and fetch you 
 away 
 To this laud of the free and the brave, 
 Merikay. 
 Here yov'll be happy and never made 1 
 cry in' 
 So long as you're mother of SHAMUS 
 O'Brien. 
 An' give my love to swate Kiddy and 
 tell her beware 
 Of that spalpun who calls himself Lord 
 of Kildare; 
 And just tell the judge I don't now 
 care a rap 
 For him, or his wig, or his dirty black 
 cap. 
 And now, my good mother, one word 
 of advice, 
 Fill your bag with potaties, and whis- 
 key, and rice, 
 And when you lave Ireland take pas- 
 sage at Cork, 
 And come straight over to the town of 
 New York. 
 And then ax the mayor the best way 
 to go 
 To the state of Ciucinnatti, in the town 
 of Ohio; 
 For 'tis there you'll find me without 
 much tryin', 
 At the "Harp and the Eagle," kept by 
 Shamus O'Brien. 
 
 J. S. LeFann. 
 
 Death Doomed. 
 They're taking me to the gallows 
 mother, they mean to hang me 
 high, 
 They're -going to gather 'round me 
 there and watch me till I die. 
 
42 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 All earthly joy has vanished now, and 
 gone each mortal hope, 
 They'll draw a eap across my eyes 
 ami round my neck a rope. 
 The crazy mob will shout and groan— 
 the priest will read a prayer — 
 The drop will fall beneath my feet, 
 and leave me in the air. 
 They think I murdered Alien Bayne, 
 for so the Judge has said 
 And they'll hang me to the gallows, 
 mother — hang me till I'm dead. 
 
 The grass that grows in yonder mead- 
 ow, the lambs that skip and play, 
 The pebbled brook behind the or- 
 chard, that laughs upon its way, 
 The flowers that grow in the dear old 
 garden, the birds that sing and fly 
 Are clear and pure of human blood, 
 and mother so am I. 
 By father's grave on yonder hill— his 
 name without a staiti, 
 T ne'er had malice in my heart, or 
 murdered Allen Bayne; 
 But twelve good men have fouud me 
 guilty, for so the Judge has said, 
 And they'll hang me to the gallows, 
 mother — haug me till I'm dead. 
 
 The air is fresh and bracing, mothei, 
 the sun shines bright aud high, 
 [t is a pleasant day to live — ;i glooraj" 
 one to die. 
 It is a bright and glorious day, aud 
 joys of earth to grasp, 
 It is a sad and wretched one to 
 strangle, choke and gasp; 
 But let them damp my lofty spirit, or 
 eow me if they can, 
 They send me like a rogue to death, 
 I'll meet it like a man. 
 For I never murdered Allen Bayne, but 
 so the Judge has said, 
 And th y' 11 hang me to the gallows, 
 mother — hang me till I'm dead. 
 
 Poor little sister Bell will weep and 
 kiss me as I lie, 
 But kiss h-r twice and thrice for me 
 and lell her not to cry. 
 
 Tell her to weave a bright, gay gar- 
 land, and crown me as of yore, 
 Then plant a lily on my grave, and 
 think of me no more. 
 And tell that maiden whose love I 
 sought, that I was faithful yet, 
 But I must lie in a felon's grave, and 
 she had best forget. 
 My memory is stained forever, for so 
 the Judge has said, 
 Aud they'll hang me to the gallows, 
 mother — hang me till I'm dead. 
 
 Lay me not clown by my father's side, 
 for once, I mind, he said, 
 Ko child that stained his spotless 
 name should share his mortal bed. 
 Old friends would look beyond his 
 grave to my dishonored one, 
 And hide the virtues of the sire be- 
 hind the recreant son, 
 Aud I can fancy, if there m3 r corpse its 
 fettered limbs should lay, 
 His frowning skull and crumbling 
 hones would shrink from me 
 away, 
 I swear to God I'm innocent, and never 
 blood have shed, 
 And they'll hang me to the gallows, 
 mother — hang me till I'm dead. 
 
 L iy me in my coffin, mother, as you've 
 sometimes seen me rest, 
 One of ray arms beneath my head, 
 the other on my breast. 
 Place my Bible upon my heart, nay, 
 mother, do not weep, 
 And kiss me as in happier days you 
 kissed me when asleep; 
 And for the form and iole— but little 
 do I reck 
 But cover up that eur.-ed stain— the 
 black mark on my neck, 
 And pray God for his great mere}- on 
 my devoted head. 
 For they'll hang me to the gallows, 
 mother — hang me till I'm d<?ad. 
 
 But hark, I hear a mighty murmur 
 among the jostling crowd, 
 A cry, a shout, a roar of voices, it 
 echoes long and loud. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 43 
 
 'There dashes a horseman with foaming 
 steed and tightly gathered rein. 
 He sits erect, lie waves his hand, 
 good Heaven, 'tis Allen Bayne. 
 The lost is found, the dead alive, my 
 safety is achieved, 
 For he waves his hand again and 
 shouts, "The prisoner is repriev- 
 ed." 
 Now, mother, praise the God yon love, 
 and raise your drooping head. 
 For the murduerons gallows, black 
 and grim, is cheated of its dead. 
 
 The Song of Marion's Men. 
 
 Our band is few, but true and tried, 
 
 Our leader frank and bold; 
 The British soldier trembles 
 
 When Marion's name is told. 
 Our fortress is the good greenwood 
 
 Our tent the cypress tree; 
 We know the forest round us, 
 
 As seamen know the sea; 
 We know its walls of thorny vines 
 
 Its glades of reedy grass 
 Its safe and silent islands 
 
 Within the dark morass. 
 
 Woe to the English soldiery 
 
 That little dread ns near; 
 On them shall light at midnight 
 
 A strange and sudden fear. 
 When, waking to their t^nts on lire 
 
 They grasp their arms in vain 
 And they who stand to face us 
 
 Are beat to earth again; 
 And they who fly in terror deem 
 
 A mighty host behind, 
 And hear the tramp of thousands 
 
 Upon the hollow wind. 
 
 Then sweet the hour that brings release 
 
 From danger and from toil;. 
 We talk the battle over 
 
 And share the battle's spoil. 
 The woodland rings with laugh and 
 shout 
 
 As if a hunt were up. 
 And woodland flowers are gathered 
 
 To crown the soldier's cup. 
 
 With merry song we mock the wind 
 That in the pine-top grieves, 
 
 And slumber long and quietly 
 On beds of oaken leaves. 
 
 Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
 
 The band that Marion leads. 
 The glitter of their rifles, 
 
 The scampering of their steeds. 
 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 
 
 Across the moonlight plain; 
 'Tis life to feel the night- wind 
 
 That lifts his tossing mane. 
 A moment in the British camp — 
 
 A moment — and away — 
 Back to the pathless forest 
 
 Before the peep of day. 
 
 Grave men there are by broad Santee 
 
 Grave men with hoary hairs; 
 Their hearts are all with Marion 
 
 With Marion all their prayers; 
 And lovely ladies greet our band 
 
 With kindliest welcoming; 
 With smiles like those of summer 
 
 And tears like those of spring. 
 For them we wear these trusty arms 
 
 And lay them down no more 
 Till we have driven the Briton 
 
 Forever from our shore. 
 
 W. C. Bryant. 
 
 The Smith, of Raganback- 
 
 In a little German village 
 
 On the waters of the Rhine; 
 Gay and joyous in their pastime, 
 
 In the pleasant vintage time; 
 Were a group of happy peasants, 
 
 For the days released from toil 
 Thanking God for all his goodness 
 
 I> the product of their soil; 
 
 When a cry rang thro' the welkin, 
 
 And appeared upon the scene, 
 A panting dog with crest erect 
 
 Foaming month and savage mien, 
 He is mad was shrieked in chorus 
 
 In dismay they all fell back, 
 All — except one towering figure 
 
 Twas the Smith of Kagenback. 
 
44 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 God had given this man his image 
 
 Nature stamped him as complete. 
 Now it was incumbent on him 
 
 To perform a greater feat 
 Than Horatious at the bridge; 
 
 When he stood on Tiber's bank 
 For behind him were his Townsfolk, 
 
 Who, appalled with terror, sank. 
 
 From the most appalling danger, 
 
 That which makes the bravest quail; 
 While the\- all were grouped together 
 
 Shaking limbs and visage pale. 
 For a moment cowered the beast, 
 
 Snapping to the left and right, 
 While the blacksmith stood before him 
 
 In the power of his might. 
 
 "One must die to save the many, 
 
 Let it then my duty be 
 I've the power fear not neighbors 
 
 From this peril you'll be free." 
 As the lightning from the storm cloud 
 
 Leaps to earth with sudden crash, 
 So upon the rabid monster 
 
 Did this man and hero dash. 
 
 In the death grip then they struggled 
 
 Man and dog with scarce a sound, 
 'Till from out the fearful conflict 
 
 Rose the man from off the ground: 
 Gashed and gory from the strugg.e 
 
 But the beast lay stiff and dead; 
 There he stood while people gathered 
 
 And rained blessings on his head. 
 
 "Friends" he said"from one great peril 
 
 With Gods help I've set you free, 
 But my task is not yet ended 
 
 There is danger now in me. 
 Yet secure from harm you shall be 
 
 None need fear before I die; 
 That my sufferings may be shortened 
 
 Ask of him who rules on high." • 
 
 Then into his forge he straightway 
 
 Walked erect with rapid step, 
 While the people followed after 
 
 Some with shouts, while others wept; 
 And with nerve as steady as when 
 
 He had plied his trade for gain, 
 He selected without faltering 
 
 From his store, the heaviest chain. 
 
 To his anvil first he bound it, 
 
 Next his limb he shackeled fast. 
 Then he said unto his townsfolk 
 
 "All your danger now is past, 
 Place within my reach I pray you 
 
 Food and water for a time; 
 Until God shall ease my suffering, • 
 
 By his gracious will divine." 
 Long he suffered but at last 
 
 Came a summons from on high, 
 Then his soul with angel escort. 
 
 Sought its home beyond the sky; 
 And the people of that village 
 
 Those whom he had died to save 
 Still with grateful hearts assemble 
 
 And with flowers bedeck his grave 
 Frank Murray. 
 
 One in Blue and One in Gray. 
 
 Each thin hand resting on a grave, 
 
 Her lips apart in prayer, 
 A mother knelt, and left her tears 
 
 Upon the violets there. 
 O'er many a road of vale and lawn, 
 
 Of hill and forest gloom, 
 The Reaper death had reveled in 
 
 His fearful harvest home. 
 The last red summer sun had shone 
 
 Upon a fruitless fray; — 
 From yonder forest charged the blue 
 
 Down yonder slope the gray. 
 
 The hush of death was on the scene 
 
 And sunset o'er the dead, 
 In that oppressive stillness 
 
 A pall of glory spread. 
 I know not, dare not question how 
 
 I met the ghastty glare 
 Of each upturned and stirless face, 
 
 That shrunk and whitened there. 
 I knew my noble boy's had stood 
 
 Through all that withering day, — 
 I knew that Willie wore the blue, 
 
 That Harry wore the gray. 
 
 I thought of Willie's clear blue eyes,. 
 
 His wavy hair of gold, 
 That clustered on a fearless brow 
 
 Of purest saxon mold ; 
 Of Harry, frith his raven locks, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 45 
 
 And eagle glance of pride, 
 Of now they clasped each others hand 
 
 And left t heir mother's side; 
 How hand in hand they bore my piayers 
 
 Ami blessings on the way — 
 A noble heart beneath the blue 
 
 Another Death the gray. 
 
 The dead, with white and folded hands, 
 
 That hushed our village homes. 
 I've seen laid calmly, tenderly, 
 
 Within their darkened rooms. 
 But there I saw distorted limbs. 
 
 And many an eye aglare. 
 In the soft purple twilight of 
 
 The thunder smitten air; 
 Along the slope and on the sword 
 
 In ghastly ranks they lay; 
 -And there was blood upon the bine 
 
 And blood upon the gray. 
 
 I looked and saw his blood, aud his: 
 
 A swift and vivid stream 
 Of years flashed o'er me when 
 
 Like some cold shadow, came 
 A blindness of the eye and brain. 
 
 The same that seizes one 
 When men are smitten suddenly 
 
 Who overstare the sun; 
 And while blurred with the sudden 
 stroke 
 
 That swept my soul, I lay; 
 They buried Willie in his blue, 
 
 And Harry in his gray. 
 
 The shadows fall upon their graves; 
 
 They fall upon my heart; 
 And thro' the twilight of my sonl 
 
 Like dew the tears will start. 
 The starlight comes so silently, 
 
 And lingers where they rest; 
 So hopes revealing starlight sinks 
 
 And shines within my breast. 
 The}" ask not there where yonder heaven 
 
 Smiles with eternal day 
 Why Willie wore the loyal blue — 
 
 Why Harry wore the gray. 
 
 Axon. 
 
 Kate Shelley. 
 Have you heard how a girl saved the 
 lightning expr 
 
 Of Kate Shelley, whose father was 
 
 killed on the road? 
 Were he living to-day, he'd be proud to 
 
 possess 
 Such a daughter as Kate; oh: 'twas 
 
 grit that she showed, 
 On the terrible evening when Donohue's 
 
 train 
 Jumped the bridge and went down in 
 
 theJarknes and rain. 
 
 She was only eighteen, but a woman in 
 size, 
 With a figure as graceful and lithe as 
 a doe; 
 With peach-blossoms cheeks, and with 
 violet eyes, 
 And teeth and complexion like new 
 fallen snow; 
 With a nature unspoiled and unblem 
 ished by art. 
 With a generous soul, and a warm, 
 nobie heart. 
 
 'Tis evening— the darkness is dense and 
 profound; 
 Men linger at home by their bright 
 blazing tires; 
 The wind wildly howls with a terrible 
 sound, 
 And shrieks through the vibrating 
 telegraph wires 
 The tierce lightning flashes along the 
 dark sky, 
 The rain falls in torrents; the river 
 lolls by. 
 
 The scream of a whistle! the rush of a 
 train; 
 The sound of a bell! a mysterious 
 light 
 That flashes and flares thro' the fast fall- 
 ing rain. 
 A rumble! a roar! shrieks of human 
 affright! 
 The falling of timbers; the space of a 
 breath! 
 A splash iu the .river; then il irk Lass 
 and death. 
 
 Kate Shelley recoils at the terrible 
 erashl 
 
4 6 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 The sounds of distraction she happens 
 
 to hear; 
 She springs to the window, she throws 
 
 up the sash 
 And listens and looks with a feeling 
 
 of fear. 
 The tall tree tops groan and she hears 
 
 the faint cry 
 Of a drowning man down in the river 
 
 near by. 
 
 Her heart feebly flutters her features 
 grow wan 
 And then thro' her soul in a moment 
 there flies, 
 A forethought that gives her the strength 
 of a man. 
 She turns to her trembling old mother 
 and eries 
 "I must save the express — 'twill be here 
 in an hour." 
 Then out thro' the door disappears in 
 the showei. 
 
 She flies down the track thro' the piti- 
 less rain, 
 She reaches the ruins — the water 
 below. 
 Whirls and seethes thro' the timbers, 
 she shudders again 
 4 'The bridge! to Moingona, God help 
 me to go," 
 Then closely about her she gathers her 
 gown 
 And on the wet tics with a shiver 
 sinks down. 
 
 Then carefully over the timbers she 
 creeps 
 On her hands aud her knees, almost 
 holding her breath. 
 The loud thunder peals and the wind 
 wildly sweeps 
 And struggles to hurry her down- 
 ward to death; 
 But the thought of the train to distrac- 
 tion so near 
 Removes from her soul every feeliug 
 of fear. 
 
 With the blood dripping down from 
 each torn bleeding limb, 
 Slowly over the timbers her dark way 
 she feels. 
 Her fingers grow numb, and her head 
 seems to swim — , 
 Her strength is fast failing — she 
 staggers! she reels; 
 She falls — ah! the danger is over at last 
 Her feet touch the earth, and the long 
 bridge is passed! 
 
 In an instant new life seems to come to 
 her form 
 She springs to her feet aud forgets, 
 her despair. 
 On, on to Moingona. she faces the 
 storm 
 She reaches the station— the keeper 
 is there. 
 "Save the lightning express! no— hang 
 out the red light! 
 There's death on the bridge at the 
 river to-night;" 
 Out flashes the signal light, rosy and 
 red; 
 Then sounds the loud roar of the 
 swift coming train, 
 The hissing of steam, and there bright- 
 ly ahead 
 The gleam of the headlight illumines 
 the rain. 
 "Down breaks!" shrieks the whistle 
 defiant and shrill; 
 She heeds the redsigual — she slackens, 
 she's still! 
 
 Ah! noble Kate Shelley your mission is 
 done; 
 Your deed that dark night will not 
 fade from our gaze; 
 An endless renown )ou have worthily 
 won: 
 Let the nation be just, and accord 
 you its praise. 
 Let your name, let your fame, aud your 
 courage declare 
 What a woman can do, and a woman 
 can dare; 
 
 Eugene J. Hall. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 47 
 
 Flying Jims Last Leap. 
 
 Cheeriest room that mora, the k itchen. 
 
 Helped by Bridget's willing hands, 
 Bustled Hacnah deftly mixing pies for 
 ready waiting pans. 
 Little Flossie flitted round them, and 
 and her curling floating hair 
 Glinted gold like, gleamed and glisten- 
 ed in the sparkling sunlit air; 
 Slouched a figure o'er the lawn: a 
 man so wretched and forlorn, 
 Tattered, grim, so like a beggar ne'er 
 had trod that path before. 
 His shirt was torn, his hat was gone, 
 bare and begrimed his knees, 
 Face with blood and dirt disfigured, el- 
 bows peeped from out his sleeves. 
 Rat-tat-tat. upon the en trance, brought 
 Aunt Hannah to the door; 
 Parched lips humbly plead for water. 
 as she scanned his misery o'er; 
 Wrathful came the dame's quick 
 answer: made him cower, shame, 
 and start 
 
 Out of sight, despairing, saddened, 
 hurt and angry to the heart. 
 "Drink! You've had enough you ras- 
 cal! Fough! The smell now makes 
 me sick. 
 
 Move, you thief! leave now these 
 grounds sir, or our dogs will help 
 you quick." 
 Then the man with dragging footsteps 
 hopeless wishing himself dead, 
 
 Crept away from sight of plenty, starved 
 in place of being fed. 
 Wandered farther from the mansion, 
 till he reached a purling brook, 
 
 Babbling, trilling broken music by a 
 green and shady nook, 
 Here sweet Flossie found him fainting; 
 In her hands were food and drink; 
 
 Pale as death lay he before her, yet the 
 childs heart did not shrink; 
 Then the rags from off his forehead 
 she with dainty hands oifatripped; 
 
 In the brooklet's rippling waters her 
 own lace-trimmed 'kerchief dip- 
 ped; 
 
 Then with sweet and holy pity, which, 
 within her, did not daunt, 
 Bathed the blood and grim stained 
 visage of that sin-soiied son of 
 want. 
 Wrung she then the linen cleanly, 
 bandaged up the wound again. 
 E'er the still eyes opened slowly: white 
 lips murmuring, "Am I sane?" 
 "Look, poor man, here's food and 
 drink. Now thank our God be- 
 fore you take," 
 Paused she, mute and undecided, while 
 deep sobs his form did shake 
 W T ith an avalanche of feeling, and 
 great tears came rolling down 
 O'er a face unused to showing aught 
 except a sullen frown: 
 That "Our God" unsealed a fountain 
 his whole life had never known. 
 When that human angel near him spoke 
 of her God his own. 
 "Is it 'cause my auntie grieved you?" 
 quickly did the wee one ask. 
 "I'll tell you my little verse' then,— 'tis 
 a Holy Bible task, — 
 It may help you to forgive her: 
 Love your enemies and those 
 Who despitefully may use you: love 
 them whether friends or foes!" 
 Then she glided from his vision, left 
 him prostrate on the ground 
 Coning o'er and o'er that lesson with a 
 grace to him new found. 
 Sunlight filtering through green 
 branches as they wind-wave dance 
 and dip, 
 Finds a prayer his mother taught him, 
 trembling on his crime stained lip. 
 Hist! a step, an angry mutter, and the 
 owner of the place 
 Gentle Flossie's haughty father and the 
 tramp stood face to lace! 
 "Thieving rascal! you've my daughter's 
 'kerchief bound upon your brow; 
 Off with it, anil cast it down here. 
 Come! be quick about it now." 
 As the man did not obey him, Flos- 
 sies' father lashed his check 
 

 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 With a riding-whip lie carried; struck 
 
 him hard and cut him deep. 
 Quick the tram}) bore down upon 
 
 him, felled him, o'er him where 
 
 he lay 
 liaised a knife to seek his life blood. 
 
 Then there cnme a thought to stay 
 All his angry, murderous impulse, 
 
 caused the knife to shuddering 
 
 fall; 
 
 "He's her father; love your enemies. 
 
 'tis our God reigns over all." 
 At midnight, lamburt, lurid, flames 
 
 light up the sky with fiercest 
 
 flames, 
 Wild cries, "Fire! fire!" ring through 
 
 the air, and red like blood each 
 
 flame now seems. 
 They faster grow, they higher throw 
 
 wierd direful arms which ever 
 
 lean 
 About the gray-stone mansion old. 
 
 Now roars the wind to aid the 
 
 scene; 
 The flames yet. higher, wilder play. 
 
 A shudder runs through all around 
 Distinctly as in light of day, at topmost 
 
 window from the ground 
 Sweet Flossie stands, her golden hair 
 
 enhaloed now by fire lit air, 
 Loud rang the father's cry: "O God! my 
 
 child! my child! will no one dare 
 For her sweet sake the flaming stair? 
 
 "Look! one steps forth with 
 
 mu filed face. 
 Leaps through the flames with fleetest 
 
 feet, on trembling ladder rims a 
 
 race 
 With life and death— the window 
 
 gains. Deep silenoe falls on all 
 
 around 
 Till burst aloud a sobbing wail. The 
 
 ladder falls with crashing sound. 
 
 A flaming, treacherous mass. O God! 
 Look once again. See! on highest 
 roof he stand — the fiery wave 
 
 Fierce rolling sound — his arms en- 
 clasp the child God help him yet 
 to - 
 
 "For life or for eternal sleep." 
 He cries, then makes "a vaulting leap. 
 A tree branch he catches, with sure aim. 
 And by the act proclaimed his name; 
 The air was rent, the cheers rang loud, 
 A rough voice cried from out the crowd 
 "Huzza, my boys, well we know him, 
 None dares that leap but Flying Jim!" 
 The king of gymuasts— poor indeed, 
 Yet o'er them all takes kingly lead. 
 "Do now your worst;" his gasping cry, 
 "Do all your worst, I'm doomed to die; 
 I've breathed the flames, 'twill not be 
 
 long." 
 Then hushed the murmurs through the 
 
 throng. 
 With reverent hands they bore him 
 
 where 
 The summer evening's cooling air 
 Came softly, sighing through the trees; 
 The child's proud father, on his knees 
 Forgiveness sought of God and Jim, 
 Which dying lips accorded him. 
 A mark of whip on white face stirred 
 To gleaming scarlet at the words: 
 '•Forgive them all who use you ill, 
 She taught me that and I fulfill; 
 I would her hand might touch my face, 
 Though she's so pure and I so base." 
 Low Flossie bent and kissed the brow, 
 With smile of bliss transfigured now; 
 Death the angel, sealed it there. 
 'Twas sent to Gad with a mother's 
 
 prayer." 
 
 Custer's Last Charge. 
 
 [At the unvailiBg of the Custer monument at 
 West Point Mr. JohnMcCullough. the distingu- 
 ished tragedian, read the following poem with 
 thrilling power and efi-r 
 
 On through the mist of the morning. 
 
 On through the blinding glare; 
 A hard, rough ride by the Rosebud's 
 
 side. 
 Cutting swathes through the sultry 
 
 air; 
 With tightened girths and with bridles 
 
 tree. 
 Their sabers clattering at the knee; 
 Pistol and carbine ready at hand, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations 
 
 49 
 
 Ami one brave heart in the wide com- 
 mand, 
 
 ftode the sun-browned troopers till eve 
 grew red — 
 
 Rode Custer right at the column's head. 
 
 "Shall rest tonight; by to-morrows sun 
 
 We'll strike the red man's trail. 
 But an hour to breathe till the light is 
 
 won, 
 Till the bright redeeming deed is done; 
 
 Til) the climax caps the tale." 
 A wild, lierce light's in the hero's eyes, 
 
 For a storm is in his soul. 
 Bitter and sweet in the charged, clouds 
 meet. 
 And the soul's low thunders roll; 
 And they roll and repeat as the stars 
 come out: 
 And the troopers spring to their sad- 
 dles once more. 
 
 "Ou by the stars, scan well the trail, 
 
 And miss not an Indian sign." 
 For the dawn is gray and the stars are 
 pale, 
 And hope is high 011 the widened 
 line — 
 The hope, half joy, of the soldier's 
 trust, 
 That wants not trump or drum. 
 "Scatter out, my lads, so the heavy 
 dust 
 Shall not tell the Sioux we come." 
 And the chieftain rode by his brother's 
 twain, 
 And his sister's husband was at his 
 side, 
 And his sister's son drew an easy rein 
 At his heels, as they faced the high 
 divide. 
 
 Again the dark hills around them rise, 
 
 And the cloud of dust beyond 
 Brings the coming tight 'fore the troop- 
 er's eyes 
 
 f^ike the wave of a wizard's wand; 
 And Custer, still at the column's head. 
 
 Spurs on, that none may share 
 The first glance down the river's bed — 
 
 The game he's hunted there. 
 
 "Cross you the river; ride them down; 
 God! how the prancing devils swarm! 
 The squaws shall wail 
 Through the mile-wide vale 
 When sweep we down it like a storm. 
 I with three hundred sabers bright 
 
 Shall meet you on your way. 
 Forward!" Their blades like sudden 
 light 
 Leap out, and carbines cocked, in 
 
 hand, 
 Flash glinting 'long the brave com- 
 mand, 
 And on behind the bluffs they speed 
 With thundering hoofs to do the 
 
 deed 
 Shall bring them higher soldier's 
 meed 
 Than ever fell to warrior band. 
 
 Rough and steep till they reach the 
 crest, 
 Rough and jagged when on the hill; 
 Press on, the swiftest now the best, 
 Here Fame shall drink till she drinks 
 her fill. 
 
 Over the mile-wide valley lowered the 
 cloud of fate. 
 Not the bitter wrong, 
 Not the brave heart strong, 
 Not the wrath of the mighty cher- 
 ished long, 
 Or wild hope elate, 
 Could rob one gloom from the cloud 
 
 that hung 
 Over the bold and over the young, 
 To be their shroud in the name of hate. 
 
 On through the smoke of battle. 
 
 Dimming the blinding glare, 
 A headlong ride from the riverside, 
 Cutting swathes through the red men 
 there; 
 Cutting swathes, but the troopers aie 
 falling — 
 Falling fast, while the swarming foe 
 From the earth and hills seem to 
 grow, 
 And the roar of their riffes appalling- 
 Rolls out in a long thunder rattle. 
 
5Q 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 See! Castor has swerved from the river. 
 "Fire: Make for the hill! We'll have 
 
 Reno soon here." 
 His voice, like a clear trumpet sound, 
 
 without quiver, 
 Is heard by the remnant un fallen. A 
 
 cheer 
 Is their answer, but leaving their cover, 
 Fresh swarms of the Sioux ride down 
 
 on the band. 
 
 On the grim wild ride from the river 
 Three huudred had shrunk to a score; 
 Their track *vas of heroes gore, 
 And heroes corpses that went to rest 
 With spoutiug wounds in the head and 
 
 breast. 
 And with savage foes in their death em- 
 brace — 
 The brave and braves dying face to face. 
 
 Brothers and kinsmen have fallen! 
 
 Doomed Custer stands all but alone, 
 A rampart of dead men around him. 
 
 His last cry his rifle's deep tone! 
 
 On through the smoke of battle, 
 
 With maddening cries on the air, 
 The wild Sioux rushed from the river, 
 
 Like wolves on a man in their lair. 
 Like wolves, and trusting to numbers, 
 They sweep on the desperate few, 
 Who each bade a stern adieu 
 To the tried and trusted aud true. 
 Then died as they stood, ere the on- 
 coming yell 
 Of the savages lifted its chorus from 
 
 hell. 
 Ere their horses' hoofs trampled the 
 
 ramparts dread, 
 The last of the whole command lay 
 
 dead — 
 A sight for the world in pride to scan; 
 W^hile valor and duty led the van, 
 They charged, they struggled, they died 
 to a man. 
 
 But fame will never forget that ride, 
 The wild, mad dash to the river-side, 
 Where trooper and horse in red death 
 
 allied, 
 Near the monument rocks and the 
 
 bloody tide, 
 Where glorious Custer fearlessly died. 
 
 The Kaiserblumen. 
 Have you heard of the Kaiserblumen, 
 
 little children sweet, 
 
 That grows in the iields of Germany, 
 Light waving among the wheat? 
 
 'Tis only a simple flower, 
 
 But were I to try all day, 
 Its grace and charm and beauty 
 
 1 couldn't begin to say. 
 
 By field and wood and roadside, 
 
 Delicate, hardy and bold. 
 It blossoms in wild profusion 
 
 In every color but gold. 
 
 The children love it dearly 
 And with dancing feet they go 
 
 To seek it with song and laughter; 
 And all the people know 
 
 That the Emperor's daughter loved it 
 
 Like any peasant maid; 
 And when she died, her father, 
 
 Stern Kaiser Wilhelm, said: 
 
 "This flower my darling, cherished, 
 Honored and crowned shall be; 
 
 Henceforth 'tis the Kaiserblumen. 
 The flower of Germany." 
 
 Then he bade his soldiers wear it, 
 
 Tied in a gay cockade, 
 And the quaint and humble blossom 
 
 His royal toren made. 
 
 Said little Hans to Gretchen, 
 
 One summer morning fair, 
 As they played in the iields together, 
 
 And sang in the open air; 
 
 "O look at the Kaiserblumen 
 That grows in the grass. so thick! 
 
 Let's gather an arm full, Gretchen, 
 And take to the Emperor, quick! 
 
 "For never were any so beautiful, 
 So blue and so white aud red!" 
 
 So all they could carry they gathered, 
 And thought of the prineess dead.' 
 
 Then under the. blazing sunshine 
 
 They truged o'er the long white react 
 
 That led to the Kaiser's palace 
 With their brightly-nodding load. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 5l 
 
 But long ere the streets of the city 
 They trod with their little feet, 
 
 As hot they grew and as tired 
 As their corn -flowers bright and 
 sweet. 
 
 And Gretchen's checks were rosy, 
 
 With a weary travel stain, 
 And her tangled hair o'er her blue, blue 
 eyes, 
 
 Fell down in a golden rain. 
 
 And at last all the nodding blossoms 
 Their shining heads hung down — 
 
 But, "Cheer up, Gretchen!" cried little 
 Hans, 
 "We've almost reached the town! 
 
 "We'll knock at the door of the palace, 
 
 And won't he be glad to see 
 All the princess's flowers we've brought 
 him! 
 Think, Gretchen, how pleased he'll 
 be!" 
 
 So they plodded patiently onward, 
 And with hands so soft and small 
 
 They knocked at the palace portal, 
 And sweetly did cry and call: 
 
 "Please open the door, O Kaiser! 
 
 We've brought some flowers for you, 
 Our arms full of Kaiserblumen, 
 
 All rosy and white and blue!" 
 
 But nobody heeded or answered, 
 
 'Til, at last a soldier grand 
 Bade the weary wanderers leave the 
 gate, 
 
 W T ith a gruff and stern com nand. 
 
 But "No!" cried the children, weeping; 
 
 Though trembling and sore afraid, 
 And clasping their faded flowers, 
 
 "We must come in!" they said. 
 
 A lofty and splendid presence 
 The echoing stair came down; 
 
 To kuow the king there was no need 
 That he should wear a crown. 
 
 And the cnildren cried: "O Kaiser, 
 We have brought you flowers so far! 
 
 And we are so tired and hungry! 
 See, Emperor, here they are!" 
 
 They held up their withered poeii 
 
 While into the Emperor's face 
 A beautiful light came stealing, 
 
 And he stooped with a stately grace: 
 
 Taking the ruined blossoms, 
 With gentle words and mild 
 
 He comforted with kindness 
 The heart of each trembling child. 
 
 And that was a wonderful glory 
 
 That Jittle ones befell! 
 And when their heads are hoary, 
 
 They still will the story tell — 
 
 How they sat at the Kaiser's table, 
 And dined with princes and kings.. 
 
 In that far-off day of splendor 
 Filled full of marvelous things! 
 
 And home when the sun was setting,. 
 
 The happy twain were sent, 
 In a gleaming golden carriage 
 
 With horses magnificent. 
 
 And like the wildest vision 
 
 Of Fairy-land it seemed; 
 Hardly could Hans and Gretchen 
 
 Believe they had not dreamed. 
 
 And even their children's children 
 
 Eager to hear will be, 
 How they carried to Kaiser Willielm- 
 The flowers of Germany. 
 
 Celia Thaxter, 
 In St. Mchvlax- 
 
 Custer's Last Charge. 
 Frederick Whittaker. 
 Dead! Is it possible? He, the bold' 
 rider, 
 Custer, our hero, the first in the light,. 
 Charming the bullets of yore to fly 
 wider, 
 Shunning our battle-king's ringlets ot" 
 light ! 
 Dead! our young chieftain, and dead all. 
 forsaken! 
 No one to tell us the way of his fall! 
 Slain i;i the desert, and never to waken,. 
 Never, not even to victory's call? 
 
 Comrades, he's gone; but ye need uoU 
 be grieving; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 No, may my death be like his when I 
 die! 
 No regrets wasted on words I am leav- 
 ing, 
 Palling with brave men, and faee to 
 the sky. 
 Death's but a journey, the greatest must 
 take it: 
 Fame is eternal, and better than all; 
 Gold though the bowl be, 'tis fate that 
 must break it, 
 Glory can hallow the fragments that 
 fall. 
 
 Proud for his fame that last day that he 
 met them ! 
 All the night long he had been on 
 their track, 
 Scorning their traps and the men that 
 had set them, 
 Wild for a charge that should never 
 give back. 
 There on the hill-top he halted and saw 
 them, — 
 Lodges all loosened and ready to fly; 
 Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe 
 them, 
 Told of his coming before he was 
 nigh. 
 
 All the wide valley was full of their 
 forces, 
 
 Gathered to cover the lodges' retreat, 
 Warriors running in haste to their 
 horses, 
 Thousands of enemies close to his feet! 
 Down in the valleys the ages had hol- 
 lowed, 
 There lay the Sitting Bull's camp for 
 a prey ! 
 Numbers! What recked he? What 
 recked those who followed? 
 Men who had fought ten to one ere 
 that day? 
 
 Out swept the squadrons, the fated three 
 hundred, 
 Into the battle-line steady and full; 
 Then down the hill-side exultingly 
 thundered 
 Into the hordes of the Old Sitting 
 Bull! 
 
 Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne, 
 Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of 
 their crew, 
 Shrank from that charge like a herd 
 from a lion, 
 Then closed around the great hell of 
 wild Sioux. 
 
 Right to their center he charged, and 
 then, facing — 
 Hark to those yells? and around them, 
 oh, see! 
 Over the hill-tops the devils came rac- 
 ing, 
 Coming as fast as the waves of the 
 sea! 
 Red was the circle of lire about them: 
 No hope of \ietory, no ray of light, 
 Shot through the terrible black cloud 
 without them. 
 Brooding in death over Custer's last 
 tight, 
 
 Then, did he blench? Did he die like 
 a craven, 
 Begging those torturing fiends for his 
 life? 
 Was there a soldier who carried the 
 Seven 
 Flinched like a coward or fled from 
 the strife? 
 No, by the blood of our Custer, no 
 quailing! 
 There in the midst of the devils they 
 close, 
 Rang out his words of encouragement 
 glowing, 
 "We can but die once, boys, sell 
 
 YOUR LIVES DEAR! 
 
 Dearly they sold them, like Berserkers 
 raging, 
 Facing the death that encircled them 
 round; 
 Death's bitter pangs bv their vengeance 
 assuaging, 
 Marking their tracks by their dead 
 on the ground. 
 Comrades, our children shall yet tell 
 their story' — 
 Custer's last charge on the Old Sitting 
 Bull; 
 
Oi.mstead's Recitations. 
 
 53 
 
 And ages shall swear that the cup of his 
 glory 
 Needed but that death to render it 
 full. 
 
 William Tell- 
 "Place there the boy,' 1 the tyrant said: 
 "Fix me the apple on his head. 
 
 Ha! rebel, now! 
 There's a fair mark for your shaft: 
 To yonder shining apple waft 
 An arrow." And the tyrant laughed. 
 
 With quiring brow 
 Bold Tell looked there; his cheek turn- 
 ed pale, 
 His proud lips throbbed as if would fail 
 
 Their quivering breath. 
 "Ha! doth he blanch?" fierce Gesler 
 
 cried, 
 "I've conquered, slave, thy soul of 
 
 pride." 
 No voice to that stern taunt replied — 
 
 All mute as death. 
 "And what the meed?" at length Tell 
 
 asked. 
 "Bold fool, when slaves like 1hee are 
 tasked, 
 It is my will. 
 But that thine eye may keener be, 
 And nerved to such nice archery, 
 If thou cleav'st yon, thou goest free. 
 
 What! pause you still? 
 Give him a bow and arrow there — 
 One shaft — but one." Gleams of des- 
 pair 
 Rush for a moment o'er the Switzer's 
 
 face; 
 Then passed away each stormy trace, 
 And high resolve came in their place. 
 
 Unmoved, yet flushed, 
 "I take thy terms," he muttered low, 
 Grasped eagerly the proffered bow. 
 
 The quiver searched, 
 Sought out an arrow keen and long, 
 Fit for a sinewy arm, and strong. 
 And placed it on the sounding thong 
 
 The touch yew arched. 
 He drew the bow, whilst all around 
 That thronging crowd there was no 
 sound, 
 
 No step, no wold, no breath. 
 All gazed with an unerring eye. 
 To see the fearful arrow fly; 
 The light wind died into a sigh, 
 
 And scarcely Stirred. 
 Afar the boy stood, linn and mute; 
 He saw the strong bow curved to shoot, 
 
 But never moved. 
 He knew the daring coolness of that 
 
 hand, 
 lie knew it was a father scanned 
 
 The boy he loved. 
 The^witzer gazed— the arrow hung, 
 "My only boy!" sobbed on his tongue; 
 
 He could not shoot. 
 "Ha!" cryed the tyrant, "doth he quail? 
 .Mark how his haughty brow grows 
 
 pale!" 
 But a deep voice rung on the gale — 
 
 "shoot, in God's name!" 
 Again the drooping shaft he took, 
 And turned to heaven one burning 
 look, 
 
 Of all doubt reft. 
 "Be firm my boy," Avas all he said. 
 The apple's left the strippling's head; 
 
 Ha! ha! 'tis cleft! 
 And so it was, and Tell was free. 
 Quick the brave boy was at his knee. 
 
 With rosy cheek. 
 His loving arms his boy embrace; 
 But again the tyrant cried in hastp, 
 "An arrow in thy belt is placed; 
 
 What means it? Speak!" 
 The Switzer raised his clenched hand 
 
 high, 
 Whilst lightning flashed across his eve 
 
 Incessantly, 
 "To smite thee, tyrant, to the heart, 
 Had heaven willed it that my dart 
 
 Had touched my boy." 
 "Rebellion! treason! chain the slave!" 
 A hundred swords around him wave. 
 Whilst hate to Gesler's features gave 
 
 Infuriate joy. 
 But that one arrow found its goal. 
 Hid with revenge in Gesler's soul; 
 
 And Lucerne's lake 
 Heaid his dastard soul outmoan 
 When Freedom's call abroad was blown, 
 
54 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Ami Switzerland, a giant grown, 
 
 Her fetters brake. 
 From hill to hill the mandate flew 
 From lake to lake the tempest grew, 
 
 With wakening swell, 
 Till proud oppression crouched for 
 
 shame, 
 And Austria's haughtiness grew tame; 
 And Freedom's watchword was the 
 name 
 
 Of William Tell. 
 
 The Minuet. • 
 
 •Grandma told me all about it. 
 
 Told me so I could not doubt it, 
 How she danced, my grandma,long ago! 
 
 How she held her pretty head, 
 How her dainty skirts she spread, 
 
 How she turned her little toes, 
 Smiling little human Rose, long ago. 
 
 Grandma's hair was bright and shining. 
 Dimpled cheeks too; ah! how funny! 
 
 Bless me, now she wears a cap, 
 
 My grandma does and takes a nap 
 every single day; 
 
 Yet she danced the minuet long a go; 
 
 Now she sits there rocking, rocking 
 Always knitting grandpa's stockings. 
 
 Every girl was taught to knit, long ago. 
 But her figure is so neat, 
 
 And her ways so staid and sweet, 
 I can almost see her now, 
 
 Bending to her partner's bow, long ago. 
 
 "Grandma says our modern jumping, 
 Rushing, whirling, dashing, bumping, 
 
 Would have shocked the gentle people, 
 long ago. 
 No! the} T moved with stately grace 
 
 Everything in proper place, 
 Gliding slowly forward, then 
 
 Slowly courtesying back again, long ago. 
 
 Modern ways are quite alarming, 
 grandma says. 
 But boys were charming — 
 Girls and boys I mean of course, long 
 ago. 
 Sweetly modest, bravely shy! 
 What if all of us should try 
 
 Just to feel like those who met 
 In the stately Minuet, long ago. 
 
 With the Minuet in fashion 
 
 Who could fly into a passion? 
 All would wear the calm they wore 
 long ago. 
 And if in years to come, perchance 
 I tell my grandchild of our dance 
 
 I should really like to say, 
 We did it in some such way, long ago, 
 long ago. 
 
 "Rock of Ages." 
 
 "Rock of ages, cleft for me," 
 • Thoughtlessly the maiden sung; 
 Fell the words unconsciously 
 
 From her girlish, gleeful tongue; 
 Sang as little children sing; 
 
 Sang as sing the birds in June; 
 Fell the words like light leaves down 
 
 On the current of the tune — 
 "Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
 
 Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 "Let me hide myself in Thee," — 
 
 Felt her soul no need to hide — 
 Sweet the song as song could be, 
 
 And she had no thought beside; 
 All the words unheedingly 
 
 Fell from lips untouched by care, 
 Dreaming not that they might be 
 
 On some other lips a prayer — 
 "Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
 
 Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 '•Rock of ages, cleft for me," — 
 
 'Twas a woman sung them now, 
 Pleadingly and prayerfully, 
 
 Every word her heart did know. 
 Rose the song as storm-tossed bird 
 
 Beats with weary wing the air, 
 Every note with sorrow stirred, 
 
 Every syllable a prayer — 
 "Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
 
 Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 "Rock of ages, cleft for me," — 
 Lips grown aged sung the hymn 
 
 Trustingly a d tenderly, 
 
 Voice grown weak and eyes grown 
 dim — 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 55 
 
 "Let me hide myself in Thee," 
 
 Trembling though the voice and low, 
 Kan the sweet strain peacefully, 
 
 Like a river in its flow; 
 Sang as only they can sing 
 
 Who life's thorny path have prest; 
 Sang as only they can sing 
 
 Who behold the promised rest — 
 "■Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
 
 Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 "Rock of ages, cleft for me," — 
 
 Sung above a coffin lid; — 
 Underneath all restfully, 
 
 All life's joys aud sorrows hid; 
 Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul! 
 
 Nevermore from wind or tide, 
 Nevermore from billow's roll 
 
 Wilt thou need thyself to hide. 
 Could the sightless, sunken eyes,! 
 
 Closed beneath the soft gray hair, 
 Could the mute and stiffened lips 
 
 Move again in pleading prayer, 
 Still, aye, still, the words would be, — 
 
 "Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 [Lines enclosed in quotations to be 
 sung.) 
 
 The Last Hymn. 
 
 Marianne Fakningham. 
 
 The Sabbath day was endiug in a vil- 
 lage by the sea, 
 
 The uttered benediction touched the 
 people tenderly, 
 
 And they rose to face the sunset in the 
 glowing, lighted west, 
 
 And then hastened to their dwellings 
 for God's blessed boon of rest. 
 
 But they looked across the waters, and 
 a storm was raging there; 
 
 -A fierce spirit moved above them — the 
 wild spirit of the air— 
 
 And it lashed, and shook, and tore 
 them till they thundered, groaned 
 and boomed, 
 
 Ami, alas! for any vessel in their yawn- 
 ing gulfs entombed. 
 
 Very anxious were the people on that 
 rocky coast of Wales, 
 
 Lest the dawn of coming morrows should 
 
 be telling awful tales, 
 When the sea had spent its passion and 
 
 should cast upon the shore 
 Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as 
 
 it had done heretofore. 
 
 With the rough winds blowing round 
 
 her a brave woman strained her 
 
 eyes, 
 As she saw along the billows a large 
 
 vessel fall and rise. 
 Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell 
 
 what the end must be, 
 For no ship could ride in safety near 
 
 that shore in such a sea. 
 
 Then the pitjing people hurried from 
 
 their homes and thronged the 
 
 beach. 
 Oh, for power to cross the waters and 
 
 the perishing to reach! 
 Helpless hands were wrung in terror, 
 
 tender hearts grew cold with 
 
 dread. 
 Aud the ship urged by the tempest to 
 
 the fatal rock-shore sped. 
 
 "She's parted in the middle! Oh, the 
 
 half of her goes down! 
 God have mercy! Is His heaven far to 
 
 seek for those who drown? 
 Lo! when next the white, shocked faces 
 
 looked with terror on the sea, 
 Only one last clinging figure on a spar 
 
 was seen to be. 
 
 Nearer to the trembling watchers came 
 
 the wreck tossed by the wave, 
 Aud the man still clung and floated, 
 
 though no power on earth could 
 
 sa\ e. 
 "Could we send him a short message? 
 
 Here's a trumpet, shout away! 
 'Twas Hie preacher's hand that took it, 
 
 aud he wondered what to say. 
 
 Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? 
 
 Secondly? Ah, no. 
 There was but one thing to utter in 
 
 that awful hour of woe. 
 So he shouted through the trumpet, 
 
 "Look to Jesus! Can you hear?" 
 
56 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Ami "Aye. aye, sir* 1 rang the answer 
 
 o'er the waters loud and clear. 
 
 Then they listened, "lie is singing, 'Je- 
 sus, lover of my soul.' " 
 
 And the winds brought back the echo, 
 "While the nearer waters roll." 
 
 Strange indeed it was to hear him, "Till 
 the storm of life is past," 
 
 Singing bravely o'er the waters. "Oh. 
 receive my soul at last." 
 
 He could have no other refuge, "Hangs 
 
 my helpless soul on thee." 
 "Leave, oh: leave me not" — the singer 
 
 dropped at last into the sea. 
 And the watchers lookiug homeward. 
 
 through their eyes by tears made 
 
 dim, 
 Said, '"He passed to be with Jesus in the 
 
 singing of that hymn." 
 
 Money Musk. 
 
 Ah. the buxom girls that helped the 
 
 boys — 
 The nobler Helens of humbler Troys — 
 As they stripped the husks with rustling 
 
 fold 
 From eight-rowed corn as yellow as 
 
 gold, 
 
 By the caudle-light, in pumpkin bowls, 
 And the gleams that showed fantastic 
 
 holes 
 In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin, 
 From the hermit glim set up within; 
 
 By the rarer light in girlish eyes 
 As dark as wells, or as blue as skies, 
 I hear the laugh when the ear is red. 
 I see the blush with the forfeit paid. 
 The cedar cakes with the ancient twist, 
 Ths cider cup that the girls have kissed; 
 And I see the fiddler through the dusk 
 As he twangs the Ghost of "Money 
 Musk!" 
 
 The boys and girls in a double row 
 Wait face to face till the magic bow 
 Shall whip the tune from the violin, 
 And the pulse of merry feet begin. 
 
 MONEY MUSK. 
 
 In shirt of check, and tallowed hair, 
 The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair 
 Like Moses' basket stranded there 
 
 On the brink of Father Nile. 
 He feels the iiddle's slender neck, 
 Picks out the note, with thrum and 
 
 check; 
 And times the tune with nod aud beck, 
 
 And thinks it a weary while. 
 All read}'! Now he gives the call, — 
 Cries, "Honor to the ladies!" All 
 The jolly tides of laughter fall 
 
 And ebb in a happy smile. 
 
 "Begin.," D-o-w-n comes the bow on 
 
 every string. 
 "First couple join hands and swing!" 
 As light as an\~ blue-bird's wing — 
 
 Swing once and a half times round" 
 Whirls Mary Martin all in blue — 
 Calico gown and stockings new, 
 And tinted eyes that tell you true. 
 
 Dance all to the dancing sound, 
 
 She flits about big Moses Brown, 
 
 Who holds her hands to keep her down 
 
 And thinks her hair a golden brown, 
 
 Aud his heart turns over once! 
 His cheek with Mary's breath is wet,— 
 It gives a second somerset! 
 He means to win the maiden yet, 
 
 Alas for the awkward dance! 
 
 "Your stoga boot has crushed my toe! 
 I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe! 
 You clumsy fellow! 1 ' "Pass below" 
 
 And the first pair dance apart. 
 Then "Forward six!" advance, retreat, 
 Like midges gay in sunbeam street. 
 'Tis Money Musk by merry feet 
 
 And the Money Musk by heart! 
 
 "Three quarters round your partner 
 
 swing!" 
 "Across the set!" The rafters ring. 
 The girls and boys have taken wing 
 
 And have brought their roses out! 
 'Tis "Forward six!" with rustic grace, 
 Ah, rarer far than— "Swing to place!' 1 
 Than golden clouds of old point-lace 
 
 They bring the dance about. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 57 
 
 Then clasping hands, all— "Right and 
 left!" — 
 
 AH swiftly weave the measures deft 
 
 Across the wool" in loving weft, 
 
 And the Money Musk is done! 
 Oh, dancers of the rustling husk! 
 Good night, sweet hearts, 'tis growing 
 
 dusk, — 
 Good nighl for aye to Money Musk, 
 For the heavy march begun! 
 
 Benj. F. Taylor. 
 
 The Engineers' Making Love. 
 
 It's noon when "Thirty-live" is due, 
 An' she comes on time, like a flash of 
 light, 
 An' yon hear her whistle, "Toot-tee- 
 too I 1 ' 
 Long 'fore the pilot swings in sight. 
 Bill Maddon's drivin' her in to-day,' 
 An' he's callin' his sweetheart, far 
 away — 
 Gertrude Hard— lives down by the mill 
 You might see her blushin'; she knows 
 it's Bill. 
 "Tu-die! Toot-ee! Tu-die! Tu!" 
 
 Six-five A. M. there's a local comes — 
 
 Makes up at Bristol, runnin' east; 
 An' the way her whistle sings an' hums 
 
 Is a livin' caution to man an' beast. 
 Every one knows who Jack White calls 
 
 Little Lou Woodbury, down by the 
 Falls; 
 Summer or winter, always the same, 
 
 She hears her lover callin' her name — 
 "Lou-ie! Lou-ie! Loo-ie! 
 
 At six-fifty-eight yon can hear "Twenty- 
 one" 
 Go thunderin' west, and of all the 
 screams 
 That ever startled the rising sun, 
 
 Jehu Davis sends into your dreams; 
 But I don't mind it; it makes me grin — 
 For just down here, where the creek 
 lets in, 
 His wife, Jerusha, can hear him call, 
 
 Loud as the throat of brass can bawl, 
 Jeee-rooo-shee! Jehoo!" 
 
 But at the (tin 1 -tifty-one old "Sixty-four', 
 Boston Express runs oast, clear 
 
 through— 
 Drowns her rattle and rumble and roar 
 With the softest, whistle that ever 
 blew; 
 An' away on the furthest edge of the 
 town, 
 Sweet Sue Winthrop's eyes of brown 
 Shine like the starlight, bright an' clear, 
 When she hears the whistle of Abel 
 Gear — 
 "You-ou-ou, Su-u-u-u-e!" 
 
 An' 'long at midnight a freight comes in, 
 
 Leaves Berlin some time — I don't 
 know when — 
 But it rumbles along with a fearful dim, 
 
 Till it reaches the Y-switeh there, and 
 then 
 The clearest notes of the softest bell 
 
 That out of a bra/en goblet fell, 
 Wake Nellie Mtnton out of her dreams — 
 
 To her like a wedding bell it seems — 
 "Nell, Nell, Nell! Nell, Nell, Nell!" 
 
 An' somewhere late in the afternoon, 
 You'll see "Thirty-seven" go streakin' 
 west; 
 It's local from Hartford; same old tune 
 Now sat for the girl that loves him 
 best. 
 Tom Wilson rides on the right-hand, 
 side 
 Givin' her steam at every stride; 
 An' he touches the whistle low and 
 clear, 
 For Lulu Gray, on the hill, to hear — 
 "Lu-lu! Loo-Loo!" 
 
 So it goes on all day an' all night, 
 Till the old folk have voted the thing 
 a bore; 
 Old m«ids and bachelors say it aiut 
 right 
 For folks to do courtin' with such a 
 roar. 
 But the engineers theirs kisses will blow 
 From a whistle-valve, to the girls they 
 know. 
 An' the stokers the name of their sweet- 
 hearts tell 
 
58 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 With the Belle! Nell! Dell! of the 
 swaying bell. 
 
 Robert J. Burdette. 
 
 Jesus, Lover of my Soul. 
 
 •Jesus lover of 1113- soul, 
 Let me to thy bosom fly; 
 
 While the billows near me roll, 
 While the tempest still is nigh" — 
 
 Carelessly a little child, 
 
 In the sunshine, at her play, 
 
 Lisping sang, and sweetly smiled 
 On a joyous April day. 
 
 Sang with laughter, light and droll- 
 Sang with mirth in each blue eye: 
 
 "Jesns, lover of my soul. 
 Let me to thy bosom fly:" 
 
 "Hide me, O my Savior, hide, 
 
 Till the storm of life is past, 
 Safe into the haven guide, 
 
 Oh, receive my soul at last!" 
 Sang a maiden with a face 
 
 Free from look of earthly care. 
 With a form of faultless grace, 
 
 With a wreath of golden hair — 
 Saug with heart by grief untried, 
 
 Sang with no regretful past: 
 "Safe into the haven guide, 
 
 Oh, reeeive my soul at last:" 
 
 "Other refuge, have I none — 
 
 Hangs my helpless soul on Thee, 
 Leave, oh! leave me not alone — 
 
 Still support and comfort me!" 
 Sang a mother, while she bowed 
 
 O'er her babe, as it lay 
 Wrapped within a snowy shroud 
 
 On a dreary autumn day. 
 Sang of hopes forever flown — 
 
 Sang of eyes that could not see — 
 "Leave, oh! leave me not alone, 
 
 Still support and comfort me:" 
 
 "All my trust on Thee is stayed, 
 Ail my help from Thee I bring, 
 
 Cover my defenseless head 
 Witli the shadow of Thy wing." 
 
 Faint ami weary in the race, 
 In death's winter evening gray, 
 
 With a sweet, angelie face, 
 
 Dreamed a woman— far away; 
 As the feeble twilight fled 
 
 Angels seemed with her to sing. 
 "Cover my defenseless head 
 
 With the shadow of Thy wing:" 
 
 "Jesus, lovers of my soul. 
 
 Let me to Thy bosom fly. 
 While the billows near me roll. 
 
 While the tempest still is nigh:" 
 Ah, how soon our hopes decay — 
 
 We must suffer and eudure, 
 Strive and struggle as we may. 
 
 Life is short, and death is sure 
 We may hear the anthems roll 
 
 Through the starry realms on high. 
 "Jesus, lover of my soul. 
 
 Let me to Thy bosom fly:'' 
 
 Eugene J. Hall. 
 
 [Lines enclosed in quotations io be 
 sung.] 
 
 Sister and I. 
 We were hunting for wintergreen hemes 
 
 One May-day, long gone by, 
 Out on the rocky cliff's edge, 
 
 Little sister and I. 
 Sister had hair like the sunbeams; 
 
 Black as a crow's wing, mine; 
 Sister had blue, dove's eyes; 
 
 Wicked, black eyes are mine- 
 Why, see how my eyes are faded — 
 
 And my hair, it is white as snow: 
 And thin, too: don't you see it is? 
 
 I tear it sometimes; so: 
 There, don't hold my hands. Maggie, 
 
 I dou't feel like tearing it now. 
 But — where was I in my story? 
 
 Oh, I was telling you how 
 Wewere looking for wintergreen berries 
 
 Twas one bright morning in May. 
 And the moss-grown roeks were slippery 
 
 With the rains of yesterday. 
 But I was cross that morning. 
 
 Though the sun shone ever so bright— 
 And when sister found the most berries. 
 
 I was angry enough to tight: 
 And when she laughed at my pouting — 
 
 We were little things you know — 
 1 clinched my little tist up tight. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 59 
 
 And struck her the biggest blow! 
 I struck her — I tell you — I struck her, 
 
 And she fell right over below — 
 There, there, Maggie, I wont rave now; 
 
 You needn't hold me so— 
 She went right over, I tell you, 
 
 Down, down to the depths below! 
 'Tis deep and dark and horrid 
 
 There, where the waters How! 
 She fell right over, moaning, 
 "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so sad, 
 That, when I looked down affrighted, 
 
 It drove me mad— mad! 
 Only her golden hair streaming 
 
 Out on the rippling wave, 
 Only her little hand reaching 
 
 Up for someone to save ; 
 And she sank clown in the darkness, 
 
 I never saw her again, 
 And this world is a chaos of blackness 
 
 And darkness and grief since then. 
 No more playing together 
 
 Down on the pebbly strand; 
 Nor building our doll's stone castles 
 
 With halls and parlors grand; 
 No more fishing with bent p'ns, 
 
 In the little brook's clear waves; 
 No more holding funerals 
 
 O'er dead canaries' graves; 
 No more walking together * 
 
 To the log school-house each morn; 
 No more vexing the master 
 
 With putting his rules to scorn; 
 No more feediug of white lambs 
 
 With milk from the foaming pail; 
 No more playing "see-saw"' 
 
 Over the fence of rail; 
 No more telling of stories 
 After we've gone to bed; 
 Nor talking of ghosts and goblins 
 Till we fairly shiver with dread; 
 No more whispering fearfully 
 
 And hugging each other tight, 
 When the shutters shake and the dogs 
 howl 
 In the middle of the night; 
 No more saying "Our Father," 
 Kneeling by mother's knee— 
 For, Maggie, I struck sister! 
 And mother is dead, you sec. 
 
 Maggie, sister's an angel, 
 Isn't she? Isn't it true? 
 For angels have golden tresfi 
 
 And eyes like sister's, blue? 
 Now my hair isn't golden, 
 
 My eyes aren't blue, you see — 
 Now tell me, Maggie if I were to die, 
 
 Could they make an angel of me? 
 You say, "Oh, yes;" you think so? 
 
 Well, then, when I come to die, 
 We'll play up there, In God's garden — 
 
 We'll play there, sister and I. 
 Now, Maggie, you needn't eye me, 
 
 Because I'm talking so queer; 
 Because I'm talking so strangely; 
 
 You needn't have the least fear. 
 Somehow I'm feeling to-night, Maggie, 
 
 As I never felt before — 
 I'm sure, I'm sure of it, Maggie, 
 
 I never shall rave any more. 
 Maggie, yon know how these long years 
 
 I've heard her calling, so sad, 
 "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so mournful 
 
 It always drives me mad! 
 How the winter wind shrieks down the 
 chimney, 
 
 "Bessie oh, Bessie!" oh! oh!" 
 How the south wind wails at the case- 
 ment, 
 
 "Bessie, oh, Bessie," so low. 
 But most of all when the May-days 
 
 Come back, with the flowers and the 
 sun. 
 How the night-bird, singing, all lonely, 
 
 "Bessie, oh, Bessie," loth moan; 
 You know how it sets me raving — 
 
 For she moaned, "Oh Bessie just so, 
 That ti mo I struck little sister, 
 
 On the ay-day long ago. 
 Now, Maggie, I've something to tell 
 you— 
 
 You know May-day is here — 
 Well, this very morning, at sunrise, 
 
 The robins chirped "Bessie!" so clear 
 All day long the wee birds, singing, 
 
 Perched on the garden wall, 
 Called "Bessie, oh, Bessie!" so sweetly, 
 
 I couldn't feel sorry at all. 
 Now, Maggie, I've something to tell you 
 
 Let me lean up to you close — 
 Do you see how the sunset has Hooded 
 
<3o 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 The heavens with yellow and rose? 
 Do you see o'er the gilded cloud moun- 
 tains 
 Sister's golden hair streaming out? 
 Do yon see her little hand beckoning? 
 Do you hear her little voice calling 
 out 
 "Bessie, oh, Bessie !' ' so gladly, 
 "Bessie, oh, Bessie! Come, hast- 
 
 Yes, sister, I'm coming; I'm coming, 
 To play in God's garden at last! 
 
 Searching for the Slain- 
 
 Hold the lantern aside, and shudder not 
 so; 
 There's more blood to see than this 
 stain on the snow; 
 There are pools of it, lakes of it, just 
 over there, 
 And fixed faces all streaked, and 
 crimson-soaked hair. 
 Did yon think, when we came, you and 
 I, out to-night 
 To search for our dead, you would 
 see a fair sight? 
 
 You, re his wife; you love him — you 
 think so; and I 
 Am only his mother; my boy shall 
 not lie 
 In a ditch with the rest, while my arms 
 can bear 
 His form to a grave that mine own 
 may soon share. 
 
 So, if your strength fails, best go sit by 
 the hearth, 
 While his mother alone seeks his bed 
 on the earth. 
 
 You will go! then no fainting! Rive 
 me the light, 
 And follow my foot-steps, — my heart 
 will lead right. 
 Ah, God! what is here? a great heap of 
 the slain, 
 All mangled and gory! — what horri- 
 ble pain 
 These beings have died in! Dear moth- 
 ers, ye weep, 
 Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terri- 
 ble sleep! 
 
 More! more! Ah! 1 thought I could 
 nevermore know 
 Grief, horror, or pity, for aught, here 
 below, 
 Since I stood in the porch and heard 
 his chief tell 
 How brave was my son, how he gal- 
 lantly fell. 
 Did they think I cared then to see offi- 
 cers stand 
 Before my great sorrow, each hat in 
 eactuhand? 
 
 Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence 
 nor fright. 
 That your red hauds turn over to- 
 ward this dim light 
 These dead men that stare so? Ah, if 
 you had kept 
 Your senses this morning ere his com- 
 rades had left. 
 You had heard that his place was worst 
 of th :m all, — 
 Not mid the stragglers, — where he 
 fought he would fall. 
 
 There's the moon thro' the clouds: O 
 Christ, what a scene! 
 Dust thou from thy heavens o'er such 
 visions lean, 
 And still call this cursed world a foot- 
 stool of thine? 
 Hark, a groan! there another, — here 
 in this line 
 Piled close on each other! Ah, here is 
 the flag, 
 Torn, dripping with gore; — bah! they 
 died for this rag. 
 
 Here's the voice that we seek: poor 
 soul, do not start; 
 We're women, not ghosts. What a 
 gash o'er the heart! 
 Is there aught we can do? A message 
 to give 
 To any beloved one? I swear, if I 
 
 live, 
 To take it for sake of the words my 
 boy said: 
 "Home,' 1 "mother," "wife," ere he reel* 
 ed down 'mong the dead. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 61 
 
 But, first, can you toll where his regi- 
 ment stood? 
 Speak, Speak, man, Of point; 'twas 
 the Ninth. Oh, the blood 
 Is chokiug his voice! What a look of 
 despair! 
 There, lean on my knee, while I put 
 back the hair 
 From eyes so fast glazing. Oh. my 
 darling, my own, 
 My hands were both idle when you 
 died alone, 
 
 He's dying— lie's dead! Close his lids, 
 
 let us go. 
 God's peace on his soul! Tf we only 
 
 could know 
 Where our own de ir one lies! — my soul 
 
 has turned sick; 
 Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie 
 
 here so thick V 
 I cannot! I cannot! How eager you 
 
 aie! 
 One might think you were nursed on 
 
 the red lap of War. 
 
 He's not here, — and not here. What 
 wild hopes flash through 
 My thoughts, as foot-deep I stand in 
 this dread dev\, 
 And cast up a prayer to the blue quiet 
 sky! 
 Was it you, girl, that shrieked? Ah! 
 what face doth lie 
 Upturned toward me there, so rigid and 
 white? 
 O God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream. 
 My old sight 
 
 Is dimmed with these horrors. My son! 
 oh my son! 
 Would I had died for thee, my own, 
 only one! 
 There, lift off your arms; let him come 
 to the breast 
 AVhere first he was 1 idled, with my 
 soul's hymn, to rest. 
 Your heart never thrilled to your lover's 
 fond kiss 
 As mine to his baby-touch; was it for 
 this? 
 
 He was yours, too; he loved you? Yes, 
 yes, you're right . 
 Forgive me, my daughter, I'm mad- 
 dened to-night ! 
 Don't moan so, dear child; you're 
 young, and your years 
 May still hold fair hopes; but the old 
 die of tears. 
 Yes, take him again; — ah! don't lay 
 your face there; 
 See the blood from his wound has 
 stained your loose hair. 
 How quiet you are! Has she fainted? — 
 her cheek 
 Is cold as his own. Say a word to me, 
 — speak! 
 Am 1 crazed? Has her heart broke 
 first? 
 Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine 
 is worst. 
 I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with 
 these dead; 
 Those corpses are stirring; God help 
 my poor head. 
 
 I'll sit by my children until the men 
 come 
 To bury the others, and then we'll go 
 home. 
 Why, the slain are all dancing! Dear- 
 est, don't move, 
 Keep away from my boy; he's guard- 
 ed by love. 
 Lullably, lullably; sleep, sweet darling, 
 sleep! 
 God and thy mother will watch o'er 
 thee keep. 
 
 The Country Dance- 
 Joe Jot, Jr. 
 
 "Take your places." Goodness gracious 
 Don't go like a flock of gce<r. 
 
 "Honors all.'' Keziah Muggins 
 Take your hat off; if you please, 
 
 "Forvard four aud back again." 
 Jerry, round the other way! 
 
 "Balance all, Jake how you topple, 
 Have you lost your balance, say? 
 
62 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 "Lemonade all." Bless me Hiram, 
 Don't kick up your heels so high! 
 
 "Swing your partners." John aud Sally 
 Stop your kissin' on the sly. 
 
 •Right and left all round." Not that 
 way, 
 
 You are getting mixed up there. 
 "Sashay all." Your cornfield gaiters 
 
 Make more noise than I can bear. 
 
 "Forward two aud back again." 
 Jim don't throw yourself away! 
 Dos-a-dos." Don't get excited; 
 Keep your coats on, boys, I pray. 
 
 'Gentlemen balance to the right." 
 There, your all are jumping wrong! 
 
 'Half lemonade. " Uriah Williams, 
 Don't you think you're going it strong? 
 
 'Hands all round." Now mind your 
 eye there, — 
 
 Jake yon have never danced before. 
 'Ladies change." Oh, Polly Simmons, 
 
 There you go upon the floor! 
 
 'Forward four and back agaiu," — 
 
 Stop, until I rosin my bow, 
 'Ladies balance to the right." 
 
 Caleb Short don't stub your toe. 
 
 •Gentlemen balance to the left." 
 S ~ap, there goes my little string. 
 
 'Balance to your partners.,' So, — 
 Hez, quit pinching Polly King. 
 
 'Lemonade all." It's getting hot here. 
 Cale, you dance like climbing up- 
 stairs. 
 Ladies — " There my E string's 
 
 busted, — 
 "Swing your partners to their chairs. 
 
 The Pride of Battery B. 
 
 South Mountain towered on our right, 
 
 far off the river lay, 
 And over on the wooded height we 
 
 held their lines at bay. 
 At last the muttering guns are still; 
 
 the day died slow and wan; 
 At last the gunners' pipes did rill, the 
 
 sargeant's yarns began. 
 
 When, as the wiud a moment blew^ 
 
 aside the fragrant flood 
 Our brierwoods raised, within our view 
 
 a little maiden stood. 
 A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside- 
 fresh she seemed. 
 Of such a little one at home oue soldier 
 
 often dreamed. 
 And as we stared, her little hand went 
 
 to her curly head 
 In grave salute. "And who are you?" 
 
 at length the sargeant said: 
 "And where's your home?" he growled 
 
 again. She lisped out, "Who is 
 
 me? 
 Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, 
 
 the Pride of Batiery B. 
 My home! Why. that was burned 
 
 away, and pa and ma are dead; 
 AndsoLride the guns all day along 
 
 with Sargeant Ned. 
 And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap. 
 
 with feathers too; 
 And I march beside the drummer boy 
 
 on Sundays at review. 
 But now our 'bacca's all give out, the- 
 
 men can't have their smoke, 
 And so they're cross — why even Ned 
 
 won't play with me and joke. 
 And the big colonel said to-day — I hate 
 
 to hear him swear, 
 He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the 
 
 Yank had over there. 
 And so I thought when beat the drum, 
 
 and the big guns were stiil, 
 I'd creep beneath the tent and come out 
 
 here across the hill, 
 And beg, good Mister Y r ankee men, 
 
 to give me some 'Lone Jack.' 
 Please do; when we get some again, I'll 
 
 surely bring it back. 
 Indeed I will, for Ned — says he — if I 
 
 do what 1 say, 
 I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a 
 
 prancing bay." 
 We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you 
 
 should have heard her laugh 
 As each man from his scanty store 
 
 shook out a generous half. 
 To kiss the little mouth stooped down 
 a score of grim\ T men. 
 
Oi.mstead's Recitations. 
 
 63 
 
 Until the sargeant's husky voice said, 
 
 '"Tention squad!' 1 and then 
 Wt gave her escort, till good-night the 
 
 pretty waif we bi i, 
 And Watched her toddle out of sight — 
 
 Or else 'twas tears that hid 
 Her tiny form — nor turned about a 
 
 man, nor spoke a word, 
 Till after a while a far, hoarse shout 
 
 upon the wind we heard? 
 We sent it back, then east sad eyes up- 
 on the scene around; 
 A baby's hand had touched the ties that 
 
 brothers once had bound. 
 That's all — save when the dawn -awoke 
 
 again the work of hell, 
 And through the sullen clouds of smoke 
 
 the screaming missies fell, 
 Our general often rubbed his glass, 
 
 and marveled much to. see 
 Not a single shell that whole day fell 
 
 in the camp of Battery B. 
 
 The Widow' 8 Lamp. 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE SANDS. 
 AGUSTA MOOKE. 
 
 Over the ribs of the salt sea sand, 
 Far, far out from the sheltered land, 
 Feet uncovered and free of limb, 
 Danced she into the sea-mist dim; 
 Angela Rainor, the widow's light, 
 The lone bright star in a heavy night. 
 
 Over the sands, with a wild, sweet song, 
 Light as a beach- bird, she skimmed 
 
 along, 
 Seeking for shells that were left behind 
 When the tide went out; and in hope 
 
 to find 
 Scallops and crabs, and some razor-fish, 
 To make for her mother a savory dish. 
 
 "I'm a long way out" said the little 
 
 maid; 
 But then I'm never the least afraid; 
 At any time I can hurry back, 
 I can find the shore by my own plain 
 
 track. 
 Oh! But 'tis nice to be out by the sea! 
 A mermaid how I would love to be; 
 
 To dart, with the fishes up and down. 
 To frolic and caper and never drown. " 
 
 "Ilillo! small mesmate," called Uncle 
 
 Jim, 
 The whaler, just from a glorious swim 
 Out by the breakers not far away, 
 "What luck, Sand Piper, in fishing to- 
 day?" 
 'Basket brimful, sir, and there it stands,' 
 She pointed back o'er the misty sands; 
 Dimly he saw it, safe and high, 
 On a lofty rock that was always dry. 
 
 "Good! littleanessmate. But don't stay 
 
 long, 
 The tide will be turning and setting in 
 
 strong. 
 I heard the sea-witches out there in the 
 
 spray 
 Tell how they were brewing a tough 
 
 storm to-day." 
 
 "I'm going soon, sir." Her brown hand 
 
 she kissed 
 With the grace of a princess, and van- 
 ished in mist. . 
 He heard in the waters the splash of 
 
 her feet, 
 And as he went shoreward her voice, 
 
 faintly sweet,' 
 Came back on the wind that blew inland 
 
 the foam, 
 [Sing.] 
 "Yes, yes, I am going, I'm soon going 
 
 home. 
 But not just this minute," thus low to 
 
 herself, 
 Playing ''catch" with the waves, sang 
 
 the beautiful elf. 
 "Go home, Captain Jim, but be sure 
 
 you don't tell 
 That you found me so near where the 
 
 loud breakers swell." 
 
 The tiny waves rolled as in play o'er 
 
 her feet, 
 And upward they leaped, as if trying 
 
 to meet 
 The touch of her hand. Then tiny 
 
 broke on the strand. 
 Each one just a little nearer the land. 
 How happy the child! how intent her 
 
 play! 
 
64 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Till a sudden rough wave dashed her The gay Susan Jaue was his joy and his 
 
 over with spray. pride, 
 
 Then startled she listened. None rear- A beautiful yacht, and the captain's s 
 
 ed on the shore bride. 
 
 That knows not too well what is meant :T think I will wait for Sand Piper/* 
 
 by that roar. said he; 
 
 'T must run for my basket and hurry to "A woman worth having I reckon she'll 
 
 land/' be. 
 
 Oh: where was the rock? where the My eyes!" he said earnestly, "how she 
 
 tracks in the sand ? can sing! 
 
 Fast over her gathered the mists more I'm glad she's safe under her good 
 
 and more. mother s wing— 
 
 And louder and nearer that terrible "God a' mercy!" he shouted in sudden 
 
 roar; a fright. 
 
 The breakers were booming and bellow- While chattered his teeth, and his brown 
 
 ing near, face grew white. 
 
 And blinded by spray, she was fainting As something was thrown by the waves 
 
 with fear. at his feet. 
 
 '•Oh, mother!'' she cried in her anguish With seaweed and grass for its wet 
 
 and pain, winding-sheet: 
 
 '"My mother! I never shall see you With seaweed and grass in its long, 
 
 again. clinging hair, 
 
 My basket, all tilled for your sake, will It was cast at his feet as if left in his 
 
 be found; care. 
 
 But. O my dear mother, your child will Great sobs from his breast told how 
 
 be drowned " grievous his pain. 
 
 Wide on the waves spread her long And tears down his N" 1 "** 1 ™* 1 ^ eeks 
 
 locks of gold,— rushed like rain - 
 
 To sad widow Kainor a treasure un- The sea grass he brushed from thf 
 
 to ] c ] form away, 
 
 And the hungry salt billows that sway- And tender] ~ v ™P ed from the fair face 
 
 ed her hair, lhe "P"*- 
 
 Dashed foam on the lovely face lifted in ' M ^ poor little m ^ m * te -" he choking- 
 
 praj ] y said; 
 
 As Angela, standing breast-high in the "* thoil g ht * T0U with mother, and here 
 
 flood, y° u ]ie dead." 
 
 Stretching ouc her small arms raised As Angela bearing, he turned from the 
 
 her cry unto God: shore, 
 
 •Mother says that you love, Lord Jesus How clearly his heart heard her sweet 
 
 O come! voice once more. 
 
 And over the stormy waves carry me From far o'er the sea the glad - 
 
 home. 1 ' seemed to come — 
 
 Now brave Captain Jim, when he heard "Yes. yes I am going. I'm sc going 
 
 the waves roar. home! 
 
 Crowded all sail, so he said, for the ' ' ' " ' 
 
 shore. The Sioux Chiefs Daughter - 
 
 ifthe moorings of gay "Susan [abridged] 
 
 A , , , , Two grav hawks ride the rising I 
 
 able to stand the unusual strain. ~ , , * , , ,. * , 
 
 Dark cloven clouds erne to and fro 
 
Oi-Mstead's Recitations. 
 
 65 
 
 By peaks preeminent in snow; 
 A Bounding river rushes past, 
 So wild, so vortex-like, and vast. 
 
 Alone lodge tops the windy bill; 
 A tawny maiden, mute and still, 
 Stands waiting at the river's brink. 
 As wierd and wild as you can think. 
 A mighty chief is at her feet; 
 She do»-s not heed him wooing so — 
 She hears the dark, wild waters tlow; 
 She waits her lover, tall and tleet, 
 From far gold Gelds of Idaho, 
 Beyond the beaming peaks of snow. 
 
 He comes! The grim chief springs in 
 
 air — 
 His brawny arm. his blade is bare. 
 She turns; she lifts her round, brown 
 
 hand; 
 She looks him fairly in the face; 
 She moves her foot a little pace 
 And says, with coldness and command; 
 There's blood enough in this lorn land. 
 
 But see! a test of streugth and skill. 
 Of courage and fierce fortitude, 
 To breast and wrestle with the rude 
 And storm-born waters, now I will 
 Bestow you both. Stand either side. 
 Take you my left, tall Idaho; 
 And you, my burly chief, I know 
 Would choose my right. Now peer you 
 
 low 
 Across the water- wild aud wide. 
 See! leaning so this morn I spied 
 Red berries dip you farther side 
 See, dipping, dripping in the stream, 
 Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam! 
 Now. this, brave m*»n, shall be the test: 
 Plunge in the si ream, bear kuife in 
 
 teeth, 
 To cut yon bough for bridal wreath. 
 Plunge in! and he who bears him best. 
 And brings yon ruddy fruit to land 
 The first, shall have my heart and hand" 
 
 Two tawny nun, tall, brown, and 
 
 the wed 
 Like antique bronzes rarely s 
 Shot up like flame. She stood between 
 Like hxed. impassive fortitude. 
 Then one threw robes with sullen air. 
 
 And wound red i'o\-tails i;; his hair; 
 But one with face of proud delight, 
 Entwined a crest of snowy white. 
 She stood between. She sudden gave 
 The sign, and each impatient brave 
 Shot sudden in the sounding wave; 
 The startled waters gurgled round; 
 Their stubborn strokes kept sullen 
 sound. 
 
 Oh, then awoke the love that slept! 
 Oh, then her heart beat loud aud strong! 
 Oh, then the proud love pent up long 
 Broke forth in wail upon the air! 
 And leaning there she sobbed and wept, 
 With dark face mantled in her hair. 
 Now side by side the rivals plied, 
 Yet no man wasted words or breath; 
 And all was still as stream of death. 
 Now side by side their strength was 
 
 tried; 
 And now they breathless paused and lay 
 Like brawny wrestlers well at bay. 
 And now they dived, dived long, and 
 
 now 
 Two black heads lifted from the foam, 
 And shook aback the dripping brow, 
 Then shouldered sudden glances home. 
 
 They near the shore at last; and now 
 The foam flies spouting from a face 
 That laughing lifts from out the race. 
 The race is won, the work is done! 
 She sees the climbing crest of snow; 
 She knows her tall, brown Idaho. 
 She cries aloud, she laughing cries, 
 While tears are streaming from her 
 eyes: 
 
 splendid, kingly Idaho! 
 
 1 kiss his lifted crest of snow; 
 
 I see him clutch the bending bough! 
 'Tis cleft — he turns! is coming now! 
 
 My tall and tawny king, come back! 
 Come swift, O sweet! why falter so? 
 Come, come! What thing has crossed 
 
 your track? 
 I kneel to all the gods I how. 
 Oh come, my manly Idaho! 
 Great Spirit, what is this I dread? 
 Why there is blood! the wa> e is red! 
 That wrinkled chief.oulstripprd in race, 
 
66 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Dives down, ami hidiug from my lace, 
 Strikes underneath! He rises now! 
 Now plucks my hero's berry bough, 
 And lifts aloft his red fox head, 
 And signals he lias won for me. 
 Hist, softly! Let him come and see. 
 () come, my white-erowuedhero, come! 
 Oh come, and I will be your bride, 
 Despite yon chieftain's craft and might. 
 
 "How slow he buffe'4 back the wave! 
 O God, he sinks! O Heaven! save 
 My brave, brave boy! He rises! See! 
 Hold last, 013- boy! Strike, strike for me. 
 Strike straight this way! Strike firm 
 
 and, strong! 
 Hold fast your strength! It is not long — 
 O God; he sinks! He sinks! is gone! 
 His face lias perished from my sight. 
 
 "And did I dream and do I wakey 
 Or did I wake and now but dream? 
 And what is this crawls from the stream? 
 Oh, here is some mad, mad mistake. 
 What! you the red fox, at my feet? 
 You first, and failing from the race? 
 
 "What! you have brought me berries 
 
 red? 
 What! you have brought your bride a 
 
 wreath? 
 You sly old fox with wrinkled face — 
 That blade has blood between your 
 
 teeth. 
 Lie still, lie still! till I lean o'er 
 And clutch your red blade to the shore. 
 Ha, ha! Take that, and that, and that! 
 Ha! ha! So, through your coward throat 
 The-full day shines!" Two fox-tails 
 
 float 
 And drift and drive adown the stream. 
 "But what is this? What snowy crest 
 Climbs out the willows of the west. 
 All weary, wounded, bent, aud slow. 
 And dripping from his streaming hair? 
 It is, it is my Id iho! 
 His feet are on the land, and fair 
 His face is lifting to my face, 
 For who shall now dispute the race?" 
 — Joacjuix Milek. 
 
 You put no Flowers on my Papa's Grave. 
 
 C. E. L. Holmes. 
 
 With sable-draped banners, and slow 
 
 measured tread, 
 The flower-laden ranks pass the gates 
 
 of the dead; 
 Aud seeking each mound where a com- 
 rade's f vini n 
 Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom 
 
 on his breast, 
 Ended at last is the labor of love; 
 Once more through the gateway the 
 
 saddened lines move — 
 A wailing of augui-h. a sobbing of grief, 
 Falls low ou the ear of the battle-scarred 
 
 chief; 
 Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-. 
 
 haired child 
 Besought him in accents which grief 
 
 rendered wild: 
 
 "Oh! sir, he was good, and they say he 
 
 died brave — 
 Why! why! did you pass by my dear 
 
 papa's grave? 
 I know he was poor, but as kind and 
 
 as true 
 As ever marched into the battle with 
 
 you- 
 IEs grave is so humble, no stone marks 
 
 the spot. 
 You may not have seen it. Oh, say you 
 
 did not! 
 For my poor heart will break if you 
 
 knew he was there, 
 And thought him to lowly your offer- 
 
 ings to share. 
 He didn't die lowly — he poured his 
 
 heart's blood, 
 In rich crimson streams, from the top- 
 crowning sod 
 Of the breastworks which stood in 
 
 front of the tight— 
 And died shouting, 'Onward! for God 
 
 and the rightl' 
 O'er all his dead comrades your bright 
 
 garlands wave. 
 But you haven't put one on my papa's 
 
 grave. 
 If mamma were here— but she lies by 
 his side, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 6; 
 
 Her wearied heart broke when our dear 
 papa died." 
 
 "Battalion! file left! countermarch!' 1 
 
 oried the chief, 
 "This young orphan'd maid hath full 
 
 cause for her grief." 
 Then up in his arms from the hot dusty 
 
 street, 
 He lifted the maiden, while in through 
 
 the gate 
 The long line repasses, and many an 
 
 eye 
 Pays fresh tribute of tears to ihe lone 
 
 orphan's sigh. 
 
 "This way, it is— here, sir — right under 
 
 this tree; 
 They lie close together, with just room 
 
 for me." 
 
 "Halt! Cover with roses each lowly 
 
 greeu mound — 
 A love pure as this makes these graves 
 
 hallowed ground." 
 
 "Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can 
 
 repay 
 The kindness you've shown little Daisy 
 
 to-day; 
 But I'll pray for you here, each day 
 
 while I live, 
 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan 
 
 can give. 
 I shall see papa soon, and dear mam- 
 ma too — 
 I dreamed so last night, and I know 
 
 'twill come true; 
 And they will both bless you, I know, 
 
 when I say 
 How you folded your arms round their 
 
 dear one fo day — 
 How you cheered her sad heart, and 
 
 soothed it to rest, 
 And hushed Its wild throbs on your 
 
 strong, noble breast; 
 And when the kind angels shall call 
 
 you to come, 
 We'll welcome you there to our beauti- 
 ful home 
 Where death never comes, his black 
 
 bauner to wave, 
 
 And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep 
 o'er a crave." 
 
 Daisy's Faith- 
 Joanna II. MATHEWS. 
 
 Down in the de b'ight deen meadow 
 
 De pitty daisies' home- 
 Daisies dat are my namesa! 
 
 Mamma has let me tome. 
 S'e said dat s'e t on it I see me 
 
 From her y.oom window dere; 
 Besides I know our Fader 
 
 Will tee]) me in his tare. 
 
 Oh! see how many daisies. — 
 
 Daisies so white and fair — 
 I'll make a weaf for mamma, 
 
 To wear upon her hair, 
 An' den s'e'll loot so pitty — 
 
 My darliu' own mamma! — 
 An' tiss her 'ittle Daisy, 
 
 An' s'ow it to papa. 
 
 One, tw r o, fee, sits an' 'leven, 
 
 Hundred an' eight an' nine; 
 I b'ieve dat's mos' enough now, 
 
 To make it pitty fine, 
 I wouldn't be af'aid here, 
 
 Mamma and Dod tan see, 
 I know they would let nossiu' 
 
 Tome near dat tould hurt me. 
 
 De bweeze is soft an' toolin', 
 
 Au' tosses up my turls; 
 I dess it tomes from heaven 
 
 To play wis 'ittle dirls. 
 De b'rdies sin' so sweetly; 
 
 To me dey seem to say, 
 ' 'Don't be af'aid, dear Daisy, 
 
 Dod teeps oo all de day." 
 
 I'll make a ball for baby 
 
 Soon as dis weaf is done, 
 An' den I'll fow it at her — 
 
 Oh my, my fwead's all don'! 
 Well, den, I'll tate dis wibbon 
 
 Off of my old straw hat; 
 I sint mamma would let me; 
 
 I'll — oh, dear me! what's dat? 
 
*6$ 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 I sought I did hear somesin 
 
 Move in dat bus' fcose by; 
 Tin not at all afaid, dough; 
 
 Oh! no. indeed; not I! 
 Mamma — why sVs not looting 
 
 S'e's fom de window don'; 
 Den maybe Dod is tired, too, 
 
 Tausa I 'taid here so Ion' 
 
 I dess I'll yuu a 'ittle, 
 
 I b'ieve Dod wants me to; 
 He taut tate too much touble, 
 
 I sint I'd better do, 
 An' tate my pitty Towers, 
 
 An' 'tay wis mamma dear; 
 Dod is 'way up in heav3n — 
 
 I would like some one near. . 
 
 ~My daisies' dey are fallin'; 
 
 My han's are s'atin' so — 
 Oh dear! de weaf is boten; 
 
 Don't tare! I want to do. 
 I know dere's somesin' live clere; 
 
 See now! dere's two bid eyes 
 A lootin' yight stwaight at me — 
 
 Dod's way up in de sties. 
 
 Tau He tate tare of Daisy? 
 
 1 see a deat, blat head 
 A tomin' foo de bus'es; 
 
 But then I'm not afaid; 
 Only — I want my mamma — 
 
 I dess dat is a bear; 
 Bears eat up 'ittle children! 
 
 I wis' dat Dod was here! 
 
 Off! ow! I tant help steamin'; 
 
 Oh dear! I so afaid! 
 Tome, mamma! Oh! tome twitly 
 
 To help oor 'ittle maid. 
 Dod has fordot oor Daisy; 
 
 Dat bear is toming' fast — 
 Why? 'tis our dear old Yover 
 
 Tome home fom town at last. 
 
 *Oh Yover! dear ole dordy, 
 
 What made oo f wight — well, no, 
 I'm not afaid— for, Yover, 
 
 Dod tares for me, oo know; 
 He would 1*4 nosshf hurt me— 
 
 Dere's mamma lootin', too. 
 We'll mend dat weaf now, yover, 
 
 Mamma will lite it so. 
 
 Rook Me to Sleep Mother. 
 
 Backward, turn backward! oh. time in 
 
 your flight; 
 Make me a child again, just for to-night! 
 
 Mother come back from the e-choless 
 
 shore, 
 Take me again to your heart as of yore. 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of 
 
 care, 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of 
 
 my hair; 
 Over my slumbers your loving watch 
 
 keep, 
 Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to 
 
 sleep. 
 
 Backward, i\o^v backward, O swift tide 
 of years! 
 
 I am weary of toil, L am weary of 
 
 tears; 
 Toil without recompense, learn all in 
 
 vain, 
 Take them, and give me my childhood 
 
 again ! 
 I have grown weary of dust and decay, 
 Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away. 
 Weary of sowing for others to reap; 
 Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to 
 
 sleep! 
 
 Tired of the hollow, the base, the un- 
 true, 
 
 Mother, O, Mother, my heart calls for 
 you! 
 
 Many a summer the grass has grown 
 green, 
 
 Blossomed and faded, our faces be- 
 tween; 
 
 Yet with strong yearning and passion- 
 ate pain, 
 
 Long I to-night for your presence 
 again; 
 
 Come from the silence so long and so 
 
 deep- 
 Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to 
 sleep! 
 
 Over my heart in the days that have 
 
 flown. 
 No love like mother-love ever has f»hone; 
 No other worship abides and endures, 
 
OLMSTEAD'S KhClTATIONS. 
 
 
 Faithful' unselfish and patient like 
 
 yours! 
 None like a mother can charm away 
 
 pain 
 From the sick soul and the world weary 
 
 brain. 
 Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids 
 
 creep, 
 Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to 
 
 sleep! 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just lighted 
 
 with gold, 
 Fall on your shoulders again as of old; 
 Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
 Shading my weak eyes away from the 
 
 light! 
 For with its sunny edged shadows onee 
 
 more 
 Happy will throng the sweet visions of 
 
 yore. 
 Lovingly, softly, its bright billows 
 
 sweep, 
 Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to 
 
 sleep! 
 
 Mother, dear mother! the years have 
 
 been long 
 Since last I was hushed by your lull i- 
 
 by song; 
 Sing then again, — to my soul it shall 
 
 seem 
 Womanhood's years have jbeen onty a 
 
 d ream ; 
 Clasp to your arms in aloving embrace; 
 With your soft lashes just sweeping my 
 
 face, 
 Never hereafter, to work or to weep; 
 Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to 
 
 sleep! 
 F. E. W., Cooperstown, F. Y. 
 
 Cuddle Doon. 
 Alexander Anderson. 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 
 
 Wi' muckle faucht an' din. 
 "Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues; 
 
 Your father's coming in." 
 They never heed a word I speak. 
 
 I try to gie a fraon; 
 But aye I hap them up, an' cry. 
 
 4 'Oh, bairnies, euddle doon !\ 
 Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid — 
 
 He aye sleeps next the wa' — 
 Bangs up an' erics, "I want a piece"— 
 
 The rascal starts them a'. 
 I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks — 
 
 They stop a wee the soun' — 
 Then draw the blankets up, and cry, 
 
 "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon!" 
 
 But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab 
 
 Cries oot, frae 'neath the cla 
 "Mither, make' Tarn gie ower at ance: 
 
 He's kittliu' wi' his ta< 
 The mischief's in that Tarn for tricks: 
 
 He'd bother half the toon, 
 But aye I hap them up, and cry, 
 
 "Oh, bairnies cuddle doon!" 
 
 At length they hear their father's lit; 
 
 An, as he steeks the door, 
 They turn their faces to the wa'. 
 
 While Tom pretends to snore, 
 "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks, 
 
 As he pits all his shoon. 
 "The bairnies, John are in their beds. 
 
 An' lang since cuddled doon." 
 
 An' just afore we bed oorsels, 
 
 We look at oor wee lambs. 
 Tarn has his airm round' wee Rabs>' 
 neck, 
 
 An' Rab his arm ronri' Tarn's 
 I lift wee Jamie up the bed, 
 
 An' as I straik each croon, 
 I whisper, till my heart fills up. 
 
 "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doen!" 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 
 
 Wi' mirth that's dear to me; 
 But soon the big warl,s cark an' care 
 
 Will quaten doon their glee. 
 Yet, come what will to ilka ane, 
 
 May He who sits aboon 
 Aye whisper, though, their pows be 
 bauld, 
 
 "Oh. bairnies, cuddled doon'" 
 
 The Three Kingdoms. 
 
 King Frederick William of Prussia 
 walked in the fair green fields 
 one dav, 
 
Olmsiead's Recitations. 
 
 When trees and flowers were fresh with 
 . the life that wakes in the month 
 of May, 
 
 And as he walked, 'twas with joy he 
 saw the violet's shady bed. 
 
 The primrose pale, and the wind-flower 
 fair, and the birch-tassels over- 
 head. 
 
 Well pleased was he to have left awhile 
 Berlin's gay and crowded street, 
 
 And forget for a time his kingly cares 
 'mid the blossoming hedgegrows 
 sweet. 
 
 And laying aside his royal robes, un- 
 noticed to walk abroad, 
 
 To learn, from the beanty of fields and 
 flowers, new lessons of Nature's 
 God. 
 
 Spring sunshine flickered across his 
 
 path, as he strode through the 
 
 leafy glade. 
 Till he came to a glen where a joyous 
 
 group of village children played. 
 Gathering cowslips with eager ha^le, as 
 
 happy as happ3 T could be. 
 And the King looked on till his heart 
 
 grew gay their gayety to see. 
 
 He called them at last all around him 
 
 there, in the mossy, flower strewn 
 
 dell, 
 And soon they came clustering about 
 
 him, for they knew his kind face 
 
 well, 
 Then, smiling, he held up an orange 
 
 that there chanced in his hand to 
 
 be: 
 "To which of three kingdoms does this 
 
 belong, my little folk'/" said he. 
 
 There was silence awhile to the question, 
 till a bright little fellow d, 
 
 'To the vegetable kingdom, yonr Ma- 
 jesty." The King he nodded his 
 head; 
 
 "Well said! Quite right! Now the or- 
 ange shall be your own, my brave 
 little man!" 
 
 So saying, he tossed it to him, crying 
 out, "Catch my cowslip ball if 
 you can!" 
 
 Then gaily the King in the sunshine a 
 crown-piece held up to view: 
 
 "Now to which of the kingdoms does 
 this belong? Who guesses shall 
 have this too " 
 
 "To the mineral kingdom, your High- 
 ness," a little lad quickly replies; 
 
 As the silver coin in the sunlight shone, 
 so sparkled his eager eyes. 
 
 "Well answered, so here's your crown," 
 
 said, the King, and placed the 
 
 crown in his hand, 
 While around him the other children 
 
 delighted and wondering stand. 
 ''One question more I will ask," said 
 
 the King, "and 'tis neither hard 
 
 nor long; 
 Now tell me, my little people all, to 
 
 which kingdom do I belon ± 
 
 In the group of little ones gathered 
 there stood a tiny blue-eyed child; 
 
 Full of thoughtf ill grace was her child- 
 ish face, like a starry primrose 
 mild: 
 
 Wistfully gazing into his face, with an 
 earnestness sweet to see, 
 
 Simply she answered the King, "I think 
 to the kingdom of Heaven," said 
 she. 
 
 King Frederick stooped down, and in 
 his arms took the little maiden 
 then. 
 
 Aud kissing her brow, he softly said, 
 "Amen, dear child, Amen." 
 
 J. E. Bendall, 
 
 Ginevra. 
 
 SAMUEL EOGEKS. 
 
 If ever you should come to Modena, 
 (Where among other Telics you may see 
 Tassoni's bucket, — but Mis not the true 
 
 one,) 
 Stop at a palace near the Keggio-gate, 
 Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati. 
 
 Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
 And rich in fountains, statues, cypress- 
 es, • 
 Will long detain you: but. before you 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 7i 
 
 Kntcr the bouso- forget it not, I pray 
 
 you — 
 Ami look awhile upon a picture there. 
 
 •Tis of ;i lady in her curliest youth, 
 The last of that illustrious family; 
 Done by Zampicri, — but bywhom I care 
 
 not. 
 He who observe: it, ere he passes on 
 (iazes his till, and comes and comes 
 
 again, 
 That he may call it up when far away. 
 
 She sits inclining forward as to speak, 
 Her lips half open, and her linger up, 
 As though she said, "Beware!" Her 
 
 vest of gold 
 Broidered with flowers, and clasped 
 
 from head to 
 An emerald stone in every golden 
 
 clasp; 
 And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
 A coronet of pearls. 
 
 But then her face, 
 So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, — 
 "The overflowings of an innocent heart, 
 It haunts me still, though many a year 
 
 has fled, 
 Like some wild melody. 
 
 Alone it hangs 
 Over a mouldering heirloom, its com- 
 panion, 
 An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, 
 But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
 With Scripture stories from the life of 
 
 Christ; 
 A chest that came from Venice, and 
 
 had held 
 The ducal robes of some old ancesters, 
 That by the way,— it may be true or 
 
 false,— 
 But don't forget the picture; and you 
 
 will noL 
 When you have heard the tale they told 
 me there. 
 
 She was an only child, — her name 
 Ginevra — 
 The joy, the pride of an indulgent fa- 
 ther; 
 
 And in her fifteenth year became a 
 bride. 
 
 Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
 
 Her playmate from her birth, and her 
 ti 1st love, 
 
 Just as she looks there iii her bridal 
 dn 
 
 She was all gentleness, all gayety 
 
 Her pranks the favorite theme of every 
 tongue. 
 
 But now the day was come,— the day. 
 the hour; 
 
 Now, frowning, smiling for the hun- 
 dredth time, 
 
 The nurse, that ancient lady, preached 
 decorum; 
 
 And in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
 
 Her hand, with her heart in it, to Fran- 
 cesco. 
 
 Great was the joy but at the nuptial 
 
 feast, 
 When all sat down, the bride heiself 
 
 was wanting, 
 Nor was she to be found. Her father 
 
 cried, 
 "Tis but to make a trial of our love!" 
 And filled his glass to all; but his hand 
 
 shook, 
 And soon from gue,-t to guest the panic 
 
 spread. 
 'Twas but that instant she had left 
 
 Francesco, 
 Laughing, and looking back, and Hying 
 
 still, 
 Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 
 But now, alas! she w T as not to be found; 
 Nor from that hour could anything be 
 
 guessed 
 But that she was not. 
 
 Weary of his life, 
 
 Francesco Hew to Venice, and, embark- 
 ing. 
 
 Flung it away in battle witli the Turk. 
 
 Donati lived, and long might you have 
 seen 
 
 An old man wandering as in quest of 
 something, — 
 
 Something he could not find, — he knew 
 not what. 
 
 When he was gone, the house remained 
 a w bile 
 
;- 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Silent ) and tenantless, — then went to 
 
 strangers. 
 
 Full fifty years were passed, and all 
 forgotten, 
 
 When on an idle day, a day of search 
 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery. 
 That mouldering chest was noticed; and 
 
 'twas said 
 By one as young, as thoughtless as Gin- 
 
 evra, 
 (""Why not remove it from its lurking 
 
 places" 
 Twas done as soon as said: but on the 
 
 way 
 It burst, — it fell,— and lo! ajskeletou, 
 With here and there a pearl, an emer- 
 ald -stone, 
 A golden clasp, clasping a shred'of gold. 
 All else had perished save a wedding 
 
 ring, 
 And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
 Engraven with a name,— the name of 
 
 both, — "Ginevra." 
 
 There, then, had she found a 
 
 grave! 
 VVithin that chest had she concealed 
 
 herself, 
 Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the 
 
 happy, 
 When a spring lock, that lay in ambush 
 
 there, 
 Fastened her down forever. 
 
 The Painter of Seville. 
 'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly 
 
 beamed 
 The early sunlight in a chamber there, 
 Showing where'er its glowing radiance 
 
 gleamed, 
 Rich, varied beautj\ "Twas the study 
 
 where 
 Murillo, the famed painter, came to 
 
 share 
 With young aspirants his long-cherished 
 
 art, 
 To prove how vain must be the teacher's 
 
 care, 
 Who strives his unbonght knowledge 
 
 to impart, 
 
 The language of the soul, the feeling of 
 the heart. 
 
 The pupils came, and glanced around, 
 Medez upon his canvas found, 
 Not his own work of yesterday, 
 But glowing in the morning ray. 
 A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright, 
 It almost seemed that there were given 
 To glow before his dazzled sight 
 Tints and expressions warm from 
 Heaven. 
 
 'Twas but a sketch— the Virgin's head- 
 Yet was unearthly beauty shed 
 Upon the mildly beaming face: 
 The lip, the eye, the blended grace— 
 A poet's brightest dream was there! 
 
 Murillo entered, and amazed, 
 
 On the mysterious painting gazed; 
 
 •Whose work is this'? — speak, tell me! 
 
 —he 
 Who to his aid such power can call," 
 Exclaimed the teacher eagerly, 
 "Will yet be master of us all; 
 Would I had done it! Ferdinand! 
 Isturiz! Mendez!— say whose hand 
 Among ye all?'' — With half breathed, 
 
 sigh, 
 Each pupil answered: " 'Twas not I!" 
 
 "How came it, then?" impatiently 
 Murillo cried; "but we shall see 
 Ere long into this mistery. 
 Sebastian!" 
 At the summons came 
 A bright-eyed slave, 
 Who trembled at the stern rebuke 
 His master gave. 
 
 For, ordered in that room to sleep, 
 And faithful guard o'er all to keep, 
 Murillo bade him now declare 
 What rash intruder had been there, 
 And threatened — if he did not tell 
 The truth at once— the dungeon-cell. 
 "Thou answerest not," Murillo said; 
 (The boy had stood in speechless fear.) 
 "Speak on!" — At last he raised his head, 
 And murmured: "No one has been here, n 
 "'Tis false:" Sebastaiu bent his knee, 
 And clasped hands imploringly, 
 And said: "I swear it, none but me!" 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 73 
 
 "List!" said his master. "] would know 
 Who t'utcrs here; there bave been found 
 Before, rough sketches strewn around, 
 By whose bold hand 'tis yours to show; 
 See that to-night strict watch you keep, 
 Nor dare to close your t yes in sleep. 
 If on to-morrow morn you fail 
 To answer vi hat I ask, 
 The lash shall force you — do you hear? 
 Hence! to your daily task." 
 
 * -* * * * * * 
 
 Twas midnight in Seville and faintly 
 
 shone 
 From one small lamp, a dim, uncertain 
 
 ray 
 Within Murillo's study — all were gone 
 Who there, in pleasant tasks or con- 
 verse gay, 
 Passed cheerfully the morning hours 
 
 away. 
 'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless 
 
 silence, save, 
 That to sad thoughts and torturing fear 
 
 a prey, 
 One bright-eyed boy was there — Mu- 
 
 rillo's little slave. 
 
 Almost a child — that boy had seen 
 
 Not thrice five summers yet, 
 
 But genius marked the lofty brow, 
 
 O'er which his locks of jet 
 
 Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue 
 
 Proclaimed the warm blood flowing 
 
 through 
 Each throbbing vein a mingled tide, 
 To Africa and Spain allied. 
 "Alas!" what fate is mine!" he said 
 "The lash if I refuse to tell 
 W T ho sketched those figures — if I do, 
 Perhaps e'en more — the dungeon-cell!" 
 He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid; 
 It came, for soon, in slumber laid, 
 He slept, until the dawning day 
 Shed on his humble conch its ray. 
 "I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and 
 
 now, 
 Three hours of freedom I may gain, 
 Before my master comes; for theu 
 I shall be but a slave again. 
 Three blessed hours of freedom! how 
 Shall I employ them? ah! e'en now 
 
 The figure on that canvas traced 
 Must be— yes, it must be effaced." 
 
 He seized a brush, — the morning light 
 Gave to the head a softened glow; 
 lie cried: "Shall I efface it? No! 
 That breathing lip, the beaming eye, 
 Efface them?— I would rather die!" 
 
 The terror of the humble slave 
 Gave place to the oVrpowering flow 
 Of the high feelings N'ature gave — 
 Which only gifted spirits know. 
 He touched the brow— the 'lip— it seem- 
 ed 
 His pencil had some magic power; 
 The eye with deeper feeling beamed — 
 Sebastian then forgot the hour! 
 Forgot his master and the threat 
 Of punishment still hanging o'er him-. 
 For with each louch new beauties met; 
 And mingled in the face before him. 
 
 At length 'twas finished; rapturously, 
 He gazed — could aught more beauteous 
 
 be? 
 Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood, 
 Theu started — horror chilled his blood! 
 His master and the pupils all 
 Were there e'en at his side! 
 The terror-stricken slave was mute- 
 Mercy would be denied, 
 E'en could he ask it — so he deemed, 
 And the poor boy half lifeless seemed. 
 Speechless, bewildered — for a space 
 They gazed upon that perfect face, 
 Each with an artist's joy; 
 At length Murillo silence broke, 
 And with affected sternness spoke — 
 "Who is your master, boy?', 
 "You, Senor," said the trembling slave. 
 "Na3 r , who, I mean, instruction gave, 
 Before that Virgin's head you drew?" 
 Again he answered: "Only you." 
 "I gave you none," Murillo cried! 
 "But I have heard," the boy replied. 
 "What you to others said," 
 "And more than heard," in kinder tone. 
 The painter said, "'tis plainly shown 
 That you have profited. 
 
 "What (to his pupils) is his need? 
 Reward or punishment?" 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 "Reward— reward!" they warmly cried, 
 (Sebastian's ear was bent 
 To catch the sounds he scarce believed, 
 But with imploring look received.) 
 "What shall it be?" They spoke of gold 
 And of a splendid dress; 
 But still unmoved Sebastian stood, 
 Silent and motionless. 
 "Speak!"|said Murillo kindly; "choose 
 Your own reward — What shall it be? 
 Name what you wish, I'll not refuse; 
 Then speak at once and fearlessly." 
 "Oh! if I dared!" — Sebastian knelt, 
 And feelings he could not control, 
 (But feared to utter even then) 
 With strong emotion, shook his soul. 
 
 '•Courage!" his master said, and each 
 Essayed in kind, halt whispered speech, 
 To sooth his overpow'ring dread. 
 He scarcely heard, till someone said: 
 '"Sebastian — ask — you have your choice, 
 Ask for your freedom!" — At the word, 
 The suppliant strove to raise his voice: 
 At first but stifled sobs were heard, 
 And then his prayer — breathed fervently 
 "Oh! master, make my father free!" 
 "Him and thyself, my noble boy!" 
 Warinly the painter cried; 
 Raising Sebastaiu from his feet, 
 He pressed him to his side. 
 E'en more than this have tiairly won: 
 Thy talents rare, and filial love, 
 Still be thou mine by other bonds — 
 My pupil and m} 7 son. 
 Murillo knew, e'en when the words 
 Of generous feeling passed his lips, 
 Sebastian's talent soon must lead 
 To fame, that would his own eclipse; 
 And, constant by his pupil gained, 
 Beneath his rare, such matchless skill 
 As made his name the pride of Spain. 
 
 The Execution of Montrose- 
 
 W. K. AYTOUN. 
 
 Come hither, Evan Cameron! Come, 
 stand beside my knee: 
 I hear the river roaring down towards 
 the wintry sea; 
 
 There's shouting on the mountain-side, 
 there's war within the blast, 
 Old faces look upon me, old forms go 
 trooping past; 
 I hear the pibroch wailing amidst the 
 din of fight, 
 And my dim spirit wakes again upon 
 the verge of night. 
 
 'Twas I that led the Highland host 
 through wild Loch aher's snows, 
 What time the plaided clans came 
 down to battle with Montrose. 
 I've told thee how the Southrous fell 
 beneath the broad claymore, 
 And how we smote the Campbell clan 
 by Inverlochy's shore. 
 I've told thee how we swept Dundee, 
 and tamed the Lindsay's pride; 
 But never have I told thee yet how the 
 Great Marquis died! 
 
 A traitor soldhimto his foes; — Oh, deed 
 of deathless shame! 
 I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet 
 with one of Assynt's name, — 
 Be it upon the mountain's side, or yet 
 within the glen, 
 Stand he in martial gear aloue, or 
 backed by armed men, — 
 Face him as thou Veouldst face the man 
 who wronged thy sire's renown; 
 Eemember of what blood thou art, 
 and strike the caitiff clown. 
 
 They brought him to the Watergate, 
 hard bound with hempen span. 
 As though they held a lion there, ;ird 
 not an unarmed man. 
 Theys-at him high upon a cart — (the 
 hangman rode below — 
 They drew his hands behind his back. 
 and bared his noble brow: 
 Then, as a hound is slipped from leash. 
 they cheered— the common 
 throng, — 
 And blew the note with 3-ell and shout, 
 and bade him pass along. 
 
 But when he came, though pale and 
 wan, he looked so great "yuri high, 
 So noble was his manly front, so calm 
 his steadfast eye, — 
 
Olmstkad's Recitations. 
 
 75 
 
 The rabble rout forbore to shout, and 
 each man held his breath, 
 For well they knew the hero's soul 
 was face to face with death. 
 An then a mournful shudder through 
 all the people crept, 
 And some that came to scoff at him, 
 now turned aside and wept. 
 
 Had I been there with sword in hand, 
 and fifty Camerons by, 
 That da}- through high Dunedin's 
 streets had pealed the slogan cry. 
 Not all their troops of trampling horse, 
 nor might of mailed men— 
 Not all the rebels in the south had 
 born us backward then! 
 Once more his foot on Highland heath 
 had trod as free as air, 
 Or I, and all who bore my name, been 
 laid around him there. 
 
 It might not be. They placed him next 
 within the solemu hall. 
 Where once the Scottish kings were 
 throned amidst .heir nobles all. 
 Hut there was dust of vulgar feet on the 
 polluted floor, 
 And perjured traitors tilled the place 
 where good men sat before. 
 With savage glee came Warristoun to 
 read the murderous doom: 
 And then uprose the great Montrose 
 in the middle of the room: 
 
 "Now by my faith as belted knight, and 
 by the name I bear, 
 And by the bright Saint Andrew's 
 cross that waves above us there,— 
 Yea, by a greater, mightier oath, and 
 oh, that such should be! 
 By that dark stream of royal blood 
 that lies 'twixt you and me, 
 I have not sought in battle-field a 
 wreath of such renown. 
 Nor hoped I, on my dying day, to 
 win a martyr's crown! 
 
 ""There is a chamber far away where 
 sleep the good and' brave, 
 But a better place ye've named forme 
 than by m} r father's grave. 
 
 For truth and right, 'gainst 1 reason's 
 might, this hand hath always 
 striven, , 
 And ye raise it up for a witness still 
 in the eye of earth and heaven." 
 Then nail my head on yonder tower, — 
 give every town a limb, — 
 And Rod who made shall gather 
 them: I go from you to Him." 
 
 The morning dawned full darkly, the 
 rain came Hashing down, 
 And the jagged streak of the levin- 
 bolt lit up the gloomy town: 
 The thunder crashed across the heaven, 
 . the fatal hour was come, 
 Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, 
 the 'larum of the drum. 
 There was madness on the earth below, 
 and anger in the sky, 
 And young and old, and rich and 
 poor, came forth to see him die. 
 
 Ah God! that ghastly gibbet! how dis- 
 mal 'tis to see 
 The great, tall, spectral skeleton, the 
 
 ladder ana the tree. 
 Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms 
 the bells begin to toll — 
 He is coming! he is coming! God's mer- 
 cy on his soul! 
 One long last peal of thunder— the 
 clouds are cleared away, 
 And the glorious sun once more looks 
 dowu amidst the dazzling day. 
 
 He is coming! he is coming! — Like a 
 bridegroom from his room 
 Came the hero from his prison to the 
 scaffold and the doom. 
 There was glory on his forehead, there 
 was luster in his eye, 
 And he never walked to battle more 
 proudly than to die: 
 There was color in his visage, though 
 the cheeks of all were wan, 
 And tney marveled as they saw him 
 pass, that great and goodly man! 
 
 He mounted up the scaffold, and he 
 turned him to lu; crowd; 
 But they dared not trust the people, 
 so he might speak aloud. 
 

 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 But he looked upon the heavens, and 
 
 they were clear and blue, 
 And in the liquid ether the eye of God 
 shone through: 
 Yet a blaek and murky battlement lay 
 resting on the hill, 
 • As though the thunder slept within, — 
 all else was calm and still. 
 
 The grim Geneva ministers with anx- 
 ious scowl drew near, 
 As you have seen the ravens flock 
 around the dying deer. 
 He would not deign them word nor 
 sign, but alone he bent his knee; 
 And veiled his face for Christ's dear 
 grace beneath the gallows-tree. 
 Then, radient and serene, he rose and 
 cast his cloak away, 
 For he had ta'en his latest look of 
 earth and sun and day. 
 
 A beam of light fell o'er him, like a 
 glory round the shriven, 
 And he climed the lofty ladder, as it 
 were the path to heaven. 
 Then came a flash from out the cloud, 
 and a stunning thunder roll, 
 And no man dared to look aloft, — 
 fear was on every soul. 
 There was another heavy sound, a 
 hush and then a groan; 
 And darkness swept across the sky — 
 the work of death was done. 
 
 Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
 Who is yonder poor maniac, whose 
 
 wildly-fixed eyes 
 
 Seem a heart overcharged to express? 
 
 She weeps not, yet often and deeply 
 
 she sighs: 
 She never complains, but her silence 
 implies 
 The composure of settled distress. 
 
 No aid, no compassion the maniac will 
 
 seek; 
 Cold and hunger awake not her care; 
 Through her rags do the winds of the 
 
 winter blow bleak 
 
 On her poor withered bosom half bare, 
 and her cheek 
 Has the deathly pale hue of despair. 
 
 Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the 
 day, 
 
 Poor Mary the mauiac has been; 
 The traveler remembers, who journey- 
 ed this way, 
 No damsel so lovely, no' damsel so gay. 
 
 As Mary, the maid of the inn. 
 
 Her cheerful address filled the guests 
 with delight, 
 As she welcomed them in with a smiley 
 Her heart was a stranger to childish 
 
 affright, 
 And Mary would walk by the abbey at 
 night, 
 When the wind whistled down the 
 dark aisle. 
 
 She loved; and young Richard had 
 settled the day, 
 And she hoped to be happy for life; 
 But Richard was idle and worthless,. 
 
 and they 
 Who knew him would pity poor Mary, 
 and say 
 That she was to good for his wife. 
 
 'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark 
 Avas the night, 
 And fast were the windows and door; 
 Two guests sat enjoying the fire that 
 
 burnt bright, 
 And smoking in silence with tranquil 
 delight 
 They listened to hear the wind roar. 
 
 '"Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by 
 the fireside 
 To hear the wind whistle without.'' 
 'A fine night for the abbey!" his com- 
 
 rade replied; 
 "Methinks a man's courage would now 
 be w r ell tried 
 Who should wander the ruins about. 
 
 "I myself, like a school-boy, would 
 tremble to hear 
 The hoarse ivy shake over my head; 
 And could fancy I saw, half persuaded 
 by fear, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 77 
 
 •Sonic ugly olil abbot's grim spirit 
 appear,— 
 For this wind might awaken the dead!" 
 
 'Til wager ;i dinner," the other one 
 cried, 
 "That Mary would venture there 
 now." 
 '•Then wager, and lose!" with a sneer 
 
 he replied; 
 'I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her 
 side, 
 And faint if she saw a white cow." 
 
 "Will wary this charge on her courage 
 allow V" 
 His companion exclaimed with a 
 smile; 
 *'I shall win, — for I know she will ven- 
 ture there now. 
 And earn a new bonnet by bringing a 
 bough 
 From the elder that grows in the aisle." 
 
 With fearless good humor did Mary 
 comply, 
 And her w r ay to the abbey she bent; 
 The night it was dark, and the wind it 
 
 was high, 
 And as hollowly howling it swept 
 through the sky 
 She shivered with cold as she went. 
 
 O'er the path so well known still pro- 
 ceeded the maid, 
 Where the abbey rose dim on the 
 sight. 
 
 Through the gateway she entered, she 
 felt not afraid; 
 
 Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and 
 their shade 
 Seemed to deepen the gloom of the 
 night. 
 
 All around her was silent, save when 
 the rude blast 
 Howled dismally round the old pile; 
 Over weed-covered fragments still fear- 
 less she pass'd, 
 And arrived at the innermost ruin at 
 last, 
 Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. 
 
 Well pleased did she reach it, and 
 quickly drew near, 
 
 And hastily gathered the bough; 
 When the sound of a voice seemed to 
 
 rise on her ear: 
 She paused, and she listened,- all eager 
 to hear, 
 And her heart panted painfully now. 
 
 The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook 
 over her head, — 
 She listened, — naught else could she 
 hear. 
 The wind ceased; her heart sunk in her 
 
 bosom with dread, 
 For she heard in the ruins distinctly 
 the tread 
 Of footsteps approaching her near. 
 
 Behind a wide column, half breathless 
 with fear, 
 She crept to conceal herself there, 
 That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud 
 
 shone clear, 
 And she saw in the moonlight two 
 ruffians appear, 
 And between them a corpse did they 
 bear. 
 
 Then Mary could feel her heart-blood 
 curdle cold; 
 Again the rough wind hurried by, — 
 It blew off' the hat of the one, and be- 
 hold! 
 Even close to the feet of poor Mary it 
 rolled; — 
 She fell and, expected to die. 
 
 "Curse the Hat!" he exclaimed. 'Nay, 
 come on till we hide 
 "The dead body," his comrade replies. 
 She beholds them in safety pass on by 
 
 her side, 
 She seizes the hat, fear her coinage 
 supplied, 
 And fast through the abbey she Hies. 
 She ran with wild speed, she rushed in 
 at the door, 
 She gazed in her terror around, 
 Then her limbs could support their 
 
 faint burden n > in >re, 
 And exhausted and breathless she sunk 
 on the floor, 
 Unable to utter a sound. 
 

 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Thus closed the life 
 Of Samuel Jones, kuown as "Number 
 
 Ten" 
 On his Ticket-of-Leave, and of all the 
 
 men 
 la the Western Colony, bond or tiee, 
 None had manlier heart or hand than 
 
 he. 
 
 In diggiug a sawpit — while all alone, 
 
 For his mate was sleeping— Sam struck 
 a stone 
 
 With the K^]ge of his spade and it gleam- 
 ed like tire, 
 
 And looked at Sam from its bed in the 
 mire, 
 
 Till he dropped the spade and stooped 
 and raised 
 
 The wonderful stone that glittered and 
 blazed 
 
 As if it were mad at the spade's rude 
 blow; 
 
 But its blaze set the sawyer's heart 
 agio vt, 
 
 As he looked and trembled, then turn- 
 ed him round, . 
 
 And crept from the pit, and lay on the 
 grouud, 
 
 Looking over the mould heap at tha 
 camp 
 
 Where his mate still slept; then down 
 to the swamp 
 
 He ran with the stone, and Avashed it 
 bright. 
 
 And felt like a drunken man at the 
 sight 
 
 Of a diamond pure as spring-water and 
 sun, 
 
 And larger than ever man's eyes look- 
 ed on! 
 
 Then down sat Sam with the stoue on 
 
 his knees, 
 And fancies came to him like swarms 
 
 of bees 
 To a sugar-creamed hive, aud he 
 
 dreamed awake 
 Of the carriage and four in which he'd 
 
 take 
 His pals from the Dials to Drury Lane, 
 The silks and the satins for SusanJane, 
 
 Ere yet lier pale lips could the story 
 
 impart, 
 For a moment the hat met her view;— 
 Her eyes from that object convulsively 
 
 start, 
 Fur— O God! what cold horror then 
 thrilled through her heart 
 When the name of her Richard she 
 knew! 
 
 •Where the old abbey stands on the 
 common hard by. 
 His gibbet is now to be seen; 
 Its irons you still from the road may 
 
 espy, 
 The traveler beholds them, and thinks 
 with a sigh 
 Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn. 
 
 The Monster Diamond- 
 J. Boyle O'Eeill^ . 
 
 A TALE OE TEE PENAL COLONY OE 
 WEST AUSTRALIA. 
 
 "I'll have it,! Curse you — there!" 
 The long knife glittered, was sheathed,. 
 
 was bare. 
 The sawyer staggered, and tripped and 
 
 fell, 
 And falling, he uttered a frightened 
 
 yell; 
 His face to the sky, he shuddered and 
 
 gasped, 
 And tried to put from him the man he 
 
 had grasped 
 A moment before in the terrible strife. 
 "I'll have it I tell you, or have your 
 
 life! 
 "Where is it?" The sawyer grew weak. 
 
 but still 
 His brown face gleamed with a desper- 
 ate will. 
 "Where is it? 1 ' he heard, and the red 
 
 knife's drip 
 In his slaver's hand, fell down on his 
 
 ii P : 
 
 •'Will you give ifr" "Never!" A curse, 
 
 the knife 
 Was raised and buried. 
 
 Transp^-- um:iS ' 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. y<j 
 
 The countless buttles of brandy and To part from the terrible company 
 
 beer Of that gray-blue face and the blaed- 
 
 He'd call for ;ind pay for, and every ing breast, 
 
 year And the staring eyes in their awful 
 
 The dinner he'd give to the Hriinuna- rest. 
 
 gem lads; The evening closed ou the homicide, 
 
 He'd be king among cracksmen and And the blood of the buried sawyer 
 
 chief among pad's, cried 
 
 And he'd sport — Through the night to God, and the 
 
 Over him stooped his mate, shadows dark 
 
 A pick in his hand, and his face all hate. That crossed the camp had the stiff and 
 
 Sam saw the shadDvv, and guessed the stark 
 
 pick, And horrible look of h murdered man. 
 
 And closed his dream with a spring so -,-. , , . • , ,, ,. , • , . 
 
 1 to J hen he pi. en the lire, and crept within 
 
 The ring of its light that closed him in 
 
 And the sawyer mates stood face to 
 
 The white face set. in the frame of nigrht, 
 
 The purpose was baffled of Aaron Mace, 1 , ' . t ... ,. .. . ,. 
 
 1 F Evermore twas with him, that disma 
 And the sawyer mates stood lace 
 
 face. 
 
 Sam folded his arms across his chest, 
 
 , . ' He wander- 'd away from the spot, but 
 
 Having thrust the stone in his loose found 
 
 shirt-breast, No inch of the West Australian ground 
 
 Y\ hile he tried to think where he drop- Where he c(mld hide from the bleedi 
 ped the spade; breast, 
 
 But Aaron Mace wore a long, keen a.v„i.u,m! ^ • 1 1 
 
 °' Or sink his head in a dreamless rest. 
 
 blade A , i .., , • , , .. 
 
 _ , , . , And always with him he bore the prize 
 
 In us belt; he drew it, sprang on his T . , . , . . ., . . 
 
 ' ^ b In a pouch ot leather; the staring ayvs 
 
 ___, , , Might turn his soul, but the diamond's 
 
 What happened you read when the tale , 
 
 1 L J gleam 
 
 , e S an - Was solace and joy for the haunted 
 Then he looked — the murderer, Aaron i««««. 
 
 ui earn. 
 
 Mace — 
 
 At the gray-blue lines in the dead So yeare rolled on, while the murderer's 
 man's face; mind 
 
 And he turned away, for he feared his WdS bent OQ a futile quest,— to find 
 
 frown -A- way of escape fiom the blood-stained 
 More in death than life. Then he knelt soil 
 
 him down, Aud the terrible wear of the penal toil. 
 
 Not to pray— but he shrank from the Bat this was a P art ° £ the diamond's 
 
 staring eyes, curse,— 
 
 And felt in his breast for the fatal prize. The toil that was heavy before grew 
 And this was the man, and this was worse, 
 
 the way Till the panting wretch, in his tierce uu- 
 
 That he took the stone on its natal day; rest > 
 
 And for this he was cursed forevermore Would clutch the pouch as it lay on his 
 
 By the West Australian Koh-i-noor, breast, 
 
 T ,,•,-, . , And waking, cower, with :-ob aud 
 
 In the half-dug pit the corpse was 
 
 , ° r ' moan, 
 
 thrown, ,v , . , ... . ., 
 
 . . , Or shriek wild curses against tl e stone 
 
 And the murderer stood in the camp rp, . , , .• , »^„ij 
 
 1 That was only a stone, — lor 1 e could 
 alone. . .. 
 
 not sell, 
 Alone V 2m o, no; never more was he 
 
So 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 And he dared not break, and he feared And were seared at night when they 
 
 to tell saw he prayed 
 
 Of his wealth; so he bore it through To the white man's God; and one wild 
 
 hopes and fears — night 
 
 His God and his devil,— for years and They had heard his voice till the morn- 
 years, ing light. 
 
 And thus did he draw near the end of Years passed, and a sandalwood-cutter 
 
 his race. stood 
 
 With a form bent double and horror- At a ruined hut in a Kojunup wood. 
 
 lined face, The rank weeds covered the desolate 
 
 Aud a piteous look, as if asking for floor, * 
 
 giace An ant-hill stood by 4 he fallen door, 
 
 Or for kindness from some one; but no The cupboard within to the snakes was 
 
 kind word loot, 
 
 Was flung to his misery: shuuned, ab- And the hearth was the home of the 
 
 horred, bandicoot. 
 
 Even by wretches themselves, till his But neither at hut, nor snake, nor rat, 
 
 life was a curse, Was the woodcutter staring intent, but 
 
 And he thought that e'en death could at 
 
 bring nothing worse A human skeleton, clad in gray, 
 
 Than the phantoms that stirred at the The hands clasped over the breast, as 
 
 diamond's weight, — they 
 
 His own life's ghost and the ghost o f his Had fallen in peace when he ceased to 
 
 mate. - pray. 
 
 So he turned one day from the haunts As the bushman looked on the form, he 
 
 of men, saw 
 
 And their friendless faces; an old man In the breast a paper; he stooped to 
 
 then draw 
 
 In a convict's garb, with white flowing What might tell him the story, but at 
 
 hair, his touch 
 
 And a brow deep scared with the word, From under the hand rolled a leathern 
 
 "Despair."' pouch. 
 
 He gazed not back as his way he took And he raised it, too. On the paper s 
 
 To the untrod forest; and oh! the look. 
 The piteous look in his sunken eyes 
 Told that life was the bitterest sacrifice. 
 
 But little was heard of his later days; 
 Twas deemed in the West that in 
 
 change of ways 
 He tried with his tears to wash out his 
 
 sin. 
 'Tu as told by some natives who once 
 
 came in 
 From the Kojunup Hills, that lonely 
 
 there 
 They saw a figure with long white hair; 
 
 face 
 
 He read, '-Ticket-of-Leave of Aaron 
 Mace." 
 
 He opened the pouch, aud in dazed sur- 
 prise 
 
 At its contents strange he unblessed his 
 eyes — 
 
 *Twas a lump of quartz,* pounds weight 
 in full, 
 
 And it fell from his hand on the skele- 
 ton's skull. 
 
 Lasca. 
 
 They camped close by where his hut I want free life and I want fresh air: 
 
 was made. 
 
 And 1 sigh for the canter after the cat- 
 
 lie 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 81 
 
 The crack of the whips like shots in a 
 
 battle, 
 The medley of horns and hoofs and heads 
 That wars and wrangles and scatters 
 
 and spreads; 
 The given beneath and the bine above, 
 And dash and danger, and life and love. 
 
 And Lasca! 
 
 Lasca used to ride 
 On a mouse-gray mustang close to my 
 
 side, 
 With blue serape and bright-belled spur; 
 I laughed with joy as I looked at her! 
 Little knew she of books or of creeds; 
 An Ave Maria sufficed her needs; 
 Little she cared, save to be by my side, 
 To ride with me, and ever to ride, 
 From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide. 
 She was as bold as the billows that beat 
 She was as wild as the breezes that 
 
 blow; 
 From her little head to her little feet 
 She was swa3 r ed in her suppleness to 
 
 and fro 
 By each gust of passion; a sapling pine, 
 That grows on the edge of a Kansas 
 
 bluff, 
 And wars with the wind when the wea- 
 
 er is rough, 
 Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. 
 She would hunger that I might eat, 
 Would take the bitter and leave me the 
 
 sweet; 
 But once when I made her jealous for 
 
 fun, 
 At something I whispered, or looked, or 
 
 done, 
 One Sunday, in San Antonio, 
 To a glorious girl on the Alamo, 
 
 She drew from her garter a dear little 
 dagger, 
 
 And— sting of a wasp!— it made me 
 stagger! 
 
 An inch to the left or an inch to the 
 right, 
 
 And I shouldn't be maundering here to- 
 night; 
 
 But she sobbed, and, sobbing, swiftly 
 bound 
 
 Her torn reboso about the wound, 
 That I quite forgave her. Scratches 
 
 don't count 
 In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. 
 
 Her eye was brown — a deep, deep 
 
 brown; 
 Her hair was darker than her eye; 
 And something in her smile and frown, 
 Curled crimson lip and instep high, 
 Showed that there ran in each blue 
 
 vein, 
 
 Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, 
 
 The vigorous vintage of old Spain. 
 
 She was alive in every limb 
 
 With feeling, to the finger-tips; 
 
 And w hen the sun is like a tire, 
 
 And sky one shining, soft sapphire, 
 
 One does not drink in little sips. 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 The air was heavy, the night was ho t, 
 
 I sat by her side and forgot — forgot; 
 
 Forgot the herd that w r ere taking rest, 
 
 Forgot that the air was close opprest, 
 
 That the Texas norther comes sudden 
 and soon, 
 
 In the dead of night or the blaze of 
 noon; 
 
 That once let the herd at its breath take 
 fright, 
 
 Nothing on earth can stop the flight; 
 
 And woe to the rider, and woe to the 
 steed, 
 
 Who falls in front of their mad stam- 
 pede! 
 ******* 
 
 Was that thunder? I grasped the cord 
 Of my s /rift mustang without a word. 
 I sprang to the saddle, and she clung 
 
 behind. 
 Away! on a hot chase down the wind! 
 But never was fox-hunt half so hard, 
 And never was steed so little spared. 
 For we rode for our lives. You shall 
 hear how we fared 
 In Texas, down by the Rio Grande, 
 The mustang Hew. and we urged him 
 
 on; 
 There was one chance left, and you 
 have but one; 
 
82 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot 
 your horse; 
 
 Crouch under his carcass, and take 
 your chance; 
 
 Aud if the steers in their frantic course 
 
 Don't batter you both to pieces at once, 
 
 You may thank your stars; if not, good- 
 bye 
 
 To the quickening kiss aud the long- 
 drawn sigh, 
 
 And the open air and the open sky. 
 
 In Texas, down by the Rio Grande! 
 
 The cattle gained on us, and, just as I 
 
 felt 
 For my old six-shooter behind in my 
 
 belt, 
 Down came the mustang, and down 
 
 came we, 
 Clinging together, and — what was the 
 
 rest? 
 A bod^y that spread itself on my breast. 
 Two arms that shield ury dizzy head, 
 Two lips that hard on my lips were 
 
 prest; 
 Then came thunder in my ears, 
 As over us surged the sea of steers, 
 Blows that beat blood into my eyes, 
 And when I could rise — , 
 Lasca was dead! 
 
 * * * * # # * 
 
 I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, 
 And there in Earth's arms I laid her to 
 
 sleep; 
 And there she is lying, and no one 
 
 knows, 
 And the summer shines and the winter 
 
 snows; 
 For niany a day the flowers have spread 
 A pall of petals over her head; 
 And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in 
 
 the air, 
 And the sly coyote trots here and there, 
 And the black snake glides and glitters 
 
 and slides 
 Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree; 
 And the buzzard sails on, 
 And it comes and is gone, 
 Stately aud still like a ship at sea; 
 And I wonder whv I do not care 
 
 For the things that are like the things 
 
 that were. 
 Does half my heart lie buried there 
 
 In Texas, down by the Rio Grande? 
 Frank Despkez. 
 
 Kit Carson's Eide. 
 
 Run? Now you bet you; I rather guess 
 
 so. 
 But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, 
 
 Pache, boy, whoa, 
 No, you wouldn't think so to look at 
 
 his eyes, 
 But he is badger blind, and it happened 
 
 this wise: 
 
 We lay low in the grass on the broad 
 
 plain levels. 
 Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown 
 
 bride. 
 "Forty full miles if a foot to ride, 
 Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils 
 Of red Camanches are hot on the track- 
 When once they strike it. Let the sun 
 
 go down 
 Soon, very soon," muttered bearded 
 
 old Revels, 
 As he peered at the sun lying low on, 
 
 his back, 
 Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked 
 
 at his steed, 
 And sprang to his feet, and glanced 
 
 swiftly around, 
 And then dropped as if shot, wiih his 
 
 ear to the ground — 
 Then again to his feet and to me, to my 
 
 bride, 
 While his eyes were like lire, his face 
 
 like a shroud, 
 His form like a king, and his beard like 
 
 a cloud, 
 And his voice loud and shrill, as if 
 
 blown from a reed — 
 "Pull, pull in your lassos, aud bridled 
 
 to steed, 
 And speed, if ever for life you would 
 
 speed; 
 And ride for your lives, for your lives 
 you must ride, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 83 
 
 For the plain is aflame, the prairie on Not a word, not a wail from ;t lip was lit 
 
 tire; fall. 
 
 And feetof wild horses hard flying be- Not a kiss from 1113- bride, not a look 
 
 fore, or low call 
 
 I hew like a sea breaking high on the Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the 
 
 shore; plain 
 
 While the buffalo come like the surge Of So steady and still, leaning low to 
 
 the sea, the mane, 
 
 Driven far by the flame, driven fast on With the heel to the Hank and the hand 
 
 us three to the rein, 
 
 As a hurricane comes, crushing palms Rode we on, rode we three, rode we 
 
 in his ire." nose and gray nose, 
 
 „ T , . , . .. , Reaching long, breathing loud, like a 
 
 We drew m the lasso, seized saddle ami ° . °' . ° 
 
 creviced wind blows; 
 
 _. ' . , , .. . , Yet we broke not a whisper, we 
 
 Threw them on, sinched them on, sinch- . ., . 
 
 . . . breathed not a prayer, 
 
 ed them over again, _, . r , . 
 
 . , . iL . ' ., There was work to be done, there was 
 
 And again drew the girth, cast aside , -.». ., 
 
 & , . & > death in the air, 
 
 the macheer, A , .. , . ., 
 
 . . . , . . And the chance was as one to a thous- 
 
 Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash , „ „ 
 
 . * . -•,, and for all. 
 
 from its fold, 
 
 Cast aside the catenas red and spang- Gray nose to gray nose and each steady 
 
 led with gold, mustang 
 
 And gold -mounted Colt's, true com pan- Stretched neck and stretched nerve 
 
 ions for years; till the arid earth rang, 
 
 Cast the silken serapes to the wind in a And the foam from the flank and the 
 
 breath, croup and the neck 
 
 And so bared to the skin sprang all Flew around like the spray on a 
 
 haste to the horse, storm-driven deck. 
 
 As bare as when born, as when new Twenty miles! thirty miles! — a dim dis- 
 
 from the hand tant speck — 
 
 Of God, without word, or one word of Then a long reaching line, and the 
 
 command, Brazos in sight, 
 
 Turned head to the Brazos in a red race And I rose in my seat with a shout of* 
 
 with death, delight, 
 
 Turned head to the Brazos with a breath I stood in my stirrup and looked to 
 
 in the hair my right, 
 
 Blowing hot from a king leaving death But Revels was gone; I glanced by my 
 
 in his course; shoulder 
 
 Turned head to the Brazos with a sound And saw his horse stagger; I saw his 
 
 in the air head drooping 
 
 Like the rush of an army, and a flash in Hard on his breast, and his naked 
 
 thee3e breast stooping 
 
 Of a red wall of tire reaching up to the Low down to the mane as so swifter 
 
 sky, and bolder 
 
 Stretching tierce in pursuit of a black Ran reaching out for us the red-footed 
 
 rolling sea fire. 
 
 Rushing fast upon us as thevviud sweep- To right and to left the black buffalo 
 
 ing free came, 
 
 And afar, from the desert, blew hoi- A terrible surf on a red sea of flame 
 
 low and hoarse. 
 
#4 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Rushing on in the rear, reaching high. In a race where the world came to run 
 
 reaching higher; for the crown; 
 
 And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo And so when I won the true heart of 
 
 bull, my bride— 
 
 The monarch of millions, with shaggy My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's 
 
 mane full child, 
 
 Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with And child of the kingly war-chief of 
 
 desire his tribe— 
 
 Of battle, with rage and with billow- She brought me this steed to the bord- 
 
 ings loud er the night 
 
 And unearthly, and up through its low- She met Revels and me in her peril- 
 
 ering cloud ous flight 
 
 Came the flash of his eyes like a half- From the lodge of the chief to the north 
 
 hidden fire, Brazos >idf, 
 
 While his keen crooked horns through And said, so half guessing of ill as she 
 
 the storm of his mane smiled. 
 
 Like black lances lifted and lifted As if jesting, that I. and I only, should 
 
 again; ride 
 
 And I looked but this once, for the fire The fleet-footed Pache. so if kin should 
 
 licked through, pursue 
 
 And he fell and was lost, as we rode I should surely escape without other 
 
 two and two. ado 
 
 I looked to mv left, then, and nose. 
 
 Than to ride, without blood, to the 
 
 north Brazos side, 
 
 neck, and shoulder . , . . , .. _.,, .. . 
 
 , , ' , . And await her. and wait till the next 
 
 Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to 
 
 hollow moon 
 
 . , 1, .*. tt t ,i • ., Hung her horn in the palms, when 
 
 And up through the black blowing vail 
 
 of her hair 
 
 Did beam full in mine her two mar- 
 velous eyes 
 With a longing and love, yet a look of 
 
 surely and soon 
 And swift she would join me. and all 
 
 would be well 
 Without bloodshed or word. And now, 
 
 as she fell 
 
 , . ' . . . . From the front, and went down in the 
 
 And a pitv for me, as she felt the . ~ 
 
 \ . . , , ocean of fire. 
 
 smoke fold her, 
 
 . . The last that I saw was a look of delight 
 
 And flames leaching far for her glor- „, r . ,, , . . 
 
 . . B & That I should escape — a love— a desire — 
 
 ious hair. 
 
 ... ... let never a word, not a look ot appeal. 
 
 Her sinking steed faltered, his eager _ T . ., , . , , ,» . 
 
 !t ft Lest I should reach hand, should stay 
 
 In nn ot* ^1"3\7' IippI 
 
 To and fro and unsteadilv. and all the ,„ , . ., , ,,. ,. 
 
 One instant for her mmv terrible flight, 
 neck s swell 
 
 Did subside and recede and the Then the rushing of tire around me and 
 nerves fall as dead. under, 
 
 Then she saw sturdy Pache still lorded And the howling of beasts and a sound 
 his head, as of thunder— 
 
 With a look of delight, for this Pache. Beasts burning and blind and forced 
 you - onward and over. 
 
 Was her father's, and once at the South As the passionate flame reached around 
 Santa Fe them and wove her 
 
 Had won a whole herd, sweeping Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till 
 everything down they died — 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 8S 
 
 Till they died with a wild and a desolate 
 
 moan, 
 As a Bea heart-broken on the hard 
 
 brown stone. 
 And into the Brazos— I rode all alone — 
 All alone, save only a horse Long-limbed, 
 Aucl blind and bare and burnt to the 
 
 skin. 
 Then, just as the terrible sea came in 
 And tumbled its thousands hot into 
 
 the tide, 
 Till the tide blocked up and the swift 
 
 stream brimmed 
 In eddies, we struck on the opposite 
 
 side. 
 
 Sell Pache,— blind Pache? Now, mister 
 
 look here, 
 You have slept in my tent and partook 
 
 of my cheer 
 Many days, many days on this rugged 
 
 frontier, 
 For the ways they were rough and 
 
 Cam an eh es were near 
 But you'd better pack up, sir! that tent 
 
 is to small 
 For us two after this! has an old moun- 
 taineer, 
 Do you bookmen believe, gotnotum- 
 
 tum at all? 
 Sell Pache? You buy him! A bag full 
 
 of gold! 
 You show him! Tell of him the tale I 
 
 have told! 
 Why, he bore me through lire, and is 
 
 blind, and is old! 
 Now pack up your papers and get. up 
 
 and spin, 
 And never look back. Blast you and 
 
 your tin! 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
 The Bell of Zanora- 
 The ruddy sun was setting behind the 
 
 Murchian hills, 
 The fields were warmed to splendor 
 
 and golden flowed the rills. 
 Across the little valley where lay the 
 
 Spanish town 
 The dying sun's last blessing, a glory, 
 floated down. 
 
 Amid the fields the peasant led in the 
 
 grazing kine, 
 And faintly came a tinkling as trudged 
 
 the peaceful Line. 
 Upon the height the convent, a ruin old 
 
 and gray, 
 Towered upward, and its shadow across 
 
 the valley lay. 
 Before that ancient ruin, prone on the 
 
 scented grass. 
 A boy of fifteen summers watched day's 
 
 bright glory pass: 
 The lad was there on duty and oft about 
 
 him scanned. 
 Zanora feared the coming of robbe r 
 
 Gomez's band; 
 Of Gomez, fierce and heartless, the 
 
 terror of the vale, 
 Whose name made women shudder and 
 
 bravest men grow pale. 
 Unto the town a rumor that Gomez 
 
 fierce would come 
 And sack the peaceful hamlet made 
 
 stoutest hearts all dumb. 
 The peasants cleaned their firelocks, 
 
 the women watched and prayed, 
 That the band of robber Gomez upon 
 
 its pg,th be stayed. 
 Yet time wore on, and scathless still 
 
 stood the little town, 
 But from iis ancient convent a watcher 
 
 still looked down. 
 For clear from 'neath its portals each 
 
 roadway might be scanned, 
 And there from morn till night they 
 
 watched for Gomez's band. 
 The old bell of the convent within its 
 
 tower still hung, 
 It's rope with dangling curves- seemed 
 
 waiting to be rung, 
 For if a sight of Gomez came to the 
 
 watcher there, 
 He straight would let the old bell with 
 
 warning fill the air, 
 Unto the town a signal to rally fast and 
 
 stand, 
 And, ready for the onslaught, beat back 
 
 the robber band, 
 This day was Rooe watcher until the 
 
 sun hung low, 
 
86 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 And then, with watching wearied, he 
 
 lay and gazed below. 
 He watched the smoke, that floated 
 
 above his mother's cot. 
 To him the grazing cattle, seemed each 
 
 a moving dot. 
 Faint from the bustling village, came 
 
 murmurs low a id deep; 
 The bells far off did tinkle; the lad was 
 
 fast asleep. 
 Asleep he lay. but not for long— he woke 
 
 a gri nmy hand — 
 Pressed his mouth: Hi, Prists were 
 
 bound! Around him Gomez's 
 
 band! 
 They dragged him to the convent; cried 
 
 Gomez, "Rope this fool:" 
 Then 'neath the rope they placed him. 
 
 kneeling on a stool. 
 Around his neck, so slender, the snaky 
 
 bell. rope's fold 
 They fastened. Then cried Gomez, 
 
 "That bell won't soon be tolled: 
 Come, on, lads, there's work below; 
 
 this fool ain't to be hung, 
 By the saints: vet hang he will before 
 
 that bell is rung:" 
 The robbers laughed, and vanished and 
 
 Rooe was left alone 
 With one thought ever stinging — he 
 
 must his fault atone. 
 The rope his throat was galling, his 
 
 corded wrists were numb, 
 Poor Rooe's burning thoughts alone 
 
 could freely go and come. 
 The helpless souls, the bell above, the 
 
 black band creeping down. 
 Over his brow the drops rolled fast — he 
 
 must arouse the town: 
 That rope he well remembered, bis 
 
 ^ngrh had often tried, 
 And all his weight to move it, he knew 
 
 must be applied. 
 He thought of home and mother, of Car- 
 men, sweet and fair, 
 Then, with one sob of anguish, he sprang 
 
 into the air: 
 ***** 
 
 The robber band was creeping down 
 the steep incline 
 
 With chieftain Gomez leading the dark, 
 
 exulting line. 
 "They're ours," the bandit chuckled, 
 
 "it's time to make the charge, 
 And then the robbers halted upon the 
 
 hill-top's marge. 
 Red Gomez drew his sabre, and then — 
 
 What was that sound"? 
 Bom: Bom: The convent tocsin! It 
 
 fairly shook the ground. 
 Bom: Bona: Pale grew the robbers, 
 yet Gomez cried, -Advance:" 
 Too late, the town was rousing, and 
 
 lost the bandit's chance. 
 Some scattering snots: The robbers 
 
 fled over the hill-tops crown. 
 Bom: tolled the bell yet fainter — saved 
 
 was the little town. 
 Straight upward strode the peasants, up 
 
 to the convent tower, 
 Before them sways a something — from 
 
 which the bravest cower; 
 Bom: clanged the bell yet fainter, and 
 
 with the passing toll 
 Its dying sob bore upward the hapless 
 
 Rooe's soul. 
 They took him down with wailing, and 
 
 bitter tears were shed, 
 For he who saved Zanora, mute as its 
 
 bell — was dead. 
 
 w: E. rose. 
 
 The Duelist's Victory. 
 
 'Twas in the year of battles, the red 
 
 year ninety-three. 
 Through an iron ring of foemen France 
 
 was striving to break free. 
 And we fought beneath her banners in 
 
 rags aud poorly fed; 
 But a man can march to China with 
 
 iron and with bread. 
 
 We were camped upon the frontier 
 
 where the glorious river smiles, 
 The Austrian fires before us burned red 
 
 for miles and mi! 
 And round a drum-head standing, by a 
 
 single lantern's light, 
 Carnot and his staff were planning the 
 
 morrow's furious fight. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 87 
 
 Two officers came to him, young soldiers 
 
 both, but tried; 
 "My General, we have quarreled — our 
 
 weapons must decide 
 Upon whose side the wrong was, upon 
 
 whose Bide the right. 
 Give us leave to try the issue in combat 
 here to-night?' 
 
 He sighed and smiled, the General, then 
 spake he to the two: 
 
 "The lives that you would venture, do 
 they belong to you? 
 
 Wnen against her like wolves are howl- 
 ing the vengeful Cossack hordes, 
 
 Should France's sons be goring French 
 bosoms with French sword 
 
 "You both have marched together, you 
 
 have fought side by side; 
 No need to doubt the courage that has 
 
 so oft been tried. 
 But since you need will test it, come 
 
 hither," and he strode 
 Forth from the tent and poiuted where 
 
 the Austrian camp fires glowed. 
 
 "To-morrow morn at sunrise we move 
 
 upou the foe; 
 At those earthworks in the centre. 
 
 there'll be hot work, I trow. 
 I shall place you in the vanguard, and 
 
 in the army's sight 
 You can prove which in your quarrel 
 
 was wrong and which was right." 
 
 Up rose the sun next morning, red in a 
 
 stormy sky. 
 Fit opening of the day whereon ten 
 
 thousand men should die! 
 And all of us were watching— for swift 
 
 the story flew — 
 The soldiers who had quarreled, 'mong 
 
 the enfans jwdus. 
 
 At last it came, the signal! The drum- 
 mer smote his drum, 
 
 Each duelist bowed coldly and said to 
 the other. -Come!" 
 
 We sprang up from the ditches, and as 
 we scrambled out 
 
 \Ye saw them dashing down the Held on 
 toward the great redoubt. 
 
 And so we followed after, over the 
 
 slippery plain, 
 The Austrian bullets, pel ting like hi 
 
 ts of rain, 
 And the cannon roaring louder, ami 
 
 mole frequent through the cloud, 
 Anil a hundred drummers, rattling the 
 
 pas-de- charge aloud. ■ 
 
 There were two thousand of us, when 
 
 first we scrambled out, • 
 Five hundred of us only reached the 
 
 crest of the redoubt, 
 And oft as through the clinging smoke 
 
 the cannons flash glared red, 
 We could see the two young duelists 
 
 still racing on ahead, 
 
 Then all at once a shock that seemed 
 
 to make the whole world reel, 
 Fierce yells, and curses, and deep 
 
 groans, and clang of steel on 
 
 steel, 
 And we could see the Austrian flag 
 
 amid a smoky pall, 
 Tossing and wavering to and fro like a 
 
 tree about to fall. 
 
 One of the two had seized it — which 
 one we never knew — 
 
 Both were hewing at the foemen as 
 sturdy woodmen hew. 
 
 Against two men twelve hundred! The 
 odds were fa: from just. 
 
 So we dashed in aud backward the strug- 
 gling Austrians thrust. 
 
 And long before the foemen took breath 
 and could combine 
 
 To shake the wedge the master-hand 
 had driven through his line, 
 
 Carnot was hurrying to our help his 
 every man and gun. 
 
 And the tight was gained by that re- 
 doubt the duelists had won. 
 
 Then said the General, laughing; Which 
 was braver of the two?'. 
 
 '•You were!" one officer replied. His 
 comrade said; "No — you!" 
 
 "You seized the Austrian standard first! 
 'Twas merely mine to save 
 
 Y'our life when vou had torn it down! 
 
88 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Your bravest ! You're most 
 
 brave!" 
 Right gayly laughed the General: "If 
 
 any doubt remain, 
 When uext we meet the enemy just test 
 
 the thing again; 
 Shake hands!" '.'No need to, General, 
 
 for our hands somehow met 
 As Ave plucked this flower from the 
 
 bedge of the Austrian bayonet!" 
 
 GEOHGE T. DANERGAN. 
 
 The Wrecker's Oath on Barnagat. 
 
 HENRY MORFORD. 
 
 On night mid swarthy forms I lay, 
 Along a wild southeastern bay. 
 Within a cabin rude and rough, 
 Formed out of driftwood, wrecker's 
 
 stuff's, 
 And firelight throwing rosy flame 
 From up-heaped masses of the same, — 
 Waiting the turning of the tide 
 To launch the surf-boats scattered wide 
 And try the fisher's hardy toil 
 Foi bass, and other tinny spoil. 
 
 They lay around me young and old, 
 But men of hardy mien and mould, 
 Whom one had picked some deed to do 
 Demanding iron hearts and true, 
 But whom one had not picked, if wise, 
 For playing tricks to blinded eyes. 
 Without expecting at the end, 
 To learn the odds 'twixt foe and friend! 
 
 Some leaned upon their arms, and 
 
 slept; 
 But others wakeful vigil kept, 
 And told short stories, — merry, half, 
 And some too earnest for a laugh. 
 And I— I listened, as I might, 
 With strange and weird and wild de- 
 light, 
 To hear the surf men, in their haunt, 
 On deeds and loves and haunts descant. 
 
 One gray old man, of whom I heard 
 No more than this descriptive word, 
 "Old Kennedy," — he rattled on, 
 Of men and things long past and' gone, 
 And seemed without one careful 
 thought, — 
 
 Till spark or tinder some one brought 
 By hinting that he launched no more, 
 Of late, his surf-boat from the shore, 
 However wind and storm were rife 
 Anil stranded vessels periled life. 
 
 "No! by the God who made this tongue!" 
 And up in angry force he sprung, — 
 "No! never while my head is warm, 
 However wild beat sea and storm, 
 Launch I a boat one life to save, 
 If half creation finds a grave!" 
 
 A fearful oath! — I thought; and so 
 Thought others for a murmur low 
 Ran round the circle, till, at length, 
 The wondering feeling gathered strength 
 And some; who had not known him 
 
 long, 
 Declared them words of cruel wrong, 
 And swore to keep no friendly troth 
 With one who framed so hard an oath, 
 
 "You will not mates?" the old man 
 
 said, 
 His words so earnest, dense, and dread 
 That something down my back ran cold 
 As at the ghostly tales of old. 
 "You will not? Listen then a word! 
 And if, when you have fairly heard, 
 You say a thoughtless oath I swore, 
 I never fish beside you more!" 
 
 They listened -.so did I, be sure, 
 
 As Desdemona to her Moor, 
 
 Or that poor "wedding guest" who 
 
 heard 
 The Ancient Mariner's lengthy word. 
 They listened; and no murmur broke 
 The full, dead silence, as he spoke. 
 
 "You know me mates, -at least the most 
 From Barnegat, on Jersey coast. 
 'Tis time you listened something more, 
 That drove me to another shore. 
 
 Twelve years ago, at noon of life, 
 I had a fond and faithful wife; 
 Two children, boy and girl; a patch; 
 A drift-wood cabin roofed with thatch: 
 And thought myself the happiest man 
 The coast had known since time began. 
 Ships wrecked; they never saw me 
 flinch. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 «y 
 
 But tight the whites rf, inch by inch, 
 
 To save the meanest thing had breath, 
 
 If danger seemed to threaten death. 
 
 Yes, — more! I never once held back, 
 
 If through the big storm, rushing black, 
 
 Some nabob's riches I could save 
 
 And give them to him from the wave. 
 
 One night a large ship drove ashore, 
 
 Not half a mile beyond my door. 
 
 I saw the white surf breaking far; 
 
 I saw her beating on the bar; 
 
 I knew she could not live one hour, 
 
 By wood and iron's strongest power. 
 
 I was alone, except my boy, — 
 
 Sixteen. — my wife's best hope and joy; 
 
 And who can doubt, that is not mad, 
 
 He was the proudest pride I had! 
 
 I let him take the vacant oar; 
 
 I took him with me from the shore; 
 
 I let him try help save a life: 
 
 I drowned him, and it killed my wife!" 
 
 The old man paused, and dashed his 
 
 hand 
 Against his brow, to gain command; 
 While all around, a hush like death 
 Hung on the fisher's trembling breath. 
 And pitying eyes began to show 
 How rough men feel a rough man's 
 
 woe. 
 Then he went on, — a few words more, 
 That still au added horror bore. 
 
 "Somebod} 7 stole a cask or bale, — 
 At least so ran the pleasant tale. 
 And Avhile my boy was lying dead, 
 My wife's last breath as yet untied, 
 The city papers reeked with chat 
 Of 'pirate bands on Barnegat.' 
 My name was branded as a thief, 
 When I was almost mad with grief; 
 And what d'ye think they made me feel, 
 When the last falsehood ground its heel, 
 'I had rowed out, that night, to steal!' 
 No! if I ever row again, 
 To save the lives of periled men, 
 Body and soul at once go down, 
 And Heaven forget me as I drown!" 
 
 It was a direful oath, as well 
 
 When nothing more remained to tell, 
 
 As it had been, when at the first 
 
 His wrong ami hate the old man nursed. 
 But I have often thought, .Vuice then, 
 The best of men arc only men, 
 And some of us, at church and school, 
 Who prattle Of the Golden Rule, — 
 Might find it hard, such weight to bear 
 Of shame and outrage and despair, 
 Without forgetting trust ami troth 
 And hurliujr out as dread an oath. 
 
 Hancock at Gettysburg. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY PERMISSION OF AUTHOR. 
 
 Respectfully Dedicated to the 2d Army 
 Corps. 
 
 BY COMRADE SHERMAN D. RICHARDSON, 
 
 Come spirit of the sacred past! . 
 
 Draw back thy curtain dark with 
 years, 
 Reveal with all the art thou hast, 
 Those scenes, that now, the world 
 reveres; 
 Where Liberty had second birth. 
 
 'Mid passion deep and bitter pain; 
 Where bondage fled, unwept, from earth. 
 And Right resumed her reign again. 
 ******* 
 
 Twice hath the sun, blood-red, gone 
 
 down, 
 Thrice hath appeared the morn's red 
 
 frown 
 O'er Gettysburg, of valleys green r 
 Of wooded slope in summer sheen,, 
 Of broken spur and rocky steep, 
 Of dark ravine with chasm deep, 
 A field, whose dedicated sod, 
 Shall bloom for aye, for Truth and God v 
 
 O'er Gettysburg, where chains of men 
 Adorn each hill and ragged glen, 
 Where guns in boulder settings wait 
 And rifles fringe her robes of state; 
 Where dead and dyiug. Blue and Gray 
 Mark well where rolled the bitter fray; 
 Where side by side the Gray and Blue 
 Shall wait in peace, the Grand Review 
 
 Away, against the Southern sky, 
 The "Round Tops" rear their summits 
 high, 
 
90 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 There Sykea still holds the frowning 
 
 stoop 
 That Vincent gave his life to keep; 
 There dashing Wood and Hazlett true, 
 With young O'Rourke, led charging 
 
 Blue, 
 Until they turned that surging tide — 
 McLaws' Invincibles" — and died. 
 
 Across the holds the scalloped lines 
 Of Wright are massed in quaint designs, 
 While trusty Wheaton guards the gate; 
 Upon which hangs an army's fate! 
 The jagged rocks of "Devil's Den" 
 Are garrisoned with lifeless men; 
 And 'mid the "Orchards" far away, 
 Lies silent ranks, in Blue and Gray. 
 
 Brave Birney's line, his flags reveal 
 Amid the flashing waves of steel; 
 While Doubleday's artillery roar, 
 Like breakers o»n this red sea-shore. 
 Rolls past to yonder circling slope, 
 Where Howard, brave, and Slocum 
 
 cope 
 With fearless Ewell, till he reels 
 In shattered ranks, across the fields. 
 
 Well has been placed one valiant chief 
 Rich glory gilds the "Clover leaf," 
 Upon the flags are Chancellorsville, 
 Antietam, Yorktown, Malvern Hill, 
 At Williamsburg he earned his name; — 
 At Fredericksburg he garnered fame: 
 Yet brighter stars will now be won 
 Upon this field, ere set of sun. 
 
 From where yon seething sea of gray 
 Hath ebbed and flown the livelong day, 
 There soon will roll, in billows great, 
 A flood, impelled by bitter hate. 
 See! now. amid the trees, its foam! 
 Its mist hath darkened heaven's dome, 
 The air i.« tilled with gathering gloom — 
 The dread of an impending doom. 
 
 The storm! The storm! Two hundred 
 
 shell 
 Comes shrieking from a belching hell! 
 Above, below, around and past, 
 Each blast infernal, follows blast, 
 The tempest thickeus, ! — From its roar, 
 Like thunder-bolts, the missels pour, 
 
 The battle smoke doth all enshroud 
 And death rides fast upon the cloud. 
 
 "Down, down, each man!" The brave 
 
 grow pale! 
 They who have laughed at leaden hail! 
 The works are piled with mangleddead: 
 The trenches with hot blood are red. 
 The right are wavering! Oh. what cost! 
 If it give way, the day is lost! 
 Then lost our nation! — God! draw nigh 
 And nerve each heart to stay and — die. 
 
 The prayer is answered! Thro' the 
 
 storm 
 Of bursting shell, there rides a form, 
 With face, as calm, and nerves as true, 
 As though he led some grand review. 
 He passes slowly down the line; 
 All hearts grow brave, as tear drops 
 
 shine, 
 The hero chief, 'mid dangers dire, 
 Is now baptized with battle fire, 
 
 Ride, chieftain, ride! Thy path hath 
 
 led, 
 Where soon will heap the foemen dead! 
 Ride, chieftain ride! Thy life is charm- 
 ed 
 And now, thy soldiers, doubly armed, 
 Will meet yon madmen's deadly shock, 
 As if just hewn from grauite rock. 
 And send then whirling 'cross the plain, 
 Bereft of power to charge again. 
 
 Form, Picket, form! Your soul of tire 
 To-day shall quaff its full desire; 
 Storm down the lines! O, Garnett! 
 
 You 
 Shall lead to death with Armstead true, 
 And Kemper ready for the fray. 
 Remember, Lee commands to-day 
 And, gray haired chief! count well the 
 
 cost, 
 If Gettysburg to you is lost. 
 
 Oh, grand the sight! From out the 
 
 West 
 An army marches breast to breast; 
 Like sunset glow, their banners stream; 
 Like noonday sheen, their bayonet 
 
 glean; 
 They move with silent, solemn tread, 
 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 9i 
 
 To where their glory waits ahead; 
 A power magnificent and great, 
 Whose eagles bear a nation's fate. 
 
 They come! they, come! with frenzied 
 
 yell! 
 They come, where sweep the shot and 
 
 shell! 
 They charge, to meet the deadly hail, 
 The bayonets clash, the scrap n ell's wail! 
 "Hold fast the gun! Tho' hell shall 
 
 form 
 To take this hill, and devils storm! 
 Hold fast the wall! They can't prevail! 
 But curses on you if you fail!" 
 Like God of War, he rides the field; 
 His sword of battle, now revealed, 
 Like lightning Hashes in the west, 
 Is everywhere along the crest; 
 As, drunk with blood and fiendish ire, 
 They swarm within our lines of fire, 
 An army charges, brave and true — 
 A mob of men rolls back from view. 
 
 The spell is o'er! The battle's wrought; 
 
 The chieftain falls,where well he fought! 
 
 His blood the glorious triumph seals! 
 
 The "Clover leaf" again reveals 
 
 Its undimmed fame. The day is won! 
 
 No grander victory 'neath the sun! 
 
 And generations, far away, 
 
 Will tell how Hancock saved the day. 
 
 Copyrighted by Sherman D. Richardson, 
 
 Rochester, N. Y. 
 
 Sheridan at Stone River. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY PERMISSION OF THE 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 DEDICATED TO THE AKMY OF THE 
 
 CUMBERLAND. 
 
 Four miles of Blue and four miles of 
 
 Gray, 
 The battle watch stand at the dawn of 
 
 the day: 
 The fog lies in banks over river and 
 
 plain, 
 No reveille sounding, no bugle refrain. 
 The silence of death holds its spell o'er 
 
 the fields, 
 Save the low muffled sound of artillery 
 
 wheels; 
 
 Or the deep, solemn tread of columns 
 
 of men 
 As they march to their stations by 
 
 thicket and glen. 
 
 Four miles of guns pointing east at the 
 
 foe; 
 Four miles of Hags like the dawn's kind- 
 ling glow; 
 Four miles of steel that is gleaming with 
 
 death; 
 Four miles of veterans that scarcely 
 
 draw breath, 
 Imbued with a spirit sublime ss the 
 
 hour; 
 Inspired with a courage resistless in 
 
 power; 
 A battle front grand 'neath heaven's 
 
 high doom 
 Guarding the gateway of Northland and 
 
 home. 
 
 Like a statue of stone in the morning's 
 
 gray light 
 "Little Phil" and his steed wait the 
 
 sound of the fight. 
 Tho' his heart throbs impatient, his face 
 
 shows no sign, 
 Save the swift sweeping glance down 
 
 the dim silent line. 
 Tis the calm of the master, but deep in 
 
 his breast 
 A cyclone is sleeping in ever unrest, 
 That with fury will rouse at the first 
 
 signal gun, 
 Unrestrained as the lightning till the 
 
 battle is done. 
 
 One by one the stars vanish as upward 
 
 on high 
 The blush of the morning makes crim- 
 
 ton the sky, 
 From out of the brake the awakening 
 
 breeze 
 Just moves the cloud banks hanging 
 
 low mid the trees: 
 'Tis the pause before battle — the halt- 
 ing of doom, 
 When carnage is crouching to spring 
 
 from the gloom — 
 Have pity, O God of the battle, to day 
 v\ hen the Blue of the North meet their 
 
 brothers in Gray. 
 
92 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 But hark! from the sou .h ward the boom 
 
 of a gun, 
 With the flash of its fl iiiie tells the 
 
 light Jas begun. 
 The muskets' loud rattle, the yell of 
 
 the foe, 
 Like blood iu the fog with an infernal 
 
 glow — 
 They are eharging our lines — they are 
 
 met hand to hand, 
 Tk?y have captured our cannon— no 
 
 power can withstand: 
 Brave Davis and Johnsoa are swept 
 
 fr >m the Held, 
 The "Pride of the West" to the foeman 
 
 must yield. 
 
 "*' To the foeman must yield? What, 
 
 the boys I have led? 
 Repeat but those words and disgrace 
 
 on your head! 
 Stand fast every man — it is treason to 
 
 fail! 
 We will 1 nigh at the danger tho' hell 
 
 should assail! 
 Shot double the guns — swing round the 
 
 right line. 
 There is sport in the brake— there is 
 
 fun in the pine! 
 See them coming like demons with 
 
 Weathers ahead! 
 Aim low boys, and give them a break- 
 fast of lead!" 
 
 Ah! bravest of brave those words have 
 
 quick sped 
 To the boys where the bullets are heap- 
 ing the dead, 
 And the Hash of your sword as you ride 
 
 down the line 
 Now make their blood boil as if drunken 
 
 with wine. 
 But the flash of your eye is an army 
 
 in power, 
 And it holds the men there in this 
 
 terrible hour, 
 When the bravest of Southland roll up 
 
 a fierce flood 
 To break on that headland in billows of 
 
 blood. 
 
 Closer and closer he gathers his men, 
 As fiercer and wilder they charge yet 
 
 again. 
 The powder is gone, but the steel still 
 
 is bright, 
 And he charges them back, like a whirl- 
 wind of might! 
 But see! there's the signal — thy duty is 
 
 done — 
 March back the brave veterans, a hero 
 
 each one. 
 The army is saved by the sacrifice 
 
 grand — 
 The gateway is closed to the loved 
 
 northern land. 
 
 "Here's ail that is left." What are left 
 
 are but few, 
 And they would have died in the battle 
 
 for you. 
 The stars they shall fall on thy shoulders 
 
 to-day, 
 And the sheen of their glory shall shine 
 
 on for aye. 
 Come, Army of Cumberland, roll up a 
 
 cheer, 
 Wave flags to the soldier who never 
 
 knew fear! 
 Let your cannon speak out, let your 
 
 drums loudly beat 
 To brave "Little Phil," who would 
 
 never retreat! 
 
 Sherman D. Richardson, 
 
 The Red Jacket. 
 
 'Tis a cold bleak night! with angry roar 
 
 The north winds beat and clamor at 
 the door; 
 
 The drifted snow lies heaped along the 
 street, 
 
 Swept by a blinding storm of hail and 
 sleet, 
 
 The clouded heavens no guiding star- 
 light lend, 
 
 But o'er the earth in gloom and dark- 
 ness bend; 
 
 Gigantic shadows, by the night lampa 
 thrown, 
 
 Dance their weird revels fitfully alone^ 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 93 
 
 Til lofty halls, where fortune takes its Her pale, sweet face against the win- 
 east', (low pressed, 
 
 Sunk in the treasures of all lands and While sobs of terror shake her tender 
 
 seas, breast. 
 
 In happy homes, where warmth and And from the crowd beneath, in aceents 
 
 comfort meet, wild, 
 
 The weary traveler with their smiles to A mother screams, "O God! My child! 
 
 greet; My child! 
 
 In lo*ly dwellings, where the needy % ^^ Th h ^ gtar _ 
 
 „ f W!U ™ . ,•„• ,. , tied throng 
 
 Round starving embers, chilling limbs A , , r .-., , 
 
 & h A hardy fireman swiftly moves along; 
 
 hl ,,. ' . Mounts sure and fast along the slender 
 Rises the prayer that makes the sad 
 
 . way, 
 
 , ,, ,f . , . . . L . , „ Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. 
 
 "Thank God tor home, this bitter night!" m, ^- , , , , ... 
 
 & The stilling smoke-clouds lower in his 
 
 But hark! above the beating of the path, 
 
 storm Sharp tongues of flame assail him in 
 
 Peals on the startled ear the tire alarm! their wrath; 
 
 Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sud- But up, still up he goes! the goal is 
 
 den light, won! 
 
 And heart-beats quicken with a strange His strong arm beats fche sash> and he is 
 
 affright; gone! 
 
 From tranquil slumber springs at duty's 
 
 ca |] Gone to his death. The wily flames 
 
 The ready friend no danger can appall; surround 
 
 Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and And bum and beat hls ladder to the 
 
 brave, ground, 
 
 He hurries forth to battle and to save. In flaming columns move with quicken- 
 ed beat 
 
 From yonder dwelling, fiercely shoot- To rear a massive wall ' gainst his re . 
 
 in 8° ut » treat. 
 
 Devouring all they coil themselves about Courage(ius heart, thy mission was so 
 
 The flaming furies, mount high and pure 
 
 higher, Suffering humanity must thv loss de- 
 Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of plore- 
 
 e ' Henceforth with martyred heroes thou 
 
 •Strong arms are battling with the stub- shalt live 
 
 born toe Crowned with all honor's nobleness can 
 
 In vain attempts their power to over- • 
 
 throw; 
 
 With mocking glee they revel with their Na y> not so fast ; subdue these gloomy 
 
 prey, tears; 
 
 -Defying human skill to check their way. Behold! he quickly on the roof appears, 
 
 Bearing the tender child, his jacket 
 
 And see! far up above the ilame's hot warm 
 
 ,)re:lth ' Flung round her shrinking form to 
 
 Something that's human waits a horrid gu . u . d from h;u . m 
 
 death; , Up with vour ladders! Quick! 'tis but 
 
 A little child, with waving golden hair, chance! 
 
 stands, like a phantom. 'mid the horrid Beh()M hmv fftgt the ^^ flameg 
 
 S lare - advance! 
 
94 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Quick: quick: brave spirits, to his res- 
 cue fly; 
 
 Up! up! by heavens! this hero must not 
 die! 
 
 Silence! he comes along the burning 
 
 road, 
 Bearing, with tender care, his living 
 
 load : 
 Aha: he totters! Heaven in mercy save 
 The good, true heart that can so nobly 
 
 brave. 
 He's up again! and now he's coming 
 
 fast! 
 One moment and the fiery ordeal's 
 
 passed! 
 And low he's safe! Bold flames, ye 
 
 fought in vain! 
 A happy mother clasps her child again! 
 George M. Baker. 
 
 Will the New Year Come To-night? 
 
 Will the New Year come to-night,mam- 
 ma? I'm tired of waiting so, 
 
 My stocking hung by the chimney side 
 full three long days ago. 
 
 I run to peep within the door, by morn- 
 ing's early light, 
 
 'Tis empty still — Oh, say, mamma, will 
 New Year come to-night? 
 
 Will the New Year come to-night, mam- 
 ma? the snow is on the hill, 
 
 The ice must be two inches thick upon 
 the meadow rill. 
 
 I heard you tell papa last night, his son 
 must have a sled 
 
 (I didn't mean to hear, mamma), and a 
 pair of skates you said. 
 
 I prayed for just those things, mamma, 
 
 oh, I shall be full of glee, 
 And the orphan boys in the village 
 
 school will all be envying me; 
 But I'll give them toys, and lend them 
 
 book, and make their New Year 
 
 glad, 
 For, God, you say, takes back his gifts 
 
 when little folks are bad. 
 
 And won't you let me go, mamma upon 
 the New Year's day, 
 
 And carry something nice and warm to. 
 poor old widow Gray? 
 
 I'll leave the basket near the door, with- 
 in the garden gate, — 
 
 Will the New Year come to-night, mam- 
 ma it seems so long to wait. 
 
 The New l r ear comes to-night, mamma,, 
 I saw it in my sleep, 
 
 My stocking hung so full, I thought- 
 mamma what makes you weep?- 
 
 But it only held a little shroud— a shroud 
 and nothing more: 
 
 An open coffin — open for me — was. 
 standing on the floor. 
 
 It seemed so very strange, indeed, to 
 
 find such gifts instead 
 Of all the toys I wished so much, the 
 
 story-book and sled; 
 But while I wondered what it meant, 
 
 you came with tearful joy 
 And said, "Thou'lt find the New Year 
 
 lint; God calleth thee, my boy!" 
 
 It is not all a dream, mamma,I know it 
 
 must be true; 
 But have I been so bad a boy God tak- 
 
 eth me from you? 
 I don't know what papa will do when 1 
 
 am laid to rest,— 
 And you will have no Willie's head to 
 
 fold upon your breast. 
 
 The New Year comes to-night, mamma, 
 
 — your cold hand on my cheek, 
 And raise my head a little more — it 
 
 seems so hard to speak; 
 You need not fill my stocking now, I 
 
 can not go and peep, 
 Before to-morrow's sun is up, I'll be so 
 
 sound asleep. 
 
 I shall not want the skates, mamma, 
 
 I'll never need the sled; 
 But won't 3 T ou give them both to Blake, 
 
 who hurt me on my head? 
 He used to hide my books away, and. 
 
 tear the pictures too, 
 But now he'll kuow that I forgive, as 
 
 then I tried to do. 
 
 And if you please, mamma, I'd like the 
 story-book and slate, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 95 
 
 To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you 
 
 would not let me hate; 
 And, dear mamma, you won't, forget, 
 
 upon the New Year day, 
 The basket full »of something nice for 
 
 poor old widow Gray? 
 
 The New Year comes to-night, mamma, 
 
 it seems so very soon, 
 I think God didn't hear me ask for just 
 
 another June; 
 I know [Ye been a thoughtless boy, and 
 
 made you too much care. 
 And may be for your sake, mamma, He 
 
 doesn't hear my prayer. 
 
 It can not be; but you will keep the 
 summer flowers green, 
 
 Aud plant a few — don't cry, mamma — 
 a very few I mean, 
 
 When I'm asleep, I'd sleep so sweet be- 
 neath the apple tree, 
 
 Where you aud robin, in the morn, may 
 come aud sing to me. 
 
 The New Year comes— good-night, 
 
 mamma — "I layme down to sleep, 
 I pray the Lord" — tell poor papa — -'my 
 
 soul to keep; 
 If I" — how cold it seems— how dark — 
 
 kiss me, I can not see — 
 The New Year comes to-night, mamma, 
 
 the old year dies with me. 
 
 Coka M. Eager. 
 
 The Aocusing-Bell, or the Blind Horse. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF LA.NGBEIN, BY 
 OLIVER OLDMHAM. 
 
 What means that wondrous belfry there 
 
 Within tin; market-place. 
 With neither gate nor door to bar 
 
 The winged wind's fleet pace? 
 Do meu rejoice, or do they moan, 
 
 When this old bell is heard? 
 Besides, what means that form of stone 
 
 The lofty steed there reared? 
 
 'Tis oft that passing strangers ask: 
 "What can these wonders be? 
 
 Be mine, my friend, the cheerful task 
 To tell the tale to thee:— 
 
 ^Ingratitude's Accdsing-Bkll," 
 
 This antique thing they call, 
 With glory round it hover still • 
 Our fathers 1 spirits all. 
 
 Unthankfulness, e'en in their day. 
 
 Was this world's foul reward; 
 Hence did they here this form display, 
 
 And by it ingrates awed. 
 Whoever felt that serpent's sting, 
 
 To him the right was given, 
 Himself the accusing-bell to ring, 
 
 Though it were midnight even. 
 
 Then, day or night, in frost or thaw, 
 
 Come forth the judges must, 
 And seek, according to the law, 
 
 The matter to adjust. 
 Then weighed not rank, then weighed 
 not gold; 
 
 Alike stood slave and lord; 
 Those judges were not awed norjioJLU; 
 
 They spoke the righteous word. 
 
 Within the century just expired, 
 
 Near here there lived a soul, 
 Who had by luck or trule acquired 
 
 Of wide domains control. 
 Of riches told his costly dress, 
 
 And style of life, of course; 
 For us he kept, — for show no less, 
 
 A splendid saddle horse. 
 
 W r hen riding once, at twilight dim, 
 
 Forth rushed six robbers fell, 
 From thickets dark, and set on him 
 
 W r ith tiger spring and yell. 
 Now all aghast, his menaced life 
 
 Seemed on a hair suspended; 
 When.lo! against the fearful strife 
 
 His horse's speed defended. 
 
 All white with foam, the steed soob 
 brought 
 
 His master home unmanned. 
 When he, impelled by grateful thought. 
 
 His horse's worth proclaimed; 
 Then gravely made this solemn vow: — 
 
 "To thee, my gallant gray, 
 Prime oats abundant I'll allow, 
 
 Until thy latest day." 
 
 At length the horse grew old and sick; 
 Was stiff, aud lame, aud blind; 
 
9 6 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 When gratitude, alas! too quick 
 
 Forsook his master's mind. 
 He basely sought the beast to sell; 
 
 But vain his efforts all; 
 Then suddenly, with spirits fell, 
 
 He drove him from his stall. 
 
 And there, he stood the door-way near. 
 
 Till eight long hours passed around; 
 And oft inclines his listening ear 
 
 \\ hen steps within resounJ. 
 And now the stars shed forth their light: 
 
 Poor horse! unhoused, nnfed: 
 Thus doomed to pass the chilly night: 
 
 The frosty stones his bed. 
 
 £t:ll lingering there the following day. 
 
 The wretched creature stood; 
 Till forced by hunger's sting away 
 
 To seek for needed food. 
 Around him, though the sun bright 
 beamed. 
 
 Thick darkness drew her curtain; 
 And he that once all winged seeme I . 
 
 2s ow walked with step uncertain. 
 
 His right foot slow he forward moved. 
 
 Before a step he trode; 
 And, step by step, he testing proved 
 
 The safety of the road. 
 Thus groping sadly through the streets, 
 
 He grazes 'long the ground: 
 And grasps at every straw he meets. 
 
 As precious treasure found. 
 
 At last, by hunger's fiercer might, 
 
 To skin and bones brought near, 
 He stumbled once, at dead of night. 
 
 Into the bell-house here. 
 All eager, 'neath starvation's pang. 
 
 He seized the bell-rope there; 
 And, while he gnawed, the old bell rang 
 
 Loud through the midnight air. 
 
 The startled judges hurrying came, 
 
 According to the law; 
 And loud exclaimed, iu wonder's name. 
 
 When they the ringer saw. 
 They went not back, iu sportive mood, 
 
 Their downy ek; 
 
 But all amazed, they cried: — "Tis God 
 - MI 'doth speak:" 
 
 Straightway they send, in legal form, 
 
 The in grate forth to bring; 
 Who, when aroused, began to storm: — 
 
 "You dream! What means this thing?" 
 He came; and soon, though proud his 
 air. 
 
 Sunk tamely to the ground; 
 When, mid the court assembled there. 
 
 His hapless horse he found. 
 
 "Know'st thou this creature?" so accost 
 
 Him all the court arrayed. 
 "Had not thy life long sinee been lost, 
 
 But for his timely aid? 
 And how dost thou his service pay? 
 
 Thou giv'st him, man of ice! 
 To storms, to boyish sport a prey, 
 
 And hunger's pinching vice. 
 
 "The accusing-bell has duly tolled; 
 
 The plaintiff here you see; 
 The facts exeuseless crime unfold. 
 
 And, therefore, we decree: — 
 That you take back that faithful steed; 
 
 Give him his stall anew; 
 Supply his ever proper need, 
 
 As Christian man should do." 
 
 The rich man sighed; he looked awry. 
 
 Chagrined and vexed, of course: 
 Yet, conscious of a crime so high, 
 
 He homeward led the horse. 
 Thus, as the records briefly show, 
 
 I've detailed all the facts. 
 Hence, from that horse of stone, you 
 know 
 
 Our noble fathers' acts. 
 
 Cambyses and the Macrobian Bow- 
 Paul H. Hatete. 
 One morn, hard by a slumberous 
 
 streamlet's wave, the plane-trees stir- 
 less in the unbreathing calm, and all 
 the lush-red roses drooped in dream, 
 lay King Cambyses, idle as a cloud that 
 waits the wind, — aimless of thought 
 and will. — but with vague evil, like the 
 lightniug's bolt ere yet the electric 
 death be forged to smite, seething at 
 heart. His courtiei a :m round, 
 
 whereof was one who to his comrades' 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 97 
 
 ears, with bated breath and wonder- 
 arched browa extolled a certain 
 Bactrian's matchless skill displayed in 
 bow-craft: at whose marvelous feats, 
 eagerly vaunted, the King's soul grew 
 hot with envy, for himself erewbile bad 
 been rated the mightiest archer in bis 
 realm. 
 
 Slowly he rose, and pointing south- 
 Ward, said, "seest thou. Prexaspes. 
 yonder slender palm, a mere wan 
 shadow quivering in the light, topped 
 by a ghostly leaf crown? Prithee, now, 
 can this, thy famous Bactrian, standing 
 here, cleave with his shaft a hand's- 
 breadth marked thereon." To which 
 Prexaspes answered, "Nay, my lord; 
 I spake of feats compassed by mortal 
 skill, not of gods' prowess." Unto 
 whom, the king: — "And if myself. 
 Prexaspes, made essay, thiuk'st thou, 
 wise counselor, I too should fail?" 
 ■■Needs must I, sire," — albeit the cour- 
 tier's voice, trembled, and some dark 
 prescience bade him pause, — "Needs 
 must I hold such cunning more than 
 man's; and for the rest, I pray thy 
 pardon, King, but yester-eve, amid the 
 feast and dauce, thou tarriedst with 
 the beakers over-long." 
 
 The thick, wild, treacherous eye- 
 brows of the King, that looked a shel- 
 tering ambush for ill thoughts waxing 
 to manhood, of maligant acts, — these 
 treacherous eyebrows, pent-house 
 fashion, closed o'er the blaek orbits of 
 his fiery eyes, — which, clouded thus, 
 but Hashed a deadlier gleam on all be- 
 fore him: suddenly as tire half-choked 
 and smouldering in iisown dense smoke 
 bursts into roaring radiance and swift 
 flame, touched by keen breaths of 
 liberating wind, — so now Cambyses' 
 eyes a stormy joy stormily filled; for on 
 Prexaspes' son, his tirst-born son, they 
 lingered. — a fair boy (midmost his 
 fellow-pages Hushed with sport), who, 
 in his ofiiee of King's cup-bearer,— so 
 gracious and so sweet were all his ways 
 •—had even the captious sovereign 
 
 seemed to please; while for the court, 
 the reckless, reveling court, they loved 
 him one and all: "(io," said ('.-unbyses 
 now, his voice a hiss, poisonous and 
 low. "go, bind my dainty page to 
 yonder palm-tree; bind him fast and 
 sure, so that no linger stirreth; which 
 being done, fetch me, Prexaspes, the 
 Macro bian bow." 
 
 Thus ordered, thus accomplished: — 
 fast they bound the innocent child, the 
 while that mammoth bow, brought by 
 the spies from Ethiopian camps, lay in 
 the King's hand; slowly, sternly up, he 
 reared it to the level of his sight, reared 
 and bent back its oaken massiveuess 
 till the vast muscles, tough as grape- 
 vines, bulged from naked arm and 
 shoulder, and the horns of the fierce 
 weapon groaning, almost met, when, 
 with one lowering glance askance at 
 him — his doubting satrap, — the King 
 coolly said, "Prexaspes, look, my aim 
 is at the heart:" 
 
 Then came the sharp twang, and the 
 deadly whirr of the loosed arrow, fol- 
 lowed by the dull, Drear echo of a bolt 
 that smites its mark; and those of 
 keenest visiou shook to see the fair 
 child fallen forward across his bonds, 
 quoth the King, clapping Prexaspes' 
 shoulder, as in glee, "go thou, and tell 
 me how that shaft hath sped!" 
 
 Forward the wretched father, step by 
 step, crept, as one creeps whom black 
 Hadean dreams, visions of fate and 
 fear unuttera >le, draw, tranced and 
 rigid, towards some definite goal of 
 horror; but even as he looked the fair 
 child recovered from his fright, and 
 leaped towards him. The father could 
 scarce believe his eyes, "Twas but the 
 thong the shaft had pierced, thus vindi- 
 cating the matchless skill of his king. 
 Prexaspes leading his smiling boy re- 
 turned and made obeisance to his 
 master, who replied. "Thou art for- 
 given old man, but when next you hear 
 Cambyses called drunkard, tell them 
 how and to what purpose once I drew 
 the Macrobian Bow. 
 
98 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 The Drummer Boy. 
 A Touching Incident of the Crimean War. 
 "Captain Graham, the men were sayin' 
 
 Ye would want a drummer lad, 
 So I've brought my bey Sandie, 
 
 Tho' my heart is woful sad; 
 But uae bread is left to feed us, 
 
 And no siller to buy more, 
 For the gudenian sleeps forever, 
 
 Where the heather blossoms o'er. 
 
 "Sandie, make your manners quickly, 
 
 Play your blithest measure true — 
 Gives us 'Flowers of Edinboro',' 
 
 While you fifer plays it too. 
 Captain, heard ye e'er a player 
 
 Strike in truer time than heV" 
 "Nay, iu truth, brave Sandie Murray 
 
 Drummer of our corps shall be." 
 
 "I give ye thanks— but, Captain, maybe 
 
 Ye will hae a kindly care 
 For the friendless, lonely laddie, 
 
 When the battle wark is sair: 
 For Sandie's aye been good and gentle, 
 
 And I've nothing else to love. 
 Nothing — but the grave off yonder, 
 
 And the Father up above." 
 
 Then, her rough hand gently laying 
 
 On the curl-encircled head, 
 She blessed her boy. The tent was silent, 
 
 And not another word was said; 
 For Captain Graham was sadly dreaming 
 
 Of a benison, long ago. 
 Breathed above his head, then golden, 
 
 Bending now, and touched with snow. 
 
 "Good-bye, San die." "Good- bye, mot her, 
 
 I'll come back some summer day; 
 Don't you fear — the}' don't shoot drum- 
 mers 
 
 Ever. Do the}*, Captain Gra V 
 
 One more kiss— watch for me, mother, 
 
 You will know 'tis surely me 
 Coming home— for you will hear me 
 
 Playing soft the reveille." 
 * * * * * * . * 
 
 After battle. Moonbeams ghastly 
 Seemed to link in strange affright, 
 
 As the scudding clouds before them 
 Shadowed faces dead and white; 
 
 And the night- wind softly whispered, 
 When low moans its light wing bore--: 
 
 Moans that ferried spirits over 
 
 Death's dark wa-. e to yonder shore. 
 
 Wandering where a footstep careless 
 
 Might go splashing down in blood, 
 Or a helpless hand lie grasping 
 
 Death and daisies from the sod — 
 Captain Graham walked swift onward, 
 
 VV r hile a faintly-beaten drum 
 Quickened heait and step together: 
 
 "Sandie Murrayj See, I come! 
 
 "Is it thus I tind you, laddie? 
 
 Wounded, lonely, lying here, 
 Playing thus the reveille? 
 
 See— the morning is not near." 
 A moment paused the drummer boy, 
 
 And lifted up his drooping head: 
 "Oh, Captain Graham, the light is 
 coming, 
 
 'Tis morning and my prayers are said 
 
 "Morning! See, the plains grow 
 brighter — 
 
 Morning — and I'm going home, 
 That is why I play the measure, 
 
 Mother will not see me come; 
 But you'll tell her, won't you, Captain — " 
 
 Hush, the boy has spoken true; 
 To him the day has dawned forever, 
 
 Unbroken by the night's tattoo. 
 
 The Palmetto and the Pine- 
 Virginia L. Fhench. 
 
 They planted them together— our gaK 
 
 lant sires of old — 
 Though one was crowned with crystal 
 
 snow, and one with solar gold. 
 They planted them together on the 
 
 world's majestic height: 
 At Saratoga's deathless charge; at Eu-. 
 
 taw's stubborn tight; 
 At midnight on the dark redoubt, 'mid 
 
 plunging shot and shell; 
 At noontide gasping in the crush of 
 
 battle's bloody swell. 
 With gory hands and reeking brows, 
 
 amid the mighty fray 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 99 
 
 Whi- h surged and swelled around 
 
 them on that memorable day. 
 When they planted Independence as a 
 
 symbol and a sign, 
 They struck deep soil and planted the 
 
 palmetto and fche pine. 
 They planted them together,— by the 
 
 river of the years, — 
 Watered with our fath ers' hearts' blood. 
 
 watered with our mothers' tears-, 
 In the strong, rich soil of freedom, with 
 
 a bounteous bension 
 From their prophet, priest and pioneer 
 
 — our father, Washington! 
 Above them floated echoes of the ruin 
 
 and the wreck, 
 Like "drums that heat at Louisburg 
 
 and thundered at Quebec;" 
 But the old lights sauk to darkness as 
 
 the new stars rose to shine 
 O'er those emblems of the sections, the 
 
 palmetto and the pine. 
 
 And we'll plant them still together — 
 
 for 'tis yet the self-same soil 
 Our fathers' valor won for us by victory 
 
 and toil; 
 On Florida's fair everglades, by bold 
 
 Ontario's flood, — 
 And through them send electric life, as 
 
 leaps the kindred blood! 
 For thus it is they taugh us who for 
 
 freedom lived and died, — 
 The Eternal's law of justice must and 
 
 shall be justified, 
 That God hath joined together, by a fiat 
 
 all divine, 
 The destinies of dwellers 'neath the 
 
 palm-tree and the pine. 
 ******* 
 God plant them still together! Let them 
 
 flourish side by side 
 In the halls of our Centennial, mailed 
 
 in more than marble pride! 
 With kindly deeds and noble names 
 
 we'll grave them o'er and o'er 
 With brave historic legends of the glor- 
 ious days of yore; 
 While the clear, exultant chorus, rising 
 
 from united bands, 
 
 The echo of our triumph peals to 
 earth's remotest lands; 
 
 While "faith, fraternity, and love" 
 shall joyfully entwine 
 
 Around our chosen emblems, the pal- 
 metto and the pine. 
 
 "Together!" shouts Niagara, his thun- 
 der toned decree; 
 
 "Together!" echo back the waves upon 
 the Mexic Sea; 
 
 "Together!" sing the sylvan hills where 
 old Atlantic roars; 
 
 "Together!" boom the breakers on the 
 wild Pacific shores; 
 
 "Together!" cry the people. And '7o- 
 gether" it shall be, 
 
 An everlasting charter-bond forever 
 for the free! 
 
 Of liberty the signet-seal, the one etern- 
 al sign, 
 
 Be those united emblems — the palmetto 
 and the pine. 
 
 The Victor of Marengo. 
 
 Napoleon was sitting in his tent; be- 
 fore him lay a map of Italy. He took 
 four pins and stuck them up; measured, 
 moved the pins, and measured again. 
 "Now," said he, "that is right; 1 will 
 capture him there!" "Who, sir?" said 
 an officer. "Milas, the old fox of Aus- 
 tria. He will retire from Genoa, pass 
 Turin, and fall back on Alexandria. I 
 shall cross the Po, meet him on the 
 plains of Laconia, and conquer him 
 there," and the finger of the child of 
 destiny pointed to Marengo. 
 
 Two months later the memorable 
 campaign of 1800 began. The 20th of 
 May saw Napoleon on the heights of 
 St. Bernard. The 22d, Larmes, wit li- 
 the army of Genoa, held Padua. So 
 far, all had been well with Napoleon. 
 He had compelled the Austrians to take 
 the position he desired; reduced the 
 army from one hundred and twenty 
 thousand to forty thousand men; dis- 
 patched Murat to the right, and June 
 14th moved forward to consummate his 
 masterly plan. 
 
lOO 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 But God threatened to overthrow his 
 scheme: A little rain had fallen in 
 the Alps, and the Po could not be cros- 
 sed in time. The battle was begun. 
 Milas, pushed to the wall, resolved to 
 cut his way out; and Napoleon reached 
 the field to see Larmes beaten — Cham- 
 peaux dead — Desaix still charging old 
 Milas, with his Austrian phalanx at 
 Marengo, till the consular guard gave 
 way, and the well-planned victory was 
 a terrible defeat. Just as the day was 
 lost, Desaix, the boy General, sweeping 
 across the field at the head of his caval- 
 ry, halted on the eminence where stood 
 Napoleon. There was in the corps a 
 drummer-boy, a gamin whom Desaix 
 had picked up in the streets of Paris. 
 He had followed the victorious eagle of 
 France in the campaigns of Egypt and 
 Germany. As the columns halted, 
 Napoleon shouted to him: — "Beat a re- 
 treat!" The boy did not stir. "Gamin, 
 beat a retreat!" The boy stopped, 
 grasped his drum-sticks, and said: "Sir, 
 I do not know how to beat a retreat; 
 Desaix never taught me that; but I can 
 beat a charge, — Oh! I can beat a charge 
 that will make the dead fall into line. 
 I beat that charge at tha Pyramid; I 
 beat that charge at Mount Tabor, I 
 beat it again at the bridge of Lodi. 
 May I beat it here?" Napoleon turned 
 to Desaix, and said: "We are beaten; 
 what shall we do?" "Do? Beat them! 
 It is only three o'clock, and there is 
 time enough to win a victory yet. Up! 
 the charge! beat the old charge of 
 Mount Tabor and Lodi!" A momen 1 
 later the corps, following the sword- 
 gleam of Desaix, and keeping step with 
 the furious roll of the gamin's drum, 
 swept down on the host of Austrians. 
 They drove the first line back on the 
 second — both on the third, and there 
 they died. Desaix fell at the first vol- 
 ley, but the line never faltered, and as 
 the smoke cleared away the gamin was 
 seen in front of his line marching right 
 on, and still beating the furious charge. 
 
 Over the dead and wounded, over the 
 breastworks and fallen foe, over can- 
 non belching forth their fire of death, 
 he led the wa3' to victory, and the fif- 
 teen days in Italy were ended. To-day 
 men point to Marengo and wonder. 
 They admire the power and foresight 
 that so skillfully handled the battle, 
 but they forget that a General only 
 thirty years of age made a victory of a 
 defeat, They forget that a gamin of 
 Paris put to shame "the child of des- 
 tiny." 
 
 The Dead Student. 
 
 It doesn't seem — now does it Jack? — as 
 
 if poor Brown were dead: 
 'Twas only yesterday, at noon, he had 
 
 to take his bed. 
 The day before, he played first base, and 
 
 ran McFarland down; 
 And then, to slip away so sly — 'twas 
 
 not at all like Brown. 
 
 The story seems too big to take. 'Most 
 
 anyone will 'find 
 It's something hard to get a man well 
 
 laid out in his mind. 
 And Brown was just afire with life. 
 
 'Twouldn't scare me, I avow, 
 To hear a whoop, and see the man go 
 
 rushing past here now. 
 
 Poor Brown! he's lying in his room, as 
 
 white as drifted snow. 
 I called upon him, as it were, an hour 
 
 or two ago. 
 A-rushing into Brownie's room seemed 
 
 awkward like and queer; 
 We haven't spoken back and forth for 
 
 something like a year. 
 
 W r e didn't pull together square a single 
 
 night or day: 
 Howe'er I went, he soon contrived to 
 
 find another way. 
 He ran against me in my loves; we 
 
 picked a dozen bones 
 About that girl you used to like — the 
 
 one that married Jones. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 ioi 
 
 He worked against me in the class, be- 
 fore my very eyes; 
 
 Ha opened up and sc-oopcd me square 
 out of the junior prize. 
 
 In the last campus rush we came to 
 strictly business Mows, 
 
 And from the eye he left undimmed I 
 viewed his damaged nose. 
 
 In fact, I came at last to feel— and own 
 
 it with dismay— 
 That life would be worth living for if 
 
 Brown were out the way. 
 But when I heard that he was dead, my 
 
 feelings tacked; and then 
 I would have given half my life to get 
 
 his back again. 
 I called upon him, as it were, an hour 
 
 or two ago, 
 The room was neat beyond excuse— the 
 
 women made it so. 
 Be sure he had no hand in that, and 
 
 naught about it knew r . 
 To see the order lying round had made 
 
 him very blue. 
 
 A sweet boquet of girlish flowers smiled 
 
 in the face of Death. 
 Straight through the open window came 
 
 the morning's fragrant breath. 
 Close-caged, a small canary bird, with 
 
 glossy, yellow throat, 
 Skipped drearily from perch to perch, 
 
 and never sung a note. 
 
 With hair unusually combed, sat poor 
 McFarland near, 
 
 Alternately perusing Greek, and wrest- 
 ling with a tear. 
 
 A homely little girl of six, for some old 
 kindness' sake, 
 
 Was sobbing in the corner there, as if 
 her heart would break. 
 
 The books looked worn and wretched 
 like, almost as if they knew, 
 
 And seemed to be a-whispering their ti- 
 tles to my view. 
 
 His rod and gun were in their place; and 
 high, where all might see, 
 
 Gleamed jauntily the boating cup he 
 won last year from me. 
 
 I lifted up tin- solemn sheet. That hon- 
 est, earnest face 
 
 Showed signs of culture and of toil that 
 Death would not erase, 
 
 As western skiesal twilight mark where 
 late the sun has been, 
 
 Brown's face revealed the mind and 
 soul that once bad burned within. 
 
 He looked so grandly helpless, there, 
 
 upon that lonely bed! 
 Oh, Jack! these manly foes are foes no 
 
 more when they are dead! 
 "Old boy!" I sobbed "twas half my 
 
 fault. This heart makes late 
 
 amends." 
 I took the white cold hands in mine — 
 
 and Brown and I were friends. 
 Will Carleton. 
 
 How He Saved St. Micheals. 
 
 ALDLNE. 
 
 So you beg foi" a story, my darling, my 
 
 Brown-eyed Leopold, 
 And you, Alice, with face like morning, 
 
 and curling locks of gold; 
 Then come, if you will, and listen — 
 
 stand (dose beside my knee — 
 To a tale of the Southern city, proud 
 
 Charleston by the sea. 
 
 It was long ago, my children, ere ever 
 the signal gun 
 
 That blazed above Fort Sumter had 
 wakened the North as one, 
 
 Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle- 
 cloud and lire 
 
 Had marked where the unchained mil- 
 lions marched on to their heart's 
 desire. 
 
 On the roofs and the glittering turrets, 
 
 that night, as the sun went down, 
 The mellow glow of the twilight shown 
 
 like a jeweled crown; 
 And, bathed in the living glory, as the 
 
 people lifted their eyes, 
 They saw the pride of the city, the spire 
 
 of St. Michael's, rise 
 
 High over tin? lesser steeples, tipped 
 
 with a golden ball, 
 
io: 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 That hung like a radiant planet caught 
 
 in its earthward fall,— 
 First glimpse of home to the sailor who 
 
 made the harbor-round 
 And last slow-fading vision dear to the 
 
 outward bound. 
 
 The gently gathering shadows shut out 
 
 the waning light; 
 The children prayed at their bedsides, 
 
 as you will pray to-night; 
 The noise of buyer and seller from the 
 
 busy mart was gone; 
 And in dreams of peaceful morrow the 
 
 city slumbered on. 
 
 But another light than sunrise aroused. 
 
 the sleeping street; 
 For a cry was heard at midnight, and 
 
 the rush of tramping feet; 
 Men stared in each other's faces through 
 
 mingled tire and smoke, 
 While the frantic bells went clashing, 
 
 clamorous stroke on stroke. 
 
 By the glare of her blazing roof-tiee the 
 
 homeless mother lied, 
 With the babe she pressed to her bosom 
 
 shrieking in nameless dread, 
 While the fire king's wild battalions 
 
 scaled wall and capstone high, 
 And planted their flaring banners 
 
 against an inky sky. 
 
 From the death that raged behind them, 
 and the crash of ruin loud, 
 
 To the great square of £the city, were 
 driven the surging crowd; 
 
 Where yet, firm in all the tumult, un- 
 scathed by the fiery flood, 
 
 With its heavenward-pointing finger 
 the Church of St. Michael stood. 
 
 But e'en as they gazed upon it there 
 rose a sudden wail — 
 
 A cry of horror, blended with the roar- 
 ing of the gale, 
 
 On whose scorching wings updriven, a 
 single flaming brand 
 
 Aloft on the towering steeple clung like 
 a bloody hand. 
 
 "Will it fade?" The whisper trembled 
 from a thousand whitening lips; 
 
 Far out on the lurid harbor, they watch- 
 ed it from the ships, — 
 
 A baleful gleam that brighter and ever 
 brighter shone, 
 
 Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-wisp 
 to a steady beacon grown. 
 
 "Uncounted gold shall be given to the 
 
 man whose brave right hand, 
 For the love of the periled city, plucks 
 
 dowm yon burning brand."' 
 So, cried the mayor of Charleston, that 
 
 all the people heard; 
 But they looked each one at his fellow; 
 
 and no man spoke a word. 
 
 Who is it leans from the belfry, with 
 
 face upturned to the sky, 
 Clings to a column, and measures the 
 
 dizzy spire with his eye? 
 Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, 
 
 that terrible sickening height? 
 Or will the hot blood of his courage 
 
 freeze in his veins at the sight? 
 
 But see? he has stepped on the railing; 
 
 he climbs with his feet and his 
 
 hands; 
 And firm on a narrow projection, With 
 
 the belfry beneath him, he stauds; 
 Now once, and once only they cheer 
 
 him , — a single tempestuous 
 
 breath, — 
 And there falls on the multitude gazing 
 
 a hush like the stillness of death. 
 
 Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding 
 aught save the goal of the tire, 
 
 Still higher and higher, an atom, he 
 moves on the face of the spire. 
 
 He stops! Will he fall? Lo! for answer, 
 a gleam like a meteors's track, 
 
 And, hurled on the stones of the pave- 
 ment, the red brand lies shattered 
 and black. 
 
 Once more the shouts of the people 
 
 have rent the quivering air; 
 At the church-door mayor and council 
 
 wait with iheir feet on the stair; 
 And the eager throng behind them press 
 
 for a touch of his hand, — 
 The unknown savior, whose daring 
 
 could compass a deed so grand. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 103 
 
 Hut why does :i sudden tremor seize on 
 
 Ihem while they g 1 
 Ami what meaueth I d murmur 
 
 of wonder and amaze? 
 lit- stood in the gate of the temple he 
 
 had periled his life to save; 
 And the faee of the hero, my children, 
 
 was the sable faee of a slave! 
 
 With folded arms he was speaking, in 
 
 t«»nes that were clear, not loud. 
 And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets 
 
 burnt into the eyes of the crowd: 
 "You may keep your gold: I scorn it! — 
 
 but answer me, ye who can, 
 If the deed I have done before you be 
 
 not the deed of a miar!" 
 
 He stepped but a short spaee backward; 
 
 and from all the women and men 
 There were only sobs for answer; and 
 
 the mayor called for a pen. 
 And the great seal of the city, that he 
 
 might read who ran: 
 And the slave who saved St. Michael's 
 
 went out from its door a man.. 
 
 The Roman Soldier — Destruction of Hercu- 
 laneum. 
 
 ATHEKSTON. 
 PART I. 
 
 There was a man, a Roman soldier, 
 for some daring deed that trespassed 
 on the laws, in dungeon low ehained 
 down. His was a noble spirit, rough. 
 But generous, and brave, and kind. 
 He had a son; it was a rosy boy, a little 
 faithful eopy of his sire in face aud 
 gesture. From infancy the child had 
 been his father's solace and his care. 
 
 Every sport the father shared and 
 heightened. Hut at length the rigorous 
 law had grasped him, and condemned 
 to fetters and to darkness. The cap- 
 tive's lot In 1 fell, in all its bitterness; — 
 the walls of his deep dungeon answered 
 many a sigh and heart-heaved groan. 
 His tale was known, and touched his 
 jailer with compassion;— and the boy. 
 thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled 
 
 His father's lingering hours, and 
 brought a balm with bia loved presence, 
 that in every wound dropt healing. 
 But in this terrific hourhe was a p< 
 
 ed arrow in the breast where he had 
 been a cure. 
 
 With earliest morn, of that first day 
 of darkness ami amaze, he came. The 
 iron door was closed, — for then never 
 to open more! The day, the night, 
 dragged slowly by; nor did they know- 
 the fate impending o'er the city. Well 
 they heard the pent-up thunders in the 
 earth beneath, and felt its giddy rock- 
 ing: and the air grew hot at length, and 
 thick; but in his Btraw the boy was 
 sleeping: and the father hoped the 
 earthquake might pass by; nor would 
 he wake from his sound rest the unfear- 
 ing child, nor tell the dangers of their 
 state. On his low couch the fettered 
 soldier sunk; aud with deep awe listen- 
 ed the fearful sounds: with upturned 
 eye to the great gods h> breathed a 
 prayer; then strove to calm himself, 
 and lose in sleep a while his useless ter- 
 rors. 
 
 But he could not sleep. His body 
 burned with feverish heat; his chains 
 clanked loud, although he moved not; 
 deep in the earth groaned unimaginable 
 thunders; sounds, fearful and ominous, 
 arose and died, like the sad meanings 
 of November's wind, in the blank mid- 
 night. Deepest horror chilled his blood 
 that burned before; cold, clammy 
 sweats came o'er him; then, anon, a 
 tiery thrill shot through his veins. Now 
 on his couch he shrunk ami shivered, 
 as in fear; now upright leaped, as 
 though he heard the battle-trumpet 
 sound, and longed to cope with death. 
 He slept at last, a troubled, dreamy 
 sleep. Well—had he slept never to 
 waken more! His hours are few, but 
 terrible Ids agony. 
 
 PART 11. 
 
 Soon the storm burst forth; the light- 
 nings glanced; the air shook with the 
 
o 4 
 
 Olmsiead's Recitations. 
 
 thunders. They awoke; they sprung 
 amazed upon their feet. The dungeon 
 
 glowed a moment as in sunshine — and 
 was dark. Again a Hood of white flame 
 tills the cell; dying away upou the daz- 
 zled eye in darkening, quivering tints, 
 as stunning sound dies throbbing, ring- 
 iug in the ear. Silence, and blackest 
 darkness. With intensest awe the sol- 
 dier's frame was tilled; and many a 
 thought of strange forboding hurried 
 through his mind, as underneath he felt 
 the fevered earth jarring and lifting. 
 and the massive walls heard harshly 
 grate and strain. 
 
 Loudly the father called upon his 
 child. No voiee replied. Trembling 
 and anxiously he searched their couch 
 of straw; with headlong haste trod 
 round his stinted limits, and, low bent, 
 groped darkling on the earth: no child 
 was there. Again he called: again, at 
 farthest stretch of his accursed fetters, 
 till the blood seemed bursting from his 
 ears, and from his eyes fire flashed; he 
 strained with arm extended far, and 
 fingers widely spread, greedy to touch 
 though but his idol's garment. Useless 
 toil! Yet still renewed: still round and 
 rouud he goes, and strains, and snatch- 
 es; and, with dreadful cries, calls on his 
 boy. Mad frenzy fires him now. He 
 plauts against the wall his feet; his 
 chain grasps: tugs, with giaut strength, 
 to force away the deep-driven staple: 
 yells and shrieks with rage. 
 
 And, like a desert lion in the snare 
 raging to break his toils, to and fro he 
 bounds. But see! the ground is open- 
 ing: a blue light mounts, gently wav- 
 ing; noisless; thin and cold it seems, 
 and like a rainbow tint, not flame; but 
 by its luster, on the earth outstretched, 
 behold the lifeless child! his dress is sing- 
 ed aud o'er his face serene a darkened 
 line points out the lightning's track. 
 
 The father saw; and all his fury fled: 
 a dead calm fell that instant on him: 
 speechless, fixed he stood, and with a 
 
 look that never wandered, gazed in« 
 tensely on the corpse. Those laughing 
 eves were not yet closed: aud round 
 those ruby lips the wonted smile return- 
 ed. 
 
 Silent and pale the father stands: no 
 tear is in his eye: the thunders bellow; 
 but he hears them not; the ground lifts 
 like a sea; he knows it not: the strong 
 walls grind and gape: the vaulted roof 
 lakes shapes like bubbles tossiug in the 
 wind. See! he looks up and s 
 for death to him is happiness. Yet 
 could one last embrace be given, 'twere 
 still a sweeter thing to die. 
 
 It will be gi.'en. Look! how the roll- 
 ing ground, at every swell, nearer and 
 still more nearmoves toward the father's 
 outstretched arm his boy. Once he has 
 touched his garment; how his eye light-, 
 ens with love, and hope, and anxious 
 fears! Ha! see; he has him now! he 
 clasps him round; kisses his face; puts 
 back the curling locks that shaded his 
 fine brow; looks in his eyes; grasps in 
 his own those little dimpled hands; 
 then folds him to his breast, as he was 
 wont to lie when sleeping, and resigned 
 awaits undreaded death. And death 
 came soon, aud swift, and pangless. 
 The huge pile sunk down at once into 
 the opening earth. Walls, arches, roof, 
 and deep foundation-stones, all ming* 
 ling, fell! 
 
 Over the Hills From the Poor-house. 
 
 I who was always counted they say. 
 Rather a bad stick anyway, 
 Splintered all over with dodges and 
 
 tricks. 
 Known as "the worst of the deacon's 
 
 six; 
 J the truant, saucy and bold; 
 The oneblaek sheep of my father's fold, 
 "Once on a time" as the stories say 
 'Went over the hills on a winter day. 
 Over the hills to the poor-hoi 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 io: 
 
 Tom could save what twenty could earn, 
 But givin' was something he never 
 
 could learn. 
 Isaac c >uld half of the scriptures speak: 
 Committed a hundred verses a week; 
 Never forgot and never slipped; 
 But "Honor thy father and mother" he 
 
 skipped, 
 Si) over the hills to the poor-house. 
 
 As for Susan, her heart was kind 
 An' good— what there was of it, mind: 
 Nothin too big and nothin too nice 
 No-thin 1 she wouldn't sacrifice; 
 For one she loved, an' that 'ere one 
 Was herself, when all was said and 
 
 done, 
 An' Charley and Becca meant well no 
 
 doubt. 
 But anyone could pull 'em about. 
 And all our folks ranked well you see 
 Save one poor fellow, and that was me. 
 An' when one dark and rainy night 
 A neighbors horse went— out of sight, 
 They hitched on me as the guilty chap 
 That carried one end of the halter strap. 
 An' I think myself, that view of the 
 
 case, 
 Wasn't altogether out of place, 
 My mother denied it as mothers do, 
 But I'm inclined to think 'twas true; 
 Tho' for me one thing might be said, 
 That I as well as the horse was led. 
 And the worst of whiskey spurred me 
 
 on, 
 Or else the deed would have never been 
 
 done. 
 But the keenest grief I ever felt, 
 Was when my mother beside me knelt 
 An' cried, an' prayed, till I melted down 
 As I wouldn't for half the horses in 
 
 town. 
 I kissed her fondly then and there, 
 An' swore henceforth to be houest and 
 square. 
 
 I served my sentence— a bitter pill 
 Some fellows should take who never 
 
 will. 
 An' then I decided to go out West, 
 Thinkin' 'twould suit my health the 
 
 best, 
 
 Where, how I prospered, 1 never could 
 
 tell, 
 But fortune seemed to like me well: 
 An' somehow every vein 1 struck 
 
 Was always bubbling over with luck; 
 An' better than that i was steady and 
 
 true, 
 And put my gooil resolutions through. 
 But I wrote to a tr.nty old neighbor 
 
 and said: 
 "You tell 'em, old fellow that I am dead 
 An' died a christim; 'twill please 'em 
 
 more 
 Than if 1 had lived the same as before. 
 
 But when this ueighbor he wrote to me, 
 "Your mothers in the poor-house" said 
 
 he, 
 I had a resurrection straight way, 
 An' started for her that very day. 
 An' when I arrived where I was grown, 
 
 I took good care that I shouldn't lie 
 known; 
 
 But I bought the old cottage through 
 and through. 
 
 Of some one Charley had sold it to, 
 
 An' held back neither work nor gold 
 
 To fix it up as it was of old. 
 
 The same big tire-place wide and high, 
 
 Flung up its cinders to the sky; 
 
 The old clock ticked on the corner 
 shelf— 
 
 I wound it, and set it goin' myself; 
 
 An' if everything wasn't just the same, 
 
 Neither I nor money was to blame; 
 
 Then — over the hill to the poor-house. 
 
 One blowin', blusterin', winter's day 
 With a team and cutter I started away; 
 My fiery nags were as black as coal: 
 (They somewhat resembled the boss I 
 
 stole) 
 I hitched an' entered the poor-house 
 
 door; 
 A poor old woman was scrubbin' the 
 
 floor. 
 She rose to her feet in great surprise. 
 And looked quite startled into my eyes; 
 1 saw the whole of her trouble's trace 
 In the lines that marked her dear old 
 
 face. 
 
io6 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 "Mother!" 1 shouted "your sorrows are 
 done! 
 
 You're adopted along u' your horse- 
 thief sou 
 
 Come over the hiUfrom the poor-house. 
 
 •She didn't faint: she knelt by my side 
 An' thanked the Lord till I yelled and 
 
 cried; 
 An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant and 
 
 gay. 
 
 An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that 
 
 day. 
 Au' maybe our cottage wasn't warm 
 
 and bright, 
 An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight 
 To see her gettin the even in' tea, 
 An' frequently stopping an' kissin' me; 
 An' maybe we didn't live happy for 
 
 years. 
 In spite of my brothers and sisters 
 
 sneers, 
 Who often said as I have heard, 
 They wouldn't own a prison bird; 
 'But they're gettin' over that I guess. 
 For all of 'em owe me, more or less.) 
 But I've learned one thing, an' it cheers 
 
 a man 
 Iu always a-doin' the best he can; 
 That whether on the big book, a blot 
 (rit's over a fellows name or not, 
 Whenever he does a deed that's white. 
 It's credited to him fair and right, 
 An' when you hear the great bugle 
 
 notes 
 Au' the Lord divides his sheep and 
 
 goats. 
 However they may settle my case, 
 Wherever they may fix my place, 
 My good old Christian mother you'll 
 
 Will be sure to stand right up for me 
 With over the hills — from the poor- 
 hou.se. 
 
 Will Carletox. 
 
 Alexacder Taming Bucephalus- 
 Park Benjamin. 
 'Bring forth the steed!" It was a 
 level plain brotd and unbroken as the 
 
 mighty sea, when in their prison caves 
 the winds lie chained. There Philip 
 sat. pavilioned from the sun; there, all 
 around, thronged Macedonia's hosts, 
 bannered and plumed and armed — a 
 vast array. There too among an un- 
 distinguished crowd, distinguished not 
 himself by pomp, or dress, or any roy- 
 al sign, save that he wore a god-like as- 
 pect like Olympian Jove, and perfect 
 grace and dignity, — a youth, —a simple 
 youth scarce sixteen summers old, with 
 swift, impatient step walked to and fro. 
 E'en from their monarch's throne they 
 turned to view — those countless con- 
 gregations, — that young form; and 
 when he cried again, "Bring forth the 
 steed!; Like thunder rolled the multi- 
 tudinous shout along the heavens. — 
 "Live Alexander!" 
 
 Then Philip waved his sceptre. — si- 
 lence fell o'er all the plain. — Twas but 
 a moment's pause, while every gleam- 
 ing banner, helm, and spear sunk down 
 like ocean billows, when the breeze first 
 sweeps along and bends their silvery 
 crests. Ten thousand trumpets rung 
 amid the hail of armies, as in victory, 
 — "Live the King!" and Philonicus, 
 the Pharsalian, kneeled: From famous 
 Thessaly a horse he brought, a match- 
 less horse. Vigor and beauty strove 
 like rival sculptors carving the same 
 stone, to win the mastery; and both 
 prevailed. His hoofs were shod with 
 swiftness; where he ran glided the 
 ground like water; in his eye flashed 
 the strange fire of spirits still unturned, 
 as when the desert owned him for its 
 lord. Mars! what a noble creature did 
 he seem! too noble for a subject to be- 
 stride. — worth gold in talents; chosen 
 for a prince, the most renowned and 
 generous on earth. 
 
 "Obey my sou, Pharsalian! bring the 
 steed!"' The monarch spoke. A signal 
 to the grooms, ami on the plain they 
 led Bucephalus "Mount vassal, 
 
 mount! Why pales thy cheek with 
 fear? Mount— ha! art slain? Another! 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 107 
 
 mount again!" 'Twas all in vain. — No 
 hand could curb a neck ciothed with 
 
 such might and grandeur, to the rein; 
 no thong or spur could make his fury 
 yield. — Now hounds he from the earth; 
 and now he rears, now madly plunges, 
 strives to rush away, like that strong 
 bird — his fellow, king of air! 
 
 "Quick take him hence; cried Philip, 
 he is wild!" "Stay, father, stay! — lose 
 not this gallant steed, for that base 
 grooms cannot control his ire! give me 
 the bridle!" Alexander threw his 
 light cloak from his shoulders, and 
 drew nigh. The brave steed was no 
 courtier; prince and groom bore the 
 same mien to him. — He stalled back, 
 but with firm grasp the youth retained 
 and turned his fierce eyes from his 
 shadow to the sun, then with that hand, 
 in after years which hurled the bolts of 
 war among embattled hosts; conquered 
 all Greece, and over Persia, swayed 
 imperial command, — which on Fame's 
 Temple graved, Alexander, Victor of the 
 World! — With that same hand he 
 smoothed the flowing maue, patted the 
 glossy skin with soft caress, soothingly 
 speaking in low voice the while. Light- 
 ly he vaulted to his first great strife. 
 How like a Centaur looked the youth 
 and steed! firmly the hero sat; his 
 glowing cheek flushed with the rare ex- 
 citement; his high brow pale with a 
 stern resolve; his lip as smiling and his 
 glance as calm, as if, in dalliance, in- 
 stead of danger, with a girl he played. 
 Untutored to obey, how raves the 
 steed: champing the bit, and tossing 
 the white foam, and struggling to get 
 free, that he might dart, swift as an 
 arrow from the shivering bow — the 
 rein is loosened. "Now, Bucephalus!'' 
 away — away! he flies; away — away! 
 The multitude stood hushed in breath- 
 less awe, and gazed into the distance. 
 
 Lo! a speck, — a darksome speck on 
 the horizen! 'Tis -'tis he! Now it en- 
 larges; now are seen the horse and rid- 
 er; now, with ordered race the horse 
 approaches, and the rider leaps down 
 
 to the earth and bends his rapid pace 
 unto the King's pavilion.— The wild 
 Bteed unled, uncalled, is following his 
 subduer. 
 
 Philip wept tears of joy; "My son, go 
 seek a larger empire; for so vast a soul, 
 too small is Macedonia!" 
 
 The Pilot's Ktory. 
 
 It was a story the Pilot told with his 
 back to his hearers, keeping his hand 
 on the wheel and his eye on the globe 
 of the jack staff holding the boat to the 
 shore and out of the sweep of the cur- 
 rent lightly turning aside for the heavy 
 logs of the drift-wood widely shunning 
 the snags that made us sardonic obeis- 
 ance. 
 
 It was the Pilot's story they both 
 came aboard there at Cairo, from a 
 New Orleans boat and took passage 
 with us for St. Louis. She was a beau- 
 tiful woman, with just enough blood 
 from her mother, darkening her eyes 
 and her hair to make her race known 
 to a Trader; you would have thought 
 she was white. The man that was with 
 her — you see such — weakly, goodnatur- 
 ed kind, and viceous, slender of soul 
 and fit neither for loving nor hating. 
 
 I was a youngster then, and only 
 learning the river, — not over fond of 
 the wheel. I used to watch them at 
 'Monte, down in the cabin at night, and 
 I learned to know all of the gamblers, 
 so when I saw this weak one staking 
 his money against them, betting upon 
 the turn of the cards, I knew what was 
 coming. They never left their pigeon 
 a single feather to fiy with. 
 
 Next day I saw them together,— the 
 Stranger and one of the gamblers. 
 Picturesque rascal he was, with long 
 black hair and moustache, black slouch 
 hat drawn down to his eyes from his 
 villainous forehead, On together they 
 moved, still earnestly talking in whis- 
 pers on towards the fore-castle, where 
 sat the woman alone by the gang- way. 
 
io8 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Roused by the fall of feet she turned 
 and beholding her master greeted him 
 with a smile that was more like a wife's 
 than another, rose to meet him fondly, 
 and then, with the dread apprehension 
 always haunting the slave, fell her eyes 
 on the face of the gambler, dark and 
 lustful and fierce and full of merciless 
 cunning. 
 
 Something was spoken, so low that I 
 could not hear what the words were; 
 only the woman started, and looked 
 from one to the other with imploring 
 eyes, bewildered hands, and a tremor 
 all through her frame; I saw her from 
 where I was standing she shook so. 
 "Say! is it so?" she cried. On the weak 
 white lips of -her master, died a sickly, 
 smile, and he said, 'Louise, I have sold 
 you.' 
 
 God is my judge! may I never see 
 such a look of despairing, desolate an- 
 guish, as that which the woman cast on 
 her master griping her breast with her 
 little hands, as if he had stabbed her; 
 standing in silence a space, as fixed as 
 the Indian woman carved out of wood, 
 on the Pilot house of the old Pocahon- 
 tas! Then, with a gurgling, like the 
 sound in the throat of the dying, came 
 back her voice, that, rising, fluttered, 
 thro' wild incoherence into a terrible 
 shriek that stopped my breast while she 
 answered: 'sold me! sold me! sold— and 
 3*ou promised to give me my freedom, 
 promised me for the sake of my little 
 boy in St. Louis! What will you say to 
 our boy, when he cries for me there in 
 St. Louis! what will you say to our God? 
 Ah, you have been joking. ' I see it! — 
 no? God! God! he shall hear it, — and 
 all of the angels in Heaven, even the 
 devils in hell! — and none will believe 
 when they hear it! Sold me!" fell her 
 voice with a thrilling wail, and in si- 
 lence down she sank on the deck, and 
 covered her face with her fingers. 
 
 Still with his back to us standing the 
 Pilot went on with his story; "Instant- 
 
 ly, all the people, with looks of re- 
 proach and compassion, flocked round 
 the prostrated woman, the children cri- 
 ed and their mothers hugged them 
 tight to their breast; but the gambler 
 said to the Captain: 'put me off there 
 at the town that lies round the bend of 
 the river. Here, you! rise at once, and 
 be rea iy now to go with me.' Roughs- 
 he seized the woman's arm and strove 
 to uplift her. She,— she seemed not to 
 heed him, but rose like one that is 
 dreaming, slid from his grasp, and fleet- 
 ly mounted the steps of the gang-way 
 up to the hurricane deck, in silence, 
 without lamentation. Straight to the 
 stern of the boat, where the wheel 
 was, she run and the people followed 
 her fast, till she turned and stood at 
 bay for a moment looking them in the 
 face, and in the face of the gambler, 
 not one to save her. — not one of all the 
 compassionate people! Not one to save 
 her, of all the pitying angels in Heaven?" 
 not one bolt of God to strike him dead 
 there before her? Wildly she waved 
 him back, we waited in silence and hor- 
 ror. Over the swarthy face of the gam- 
 bler a pallor of passion passed, like a 
 gleam of lightning over the west in the 
 night time. White, she stood, and 
 mute, till he put forth his hand to se- 
 cure her! then she turned and leaped, — 
 in mid air fluttered a moment,— down 
 there, whirling, fell, like a broken 
 w r inged bird from a tree top. Down on 
 the cruel wheel, that caught her, and 
 hid her forever. 
 
 Still with his back to us all the Pilot 
 stood, but we heard him swallowing 
 hard, as he pulled the bell-rope to stop 
 her, then, turning, — "this is the place 
 where it happened" brokenly whispered 
 the Pilot. "Somehow, I never like to 
 go by here alone in the night time." 
 
 Darkly the Mississippi blowed by the 
 town that lay in the starlight cheerful 
 with lamps. Below we could hear them 
 reversing the engine and the great boat 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 109 
 
 glided up to the shore like a giant ex- 
 hausted; heavily sighed her pipes, broad 
 over the swamps to the eastward shone 
 the full moon, and turned our trembling 
 wake in to silence; all was serene and 
 calm, Imt the odorous breath of the wil- 
 lows smote like the subtle breath of 
 an infinite sorrow upon US. 
 
 W. 1). HOWELLS. 
 
 The Death of the Old Squire. 
 
 *Twas a wild, mad kind of a night, 
 
 As black as the bottomless pit; 
 The wind was howling away 
 
 Like a bedlamite in a fit. 
 Tearing the ash boughs off, 
 
 And mowing the poplars down, 
 In the meadows beyond the old flour- 
 mill, 
 
 Where yon turn off to the town. 
 
 And the rain (well it did rain) 
 
 Dashing against the window glass, 
 And deluging on the roof, 
 
 As the devil were come to pass; 
 The gullies were running in floods 
 
 Outside the stable door, 
 And the spouts splashed from the tiles 
 
 As they never would give„o'er. 
 
 Lor' how the winders rattled! 
 
 You'd almost a thought that thieves 
 Were wrenching at the shutters, 
 
 While a ceaseless pelt of leaves 
 Flew to the doors in gusts; 
 
 And I coiil d hear the beck 
 -Falling so loud I knew at once 
 
 It was up to a tall man's neck. 
 
 We was huddling in the harness room 
 
 By a little scrap of lire, 
 And Tom, the coachman, he was there 
 
 A' practisin' for the choir, 
 But it sounded dismal, anthem did, 
 
 For Squire was dying fast. 
 And the doctor said, do what he would, 
 
 "Squire's breaking up at last." 
 
 The death-watch, sure enough, ticked 
 loud 
 Just over the old mare's head, 
 Tho' he had never once been heard 
 
 Up there since master's boy w,i< dead ; 
 And the only sound, besides Tom's tune 
 
 Was the stirring in the stalls. 
 And the gnawing and the scratching 
 
 Of the rats in the old walls. 
 
 We couldn't hear death's foot pass by, 
 
 But we knew t at he was near. 
 And the chill rain, and the wind, and 
 cold 
 
 Made us all shake with fear; 
 We listened to the clock up stairs 
 
 Was breathing soft and low 
 For the nurse s tid, at the turn of night, 
 
 The old Squire's soul would go. 
 
 Master had been a wildish man, 
 
 And led a roughish life; 
 Didn't he shoot the Bowton Squire 
 
 Who dared write to his wife? 
 He beat the Kads at Hindon town, 
 
 I heard in twenty-nine, 
 Where every pail in market-place 
 
 Was brimmed with red port wine. 
 
 And as for huntiug, bless your soul! 
 
 Why for forty years or more 
 He'd kept the marly hounds, 
 
 Man, as his father did afore; 
 And now to die and in his bed — 
 
 The season just begun — 
 "It made him fret" the doctor said, 
 
 As it might do any one. 
 
 And when the young, sharp lawyer 
 came 
 
 To see him sign his will, 
 Squire made me blow my horns 
 
 As we were going to kill; 
 And we turned n the hounds out in the 
 court 
 
 — That seemed to do him good; 
 For he swore, and sent us off to seek 
 
 The fox in Thornhill wood. 
 
 But then the fever it rose high 
 
 And he would see the room 
 Where mistress died ten years ago 
 
 When lammas-tide shall come; 
 I mind the year because our mare 
 
 At Salisbury broke down; 
 Besides the old town hall was burned 
 
 At Steeple Dindon town. 
 
1 IO 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 It might be two or half-past two, 
 
 The wind seemed quite asleep 
 Tom he was off, but I awake, 
 
 Sat watch and ward to keep; 
 The moon was up quite glorious like, 
 
 The rain no longer fell, 
 When all at onee out clashed and clang- 
 ed 
 
 The rusty turret bell. 
 
 That hadn't been heard for twenty year 
 
 Not since the luddite days 
 Tom he leaped up and I leaped up, 
 
 For all the house ablaze 
 Had sure not scared us half so much 
 
 and out we ran like mad, 
 I, Tom and Joe, the whipperin, 
 
 And the little stable lad. 
 
 "He's killed himself" that's the idea 
 
 That came into my head; 
 I felt as sure as tho' I saw 
 
 Squire Barrowly was dead 
 When all at once the door llew back 
 
 And he met us face to face; 
 His scarlet cloak was on his back, 
 
 And he looked, like the old race. 
 
 The nurse was clinging to his knees 
 
 And crying like a child; 
 The maids were sobbing on the stairs 
 
 For he looked fierce and wild; 
 "Saddle me lightning Bess my men," 
 
 That's what he said to me; 
 "The moon is up, we're sure to find 
 
 At Stop or Etterly. 
 
 "Get out the dogs I'm well tonight 
 
 And young again and sound, 
 I'll have a run once more, before 
 
 They put me under ground; 
 They brought my father home feet first 
 
 And it never shall be said 
 That his son Joe, who rode so straight 
 
 Died quietly in his bed. 
 
 "Brandy!" he cried; a tumbler full 
 You women howling there," 
 
 Then clapped the old black velvet cap 
 Upon his long gray hair, 
 
 Thrust on his boots, snatched down 
 his whip, 
 Though he was old ami weak; 
 
 There was a devil in his eye 
 That would not let me speak. 
 
 We loosed the dogs to humor him, 
 
 And sounded on the horn; 
 The moon was up above the woods 
 
 Just east of Baggart Bourne. 
 I buckled Lightning's throat-lash, fast:. 
 
 The Squire was watching me; 
 He let the stinups down himself 
 
 So quick yet carefully. 
 
 Then he got up and spurred the mare 
 
 And ere I well could mount, 
 He drove the yard gate open, man, 
 
 And called to old Dick Blount, 
 Our huntsman, dead five years ago — 
 
 For the fever rose again, 
 And was spreading like a flood of flame,. 
 
 Fast up into his brain. 
 
 Then off he flew before the dogs, 
 YelLng to call us on, 
 
 While we stood there all pale and dumb- 
 Scarce knowing he was gone; 
 
 We mounted and below the hill 
 W T e saw the fox break out 
 
 And down the covert ride we heard, 
 The old Squire's parting shout, 
 
 And in the moon lit mea ow mist 
 
 We saw him fly the rail 
 Beyond the hurdles by the beck, 
 
 Just half way down the vale; 
 I saw him breast fence after fence 
 
 Nothing could turn him back, 
 And in the moonlight after him 
 
 Streamed out the brave old pack 
 
 Twice like a dream, Tom cried to me i 
 
 As we rode free and fast, 
 Hoping to turn him at the brook, 
 
 That could not well be passed, 
 For it was swollen with the rain; 
 
 But ah! 'twas nut to be; 
 Nothing could stop old Lightning Bess 
 
 But the broad breast of the sea. 
 
 The hounds swept on and well in front 
 The mare had got her stride; 
 
 She broke across the fallow land 
 That runs by the down side, 
 
 We pulled up on Linton hill 
 And, as we stood us there 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 i i 
 
 Two fields beyond we saw the Squire 
 Fall stone dead from the mare. 
 
 Then she swept on and in full ery 
 
 The hounds went out of sight; 
 A cloud came over the broad moon 
 
 And something dimmed our sight, 
 As Tom and I bore master home, 
 
 Both speaking under breath: 
 And that's the way the old Squire 
 
 Rode boldly to his death. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 What made the Judge compromise with the law- 
 
 "Old man the charge is assaulting 
 
 An officer of the court, 
 And resisting the execution 
 
 Of a warrant (says the report). 
 In a suit for rent nonpayment, 
 
 By a Mistress Mary Lee. 
 Are you guilty or not guilty? 
 
 I am ready to hear your plea." 
 
 "Well Judge I spec's ise guilty 
 On medgerment by de law 
 
 On what I done to de genleman 
 
 An jedgiu hit in de raw; 
 But, Jedge when you hears de state- 
 ment 
 How de fracus cum ter be, 
 I hopes you'll make de sentence 
 
 As light as yer can on me. 
 
 Ye see Miss Mary is sickly, 
 
 A puny mite of a ting, 
 An loss her kind good husban' 
 
 Bout a year ago last spring. 
 D^y was poor an Libbin skimpy 
 
 On the little he earned at law 
 Cause dey natually lost dere fortune 
 
 At de bustin up of de wah. 
 
 Aud since marse he was taken 
 
 An left her all aloue, 
 She aint had but almost nuffin 
 
 Dat she could call her own, 
 An me an my old woman 
 
 A knovvin her since she's born, 
 Divided our rashuns wid her, 
 
 Tew help her off an on. 
 
 Butyestday mawnin early 
 Wen dis bailiff cum too han, 
 
 An swore he was goin to lebby 
 On her every pot and pan, 
 
 I beckon him round de corner, 
 An axed him don't be brash, 
 
 An I'll rake up der money 
 By pawnin some of my trash. 
 
 But he would'nt wait fur a minute, 
 
 An >a\ dat she had ter go — 
 Dat he should seize the premiss 
 
 An batten up de doah! 
 Den Judge I fergot he was bailiff, 
 
 An sarvan a writ of cote — 
 Fer my heart and mem'ry tangled 
 
 And lodged heah in my thjte! 
 
 Fer I seed dat bailiff a liven' 
 
 From long befo de wah 
 In a house old marstergib him 
 
 To sheltah his poor old ma; 
 An de Ian' he had fer nothin' 
 
 On de oder side de creek — 
 An me a totin em rations 
 
 Ders suahly ebery week. 
 
 And de way dis bailiff was actin 
 
 To old Marse only chile, 
 He made my hands feel savage 
 
 An all my blood to bile! 
 I forgot bout Court and Cullers 
 
 And de case want none ob mine, 
 I was back on de old plantation 
 
 An actin on dat line. 
 
 An dat am de reas >n exactly 
 
 I could'nt keep under cheek, 
 But took him up by de slack-ban 
 
 An by his scrawny neck 
 An lifted him ober. de pickets, 
 
 But dar I lost my grip, 
 An dats what made him I reckon 
 
 Hit her pavement so ker plip. 
 
 "That will do" the Judge said dryly. 
 
 "Code, section eighteen — ten — 
 Some ass put that here likiy, 
 
 But you'r discharged old Ben! 
 Put up that window bailiff — 
 
 Its too warm here for me! 
 Mr. Clerk, say "lined live dollars," 
 
 And here's your green old V." 
 
 Sam Small 
 
1 1 2 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Marion s Dinner. 
 They sat on the trunk of a fallen pine, 
 
 And their plate was a piece of bark 
 And the sweet potatoes were superfine 
 
 Tho' bearing the embers' mark; 
 But Tom with the sleeve of his cotton 
 shirt 
 
 The embers had brushed away 
 And then to the biook with, a step alert 
 
 He hied on that gala day. 
 
 The British officer tried to eat 
 
 But hist nerves were out of tune. 
 And ill at ease on his novel seat 
 
 While absent both knife and spoon. 
 Said he, "You give me but lenton fare. 
 
 fs the table thus always slim? 
 Perhaps with a Briton you will not 
 share 
 
 The cup with a flowing brim." 
 
 Then Marion put the potatoes down 
 
 On the homely plate of bark. 
 He had to smile for he eould not frown 
 
 While gay as the morning lark. 
 ••'Tis a royal feast I provide to-day 
 
 Cpon roots we rebels dine, 
 And in freedom's service we draw no 
 pay. 
 
 Is that code of ethics thine?" 
 
 Then with Hashing eye and heaving 
 breast 
 He looked to the azure sky, 
 And said he with a firm, undaunted 
 crest, 
 '•Our trust is in God on high. 
 The hard, hard ground is a downy bed 
 
 And hunger its fangs foregoes, 
 And noble and firm is the soldiar's 
 tread % 
 In the face of Bis country's foes," 
 
 The officer gazed on that princely brow 
 
 Where valor and beauty shone, 
 And upon that fallen pine, his vow 
 
 Weut up to his Maker's throne. 
 •T will draw no sword against men like 
 the* 
 
 It would drop from a nerveless hand. 
 And the very blood In my heart would 
 freeze 
 
 J I' J faced such a Spartan band." 
 
 From Marion's camp, with a saddened 
 mien, 
 
 He hastened with awe away; 
 The sons of Anak his eyes had seen, 
 
 Anil a giant race were they. 
 No more in the tented field was he; 
 
 And rich was the truth he learned, 
 That men Avho could starve for liberty, 
 
 Can neither be crushed or spurned. 
 Edward C. Jones. 
 
 Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? 
 
 BY AVILLIAM KNOX. 
 
 [This poem was a great favorite with Presi- 
 dent Liucoln.] 
 
 O, why should the spirit of mortal be 
 proud? 
 
 Like a swift fleeting meteor, a fast fly- 
 ing cloud, 
 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the 
 wave, 
 
 Man passes from life to his rest in the 
 grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow 
 
 shall fade, • 
 Be scattered around and together be 
 
 laid; 
 And the young and the old, and the low 
 
 and the high, 
 Shall moulder to dust and together 
 
 shall die. 
 
 The infant, a mother attended and 
 
 loved, 
 The mother that infant's affection who 
 
 proved; 
 The husband that mother and infant 
 
 who blessed. 
 Each, all, are away to their dwellings 
 
 of rest. 
 
 The maid on whose cheek, on whose 
 brow, in whose eye 
 
 Shone beauty and pleasure — her tri- 
 umphs are by; 
 
 And the memory of those who loved 
 her and praised 
 
 Are alike from the minds of the living 
 erased. 
 
 The hand of the king that the sceptre 
 hath borne; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 ii3 
 
 The brow of the priest that the mitre 
 
 hath worn; 
 The eye of the sage and the heart of 
 
 the brave, 
 Are hidden and lost in the depth of the 
 
 grave. 
 
 The peasant, whose lot was to sow and 
 
 to reap; 
 The herdsman, who climed with his 
 
 goats up the steep; 
 The beggar, who wandered in serch of 
 
 his bread, 
 Have faded away like the grass that we 
 
 tread, 
 
 The saint who enloyed the communion 
 
 of heaven, 
 The sinner who dared to remain un- 
 
 forgiven, 
 The wise and the foolish, the guilty and 
 
 just, 
 Have quietly mingled their bones in 
 
 the dust. 
 So the multitude goes, like the flower 
 
 and the weed, 
 That wither away to let others succeed; 
 So the multitude comes, even those we 
 
 behold, 
 To repeat every tale that hath often 
 
 been told. 
 
 For we are the same things our fathers 
 
 have been; 
 We see the same sights our fathers have 
 
 seen 
 We drink the same stream, and we feel 
 
 the same sun, 
 And run the same course our fathers 
 
 have run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinking our fa- 
 thers would think; 
 
 The death we are shrinking from, they 
 too would shrink; 
 
 To the life we are clinging to, they, 
 too, would cling; 
 
 But it speeds from the earth like a 
 bird on th*-; wing. 
 
 They loved, but their story we can not 
 unfold; • 
 
 8 
 
 They scorned, but the heart of the 
 haughty is col I; 
 
 They grieved, but no wail from their 
 slumbers will come; 
 
 They joyed, but the voice of their glad- 
 ness is dumb. 
 
 They died— ay! they died; and we things 
 that are now, 
 
 Who walk on the turf that lies over 
 their brow, 
 
 Who make in their dwellings a tran- 
 sient abode, 
 
 Meet the changes they made on their 
 pilgrimage road. 
 
 Yea, hope and despondence and pleas- 
 ure and pain 
 
 Are mingled together in sunshine and 
 rain; 
 
 And the smile and the tear, the song 
 and the dirge, 
 
 Still follow each other, like surge upon 
 surge. 
 
 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught 
 of a breath, 
 
 From the blossom of health to the pale- 
 ness of death, 
 
 From the gilded "saloon to the bier and 
 the shroud — 
 
 O, why should the spirit of mortal be 
 proud? 
 
 The Seventh Plague ef Egypt. 
 
 'Twas morn — the rising splendor rolled 
 On marble towers and roofs of gold; 
 Hall, court aud gallery, below, 
 Were crowded with a living flow; 
 Egyptian, Arab, Nubian, there, — 
 The bearers of the bow and spear, 
 The hoary priest, the Chaldee sage, 
 The slave, the gemmed and glittering 
 
 page- 
 Helm, turban and tiara shone 
 A dazzling rib ground Pharaoh's throne. 
 
 There came a man — the human tide 
 Shrank backward from his stately 
 
 stride: 
 His cheek with storm and time was tan- 
 ned; 
 
114 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 A shepherd's stall" was in his hand: 
 A shudder of instinctive fear 
 Told the dark king what step was near; 
 On through the host the stranger came, 
 It parted round his form like flame. 
 
 He stopped not at the foot-stool stone, 
 He clasped not sandal, kissed not throne; 
 Erect he stood amid the ring, 
 His only words— "Be just, oh king!" 
 On Pharaoh's cheek the blood flushed 
 
 high, 
 A fire was in his sullen eye; 
 Yet on the chief of Israel 
 No arrow of his thousands fell; 
 All mute and moveless as the grave 
 Stood chilled the satrap and the slave. 
 
 "Thou'rt come," at length the monarch 
 
 spoke. 
 Haughty and high the words outbroke; 
 "Is Israel weary of its lair, 
 The forehead peeled, the shoulder bare? 
 Take back the answer to your band: 
 Go, reap the wind; go, plough the sand! 
 Go vilest of the living vile, 
 To build the never-ending pile, 
 Till, darkest of the nameless dead, 
 The vulture on their flesh is fed! 
 What better asks the howling slave 
 Than the base life our bounty gave?" 
 
 Shouted in pride the turbaned peers, 
 Upclashed to heaven the golden spears. 
 "King! thou and thine are doo ned! — 
 
 Behold!" 
 The prophet spoke — the thunder rolled! 
 Along the pathway of the sun 
 Sailed vapory mountains, wild and dun. 
 "Yet there is time," the prophet said: 
 He raised his staff— the storm was stay- 
 ed; 
 "King! be the word of freedom given: 
 What art thou, man, to war with 
 Heaven?" 
 
 There came no word — the thunder 
 
 broke! 
 Like- a huge city's final smoke; — 
 Thick, lurid, stifling, mixed with flame, 
 Through court and hall the vapors came. 
 Loose as the stubble in the field, 
 Wide flew the men of spear and shield; 
 
 Scattered like foam along the wave, 
 
 Flew the proud pageant, prince and 
 slave: 
 
 Or, in the chains of terror bound, 
 
 Lay corpse-like, on the smouldering 
 ground. 
 
 "Speak, king! — the wrath is but be- 
 gun!— 
 
 Still dumb?— then, Heaven, thy will be 
 clone!" 
 
 Echoed from earth a hollow roar 
 
 Like ocean on the midnight shore! 
 
 A sheet of lightning o'er them wheeled, 
 
 The solid ground beneath them reeled; 
 
 In dust sank roof and battlement; 
 
 Like w r ebs the giant walls were rent. 
 
 Red, broad, before his startled gaze 
 
 The monarch saw his Egypt blaze. 
 
 Still swelled the plague — the flame 
 grew pale; 
 
 Burst from the clouds the charge of 
 hail— 
 
 With arrowy keenness, iron weight. 
 
 Down poured the ministers of fate; 
 
 Till man and cattle crushed, congealed, 
 
 Covered with death the boundless field. 
 
 Still swelled the plague — uprose the 
 
 blast, 
 The avenger, fit to be the last; 
 On ocean, river, forest, vale, 
 Thundered at once the mighty gale. 
 Before the whirlwind flew the tree, 
 Beneath the whirlwind roared the sea; 
 A thousand ships were on the wave — 
 Where are they? — ask that foaming 
 
 grave ! 
 Down go the hope, the pride of years, 
 Down go the myriad mariners; 
 The riches of earth's richest zone 
 Gone! like flash of lightning, gone! 
 
 And lo! that first fierce triumph o'er, 
 Swells ocean on the shrinking shore; 
 Still onward, onward, dark and wide, 
 Engulfs the land the furious tide. 
 Then bowed thy spirit, stubborn king, 
 Thou serpent, reft of fang and sting; 
 Humbled before the prophet's knee, 
 He groaned, "Be injured Israel free!" 
 
 To heaven the sage upraised his wand ; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 "S 
 
 Back rolled the deluge from the land: 
 Back to its caverns sank the gale; 
 Fled from the noon the vapors pale; 
 Broad burnedTagainst the joyous sun: 
 The hour of wrath and death was done. 
 Geokge Croly. 
 
 The Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge- 
 
 Did you ever hear of the Drummer boy 
 
 of Mission Ridge who lay 
 With his face to the foe, 'neath the 
 
 enemy's guns, in the charge of 
 
 that terrible day? 
 They were tiring above him and tiring 
 
 below, and the tempest of "shot 
 
 and shell 
 Was raging lire death, as he moaned 
 
 in his pain, by the breastworks 
 
 where he fell. 
 
 "Go back with your corps," the colonel 
 had said, but he waited the mo- 
 ment when 
 
 He might follow the ranks and shoulder 
 a gun with the best of us bearded 
 men: 
 
 And so when the signals from old Fort 
 Wood set an army of veterans 
 wild, 
 
 He flung down his drum which spun 
 down the hill like the ball of a 
 wayward child. 
 
 And then he fell in with the foremost 
 
 ranks of brave old company G, 
 As we charged by the flank, with our 
 
 colors ahead, and our columns 
 
 closed up like a V, 
 In the long, swinging lines of that 
 
 splendid advance, when the flags 
 
 of our corps floated out, 
 Like the ribbons that dance in the 
 
 jubilant lines of the march of a 
 
 gala day route. 
 
 He charged with the ranks, though he 
 carried no gun, for the colonel 
 had said him nay, 
 
 And he breasted the blast of the brist- 
 ling guns, and the shock of the 
 sickening fray; 
 
 And when by his side they were falling 
 
 like hail he sprang to a comrade 
 
 slain, 
 And shouldered his musket and bore it 
 
 as true as the hand that was dead 
 
 in pain. 
 'Twas dearly we loved him, our Drum- 
 mer Boy, with a tire in his bright, 
 
 black eye, 
 That flashed forth a spirit too great for 
 
 his form, he only was just so high — 
 As tall, perhaps, as your little lad who 
 
 scarcely reaches your shoulder — 
 Though his heart was the heart of a 
 
 veteran then, a trifle, it may be 
 
 bolder. 
 He pressed to the front, our lad so leal, 
 
 and the works were almost won, 
 A moment more and our flags had 
 
 swung o'er the muzzle of mur- 
 derous gun; 
 But a raking Are swept the van, and he 
 
 fell 'mid the wounded and slain, 
 With his wee, wan face turned up to 
 
 Him who feeleth His children's 
 
 pain. 
 
 Again and again our lines fell back, 
 and again with shivering shocks 
 
 They flung themselves on the rebels' " 
 works as ships are tossed on rocks; 
 
 To be crushed and broken and scatter- 
 ed amain, a6 the wrecks of the 
 surging storm, 
 
 Where none may rue and none may- 
 reek of aught that has human 
 form. 
 
 So under the Ridge we were lying for 
 
 the order to charge again, 
 And we counted our comrades missing, 
 
 and we counted our comrades 
 
 slain; 
 And one said, "Johnny, our Drummer 
 
 Boy, is greviously shot and lies 
 Just under the enemy's breastwork; 
 
 left on the held he dies." 
 
 Then all the-blood that was in me surg- 
 ed up to my aching brow, 
 
 And my heart leaped up like a ball in 
 my throat, I can feel it even now, 
 
u6 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 And I said I would bring that boy from 
 the field, if God would spare my 
 breath, 
 
 If all the guns in Mission Ridge should 
 thunder the threat of death. 
 
 I crept, and crept up the ghastly ridge, 
 
 by the wounded and the dead, 
 With the moans of my comrades right 
 
 and left, behind mo and yet ahead, 
 Till I came to the form of our Drummer 
 
 Boy, in his blouse of dusty blue, 
 With his face to the foe, 'neath the 
 
 enemy's guns, where the blast of 
 
 the battle blew. 
 
 And his gaze as he met my own just 
 
 there would have melted a heart 
 
 of stone, 
 As he tried like a w^ounded bird to rise, 
 
 and placed his hand in my own; 
 And he said in a voice half smothered, 
 
 though its whispering thrills me 
 
 yet, 
 
 "I think n a moment more that I 
 would have stood on that parapet. 
 
 "But now I nevermore will climb, and, 
 
 Sergeant, when you see 
 'The men go up those breastworks there 
 
 just stop and w?,ken me; 
 For though I cannot make the charge 
 
 and join the cheers that rise, 
 I may forget ray pain to see the old flag 
 
 kiss the skies." 
 
 Well, it was hard to treat him so, his 
 
 poor limb shattered sore, 
 But I raised him on my shoulder and to 
 
 the surgeon bore, 
 And the boys who saw us coming each 
 
 gave a shout of joy, 
 And uttered fervent prayers for him, 
 
 our valiant Drummer Boy. 
 
 When sped the news that . " Fighting 
 
 Joe" had saved the Union right, 
 With his legends fresh from Lookout; 
 
 and that Thomas massed his 
 
 might, 
 And forced the rebel centre; and our 
 
 cheering ran like wild; 
 
 And Sherman's heart was happy as the 
 
 heart of a little child, 
 When Grant from his lofty outlook saw 
 
 our flags by the huncfred fly 
 Along the slopes of Mission Ridge, 
 
 where'er he cast his eye; 
 And when we heard the thrilling news 
 
 of the mighty battle done, 
 The fearful contest ended, and the 
 
 glorious victory won; 
 
 Then his bright, black eyes so yearning 
 grew strangely rapt and wild; 
 
 And in that hour of conquest our little 
 hero died. 
 
 But .ever in our hearts he dwells, with 
 a grace that ne'er is old, 
 
 For him the heart to duty wed can 
 nevermore grow cold! 
 
 And.when they tell of heroes, and the 
 laurels they have won, 
 
 Of the scars they are doomed to carry, 
 of the deeds that they have done; 
 
 Of the horror to be biding among the 
 ghastly dead, 
 
 The gory sod beneath them, the burst- 
 ing shell o'er head; 
 
 My heart goes back to Mission Ridge 
 
 and the Drummer Boy who lay 
 With his face to the foe, 'neath the 
 
 enemy's guns, in the charge of 
 
 that terrible day; 
 And I say that the laud that bears such 
 
 sons is crowned and dowered 
 
 with all 
 The dear God giveth nations to stay 
 
 them lest they fall. 
 Go, glory of Mission iiidge, stream on» 
 
 like the roseate light of morn 
 On the sons that now are living, on the 
 
 sons that are yet unborn! 
 And cheers for our comrades living, 
 
 and tears as they pass away! 
 And three times three for the Drummer 
 
 Boy who fought at the front that 
 
 day! 
 
 The Squire's Bargain. 
 Come, all who love a merry jest, and. 
 listen while I tell 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 117 
 
 A tale of what in ancient days, the good 
 old times, befell; 
 
 How greed and cunning both were foil- 
 ed by siuple mother-wit, 
 
 And he who went abroad to spoil, re- 
 turned, the biter bit. 
 
 Was once an ancient manor-house, and 
 Squire of high degree; 
 
 A true and fearless heart was his, an 
 open hand and free. 
 
 Content amid his own, he lived in pa- 
 triarchal state, 
 
 And cheerily welcomed all within his 
 hospitable gate. 
 
 High in the neighboring valley rose 
 
 an abbey's towers fair; 
 Its bells rang morning, noon, and night, 
 
 to call the monks to prayer. 
 And some were good and holy men, 
 
 but some, we needs must say, 
 In idle pleasures, lust of gold, passed 
 
 all their lives away. 
 
 The Abbot cast a longing eye upon his 
 
 neighbor's iield, 
 Which year by year, the richest crops 
 
 abundantly did yield; 
 •'This land shall yet be mine," he said, 
 
 "my right shall none gainsay; 
 The Abbot's word is worth a Squire's 
 
 on any summer's day." 
 
 Now see our lordly Prelate mid a pile 
 
 of parchments sit, 
 And twist each clause until he finds a 
 
 quibble that will tit. 
 "Eureka!" Writs and summonses, and 
 
 so the thing is done. 
 Before the Squire has time to think, the 
 
 cause is lost and won. 
 
 Ah! now the triumph: "Yours no more 
 
 this field to plow or sow, 
 Good neighbor, where you scattered 
 
 seed, my monks shall reap and 
 
 mow." 
 The Squire bowed low; "For me, if so, 
 
 it is a woful day, 
 As, loyal still to king and law, I dare 
 
 not say you nay. 
 
 "So, since the land I loved is gone, its 
 loss I will not weep, 
 
 But only beg this little boon, one crop 
 to sow and reap, 
 
 But one, and when 'tis ripe to fall be- 
 neath the mower's hand, 
 
 Content, I'll yield my ancient rights, 
 give up my father's land." 
 
 "Why, no great boon," the Abbot 
 
 thought. Then loud, "I do agree, 
 And then when once more sown and 
 
 reaped, that iield belongs to me." 
 'Twas signed and sealed. Well pleased 
 
 withal, the Abbot homeward 
 
 rode. 
 The Squire his men together called, the 
 
 field they plowed and sowed. 
 
 'Twas autumn when the seed was 
 
 sown, and soon the winter's snow 
 Came down o'er all, to keep it warm, 
 
 his white fur coat to throw; 
 And slow and sad the days went past, 
 
 came frost aud sleet and rain; 
 Then sunshine in the soft blue skies, 
 
 and spring was come again. 
 
 Oh! merry were the children then; the 
 
 young lambs leaped in play; 
 The skylark carolled o'er the clouds, 
 
 the robin from the spray; 
 The swelling buds grew green and 
 
 burst on field and forest tree, 
 And daisies white and violets were 
 
 laughing on the lea, 
 
 The rivers ran, the fields began to don 
 
 their dress of green — 
 And soon the monks went peering 
 
 round the Squire's old laud, I 
 
 ween, 
 Their Abbot too, the Hodge, his man, 
 
 to see what had been sown, 
 And guess, if eaily grain or late, what 
 
 time it should be mown. 
 
 The crop was green; the}' gazed, they 
 sniffed: "Ha! what new blade is 
 lure?" 
 
 Not wheat nor barley, oats or rye! So 
 much, at least, is clear. 
 
 What seed was this? "The Squire," 
 
US 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 grinned Hodge, "has played you 
 all a hoax. 
 To judge, Lord Abbot, by the leaf, 'tis 
 sown with seed of oaks." 
 
 The Abbot raged, the Abbot stormed, 
 
 his wrath was all in vain, 
 For signed and sealed, in olack and 
 
 white, the contract told it plain, 
 That, when the crop was ripe to fall 
 
 beneath the mower's hand, 
 Then only should the Squire be called 
 
 to yield the monks his land. 
 
 Now for our monks and merry Squire, 
 not much remains to tell. 
 
 The years rolled past, the abby towers 
 in crumbling ruins fell, 
 
 Then centuries, till monk nor friar were 
 found in all the land, 
 
 But still that field of oaks remain un- 
 touched by mower's hand. 
 
 E. M. Treaquair. 
 
 Jem's Last Bide. 
 
 High o'er the snow-capped peaks of 
 
 blue the stars are out to-night, 
 And the silver crescent moon hangs low. 
 
 1 watched it on my right, 
 Moving above the pine-tops tall, a bright 
 
 and gentle shape, 
 While I listened to - the tales you told of 
 
 peril and escape. 
 
 Then, mingled with your voices low, I 
 
 heard the rumbling sound 
 Of wheels adown the farther slope, that 
 
 sought the level ground; 
 And, suddenly, from memories that 
 
 never can grow dim, 
 Flashed out once more the day w r hen 
 
 last I rode with English Jem. 
 
 Twas here, in wild Montana, I took my 
 hero's gauge! 
 
 From Butte to Deer Lodge, four-in- 
 hand, he drove the mountain 
 stage; 
 
 And many a time, in sun or storm, safe 
 mounted at his side, 
 
 I whiled away with pleasant talk the 
 long day's weary ride. 
 
 Jem's faithful steeds had served him 
 long, of mettle true and tried, 
 
 One sought in vain for trace of blo<vs 
 upon their glossy hide; 
 
 And to each low command he spoke, 
 the leader's nervous ear 
 
 Bent eager, as a lover waits his mist- 
 ress's voice to hear. 
 
 With ringing crack the leathern whip, 
 
 that else had idly hung, 
 Kept time for many a rapid mile to 
 
 English songs he sung; 
 And yet, despite his smile, he seemed a 
 
 lonely man to be, 
 With not one soul to claim him kin on 
 
 this side of the sea. 
 
 But after I had known him long, one 
 
 mellow evening time 
 He told me of his English Rose, who 
 
 withered in her prime; 
 And how, within the churchyard green, 
 
 he laid her down to rest 
 With her sweet babe, a blighted bud, 
 
 upon her frozen breast. 
 
 "I could not stay," he said, "where she 
 
 had left me all alone! 
 The ver} T hedge-rose that she loved, I 
 
 could not look upon! 
 I could not hear the mavis sing, or see 
 
 the long grass wave, 
 And every little daisy-bank seemed but 
 
 my darling's grave! 
 
 "Yet, somehow — why, I cannot tell — 
 
 but when I wandered here, 
 I seemed to b"ing her with me, too, that 
 
 once had been so dear! 
 I love these mountain summits, where 
 
 the world is in the sky, 
 For she is in it, too — my love! — and so I 
 
 bring her nigh." 
 
 Next week I rode with Jem again. The 
 
 coach was full that day, 
 And there were little children there, 
 
 that pleased us with their play. 
 A sweet-faced mother brought her pair 
 
 of rosy, bright-eyed girls, 
 And boy, like one I left at home, with 
 
 silken yellow curls. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 119 
 
 We took fresh horses at Girard's, and 
 
 as he led them out — 
 A vicious pair they seemed to me — I 
 
 heard the hostler shout, 
 "You always want good horses, Jem! 
 
 Now you shall have your way! 
 Try these new beauties; for we sold 
 
 your old team yesterday!" 
 
 O'er clean-cut limb aud sloping flank, 
 
 arched neck and tossing head, 
 I marked Jem run his practiced eye, 
 
 though not a word he said; 
 Yet, as he clambered to his seat, and 
 
 took the reins once more, 
 I saw a look upon his face it had not 
 
 worn before. 
 
 The hostler open flung the gates.' 'Now, 
 
 Tempest, show your pace!" 
 He cried. And with a careless hand he 
 
 struck the leader's face. 
 The horse, beneath the sportive blow, 
 
 reared as if poison stung, 
 And, with his panic stricken mates, to 
 
 a mad gallop sprung! 
 
 We thundered through the gate, and 
 out upon the stony road; 
 
 From side to side the great coach lurch- 
 ed, with all its priceless load; 
 
 Some cried aloud for help, and some, 
 with terror frozen tongue, 
 
 Clung, bruised and faint in every limb, 
 the weaker to the strong! 
 
 And men who oft had looked on death, 
 
 unblanched, by flood or field, 
 When every nerve, to do and dare, by 
 
 agony was steeled, 
 Now moaned aloud, or gnashed their 
 
 teeth in helpless rage, 
 To die, at whim of maddened brutes, 
 
 like vermin in a cage! 
 
 Too well, alas! too I knew the awful 
 way wc went; 
 
 The little stretch of level road, and 
 then the steep descent; 
 
 The boiling stream that seethed and 
 roared far down the rocky ridge, 
 
 With death, like old Horatius,grim wait- 
 ing at the bridge! 
 
 But, suddenly, above the din, a voice 
 
 rang loud aud clear, 
 We knew it well, the driver's voice — 
 
 without one note of fear! 
 Some strong, swift angel's lips might 
 
 thrill such a clarion cry; 
 The voice of one who put for aye all 
 
 earthly passion by. 
 
 "Still! for your lives, and listen! See 
 
 yon faimhouse by the way, 
 And piled along the field in front the 
 
 shocks of new mown hay! 
 God help me turn my horses there! And 
 
 when I give the word, 
 Leap on the hay! Pray, every soul, to 
 
 Him who Israel heard!" 
 
 Within, the coach was still! 'Tis 
 
 strange, but never till I die, 
 Shall I forget the fields that day, the 
 
 color of the sky, 
 The summer bieeze that brought the 
 
 first sweet perfume of the hay, 
 The bobolink, hat in the grass would 
 
 sing its life away. 
 
 One breathless moment bridged the 
 
 space that lay between, and then 
 Jem drew upon the straining reins 
 
 with all the strength of ten! 
 "Hold fast t lie babes!" More close I 
 
 clasped the fair boy at my side. 
 "Let every nerve be steady now!" and 
 
 "Jump for life!" he cried, 
 
 Saved! every soul! Oh! dizzy— sweet 
 
 life rushed in every vein, 
 To us, who from that fragrant bed rose 
 
 up to hope again! 
 But, 'mid the smiles and grateful tears 
 
 that mingled on each cheek, 
 A sudden, questioning horror grew, 
 
 that none would dare to speak! 
 
 Too soon the answer struck our ears! 
 
 One moment's hollow roar 
 Of flying hoofs upon the bridge — an 
 
 awful crash that tore 
 The very air in twain — and then 
 
 through all the world grown still, 
 I only heard the bobolink go singing 
 
 at his will! 
 
120 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 I was tlu 1 first man down the cliff. 
 There's little left to tell! 
 
 We found him lying, breathing yet and 
 conscious, where he fell. 
 
 The question in his eager eyes I an- 
 swered with a word: 
 
 "Safe!" Then he smiled and whisper- 
 ed low some words I scarcely 
 heard . 
 
 We would have raised him, but his lips 
 
 grew white with agony. 
 "Not yet! It will be over soon!" he 
 
 whispered. "Wait with me!" 
 Then— lower — smiling still! "It is my 
 
 last ride, friends; but I 
 Have done my duty, aud God knows I 
 
 do not fear to die!" 
 
 He closed his eyes. We watched his 
 
 life slip like an ebbing tide, 
 Far out upon the Infinite, where all 
 
 our hopes abide. • 
 He spoke but once again, a name not 
 
 meant for mortal ears — 
 "My Rose!" She must have heard that 
 
 call amid the singing spheres! 
 Mary A. Stansbury. 
 
 The Singer's Alms. 
 
 HENRY E. ABBEY. 
 
 In Lyons, in the mart of that French 
 town, 
 Years since, a woman leading a fair 
 child. 
 Craved a small alms of one who, walk- 
 ing down 
 The thoroughfare, caught the child's 
 glance and smiled 
 To see, behind its eyes, a noble soul. 
 He paused, but found he had no coin 
 to dole. 
 
 His guardian angel warned him not to 
 lose 
 This chance of pearl to do another 
 good ; 
 So, as he waited, sorry to refuse 
 The asked-for penny, there aside he 
 stood, 
 
 And with his hat held as limb the 
 
 nest, 
 He covered his kind face, and sang 
 
 his best. 
 
 The sky was blue above, and all the 
 lane 
 Of commerce, where the singer stood 
 was tilled, 
 And many paused, and, listening paus- 
 ed again 
 To hear the voice that through and 
 through them thrilled. 
 I think the guardian angel helped 
 
 along 
 That cry for pity woven in a song. 
 
 The singer stood between the beggars 
 there, 
 Before a church, and overhead the 
 spire, 
 A slim, perpetual finger in the air 
 Held toward heaven, land of the 
 heart's desire — 
 As if an angel, pointing up, had 
 
 said: 
 "Yonder a crown awaits this sing- 
 er's head." 
 
 The hat of its stamped brood was emp- 
 tied soon 
 Into the woman's- lap, who drenched 
 with tears 
 Her kiss upon the hand of help; 'twas 
 noon, 
 And noon in her glad heart drove 
 forth her fears. 
 The singer, pleased, passed on and 
 
 softly thought, 
 "Men will not know by whom this 
 deed was wrought. 
 
 But when at night he came upon the 
 stage, 
 Cheer after cheer went up from that 
 wide throng, 
 And flowers rained on him; naught 
 could assuage 
 The tumult of the welcome, save the 
 song 
 That he had sweetly sung, with 
 covered face, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 21 
 
 For the two beggars in the market- 
 place. 
 
 Antietam. 
 
 [By permission of the author] 
 
 [Dedicated to the Blue and the Gray.) 
 
 SHERMAN D. RICHARDSON. 
 
 I've wandered o'er Antietam, John, 
 
 And stood where foe met foe 
 Upon the fields of Maryland, 
 
 So many years ago. 
 The circling hills rise just the same, 
 
 As they did on that day, 
 When you were fighting Blue, old boy, 
 
 And I was fighting Gray. 
 
 The winding stream runs 'neath the 
 bridge, 
 
 Where Burnside won his fame; 
 The locust trees upon the ridge 
 
 Beyond are there the same, 
 The birds were siugiug 'mid the trees- 
 
 'Twas bullets on that day, 
 When you were fighting Blue, old boy 
 
 And I was fighting Gray. 
 
 I saw again the D linker Church, 
 
 That stood beside the wood, 
 Where Hooker made the famous 
 charge, 
 That Hill so well withstood. 
 c Tis scarred and marred by war and 
 
 time, 
 As we are, John, to-day; 
 
 For you were fighting Blue, old 
 boy. 
 As I was lighting Gray. 
 
 I stood beneath the signal tree, 
 
 Where I that day was laid, 
 And 'twas your arms, old boy, that 
 
 brought 
 Me to t lis friendly shade. 
 
 'Tho leaves are gone, and limbs are 
 bare, 
 Its heart is true to-day, 
 
 As yours was then, 'tho fighting 
 
 Blue, 
 To me, 'tho fighting Gray. 
 
 I marked the spot where Mansfield 
 fell, 
 
 Where Richardson was -lain, 
 With Stark and Douglas mid the corn, 
 
 And Brand amid the grain. 
 Their names are sacred to us, John, 
 
 They led us in the fray, 
 When you were lighting Northern 
 Blue, 
 
 And I the Southern Gray. 
 
 I thought of Burnside, Hooker, 
 Meade, 
 
 Of Sedgwick old and brave; 
 Of Stonewall Jackson tried and true, 
 
 That strove the da}* to save. 
 I bared my head, they rest in peace, 
 
 Each one has passed away; 
 Death musters those who wove the 
 Blue, 
 
 With those who wore the Gray. 
 
 The old Pry Mansion rears its walls, 
 
 Beside Antietam's stream, 
 And far away along the south. 
 
 I saw the tombstones gleam. 
 They mark each place where little 
 
 Mac, 
 And Robert Lee that da}*, 
 
 Made proud the South tho' wearing 
 Blue— 
 And North tho' wearing Gray. 
 
 Yes John, it gave me joy to stand, 
 Where we once liercely fought 
 
 The nation now is one again — 
 The lesson has been taught. 
 
 Sweet peace doth fair Antietam 
 crown, 
 And we can say to-day, 
 We're friends, tho' one was fighting 
 Blue, 
 
 And one was liffhtino; Gray. 
 
 The Bells. 
 
 Hear the sledges wilh the bells- 
 Silver bells! 
 
 What a world of merriment 
 melody foretells! 
 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 In the icy air of night! 
 
 While stars that oversprinkle 
 
 All the heavens seem to twinkle 
 N\ ith a crystalline delight; 
 
 their 
 
122 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the tintinnabulation that so musical- 
 ly wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of 
 the bells. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells — 
 
 Golden bells! 
 What a world of happiness their har- 
 mony foretells! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight! 
 From the molten-golden notes, 
 
 And all in tune, 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while 
 she gloats 
 On the moon! 
 Oh! from out the sounding cells, 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously 
 wells ! 
 How it swells! 
 How it dwells 
 On the future! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells bells, 
 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the 
 bells! 
 
 Hear the loud alarum belis — 
 
 Brazen bells! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their 
 
 turbulency tells! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright! 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 Out of tune, 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy 
 
 of the fire, 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf 
 and frantic fire 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor, 
 
 Now — now to sit or never, 
 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 
 O, the bells bells bells! 
 
 What a tale their terror tells — 
 Of despair! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
 
 Yet the ear, it fully knows, 
 
 By the twanging, 
 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flows; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 
 In the jangling 
 
 And the wrangling 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the 
 anger of the bells — 
 Of the bells— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the 
 bells! 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 
 Iron bells! 
 What a world of solemn thought their 
 monody compels! 
 
 In the silence of the night, 
 
 How we shiver with affright, 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
 
 For every sound that floats 
 
 From the rust within their throats 
 Is a groan. 
 
 And the people — ah, the people— 
 
 They that dwell up in the steeple, 
 All alone. 
 And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone, 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 They are neither man nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor human — 
 
 They are Ghouls. 
 And their king it is who tolls; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 
 A paean from the bells! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the paean of the bells! 
 And he dances and he yells: 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 2$ 
 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the psean of the bells — 
 Of the bells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells, 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the rolling of the bells 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 
 To the tolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- 
 Bells, bells, bells, 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the 
 bells. 
 
 Edgar A. Poe. 
 
 The Creeds of the Bells. 
 
 From "Demorestfs Monthly." 
 
 How sweet the chime qf the Sabbath 
 
 bells! 
 Each one its creed in music tells, 
 In tones that float upon the air, 
 As soft as song, as pure as prayer; 
 And I will put in simple rhyme 
 The language of the golden chime; 
 My happy heart with rapture swells 
 Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. 
 
 "In deeds of love excel! excel!" 
 Chimed out from ivied towers a bell; 
 "This is the church not built on sands, 
 Emblem of one not built with hands; 
 Its forms and sacred rites revere, 
 Come worship here! come worship 
 
 here! 
 In rituals and faith excel!" 
 Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 
 
 "Oh heed the ancient landmarks well!" 
 In solemn tones exclaimed a bell; 
 "No progress made by mortal man 
 Can change the just eternal plan: 
 With God there can be nothing new; 
 Ignore the false, embrace the true, 
 While all is well! is well! is well!" 
 Pealed out the good old Dutch churck 
 bell. 
 
 "Ye purifying waters swell!" 
 In mellow tones rang out a bell; 
 "Though faith alone in Christ can save, 
 Man must be plunged beneath the wavfe, 
 To show the world unfaltering faith 
 In what the Sacred Scriptures saith: 
 O swell! ye rising waters, swell!" 
 Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 
 
 "Not faith alone, but works as well, 
 Must test the soul!" said a soft bell; 
 "Come here and cast aside your load, 
 And work your way along the road, 
 With faith in God, and faith in man, 
 And hope in Christ, where hope began; 
 Do well! do well! do well! do well!" 
 Rang out the Unitarian bell. 
 
 "Farewell! farewell! base world, fare- 
 well!" 
 In touching tones exclaimed a bell; 
 "Life is a boon, to mortals given, 
 To fit the soul for bliss in heaven; 
 Do not invoke the avenging rod, 
 Come here and learn the way to God; 
 Say to the world, Farewell! farewell!" 
 Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 
 
 "To all, this creed, we tell! we tell!" 
 Shouted in ecstasies a bell; 
 "Come all ye weary wanderers, see! 
 Our Lord has made salvation free! 
 Repent, believe, have faith, and then 
 Be saved, and praiss the Lord, Amen.! 
 Salvation's free, we tell! we tell!" 
 Shouted the Methodistic bell. 
 
 "In after life there is no hell!" 
 In raptures rang a cheerful bell; 
 "Look up to heaven this holy day, 
 Where angels wait to lead the way; 
 Our blessed Savior holds the light, 
 Do good to all; be just and right; 
 No hell! no hell! no hell! we tell!" 
 Rang out the Universalist bell. • 
 
 "The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well 
 My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell; 
 "No fetters here to clog the soul; 
 No arbitrary creeds control 
 The free heart and progressive mind. 
 That leave the dusty past behind, 
 Speed well! speed well! speed wellfc 
 speed well!" 
 
I2 4 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Pealed out the Independent bell. 
 
 "No pope, no pope, to doom to hell!" 
 The Protestant rang out a bell; 
 ''Great Luther left his fiery zeal, 
 Within the hearts that truly feel 
 That loyalty to God will be 
 The fealty t.iat makes men free. 
 No images where ineense fell!" 
 Raux out old Martin Luther's bell. 
 
 "All hail, ye saints in heaven that 
 
 dwell 
 Close by the cross!" exclaimed a bell; 
 "Lean o'er the battlement of bliss, 
 And deign to bless a world like this; 
 Let mortals kneel before this shrine — 
 Adore the water and the wine! 
 All hail ye saints, the chorus swell!'' 
 Chimed in the Roman Catholic bell. 
 
 ! 'Ye workers who have toiled so well, 
 To save the race!" said a sweet bell; 
 "With pledge, and badge, and banner, 
 
 come, 
 Each brave heart beating like a drum; 
 Be royal men of noble deeds, 
 For love is holier than creeds; 
 Drink from the well, the well, the well!" 
 In rapture rang the Temperance bell. 
 George W. Bungay. 
 
 The Battle Above the Clouds. 
 
 Therox Browx. 
 
 By the banks of Chattanooga, watching 
 
 with a soldier's heed, 
 In the chilly, autumn morning, gallant 
 
 Grant was on his steed, 
 For the foe had climbed above him, 
 
 with the banners of their land, 
 And their canu river from 
 
 the hills of Cumberland. 
 
 Like a trumpet rang his orders — "How- 
 ard. Thomas to the Bridge! 
 One m a I the Dunbar, storm 
 
 the heights of Mission Ridge! 
 On the left, the ledges. Sherman, charge, 
 
 I hurl the rebels down. 
 Hooker, take tb okout and 
 
 re the town.'' 
 
 the Northern Summit, 
 looked the traitors, where they lay, 
 
 On the gleaming Union Army, marshall- 
 ed as for muster day, — 
 
 Till the sudden shout of battle thunder- 
 ed upward from the farms. 
 
 And they dropped their idle glasses, in 
 a sudden rush to arms. 
 
 Then together up the highlands, surely v 
 
 swiftly swept the lines, 
 And the clang of war above them,. 
 
 swelledjwith loud aud louder signs,. 
 Till the loyal peaks of Lookout, in the 
 
 tempest seemed to throb, 
 And the star-flag of our country soared 
 
 in smoke o'er Orchard Knob. 
 
 Day and night, and day returning,. 
 
 ceaseless shock and ceaseless 
 
 change. 
 Still the furious Mountain conflict 
 
 burst and burned along the range. 
 While with battle's cloud of sulphur 
 
 mingled heaven's mist of rain, 
 Till the ascending squadron vanished 
 
 from the gazers on the plain. 
 
 From the boats upon the river, from 
 
 the tents upon the shore, 
 From the roofs of yonder city, anxious. 
 
 eyes the clouds explore, 
 But no rift amid the darkness shows 
 
 them fathers, brother?, sons, 
 Where they trace the viewless struggle 
 
 by the echo of the guns. 
 
 Upward! charge for God and country { 
 
 up! aha, they rush, they rise, 
 Till the faithful meet the i: 
 
 the never clouded sk: 
 And the battlefield is bloody, where a 
 
 dewdrop never falls, 
 For a justice for a 
 
 tearless vengeance calls. 
 
 And the heaven is wild with shouting; 
 
 fiery shot and bayonet keen 
 Gleam and glance where Freedom's 
 
 angels battle in tin serene. 
 
 Charge and volley tiercel}- follow, and 
 
 th • tumult in the air 
 Tells of right in mortal grapple with 
 
 rebellion's strong despair. 
 
 They have conquered! God's own le- 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 125 
 
 prions: well their foes might be 
 dismayed, 
 
 Standing in the mountain temple, 
 'gainst the terrors of his aid. 
 
 And the elouds might fitly echo pean 
 loud and parting gun, 
 
 When from upper light and glory, sank 
 the traitor host undone. 
 
 They have conquered! Through the 
 region where our brothers pluck- 
 ed the palm 
 
 Kings the noise with which they won it 
 with the sweetness of a psalm. 
 
 And our wounded siek and dying hear 
 it in their crowded wards. 
 
 And they whisper, ''Heaven is with us! 
 Lo, our battle is the Lord's! 
 
 And our famished captive heroes, lock- 
 ed iu Richmond's prison hells, 
 
 List those guns of cloudland booming, 
 glad as Freedom's morning bells, 
 
 Lift their haggard eyes, and panting 
 with their cheeks against the bars, 
 
 Feel God's breath of hope and see it 
 playing with the stripes and stars. 
 
 Tories safe in serpent treason startle as 
 those airy cheers 
 
 And that wild, ethereal war drum falls 
 like doom upon their ears. 
 
 And that rusli of cloud-borne armies, 
 rolling back a nation's shame 
 
 Frights them with its sound of judg- 
 ment, and the flash of angry 
 flame. 
 
 Widows weeping by their firesides, 
 loyal sires despondent grown, 
 
 Smile to hear their country's triumph 
 from the gate of heaven blown; 
 
 And the patriot's children wonder in 
 their simple hearts to know 
 
 In the land above the thunder our em- 
 battled champions go. 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine- 
 
 MRS. NORTON. 
 
 A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Al- 
 giers, 
 
 There was lack of woman's nursing, 
 there was death of woman's tears; 
 
 But a comrade stood beside him, while 
 
 his life-blood ebbed away; 
 And bent, with pitying glances, to hear 
 
 what he might say. 
 The dying soldier faltered, as lie took 
 
 that comrade's hand, 
 And he said, "I never more shall see 
 
 my own, my native land: 
 Take a message, and a token, to some 
 
 distant friends of mine, 
 For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen 
 
 on the Rhine. 
 
 "Tell my brothers and companions, 
 when they meet and crowd 
 around 
 
 To hear my mournful story in the pleas- 
 ant vineyard ground, 
 
 That we fought the battle bravely, and 
 when the day was done, 
 
 Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, be- 
 neath the setting sun. 
 
 And midst the dead and dying, were 
 some grown old in wars, 
 
 The death-wound on their gallant 
 breasts, the last of many scars: 
 
 But some were young — and suddenly 
 beheld life's morn decline; 
 
 And one had come from Bingen — fair 
 Bingen on the Rhine! 
 
 "Tell my mother that her other sons 
 
 shall comfort her old age: 
 That I was aye a truant boy who 
 
 thought his home a cage. 
 For my father was a soldier, and even 
 
 as a child 
 My heart leaped forth to hear him tell 
 
 of struggles lierce and wild; 
 And when he died, aud left us to divide 
 
 his scanty hoard, 
 I let them take wdiate'er they would, 
 
 but kept my father's sword. 
 And with boyish love I hung it where 
 
 the bright light used to shine, 
 On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine! 
 
 "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and, 
 sob with drooping head, 
 
 When the troops are marching home 
 again, with glad and gallant 
 tread; 
 
126 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 But to look upou them proudly, with a 
 calm and steadfast eye, 
 
 For her brother was a soldier too, and 
 uot afraid to die. 
 
 And if a comrade seek her love, I ask 
 her in my name 
 
 To listen to him kindly, without regret 
 or shame; 
 
 And to hang the old sword in its place 
 (mj' father's sword and mine,) 
 
 For the honor of old Bingen— dear Bin- 
 gen on the Rhine! 
 
 "There's another — not a sister: in the 
 happy days gone by, 
 
 You'd have known her by the merri- 
 ment that sparkled in her eye: 
 
 Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond 
 for idle scorning, — 
 
 Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart 
 makes sometimes heaviest mourn- 
 ing: 
 
 Tell her the last night of my life (for ere 
 the moon be risen 
 
 My body will be out of pain — my soul be 
 out of prison), 
 
 I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the 
 yellow sunlight shine 
 
 On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair 
 Bingen on the Rhine! 
 
 "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along— I 
 heard, or seemed to hear 
 
 The German songs we used to sing, in 
 chorus sweet and clear; 
 
 And down the pleasant river, and up 
 the slanting hill, 
 
 The echoing chorus sounded, through 
 the evening calm and still; 
 
 And her glad blue eyes were on me as 
 we passed with friendly talk 
 
 Down many a path beloved of yore, and 
 well-remembered walk, 
 
 And her little hands lay lightly, confid- 
 ing in mine: 
 
 But we'll no more at' Bingen — loved 
 Bingen on the Rhine!" 
 
 His voice grew faint and hoarser, — his 
 voice was childish weak, — 
 
 His eyes put on a dying look, — he sigh- 
 ed and ceased to speak: 
 
 His comrade bent to lift him, but the 
 
 spark of life had fled, — 
 The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign 
 
 land — was dead! 
 The pale moon rose up slowly and 
 
 calmly she looked down 
 On the red sand of the battle-field with 
 
 gastl} 7 corpses strewn; 
 Yea! calmly on that awful scene her 
 
 pale light seened to shine, 
 As it shown on distaut Bingen — calm 
 
 Bingen on the Rhiue. 
 
 The Baron'e Last Banquet 
 
 O'er a low couch the setting sun had 
 thrown its latest ray, 
 
 Where, in his last strong agony, a dying- 
 warrior lay; 
 
 The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose 
 frame had ne'er been bent 
 
 By wasting pain, till time and toil its 
 iron strength had spent. 
 
 "They come around me here, and say 
 
 my days of life are o'er, 
 That I shall mount my noble steed and 
 
 * lead my band no more; 
 They come, and to my beard they dare 
 
 tell me now, that I, 
 Their own liege lord and master born 
 
 — that I, ha! ha! must die. 
 
 "And what is death? I've dared him 
 
 oft before the warrior's spear; 
 Xhink ye he's entered at my gate— has 
 
 come to seek me here? 
 I've met him, faced him, scorned him y 
 
 when the storm was raging hot; 
 I'll try his might— I'll brave his power; 
 
 defy and fear him not. 
 
 "Ho! sound the tocsin from the tower, 
 
 and fire the eulverin— 
 Bid each retainer arm with speed — 
 
 call every vassal in, — 
 Up with my banner on the wall — the 
 
 banquet board prepare: 
 Throw wide the portal of my hall, and 
 
 bring my armor there!" 
 
 A hundred hands were busy then — 
 the banquet forth was spread, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 127 
 
 And rung the heavy oaken floor with 
 
 many a martial tread; 
 While, from the rich, dark tracery 
 
 along the vaulted wall. 
 Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and 
 
 spear, in the proud old Gothic 
 
 hall. 
 
 Fast hurrying through the outer gate 
 
 the mailed retainers poured 
 On through the portal's frowning arch, 
 
 and thronged around the hoard. 
 While at its head, Avithin his dark, 
 
 carved, oaken chair of state. 
 Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger with 
 
 girded falchion, sate. 
 
 "Fill every beaker np, my men, pour 
 
 forth th n cheering wine, 
 There's life aud strength in every drop 
 
 — thanksgiving to the vine! 
 Are ye all there, my vassals true? — 
 
 mine eyes are waxing dim; 
 Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, 
 
 each goblet to the brim. 
 
 "Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. 
 
 Draw forth each trusty sword. 
 And let me hear your faithful steel 
 
 clash once around my board: 
 I hear it faintly: — Louder yet! — What 
 
 clogs my heavy breath? 
 Up all, and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance 
 
 unto Death!' " 
 
 Bowl rang to bowl — steel clang to steel 
 
 — and rose a deafening cry, 
 That made the torches flare around, 
 
 and shook the flags on high: 
 "Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?— Slaves, 
 
 traitors! have ye flown? 
 Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet 
 
 him here alone? 
 
 "But I defy him:— let him come!" 
 
 Down rang the massy cup, 
 While from its sheath the ready blade 
 
 came flashing halfway up; 
 And, with the black and heavy plumes 
 
 scarce trembling on his head, 
 There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, 
 
 old Rudiger sat, dead. 
 
 The Bankrupt's Visitor. 
 
 THOMAS Dl NN ENGLISH. 
 
 So you're the senior of the firm, the 
 
 head 
 Of the great house of Erbenetone and 
 Son- 
 Great house that has been. That is 
 what is said 
 On street, in counting rooms, by every 
 one. 
 That house had ships one time on every 
 sea; 
 But then your father with his brains 
 had sway; 
 His ventures millions. Come, don't 
 frown at me! 
 Sir I have business, and I'll have my 
 say. 
 
 Here are the firms acceptances — behold ! 
 There is a list, and you may scan it 
 well; 
 This paper once was thought as good as 
 gold; 
 Now worthless if the tales be true 
 they tell. 
 Two hundred thousand and — well never 
 mind 
 The odd amount — I bought them as 
 they lay 
 In many hands, investments poor I find 
 But still I put the question — can you 
 pay? 
 
 "The house has fallen now" — that can- 
 not be; 
 You've made a stumble, that is not a 
 fall; 
 That brings a story freshly up to me, 
 We queer old fellows will such things 
 recall. 
 I'll tell you all about it if you will, 
 There's something about it you will 
 
 much admire; 
 You'r bound to hear the story, so keep 
 still- 
 Its something chilly— let me stir the 
 lire . 
 
 'Twas fifty years ago, one day, a lad 
 
128 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Orphaned and friendless— one of 
 those yon see 
 Hanging about the street; some good, 
 
 some bad — 
 Walked in a counting room as bold and 
 
 free 
 As if he owned it; 'twas your father's; 
 there 
 He stood and waited. When your 
 sire that day 
 Saw him, he asked with a repellant air, 
 "What do you want?" The answer — 
 ''Work and pay." 
 
 Acquainted with American affairs, 
 Trusty and shrewd, and send him out 
 to them; 
 The kind of man they sought they 
 thought he knew. 
 You know your father's way. He said 
 —"Ahem! 
 'Trusty and shrewd' — Byng, there's a 
 chance for you. 
 
 "Belden is dead; Carstairs has kept the 
 name 
 Of the old firm — he was its life's 
 blood too — 
 
 The merchant stared. "Boy I've no Immensely rich, and if you play the 
 place for you" — game 
 "Your father's manner, not his heart, You've played from boyhood, and be 
 was cold — ■ just and true 
 "And if I took you here what could you And diligent, and make his interest 
 do?" yours 
 And the boy answered, "Do as I am As you have mine so long, you'll sure- 
 told." ly rise; 
 Your father liked prompt speech, and .so I hate to part with you, but this secures 
 inquired A certain fortune. Take it if yo're 
 More of the bov — he rather liked his wise." 
 
 face — 
 And on the following day the lad was 
 hired 
 To run on errands and sweep the 
 place. 
 
 You were a baby then, sir; but you 
 came, 
 As you grew up to boyhood, rambling 
 through 
 The great store house. You recall the 
 name 
 Of Byng, the letter-clerk. I see you 
 do. 
 He was the errand-boy, that bit by bit 
 Had risen in the house till he had 
 won 
 The confidence of one who had more 
 wit 
 In choosing servants than has shown 
 his son. 
 
 One day a letter from Calcutta came, 
 From a great firm there— Belden and 
 
 Carstairs — 
 Begging your father that some clerk 
 
 he'd name 
 
 Byng took the advice; and then your 
 father said, 
 "You'll need some money, Byng, and 
 here's a draft; 
 Take it; a man can always hold his 
 head 
 Higher with cash in hand." And 
 then he laughed. 
 "Xo thanks! 'Tis bread upon the wat- 
 ers thrown, 
 And may come back. If ever you be 
 rich 
 Pay it to me or mine, or give someone 
 Who needs it sorely — 'tis no matter 
 which." 
 
 I'll cut the story short. Byng made his 
 way 
 There at Calcutta; all seemed cut 
 and dried; 
 First general manager ; in a little day, 
 The junior partner; when his senior 
 died, 
 Became both his successor and hi« 
 heir; 
 And recently lord of lac and lac 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 129 
 
 Of good rupees, selling his business 
 there 
 For a good round sum, came to his 
 country back. 
 
 Here when he lauded, judge of his sur- 
 prise 
 To find his benefactor dead, the name 
 Of the old firm made loathly in men's 
 eyes; 
 It's olden reputation brought to 
 shame. 
 Well, sir, he bought the notes, and 
 there there they are; 
 I am John Byng, to save your house's 
 fame 
 I bought them cent per cent — paid them 
 at par ! 
 There, sir, your tire's improved — 
 they're in the flame. 
 
 What, crying like a child! Let go my 
 hand; 
 I'm rich be} T ond compute. I only do 
 What I can well afford. Keep self-com- 
 mand; 
 Ruin has passed — a friend shall stand 
 by you. 
 The house of Erbenstone and Son !s 
 saVed; 
 The bread your father on the waters 
 cast 
 Comes after many years; the hour I've 
 craved 
 When I could pay my debt, is here at 
 last. 
 
 The Relief of Lucknow. 
 Robert Lowell. 
 Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort! 
 
 We knew that it was the last, 
 That the enemies lines crept surely on, 
 Ana .the end was coming fast. 
 
 To yield to that foe was worse than 
 death, 
 
 And the men and we all worked on; 
 It was one day more of smoke and roar, 
 
 And then it would all be done. 
 
 There was one of us, a corporal's wife, 
 A fair young gentle thing, 
 
 Wasted with fever in the siege, 
 And her mind was wandering; 
 
 She lay on the ground, in her Scottish 
 plaid, 
 And I took her head on my knee: 
 "When my father comes hame frae the 
 pleugh," she said, 
 "Oh! then please waken me." 
 
 She slept like a child on her father's 
 floor 
 In the flecking of woodbine-shade, 
 When the house-dog sprawls by the 
 open door, 
 And the mother's wheel is staid. 
 
 It was smoke and roar and powder- 
 stench, 
 And hopeless waiting for death; 
 And the soldier's wife like a full-tired 
 child, 
 Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 
 
 I sank to sleep; and I had my dream 
 
 Of an English village-lane, 
 And wall and garden; — but one wild 
 scream 
 
 Brought me back to the roar again. 
 
 There Jessie Brown stood listening 
 Till a sudden gladness broke 
 
 All over her face and she caught my 
 hand 
 And drew me near, as she spoke: — 
 
 "The Highlanders! Oh! dinna ye hear 
 
 The slogan far avva? 
 The McGregor's? Oh! I ken it weel; 
 
 It's the grandest o' them a'! 
 
 "God bless the bonny Highlanders! 
 
 We're saved! we're saved!" she cried; 
 And fell on her knees; and thanks to 
 God 
 
 Flowed forth like a full flood-tide. 
 
 Along the battery-line her cry 
 
 Had fallen among the men, 
 And they started back; — they were 
 there to die; 
 
 But was life so near them, then? 
 
 They listened for life; the rattling fire 
 Far off, and the far-off roar, 
 
30 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Were all; and the colonel shook his 
 head, 
 
 And they turned to their guns once 
 more. 
 But Jessie said, "The slogan's dune; 
 
 But diuna ye hear it noo, 
 The Campbells arc coming ! It's nae a 
 dream; 
 Our succors hae broken through!" 
 We heard the roar and the rattle afar, 
 
 But the pipes we could not hear; 
 So the men plied their work of hopeless 
 war, 
 And knew that the end was near. 
 
 It was not long ere it made its way, — 
 A shrilling, ceaseless sound: 
 
 It was no noise from the strife afar 
 Or the sappers under ground. 
 
 It was the pipes of the Highlanders! 
 And now they played Auld Lang 
 Syne; 
 It came to our men like the voice of 
 God, 
 And they shouted along the line. 
 
 And they w r ept and shook one another's 
 hands, 
 And the women sobbed in a crowd; 
 And every one knelt down where he 
 stood, 
 And we all thanked God aloud. 
 
 That happy time, when Ave welcomed 
 tnem, 
 Our men put Jessie first; 
 And the general gave her his hand, and 
 cheers 
 Like a storm from the soldiers burst. 
 
 And the pipers' ribbons and tartans 
 
 streamed, 
 
 Marching round and round our lines; 
 
 And our joyful cheers were broken with 
 
 tears 
 
 As the pipers played Auld Lang Syne. 
 
 The Farm Where We Wire Boys- 
 
 BY EDWIN L. SHUMAN. 
 
 D'you mind the mountain farm, old 
 hoy, where you an' me were 
 kids? 
 
 An' how we laid o' summer nights an* 
 heard the katydids 
 
 An' whippoorwills a-pipin' out and fid- 
 dim' 'mong the stocks, 
 
 An' how we usen't dare to speak for 
 fear we'd raise the spooks? 
 
 Can't you mind the springhouse still, 
 where all the milk was kep', 
 
 An' how our little toes would ache, a 
 standin' on the step? 
 
 Our house was neat an' tasty, the barn 
 was full o' hay, 
 
 A-purpose so as me an' you could romp 
 a rainy day. 
 
 W T hat fun to climb for huckleberries, 
 tip-top of the hill, 
 
 An' set our traps for rabbits in the mea- 
 dow by the mill! 
 
 An' don't you know that moss-grown 
 trough, deep in a forest-glade, 
 
 Where tinkle, tinkle, went the spring, 
 a-singin' while we pla}'ed? 
 
 Somehow I took the hankerin' to see 
 
 the farm again 
 An' view the spots that seemed so 
 
 bright before we two was men. 
 Ez frisky ez a colt I clum the dear old 
 
 hill once more — 
 I wish to God I'd stayed away; my heart 
 
 is sick and sore. 
 The farm, old boy, was dead an 1 
 
 gone — the bones was scattered 
 
 round; 
 I felt like a grave yard, where ghouls 
 
 has tore the ground. 
 
 The chimbley's fallen off the house, the 
 
 barn's without a roof; 
 The springhouse shed is tumbled in — 
 
 it's full o' leaves an' stuff, 
 Where mother used to set her crocks 
 
 down in the spring to cool, 
 An' turn an' kiss us when we'd come a- 
 
 bouncin' home from school. 
 The wind sweeps through the stable, 
 
 an' the stall where o!d Nell died 
 Is filled clean to the manger-top with 
 
 snow that's blowed inside. 
 
 A great big lump come in my throat, 
 that cough-drops couldn't cure; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 131 
 
 I turned to hunt the moss-grown trough 
 
 and spring so cold and pure. 
 I found the trough upon its side, and 
 
 rotted quite away; 
 The spring was dried— I dunno why, 
 
 but I jes' couldn't stay, 
 Fer't seemed so sad an' lonesome there, 
 
 an' voices filled my ears 
 That you and me hadn't heard at all fer 
 
 more'n twenty years. 
 
 I couldn't somehow trust myself to go 
 back past thet scene 
 
 But sneaked away aloug the creek — I 
 never felt so mean, 
 
 Sence when our little blue-jay died an' 
 we tried hard not to cry, 
 
 An' made a drizzling failure at it, blub- 
 bering on the sly. 
 
 I hain't a-tellin' what I done a-comin' 
 down the road, 
 
 But when 'twas over, like, I felt reliev- 
 ed of quite a load. 
 
 I'm never goin' back no more t' thet 
 graveyard of a place, 
 
 For spooks walks there in broad day- 
 light thet I don't care to face; 
 
 I'd. ruther treasure up them scenes, 
 afore the place was dead. 
 
 An' hang 'em rounglike pictures on the 
 inside of my head. 
 
 An' ef any man should ask me, "where's 
 the farm you once lived on? 
 
 I'll say, It's gone to heaven, where the 
 dear old folks is gone. 
 
 Independence Bell— July 4, 1776. 
 
 There was a tumult in the city, 
 
 In the quaint old Quaker town, 
 And the streets were rife with people 
 
 Pacing restless up and down — 
 People gathering at the corners, 
 
 Where they whispered each to each, 
 And the sweat stood on their temples 
 
 With the earnestness of speech. 
 
 As the bleak Atlantic currents 
 Lash the wild Newfoundland shore, 
 
 So they beat against the State-House, 
 So they surged against the door; 
 
 And the mingling of their voices 
 
 Made a harmony profound, 
 Till the quiet street of Chestnut 
 
 Was all turbulent with sound. 
 
 "Will they do it?" "Dare they do itV" 
 "Who is speaking?" "What's the 
 news?" 
 "What of Adams?" "What of Sher^ 
 man?" 
 "Oh, God grant they won't refuse!" 
 "Make some way there!" "Let me 
 nearer!" 
 "Lam stifling!', "Stifle then! 
 When a nation's life's at hazard, 
 We've no time to think of men!" 
 
 So they surged against the State-House 
 
 While, all solemnly inside 
 Sat the "Continental Congress," 
 
 Truth and reason for their guide. 
 O'er a simple scroll debating, 
 
 Which though simple it might be, 
 Yet should shake the cliffs of England, 
 
 With the thunders of the free. 
 
 Far aloft in that high steeple 
 
 Sat the bell-man old and gray; 
 He was weary of the tyrant 
 
 And his iron-sceptered sway. 
 So he sat with one hand ready 
 
 On the clapper of the bell, 
 When his eye could catch the signal, 
 
 The long-expected news, to tell. 
 
 See! See! The dense crowd quivers 
 
 Through all its lengthy line, 
 As the boy beside the portal 
 
 Hastens forth to give the sign! 
 With his little hands uplifted, 
 
 Breezes dallying with his hair, 
 Hark! with deep, clear intonation, 
 
 Breaks his young voice on the air: 
 
 Hushed the people's swelling murmur, 
 
 Whilst the boy cries joyously; 
 "Ring!" he shouts, "Ring! grandpapa, 
 
 Riug! oh, ring for Liberty !\ 
 Quickly, at the given signal, 
 
 The old bellman lifts his hand, 
 Forth he sends the good news, making 
 
 Iron music through the land. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 How they shouted! What rejoicing! 
 
 How the old bell shook the air, 
 Till the clang of freedom ruffled 
 
 The calmly gliding Delaware! 
 •How the bonfires and the torches 
 
 Lighted up the night's repose, 
 And from the flames, like fabled Phoe- 
 nix, 
 
 Our glorious liberty arose! 
 
 That old State-House bell is silent, 
 
 Hushed is now its clamorous tongue 
 But the spirit it awakened 
 
 Still is living— ever young; 
 •And. when we greet the smiling sun- 
 light 
 
 On the fourth of each July, 
 We will ne'er forget the bellman 
 
 Who, betwixt the earth and sky, 
 -Rung out, loudly, "Independence!" 
 
 Which, please God, shall never die! 
 
 The Old Year and the New. 
 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
 
 The year is dying in the night; 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 
 
 Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
 Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 
 The year is going, let him go; 
 
 Ring out the false, ring in the true. 
 
 Ring out the grief that saps the mind 
 For those that here we see no more; 
 Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
 
 Ring in redress to all mankind. 
 
 Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
 And ancient forms of party strife; 
 Ring in the nobler modes of life f 
 
 And sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
 The civic slander and the spite; 
 Ring in the love of truth and right, 
 
 Ring in the common love of good. 
 
 Ring in the valiant and the free; 
 
 The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
 
 Ring out the darkness of the land; 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 The Convict's Christmas Eve. 
 The term was done, my penalty was 
 past, 
 I saw the outside of the world at last, 
 When I left that stone punishment of 
 sin, 
 'Twas most as hard as when I first 
 went in. 
 It seemed at once as though the swift 
 voiced air 
 Told slanderous tales about me every- 
 where; 
 As if the ground itself was shrinking 
 back 
 For fear 'twould get the Cains mark 
 of my track. 
 Women would edge away, with shrewd 
 she guesses, 
 As if my very glance would spoil their 
 dresses; 
 Men look me over with close, careful 
 gaze, 
 And understood my down-cast jail 
 bred ways' 
 My hands were so grimmed, stained 
 and defiled 
 I wouldn't have had the cheek to pet 
 a child; 
 If I had spoken to a dog that day, 
 He would have tipped his nose and 
 walked away; 
 And so I wandered in a garb of doubt, 
 Whence neither heaven or earth 
 would let me out. 
 This world itself seemed to me every 
 bit 
 As hard a prison as the one I'd quit. 
 
 If you are made of anything but dirt, 
 If you've a soul that other souls can 
 hurt, 
 Turn to the right henceforth whoever 
 passes; 
 It's death to drop among the lawless 
 classes! 
 Men lose, who lose the friendship of the 
 law, 
 A blessing for each breath of air they 
 draw; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 133 
 
 They know the advantage of a good 
 square face, 
 When their's has been disfigured by 
 disgrace. 
 
 So I trudged round appropriately slow, 
 For one with no particular place to 
 go. 
 The houses scowled and stared as if to 
 say 
 "You jail-bird, we are honest; walk 
 away! 
 The factory seemed to scream when I 
 came near, 
 "Stand back! unsentenced men are 
 working here!" 
 And virtue had the appearance all the 
 time 
 Of trying hard to push me back to 
 crime. 
 
 It struck me strange, that stormy, 
 snow-bleached day, 
 To watch the different people on the 
 way, 
 All carrying bundles, of all sorts of sizes, 
 As carefully as gold and silver prizes. 
 Well dressed or poor, I could not un- 
 derstand 
 Why each one lugged a bundle in his 
 hand 
 I asked an old policeman what it meant, 
 He looked me over with eyes shrewd- 
 ly bent, 
 While muttering in a voice that fairly 
 froze, 
 "It's because to-morrow's Christmas 
 I suppose." 
 And then the fact came crashing o'er 
 me 
 How horribly alone a man can be! 
 
 I don't pretend what tortures yet may 
 wait 
 For souls that have not run their 
 reckoning strait, 
 It isn't for mortal ignorance to say 
 W T hat kind of night may follow any 
 day; 
 That sin on earth knows nothing yet 
 about 
 
 But I don't think there's any harbor 
 known 
 Worse for a wrecked soul than to be 
 alone. 
 Alone! there maybe never occured, 
 ' A word whose gloom is gloomier than 
 that word! 
 
 You who can brighten up your Christ- 
 mas joys, 
 With all affection's, kind but mighty 
 toys, 
 Who fancy that your gift of love be 
 rare, 
 And presents are not worth their 
 price in cash, 
 Thank God, with love and light no 
 more at war, 
 That you've someone to spend your 
 money for! 
 A dollar pays a very dingy part, 
 Till magnetized by someone's great- 
 ful heart, 
 
 So evening saw me straggling up and 
 down 
 Within the gaily lighted, desolate 
 town, 
 A hungry sad heart-hermit all the 
 while, 
 My rough face begging for a friendly 
 smile. 
 Folks talked with folks in new made 
 warmth and glee, 
 But no one had a word or look for 
 me; 
 An open church some look of welcome 
 wore; 
 I crept in soft, and sat down near the 
 door. 
 I'd never seen 'mongst my unhappy 
 race 
 So many happy children in one place; 
 I never knew how much a hymn could 
 bring 
 From Heaven, until I heard those 
 children sing. 
 
 I never saw such sweet- breathed gales 
 of glee, 
 As swept around that fruitful Christ- 
 mas tree. 
 
1 34 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Ye who have tripped through child- 
 hood's merry days, 
 With passionate love protecting all 
 your ways, 
 Who did not see a Christmas day go by 
 Without some present for your spark- 
 ling ej'e, 
 Thank God! whos goodness gave such 
 joy its birth, 
 And scattered heaven seeds in dust 
 of earth ! 
 In stone-paved ground my thorny field 
 was set, 
 I never had a Christmas present yet. 
 
 And so I sat and saw them, and con- 
 fess 
 Felt all the unhappiness for their hap- 
 piness; 
 And when a man gets into such a state, 
 
 He's very proud and very desolate. 
 Just then a cry of "Fire!" amongst us 
 came, 
 The pretty Christmas tree was all 
 aflame; 
 And one sweet child there in our startl- 
 ed gaze 
 Was screaming, with her white dress 
 all ablaze. 
 The crowd seemed crazy-like, old and 
 young, 
 And very swift of speed though slow 
 of tongue. 
 But one knew what to do, and not to 
 say, 
 And he a convict just let loose that 
 day. 
 I fought like one who deals in deadly 
 st iif e ; 
 I wrapped my life around that child's 
 sweet life; 
 I choked the flames that choked her 
 with rich cloaks 
 Stolen from some good but very 
 frightened folks; 
 • I gave the dear girl to her parents right 
 Unharmed by anything excepting 
 fright: 
 I tore the blazing branches from the 
 tree, 
 
 And all was safe, and no one harmed 
 but me. 
 
 That night, in which I asked for sleep 
 in vain 
 That night, that tossed me round on 
 prongs of pain, 
 That stabbed me with fierce tortures 
 through and through 
 Was still the happiest that I ever 
 knew. 
 I felt that I at last bad earned a place 
 Among mankind, by suffering for my 
 race; 
 I felt the glorious facts wouldn't let me 
 miss 
 A mother's thanks — perhaps a child's 
 sweet kiss, 
 That man's warm gratitude would find 
 a plan 
 To lift me up and help me be a man. 
 
 Next day they brought a letter to my 
 bed. 
 I opened it with tingling nerves and 
 read: 
 "You have upon my kindness certain 
 claims 
 For rescuing my young child from 
 the flames; 
 Such deeds deserve a hand unstained 
 by crime; 
 I trust you will reform while yet 
 there's time. 
 The blackest sinner may find mercy 
 still 
 (Enclosed please find a thousand 
 dollar bill.) 
 Our paths of course on different roads 
 must lie. 
 Don't follow me for any more. ^Good- 
 bye." 
 
 I scorched the dirty rag till it was black 
 Enclosed it in a rag and sent it back. 
 That very night I cracked a trades- 
 man's door, 
 Stole with my blistered hands ten 
 thousand more. 
 Which next day I took special pains to 
 send 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 135 
 
 To my good, distant, wealthy, high- 
 toned friend, 
 And wrote upon it in a steady hand, 
 In words I hoped lie wouldn't mis- 
 understand: 
 "Money is cheap as I have shown you 
 here, 
 But gratitude and sympathy are dear. 
 These rags are stolen — have been — 
 may often be. 
 I trust the one w r asn't you sent to me. 
 Hoping your pride and you were recon- 
 ciled; 
 From the black, sinful rescuer of 
 child." 
 
 I crept to court, a crushed, triumphant 
 worm, 
 Confessed the theft and took another 
 term. 
 My life closed and begun, and I am 
 back 
 Among the rogues who walk the 
 broad-gauged track. 
 I toil 'mid every sort of sin that's known 
 I walk rough roads, but do not walk 
 alone." 
 
 Oh, Christian! Hypocrite! how little 
 you profess 
 Goes toward making the world's 
 great happiness 
 Sin's black banner still remains un- 
 furled 
 And will, till deeds instead of creeds 
 reform the world. 
 Your careless words or look of pride 
 sometime 
 Has driven the poor discouraged 
 convict back back to crime. 
 And true it is that when your spirit 
 leaves its clod, 
 It meets its judgment by the con- 
 vict's God. 
 
 The Black Tiger. 
 
 Yes! For fifty years I've traveled, I'm 
 an old man now grown gray. 
 
 I've crossed the country many times, 
 from St. Paul to Monterey: 
 
 From Boston, o'er prairie and mountain, 
 
 to the Sacramento's mouth: 
 From the dark pine forests cf the north 
 
 to the cane brakes of the South. 
 A showman? Yes. In the circus line; 
 
 and my happiest days were spent 
 Furnishing honest amusement in the 
 
 big white canvass tent. 
 We did not travel as shows do now, in 
 
 "Our own great special train" 
 We packed our vans at midnight, and 
 
 roughed it through wind and rain. 
 
 Over the toughest of country roads. 
 
 Our system was a law 
 And a jollier, happier lot of folks, on 
 
 this earth you never saw. 
 Our drivers would sleep in the after- 
 noon, and at night they followed 
 
 their guide, 
 And thus through the hours of darkness 
 
 we kept up our toilsome ride. 
 When Sunday came we went to church. 
 
 We were honest, true and square; 
 And a mean, low man in the circus, in 
 
 those good old days was rare. 
 And when you come to charity, I speak 
 
 not in a boastful way, 
 But deeds not creeds, show the kindly 
 
 heart: thats all I need to say. 
 
 I've seen Dan Rice give five thousand 
 
 at once for a church, in a poor 
 
 little town 
 And he always had an open purse when 
 
 an honest man was down; 
 And as for widows and orphan children 
 
 If I had what he has spent 
 I could buy a half a dozen farms; and 
 
 not owe a single cent. 
 Just such a man w r as Richard Sands, on 
 
 his record was no stain, 
 But their good deeds are remembered. 
 
 they have not lived in vain. 
 You ask for a story? all right sir, and 
 
 its true what I relate 
 'Twas in August I think of '67, I have 
 
 quite forgotten the date. 
 
 We had that year, a performing den of 
 lions, and leopards four; 
 
136 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 And the Devil himself in the same big 
 
 cage, kept apart by an iron door. 
 It was "'Terror ' the huge black tiger, 
 
 shipped from Bengal the same 
 
 spring; 
 Restless and ugly; when he'd roar, he'd 
 
 make the whole caravan ring. 
 His new cage arrived that very day, and 
 
 we meant to make the change; 
 But it happened to be Friday; and we 
 
 all act sometimes strange 
 So we hauled the new den into line and 
 
 opened wide its door, 
 And let it stand in its emptiness, with 
 
 the lasso upon its floor. 
 
 Now I'll turn back in my story. our lady 
 
 rider that year 
 Was a beautiful girl from Dresden we 
 
 called her Zoe Lapierre; 
 But her hair was sunbeam golden, her 
 
 eyes were lovely blue, 
 She always pleased the people audi tell 
 
 you she was true. 
 She was pet of the whole battalion, but 
 
 the one who loved her most 
 Was a pale, white livered, sickly lad, 
 
 who came from Hampshire coast; 
 He'd studied too hard, and needed rest, 
 
 thats why he joined our band: 
 He fed the birds,and did light jobs and 
 
 seemed to have no sand. 
 
 Now on this day I spoke of, the tent 
 
 was packed to a jamb, 
 And everything went lovely as a little 
 
 frisky lamb. 
 Zoe had leaped from her Piebald, and 
 
 alighted with a spring, 
 When— Crash! went the bars of the iron 
 
 cage, — the black tiger was in the 
 
 ring. 
 A horror seized that surging crowd, and 
 
 never, — till my death, 
 Will I forget how our hearts stood still. 
 
 and how we held our breath. 
 And how the people's faces were white 
 
 as driven snow, 
 For face to face in the sawdust there, 
 
 was that devilish beast and Zoe. 
 We could not move a muscle, we were 
 
 paralyzed through and through. 
 
 Save one, — who, in a second's time, 
 
 seemed to know just what to do. 
 He seized the rawhide lasso, before a 
 
 word w r as said, — 
 And quicker than greased lightning,— 
 
 it was over ' "Terrors" head. 
 The deed was done in a second, but 
 
 that man's face was a sight, 
 There was no sign of weakness there, it 
 
 meant nothing else but tight. 
 Mad, was no name for it, and as sure 
 
 as I draw my breath 
 Had it not been for those terrible claws, 
 
 he'd have choked the brute to 
 
 death. 
 
 His eyes were like coals of tire, he had 
 
 a look that was bad. 
 Of course you guess by this time, he 
 
 was the sickly Hampshire lad, 
 "Run! Zoe:"— he yelled like thunder; 
 
 Then our wits came back at last, 
 The twirl of another lasso, and we had 
 
 the critter fast. 
 A score of hands at either end soon 
 
 drew those lassoes taut. 
 And slowly, carefully, by degrees he 
 
 near his cage was brought. 
 And as providence permitted, without 
 
 harm of a human hair, 
 In five minutes, the black tiger was safe 
 
 in his iron lair- 
 When the danger was all over, and we 
 
 all breathed free once more, 
 Some one arose in that crowded mass 
 
 and said "the people now have 
 
 the floor, 
 We have not paid for the last grand 
 
 act, for it was'nt down on the bill 
 Now we propose to do an act ourselves, 
 
 and we want the circus still," 
 Then they passed some resolutions and 
 
 I tell you they grew hot 
 And the result of that collection was a 
 
 thousand dollars spot. 
 What became of the hero? oh he's 
 
 settled down for life, 
 He's farming now in a Southern state, 
 
 and Zoe Lapierre is his wife. 
 
 S. Olmsted. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 137 
 
 A True Inoident of the Mohawk- 
 The night was pitch dark, the rain 
 p<mfed in torrents from the black sky, 
 and th-i wind which had been blowing 
 a gale all day, still broke into fitful 
 gusts, and moaned and sighed through 
 the tree-tops, as if sounding a requiem 
 for the storm. For forty-eight hours it 
 had rained incessantly, and the many 
 streams tributary to the great Mohawk, 
 swollen to their utmost, came tearing 
 down the mountain sides until that 
 great river was a seething, boiling mass 
 of angry waters hurrying onward to- 
 ward the sea. "It will be a cheerless 
 ride 1 ' said Doctor D — as he stepped 
 from a patient's door, and mounted his 
 horse for the homeward ride; "A cheer- 
 less ride at best; and it looks as though 
 I must trust in God and my horse", 
 good-naturedly patting the noble ani- 
 mal, which was new doing its best fet- 
 lock deep in the mud, drenched wit]} 
 rain and half blinded by the storm, 
 picking its way over the gullied road. 
 Having perfect confidence in his horse 
 the Doctor laid the bridle rein across the 
 Pommel of the saddle, drew Ins water- 
 proof closely about him and resigned 
 himself to the study of his last case. 
 Two hours passed when suddenly the 
 horse stopped. Unmindful of the toil- 
 some journey and angered at this unus- 
 ual action, and sudden interruption to 
 his reverie, he struck his noble beast a 
 sounding blow. 
 
 Unused to such treatment at the 
 hands of its master it quivered for a mo 
 ment, and then slowly, almost painfully 
 moved forward, when the sound of iron 
 shod feet upon the timbers told the 
 doctor that he was now crossing the 
 great Mohawk bridge. He could hear 
 the mad waters roaring and rushing 
 underneath, and sounding unusually 
 near, but soon the welcome lights of the 
 river hotel flashed before him, and in a 
 few moments he had reached his jour- 
 ney's end. 
 
 "In the name of Heaven where did 
 you come from Doctor" gasped the land- 
 lord, as with blanched face and open 
 mouth he gazed upon his guest. ' 'Come 
 from? I come from Hackett's; and 
 have just crossed the bridge, and prefer 
 eating supper to answering such ques- 
 tions" growled the doctor whose tedious 
 ride had sharpened his appetite, and 
 put him in no mood for conversation. 
 "Doctor! are you drunk or crazy! The 
 bridge went down tine river this afternoon 
 — carried away by the freshet— come 
 and see for yourself." Seizing a lan- 
 tern they proceeded to the river side, 
 and there — sure enough, all that re- 
 mained of the once great, powerful 
 structure was four single abutments of 
 solid masonry, upon which a single 
 oaken string piece rested, and connect- 
 ed, with either shore, and which had re- 
 sisted the terrible pressure of the fresh- 
 et now spanned the river like a mighty 
 rope. On this long stretch of timber, 
 this single beam, with the roaring, rush- 
 ing torrent beneath, the blinding storm 
 above and around, the animal, fatigued 
 with a toilsome journey, drenched by 
 the rain, and half blinded by the storm, 
 had performed a feat, the like of which, 
 history furnishes no parallel. A feat 
 that man, under those circumstances, 
 would never have dared to attempt. 
 
 What confidence in its master; what 
 a painstaking effort; now staggering 
 under a fierce gust of thestorm, cringing 
 and quivering to obtain its equilibrium 
 when one mis-step would have hurled 
 them to death. The faithful slave cross- 
 ed in safety with his rider on his back; 
 and that rider totally unconscious 6i 
 the awful peril through which he haS 
 passed. When the full realization of 
 the facts flashed upon his mind, tbe 
 doctor moaned aloud. "Oh! Father in 
 Heaven!" and I struck him, and then 
 he rushed like a mad-man, back to the 
 stable. 
 
 Let us draw the curtain over that 
 scene. From that day forth the noble 
 
138 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 animals work was done. It roamed at 
 will in the richest pastures and partook 
 of the choicest dainties from its master's 
 hand. Where it lies buried, a marble 
 statue with appropriate inscription tells 
 the stranger the story of the old Mo- 
 hawk Bridge. 
 
 S. Olmsted. 
 
 Vashti. 
 
 JULIA C. R. DOUR. 
 
 Ahasuerus reigned. Kiuglier king 
 Never did poet praise or minstrel sing! 
 He had no peers. Crowned queen, 
 Clasping the screptre my small hands 
 
 between, 
 I might have reigned, yet kept a heart 
 
 as free 
 As this light breeze that sweeps the 
 
 Persian Sea! 
 But, ah! I loved my king— O woful da}' 
 
 of days! 
 Whose hours I number now in sad 
 
 amaze, 
 That day Ahasuerus smiled and said, 
 "Since first I wore this crown upon my 
 
 head, 
 Thrice have the emerald clusters of 
 
 the vine 
 Changed to translucent globes of ruby 
 
 wine: 
 And thrice the peaches on the loaded 
 
 walls 
 Have rounded into gold and crimson 
 
 balls. 
 The riches of my kingdom shall be 
 
 shown, 
 And all my glorious majesty made 
 
 known!" 
 
 Then came from far and near a hurry- 
 ing throng 
 
 Of skilled and cunning workmen. All 
 the day long 
 
 And far into the silent night, they 
 wrought; 
 
 Giving form to their great master's 
 thought — 
 
 Till Shushan grew a marvel! Never yet 
 
 Yon rolling sun on fairer scene has set: 
 
 The palace windows were ablaze with 
 light; 
 
 And Persia's lords were there, most 
 richly dight 
 
 In broidered silks, or costliest cloth of 
 gold, 
 
 That kept the sunshine in each lustrous 
 fold: 
 
 Up from the gardens floated the perfume 
 
 Of rose and myrtle, pomegranate and 
 orange bloonv 
 
 . . . . Softest music swept 
 
 Through the vast arches, till men smil- 
 ed and wept 
 
 For very joy. Then slowly keeping 
 time 
 
 To the gay cymbal's clearly ringing 
 chime, 
 
 Stole down the long arcades the danc- 
 ing girls; 
 
 Some with dark-braided tresses, some 
 with sunny curls, 
 
 Wild waxed the revel. 
 
 On an ivory throne 
 
 Inlaid with ebon}' and gems that shone 
 
 With a surpassing lustre sat my lord. 
 
 The king Ahasuerus. His great sword 
 
 Blazing with diamonds on hilt and 
 blade — 
 
 The mighty sword that made his foes 
 afraid — 
 
 And the heavy crown his head refused 
 to wear, 
 
 More fitly crowned by his own cluster- 
 ing hair, 
 
 Lay on a pearl-wrought cushion by his 
 side, 
 
 Mute symbol of great Persia's power 
 and pride. 
 
 Louder and louder grew the sounds of 
 
 mirth ; 
 Faster and faster flowed the red wine 
 
 forth: 
 Till flushed with pride, and song and 
 
 wine, 
 The king rose up and said, "O nobles 
 
 mine! 
 Princes of Persia, Media's hope and 
 
 pride, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 139 
 
 "Stars of my kingdom, will ye aught be- 
 side? 
 
 : Speak! atid I swear your sovereign's 
 will shall be, 
 
 'On this fair night to please and honor 
 
 ye!" 
 
 Then rose a shout from out the glitter- 
 ing throng, 
 Drowning the voiee of merriment and 
 
 song. 
 'Out spoke at last a tongue that should 
 
 have been 
 Palsied in foul dishonor there and then: 
 "O great Ahasuerus ! ne'er before 
 Reigned such a king so blest a people 
 
 o'er! 
 What shall we ask? What great and 
 
 wonderous boon 
 To crown the hours that fly away too 
 
 soon? 
 There is but one 'Tis said that mortal 
 
 eyes 
 "Never yet gazed in strange, yet sweet 
 
 surprise, 
 TJpon a face like that of her who wears 
 Thy signet ring, and all thy glory 
 
 shares — 
 'Our fair Queen Vashti. Naught be- 
 side 
 'Can fill our cup of happiness and 
 
 pride." 
 A murmur ran throughout the startled 
 
 crowd, 
 ■"Swelling at last to plaudits long and 
 
 loud. 
 Maddened with wine they knew not 
 
 what they said: 
 Ahasuerus bent his haughty head, 
 And for an instant o'er his face there 
 
 swept 
 A look his courtiers in their memory 
 
 kept 
 -For many a day — a look of doubt and 
 
 pain, 
 They scarcely caught it ere it had pass- 
 ed again. 
 "•*My kingly word is pledged." Then to 
 
 the seven 
 X«ord chamberlains to whom the keys 
 
 were given: 
 
 "Haste ye, and to this noble presence 
 
 bring 
 Vashti, the queen, with royal crown 
 
 and ring." 
 They did their errand, those old gray 
 
 haire 1 men, 
 Who should have braved the lion in his 
 
 den, 
 Or ere they bore such message to their 
 
 queen, 
 Or took such words their aged lips be- 
 tween. 
 "What! I, the daughter of a kingly 
 
 race, 
 Step down, unblushing, from my lofty 
 
 place, 
 And stand unveiledbefore the curious 
 
 eyes 
 Of the mad rabble that with drunken 
 
 cries 
 Were shouting 'Vashti! Vashti!' " 
 
 In wonder and affright, 
 At the fearful omens of that wild, mad 
 
 night, 
 My maidens hung around me as I told 
 These seven lord chamberlains, so gray 
 
 and old, 
 To bear this answer back: It may not 
 
 be. 
 My lord, my king, I cannot come to 
 
 thee; 
 It is not meet that Persia's queen like 
 
 one 
 Who treads the market place from sun 
 
 to sun, 
 Should bare her beauty to the hungry 
 
 crowd 
 Who name her name in accents hoarse 
 
 and loud." 
 With stern, cold looks they left me . Ah ! 
 
 I knew 
 If my dear lord to his best self w r ere 
 
 true, 
 That he would hold me guiltless, and 
 
 would say, 
 "I thank thee, Vashti, that thou didst 
 
 not obey!" 
 But the red wine was ruling o'er his 
 
 brain; 
 
40 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 The cruel wine that recked not of my 
 
 pain. 
 Up from the angry throng a clamor 
 
 rose; 
 The Hattering sycophants were now my 
 
 foes; 
 With slow, wise words, and many a 
 
 virtuous frown, 
 One said, "Be the queen from her es- 
 tate cast down! 
 Let her not see the king's face ever- 
 more, 
 Nor come within his presence as of 
 
 yore; 
 So disobedient wives through all the 
 
 land 
 Shall read the lesson, heed and under- 
 stand'." 
 Up spoke another, eager to be heard, 
 In royal councils fain to have a word: 
 "Let this commandment of the king be 
 
 writ 
 In the law of the Medes and Persians, 
 
 as is fit, 
 The perfect law that man may alter 
 
 not, 
 Nor of its bitter end abate one jot/' 
 Alas! the king was wroth. Before his 
 
 face 
 I could not go to plead my piteous case; 
 And. ere the rising of the morrow's sun 
 My bitter doom was sealed, the deed 
 
 was done. 
 Scarce had two moons passed, when 
 
 one dreary night 
 1 sat within my bower in woeful plight, 
 When suddenly upon my presence stole 
 A muffled form; whose shadow stirred 
 
 my soul, 
 I knew not wherefore. Ere my tongue 
 
 could speak, 
 Or with a cry the brooding silence 
 
 break, 
 A low voice murmured, ''Vashti!" 
 
 W T ith a bound 
 Of half-delirious joy, upon the ground 
 At the king's feet I fell. Pale and still, 
 Hushing my heart's cry with an iron 
 
 will; 
 "What will the king?" I asked. Xo 
 
 answer came, 
 
 But to his sad eye leaped a sudden, 
 flame; 
 
 And when I saw the anguish in his eyes;. 
 
 My tortured love burst forth in tears. 
 and cries. 
 
 Then were his lips unsealed. I cannot 
 tell 
 
 All the wild words that I remember 
 well 
 
 Oh! was it joy or was it pain to know 
 
 That not alone I wept my weary woe? 
 
 Alas! I know not. But I know to-day — 
 
 If tnis be sin, forgive me Heaven, I 
 pray!— 
 
 That though his eyes have never looked 
 on mine 
 
 Since that sad night in bower of eglan- 
 tine, 
 
 And fair Queen Esther sits a beauteous, 
 bride 
 
 In stately Shushan, at the monarch's, 
 side, 
 
 The king remembers Vashti, even yet, 
 
 Breathing her name sometimes with 
 vain regret, 
 
 Or murmuring, haply,in a whisper low, 
 
 "Woe for the heart that loved me long- 
 ago!" 
 
 An Order for a Picture- 
 
 O, good painter, tell me true, 
 Has your hand tbe cunning to draw 
 Shapes of things that you never saw'r 
 
 Aye? Well, here is an order for you. 
 
 Woods and cornfields a little brown, — 
 
 The picture must notbe over-bright, — - 
 
 Yet all in the golden and gracious 
 
 light, 
 
 Of a cloud when the summer sun is. 
 
 down. 
 
 Alway and alway, night and morn, 
 Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 
 
 Lying between them, not quite sere A 
 And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom v 
 When the wind can hardly find breath*, 
 ing room 
 
 Under their tassels, — cattle near, 
 Biting shorter the short green grass, 
 And a hedge of sumach and sassafras^ 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 141 
 
 With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
 Ah, good painter, you can't paint 
 sound ! 
 
 These and the little house where I was 
 
 born, 
 Low and little and black and old, 
 With children, many as it can hold, 
 All at the windows, open wide,— 
 Heads and shoulders clear outside, 
 And fair young faces all ablush; 
 
 Perhaps you may have seen, some 
 
 day, 
 Roses crowding the self-same way, 
 Out of a wilding, way-side bush. 
 
 Listen closer. When you have done 
 
 With woods and cornfields and graz- 
 ing herds, 
 A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
 Looked down upon, you must paint 
 
 for me; 
 Oh, if I could only make you see 
 
 The clear blue e3'es, the tender smile, 
 The sovereign sweetness, the gentle 
 
 grace, 
 The woman's soul and the angel's face 
 
 That are beaming on me all thewhile! 
 
 I need not speak these foolish words: 
 Yet one word tells you all I would say, 
 
 She is my mother: you will agree 
 That all the rest may be thrown away. 
 
 Two little urchins at her knee 
 Yon must paint, sir; one like me, — 
 
 The othev with a clearer brow, 
 And the light of his adventurous eyes 
 Flashing with boldest enterprise: 
 
 At ten years old he went to sea, — 
 God knoweth if he b 2 living now, — 
 He sailed in the good ship "Commo- 
 dore,"— 
 Nobody ever crossed her track 
 To bring us news, and she never 
 came back. 
 Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more 
 Since that old ship went out of the bay 
 With my great-hearted brother on 
 
 her deck: 
 I watched him till he shrenk to a 
 speck, 
 
 And his face was toward me all the 
 
 way. 
 Bright his hair was, a golden brown, 
 The time we stood at our mother's 
 knee; 
 That beauteous head, if it did go down, 
 Carried sunshine into the sea! 
 
 Out in the fields one summer night 
 
 We were together, half afraid, 
 Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the 
 shade 
 Of the high hills, stretching so still 
 and far, — 
 Loitering till after the low little light 
 Of the candle shone through the open 
 door, 
 And over the hay-stack's pointed top, 
 All of a tremble, and ready to drop 
 The first half-hour, the great yellow 
 star 
 That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, 
 Had often and often watched to see 
 Propped and held in its place in the 
 skies 
 By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree, 
 \Y r hich close in the edge of our iiax- 
 field grew, — 
 Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
 Of leaves, notched round, and lined 
 with wool, 
 From which it tenderly shook the dew 
 Over our head, when we came to play 
 In its handbreadth of shadow, day after 
 day, 
 Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us 
 bore 
 A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled 
 eggs,— 
 The other, a bird, held fast by the 
 legs, 
 Not so big as a straw of wheat; 
 The berries we gave her she wouldn't 
 eat, 
 But cried and cried, till we held her 
 bill, 
 So slim and shining, to keep her still. 
 
 At last we stood at our mother's knee. 
 
 Do you think, sir, if you try. 
 You can paint the look of a lie? 
 
14- 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 If you can, pray have the grace 
 To put it solely in the face 
 
 Of the urchin that is likest me; 
 1 think 'twas solely mine, indeed: 
 
 But that's no matter, — paint it so; 
 The eyes of our mothei — (take good 
 heed)— 
 Looking not on the nestfull of eggs, 
 Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by 
 the legs, 
 But through our faces, down to our 
 lies, 
 And oh, with such injured, reproachful 
 surprise, 
 I felt my heart bleed where that 
 glance went, as though 
 A sharp blade struck through it 
 
 You, sir, know, 
 That you on the canvas are to repeat 
 Things that are fairest, things most 
 sweet, — 
 Woods and cornfields and mulberry 
 tree, — 
 The mother,— the lads, with their birds, 
 at her knee, 
 But, oh that look of reproachful woe! 
 High as the heavens your name I'll 
 shout, 
 If you paint me the picture, and leave 
 that out. 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 We Shall Know. 
 
 ANNIE HERBERT, 
 
 When the mists have rolled in splendor 
 
 From the beauty of the hills. 
 And the sunshine, warm and tender, 
 
 Falls in kisses on the rills, 
 We may read love's shining letter 
 
 In the rainbow of the spray, 
 We shall know each other better 
 
 When the mists have cleared away, — 
 We shall know as we are known, 
 
 iS evermore to walk alone, 
 In the dawning of the morning, 
 
 When the mists have cleared away. 
 
 If we err in human blindness 
 
 And forget that we are dust, 
 If we miss the law of kindnes* 
 
 When we struggle to be just, 
 Snowy wiugs of peace shall cover 
 
 All the pain that hides away, 
 When the weary watch is over, 
 
 And the mists have cleared away„ 
 We shall know as we are known, 
 
 Nevermore to walk alone, 
 In the dawning of the morning, 
 
 When the mists have cleared away. 
 
 When the silvery mist has veiled us 
 
 From the faces of our own, 
 Oft we deem their love has failed us 
 
 And we tread our path alone; 
 We should see them near and truly, 
 
 Never love or blame unduly, 
 If the mists were cleared away. 
 
 We shall know as we are known, 
 Nevermore to walk alone, 
 
 In the dawning of the morning, 
 When the mists have cleared away. 
 
 When the mists have risen above us. 
 
 ' As our Father knows his own, 
 Face to face with those that love us„ 
 
 We shall know as we are known; 
 Love, beyond the orient meadows, 
 
 Floats the golden fringe of day; 
 Heart to heart we bide the shadows, 
 
 Till the mists have cleared away. 
 We shall know as we are known, 
 
 Nevermore to walk alone, 
 When the Day of Light is dawning, * 
 
 And the mists have passed away. 
 
 How the Gates Came Ajar- 
 
 'Twas whispered one morning in Heaven 
 
 How the little child-angel May, 
 
 In the shade of the great white portal v 
 
 Sat sorrowing night and day. 
 
 How she said to the stately warden — . 
 
 He of the key and bar — 
 
 "O angel, sweet angel! I pray you, 
 
 Set the beautiful gates ajar — 
 
 Only a little won't you 
 
 Set the beautiful gates ajar! 
 
 "I can hear my mother weeping; 
 She is lonely; she cannot see 
 A glimmer of light in the darkness 
 When the gates shut after me. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 43 
 
 Oh! turn me the key, sweet angel, 
 
 The splendor will shine so far!" 
 
 But tlif warden answered, "I dare not 
 
 Set the beautiful gates ajar," 
 
 Spoke low and answered: "I dare not 
 
 Set the beautiful gates ajar." 
 
 Then uprose Mary the Blessed, 
 Sweet Mary, mother of Christ; 
 Her hand on the hand of the Angel 
 She laid, and the touch sufficed. 
 Turned was the key in the portal, 
 Fell ringing the golden bar; 
 And lo! in the little child's fingers 
 Stood the beautiful gates ajar! 
 
 "And the key for no further using, 
 
 To my blessed son shall be given," 
 
 Said Mary, Mother of Jesus — 
 
 Tenderest heart in heaven, 
 
 Now, never a sad-eyed mother 
 
 But may catch the glory afar, 
 
 Since safe in the Lord Christ's bosom 
 
 Are the keys of the gates ajar; 
 
 Close hid in the dear Christ's bosom, 
 
 And the gates fore ver ajar! 
 
 Over the River. 
 
 Over the River thej* beckon to me, 
 Loved ones who crossed to the other 
 
 side. 
 The gleams of their sunny robes I see, 
 But their voices are drowned by the 
 
 rushing tide. 
 There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
 And eyes the reflection of heaven's own 
 
 blue; 
 He crossed in the twilight gray and cold 
 And the pale mist hid him from mortal 
 
 view . 
 We saw not the angels that met him 
 
 there, 
 The gate of the City we could not see: 
 Over the River, over the River 
 My brother stands waiting to welcome 
 
 me. 
 
 Over the river the boatman pale 
 Carried another, the household pet; 
 Her brown-curls waved in the gentle 
 gale 
 
 Darling Minnie, I see her yet. 
 
 She closed on her bosom her dimpled 
 
 hands, 
 And fearlessly entered the phantom 
 
 bark ; 
 We watched it glide from the silver 
 
 sands, 
 And all our sunshine grew strangely 
 
 dark. 
 We know she is safe on the further side, 
 Where all the ransomed and angels be: 
 Over the River, the mystic River, 
 My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 
 
 For none return from those quiet shores 
 Who cross with the boatman, cold and 
 
 pale 
 We hear the dip of the golden oars, 
 And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail 
 And lo! they have passed from our 
 
 yearning hearts. 
 They cross the stream and are gone for 
 
 aye; 
 We may not sunder the vail apart, 
 That hides from our vision the gates of 
 
 day. 
 We only know that their barks no more 
 Sail with us over life's stormy sea, 
 Yet, somewhere, I know on the unseen 
 
 shore, 
 They watch, and beckon, and wait for 
 
 me. 
 
 And I sit and think, when the sunsit's 
 
 gold, 
 Is flushing the river and hill and shoreF, 
 I shall one day stand by the waters cold, 
 And list to the sound of the boatman's 
 
 oar, 
 I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping 
 
 sail, 
 I shall hear the boat as it gains the 
 
 strand; 
 I shall pass from sight with the boat- 
 man pale. 
 To the better shore of the spirit land. 
 I shall know the loved ones who have 
 
 gone before, 
 And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
 When over the river, the peaceful river, 
 The angel of death shall carry me. 
 
 Nancy A. W. Priest. 
 
1 44 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 The Old Way and the New- 
 I've just come in from the meadow, 
 wife, 
 Where the grass is tall and green, 
 I hobbled out upon my cane 
 
 To see John's new machine: 
 It makes my old eyes snap again 
 
 To see that mower mow, 
 And I heaved a sigh for the scythe I 
 swung 
 Some twenty years ago. 
 
 Many and many is the day I've mowed 
 
 Neath the rays of a scorching sun, 
 Till I thought my poor old back would 
 break, 
 
 Ere my task for the day was done, 
 I often think of the days of toil 
 
 In the fields all over the farm, 
 Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled 
 brow, 
 
 And the old pain come in my arm. 
 
 It was hard work, it was slow work, 
 
 A swingin' the old scythe then; 
 Unlike the mower that went through 
 the grass 
 
 Like death through the ranks of men, 
 I stood and looked till my old eyes 
 ached. 
 
 Amazed at its speed and power; 
 The work that took me a day to do 
 
 Is done in one short hour. 
 
 John said I hadn't seen the half; 
 
 When he puts it into his wheat, 
 I shall see it reap and rake it 
 
 And put it in bundles neat. 
 Then soon a Yankee will come along 
 
 And set to work and learn 
 To reap it' and thrash it, and bag it up 
 
 And send it it into the barn. 
 
 John kinder laughed when he said it, 
 
 But I said to the hired men: 
 "I have seen so much on my pilgrim- 
 age 
 
 Thro' my three score years and ten, 
 That I wouldn't be surprised to see 
 
 A railroad in the air 
 Or a Yankee in a flyin' ship 
 
 A goin' most any where." 
 
 There's a difference in the work I done, 
 
 And the work my boys now do, 
 Steady and slow in the good old way, 
 
 Worry and fret in the new. 
 But somehow I think there was hap- 
 piness 
 
 Crowded into those toiling days, 
 That the fast young men of the present, 
 
 Will not see, till they change their 
 ways. 
 
 To think that I ever should live to see 
 
 Work done in this wonderful way. 
 Old tools are of little service now 
 
 And farming is almost play. 
 The women have got their sewing ma- 
 chines, 
 
 Their wringers and every such thing, 
 And now they plap croquet in the door- 
 yard, 
 
 Or sit in the parlor and sing. 
 'Twasn't you that had it so easy wife, 
 
 In the days so long gone by. 
 You riz up early and sat up late, 
 A-toilin for you and I; 
 There was cows to milk and butter to 
 make, 
 
 And many a day did you stand 
 A washin' my toilstained garments, 
 
 And wringin' 'em out by hand. 
 Ah, wife, our children will never see 
 
 The hard work we have seen; 
 For the heavy task, and the long task 
 
 Is now done with a machine. 
 No more the noise of the scythe I hear : 
 
 The Mower — there! hear it afar? 
 A rattlin' along thro' the tall stout 
 grass 
 
 With the noise of a railroad car. 
 Well, the old tools now are shoved 
 away; 
 
 They stand a gatherin' rust 
 Like many an old man I have seen, 
 
 Put aside with only a crust. 
 When the eyes grow dim, when the 
 step is weak; 
 
 When the strength goes out of his 
 arm ; 
 The best thing a poor old man can do 
 
 Is to hold the deed of the farm. 
 
 John H. Yales. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 45 
 
 Bernardo's Revenge- 
 What tents gleam on the green hill-side, 
 
 like snow in the sunny beam? 
 What gloomy warriors gather there, 
 
 like a surly mountain stream? 
 These, for Bernardo's vengeance, have 
 
 come like a stormy blast, 
 The rage of their long cherished hate 
 
 on a cruel king to cast. 
 "Snifters of tyranny!" cries their chief, 
 
 see yonder slavish host. 
 We shall drench the field with their 
 craven blood, or freedom's hopes 
 are lost; 
 You know I come for a father's death, 
 
 my filial vow to pay, 
 Then let the 'Murdered Saucho!' be 
 
 your battle cry to-day. 
 On, on! for the death of the tyrant 
 king!" "Hurrah;" was the 
 answering cry; 
 u We follow thee to victory, or follow 
 
 thee to die!" 
 The ba. tie-field— the charge— the shock 
 
 — the quivering struggle now — 
 The rout— the shout!— while lightnings 
 flash from Bernardo's angry brow. 
 The chieftain's arm has need of rest, 
 
 his brand drips red with gore, 
 But one last sacrifice remains ere his 
 
 w 7 ork of toil is o'er. 
 The king, who looked for victory, from 
 
 his large and well-trained host, 
 Now flies for safety from the field, 
 
 where all his hopes are lost; 
 But full in front, with blood-red sword, 
 
 a warrior now appears, 
 And the war-cry, "Murdered Sancho!" 
 
 rings in the tyrant's ears. 
 "Ha! noble king, have we met at last?" 
 
 with scornful lip he cries; 
 <c Don Sancho's son would speak with 
 
 you once more before he dies; 
 Your kindness to my sainted sire is 
 
 graven on my heart, 
 And I would show my gratitude orce 
 
 more before we part. 
 Draw! for the last of Sancho's race is 
 ready for your sword; — 
 
 10 
 
 Bernardo's blood should How by him 
 by whom his sire's was poured! 
 
 What wait you for, vile, craven wretch"' 
 it was not thus you stood 
 
 When laying out your fiendish plans to 
 spill my father's blood. 
 
 Draw! for I will not learn from you the 
 assassin's coward trade, 
 
 I scorn the lesson you have taught — 
 unsheathe your murderous blade!" 
 
 Roused by Bernardo's fiery taunts, the 
 king at length engaged: 
 
 He fought for life, but all in vain; un- 
 equal strife he waged! 
 
 Bernardo's sword has pierced his side — 
 the tyrant's reign is o'er — 
 
 "Father, 1 have fulfilled my vow, I 
 thirst for blood no more." 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra. 
 
 WILLIAM H. LYTLE. 
 
 I am dying, Egypt, dying; 
 
 Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, 
 And the dark Plutonian shadows 
 
 Gather on the evening blast. 
 Let thine arm, oh Queen, support me, 
 
 Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear; 
 Hearken to the great heart secrets 
 
 Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 
 
 Though my scarred and veteran legions 
 
 Bear their eagles high no more, 
 And my wrecked and scattered galleys 
 
 Strew dark Actium's fatal shore — 
 Though no glittering guards surround 
 me, 
 
 Prompt to do thtir master's will, 
 I must perish like a Roman — 
 
 Die the death, Triumvir still. 
 
 Let not Caesar's servile minions 
 
 Mock the lion thus laid low; 
 'Twas no foeman's hand that felled 
 him — 
 
 'Twas his own that dealt the blow; 
 Here, then, pillowed on thy bosom, 
 
 Ere yon star shall lose its ray, 
 Him, who, drunk with thy caresses, 
 
 Madly threw the world away. 
 
4 6 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Should the base, plebian rabble 
 
 Dare assail my tame at Rome, 
 Where the noble spouse, Octavia, 
 
 Weeps within her widowed home, 
 Seek her! Say the gods have told me, 
 
 Altars, angel's circling wings, 
 That her blood, Avith mine commingled, 
 
 Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 
 
 As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian, 
 Glorious sorceress of the Nile! 
 
 Light the path to Stygian horrors 
 With the splendor of thy smile; 
 
 Give to Caesar crowns and arches- 
 Let his brow the laurel twine; 
 
 I can scorn all Caesar's triumphs, 
 Triumphing in love like thine. 
 
 I am dying. Egypt, dying; 
 
 Hark! the insulting foeman's cry! 
 They arecoming! Quick— my falchion! 
 
 Let me face them ere I die. 
 Ah, no more amid the battle 
 
 Shall my voice exulting SAvell! 
 Isis and Osiris guard thee — 
 
 Cleopatra— Rome— fareAvell ! 
 
 Cleopatra Dying. 
 
 BY THOMAS S. COLLIER. 
 
 Sinks the sun beloAv the desert,' 
 
 Golden gloAvs the sluggish Nile; 
 Purple flame crowns spring and temple, 
 
 Lights up every ancient pile- 
 Where the old gods now are sleeping; 
 
 Isis and Osiris great, 
 Guide me, help me, give me courage 
 
 Like a Queen to meet my fate! 
 
 "I am dying. Egypt, dying!" 
 
 Let the Caesar's army come — 
 I will cheat him of his glory, 
 
 Though beyond the Styx I roam, 
 Shall he drag this beauty Avith him 
 
 While the crowd his triumph sings? 
 No, no, never! I will shoAv him 
 
 What lies in the blood of kings. 
 
 Though he holds the golden sceptre, 
 Rules the Pharaoh's sunny land, 
 
 Where old Nilus rolls resistless, 
 Through the SAveeps of silvery sand- 
 
 He shall never say I met him 
 FaAvniug, abject, like a slave— 
 
 I Avill foil him, though to do it 
 I must cross the Stygian wave. 
 
 Oh, my hero, sleeping, sleeping— 
 
 Shall I meet you on the shore 
 Of Plutonian shadows? Shall we 
 
 In death meet and love once mere' 
 See, I follow in your footsteps — 
 
 Scorn the Caesar and his might— 
 For your love I will leap boldly 
 
 Into realms of death and night, 
 
 Down below the desert sinking, 
 
 Fades Apollo's brilliant car, 
 And from out the dis ant azure 
 
 Breaks the bright gleam of a star:. 
 Venus, Queen of Love and Beauty, 
 
 Welcomes me to death's embrace,. 
 Dying free, proud and triumphant. 
 
 The last sovereign of my race. 
 
 Dying! dying! I am coming, 
 
 Oh, my hero, to your arms: 
 You Avill welcome me, I knoAV it—. 
 
 Guide me from all rude alarms, 
 Hark! I hear the legions coming. 
 
 Hear their cries of triumph swell; 
 But, proud Caesar, dead I scorn you,. 
 
 Egypt — Antony — fareAvell! 
 
 The Storm- 
 Cease rude Boreas blustering railei\ 
 
 List ye landsmen all to me, 
 Messmates hear a brother sailor 
 
 Tell the dangers of the sea. 
 From bounding MHoavs first in motion^ 
 
 When the distant whirlwinds rise 
 To the tempest troubled ocean, 
 
 Where the seas contend with skies. 
 
 Hark the boatsAvain hoarsely baAvling,, 
 
 "By topsail sheets and halyards standi 
 Down top gallants quick be hauling, 
 
 Down your stay sails hand by hand v 
 Now it freshens, set the braces, 
 
 Quick the top sail sheets let go. 
 Luff boys luff don't make wry faces, 
 
 Up your topsails nimbly clow." 
 
 Round us roars the tempest louder 
 Think what fear our minds enthralls,, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 4? 
 
 Harder yet, it yet blows harder, 
 Now again the boatswain calls, 
 
 "The top sail yard point to the wind 
 boys. 
 See all clear to reef each course. 
 
 Let the fore sheet go, don't mind boys 
 Though the weather should be worse. 
 
 Fore and aft the sprit sail yard get, 
 
 Reef the mizzen, set all clear, 
 Hands up each preventive brace set, 
 
 Man the fore yard, cheer lads cheer," 
 Now the dreadful thunder's roaring 
 
 Peal ou peal contending clash, 
 On our heads tierce rain falls pouring 
 
 In our eyes blue lightnings Hash. 
 
 One wide water all around us, 
 
 All above us one black sry, 
 Different deaths at once surround us; 
 
 Hark! what means that dreadful cry. 
 "The foremasts gone,' 1 cries every 
 tongue out 
 
 O'er the lee 12 feet 'bove deck, 
 A leak beneath the chest-trees sprung 
 out, 
 
 Call all hands to clear the wreck. 
 
 "Quick the lanyards cut to pieces 
 
 Come my hearts be stout and bold; 
 Plumb the well the leak increases, 
 
 Four feet water in the hold," 
 While o'er the ship wild waves are 
 beating, 
 
 We our wives and children mourn. 
 Alas! fiom hence there's no retreating, 
 
 Alas! to them there's no return. 
 
 Still the leak is gaining on us, 
 
 Both chain pumps are choked below 
 Heaven have mercy here upon us, 
 
 For only that can save us now. 
 O'er the lee beam is the land boys, 
 
 Let the guns o'er board be thrown. 
 To the pumps call every hand boys 
 
 See, our mizzen mast is gone. 
 The leak we've found, it cannot pour 
 fast, 
 
 We've lighted her a foot or more, 
 Up and rig a tury foremast 
 
 She rights, she rights boys, we're off 
 shore. 
 
 GEO. ALEX. STEVENS 
 
 The Black Fox. 
 
 WH ITT IE It. 
 
 It was a cold and cruel night, 
 
 Some forescore years ago, 
 The clouds across the winter sky 
 
 Were scudding to and fro; 
 The air above was cold and keen, 
 
 The earth was white below. 
 
 Around an ancient fireplace 
 
 A happy household drew; 
 The husband and his own good wife. 
 
 And children not a few: 
 And bent above the spinning-wheel 
 
 The aged graudame, too. 
 
 The fire-light reddened all the room, 
 
 It rose so high and strong, 
 And mirth was in each pleasant eye 
 
 Within that household throng; 
 And while the graudame turned her 
 wheel 
 
 The good man hummed a song. 
 
 At length spoke up a fair-haired girl, 
 
 Some seven summers old, 
 N ow graudame, tell the tale again 
 
 Which yesterday you told, 
 About the Black Fox and the men 
 
 Who fallowed him so bold." 
 
 "Yes tell it," said a dark-eyed boy, 
 And "Tell it," said his brother; 
 
 "Just tell the story of the Fox, 
 We will not ask another." 
 
 And all the children gathered close 
 Around their old grandmother. 
 
 Then lightly in her withered hands 
 The grand ame turned her reel, 
 
 And when the thread was wouni away 
 She set aside her wheel,; 
 
 And smiled with that peculiar joy 
 The old and happy feel. 
 
 '"Tis more than sixty years ago 
 Since first the fox was seen — 
 
 'Twas in the winter of the year, 
 When not a leaf was green, 
 
 Save where the dark old hemlock stoo<| 
 The naked oaks between. 
 
 "My father saw the creature first, 
 One bitter winter's day— 
 
US 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 It passed so near that he could see 
 
 Its fiery eyeballs play, 
 And well he new and evil thing 
 
 And foul, had crossed his way. 
 
 •A hunter like my father then 
 
 We never more shall see — 
 v The mountain-cat was not more swift 
 
 Of eye and foot than he, 
 His aim was fatal in the air 
 
 And on the tallest tree. 
 
 "Yet close beneath his ready aim 
 
 The Black Fox hurried on, 
 And when the forest echoes mocked 
 
 The sharp voice of his gun, 
 The creature gave a frightful yell, 
 
 Long, loud, but only one. 
 
 "And there was something horrible 
 
 And fiendish in that yell; 
 Our good old parson heard it once, 
 
 And I have heard him tell 
 That it might well be likened to 
 
 The fearful cry of hell. 
 
 "Day after day that Fox- was seen, 
 He prowled our forests through, 
 
 Still gliding wild and spectre-like 
 Before the hunter's view. 
 
 And howling louder than the storm 
 When savagely it blew. 
 
 /'The Indians, when upon the wind 
 That howl rose long and clear, 
 
 Shook their wild heads mysteriously 
 And muttered as in fear; 
 
 Or veiled their ej^es, as if they knew 
 An evil thing was near. 
 
 ''They say it was a Fox accurst 
 
 By Hobomocko's will, 
 That it was once a mighty chief 
 
 Whom battle might not kill, 
 But who, for some unspoken crime, 
 
 Was doomed to wander still. 
 
 "That every year, when all the. hills 
 Were white with winter snow, 
 
 And the tide of Salmon River ran 
 The Gathering ice below, 
 
 His howl was heard and his form was 
 seen 
 Still hurrying to and fro. 
 
 "At length two gallant huuter youths, 
 
 The boast and pride of all — 
 The gayest in the hour of mirth 
 
 The first at danger's call, 
 Our playmates at the village school, 
 
 Our partners at the ball — 
 
 "Went forth to hunt the Sable Fox 
 Beside that haunted stream, 
 
 Where It so long had glided like 
 The creature of a dream, 
 
 Or like unearthly forms that dance 
 Under the cold moonbeam! 
 
 "They went away one winter day, 
 
 When all the air was white, 
 And thick and hazed with falling snow, 
 
 And blinding to the sight; 
 They bade us never fear for them, 
 
 They would return by night. 
 
 "The night fell thick and darkly down, 
 And still the storm blew on; 
 
 And yet the hunters came not back, 
 Their task was yet undone; 
 
 Nor came they with their words of 
 cheer, 
 Even with the morrow's sun. 
 
 "And then our old men shook their 
 heads, 
 
 And the red Indians told 
 Their tales of evils sorcery 
 
 Until our blood ran cold — 
 The stories of their Powwow seers, 
 
 And withered hags of old. 
 
 "They told us that our hunters 
 
 Would never more return — 
 That they would hunt for evermore 
 
 Through tangled swamp and fern, 
 And that their last and dismal fate 
 
 No mortal e'er might learn. 
 
 "And days and weeks passed slowly on, 
 And yet they came not back, 
 
 Nor evermore by stream or hill 
 Was seen that form of black — 
 
 Alas! for those who hunted still 
 Within its fearful track! 
 
 "But when the winter passed away, 
 
 And early flowers began 
 To bloom along the sunned hill-side, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 49 
 
 And where the waters ran, 
 There came unto my father's door 
 A melancholy man. 
 
 "His form had not the sigu of years, 
 And yet his locks were white, 
 
 And in his deep and restless eye 
 There was a fearful light; 
 
 And from its glance we turned away 
 As from an adder's sight. 
 
 "We placed our food before that man, 
 
 So haggard and so wild,— 
 He thrust it from his lips as he 
 
 Had been a fretful child; 
 And when we spoke with words of 
 cheer, 
 
 Most bitterly he smiled. 
 
 "He smiled, aud then a gush of tears, 
 And then a fierce, wild look, 
 
 And then he murmured of the Fox 
 Which haunted Salmon Brook, 
 
 Until his hearers every one 
 With nameless terror shook. 
 
 "He turned away with a frightful cry, 
 
 And hurried madly on, 
 As if the dark and spectral thing 
 
 Before his path had gone: 
 We called him back, but he heeded not 
 
 The kind and warning tone. 
 
 "He came not back to us again, 
 But the Indian hunters said 
 
 That far, where the howling wilderness 
 Its leafy tribute shed, 
 
 They found our missing hunters — 
 Naked and cold and dead. 
 
 "Their grave they made beneath the 
 shade 
 
 Of the old solemn wood, 
 Where oaks by Time alone hewn down 
 
 For centuries had stood, 
 And left them without shroud or prayer 
 
 In the dark solitude. 
 
 "The Indians always shun that grave — 
 The wild deer treads not there — 
 
 The green grass is not trampled down 
 By catamount or bear — 
 
 The soaring wild-bird turns away, 
 Even in the upper air. 
 
 "For people said that every year, 
 W r hen winter snows are spread 
 
 All over the face of the frozen earth, 
 And the forest leaves are shed, 
 
 The Spectre Fox comes forth and howla 
 Above the hunters' bed." 
 
 Don't Marry a Man to Reform Him. 
 Don't marry a man to reform him; 
 
 To God and your own self be true, 
 Don't link to his vices your virture, 
 
 You'll rue it, dear girl, if you do. 
 
 No matter how fervent his pleadings,. 
 
 Be not by his promises led, 
 If he can't be a man while a w r ooing, 
 
 He'll never be one when he's wed. 
 
 Don't marry a man to reform him — 
 To repent it, alas, when too late; 
 
 The mission of wives least successful 
 Is the making of crooked limbs 
 straight. 
 
 There's many a maiden has tried it, 
 And proved it a failure at last, 
 
 Better tread your life's pathway alone, 
 dear, 
 Than wed with a lover that's fast. 
 
 Mankind's much the sa ne the world 
 over; 
 
 The exceptions you'll find are but faw; 
 When the rule is defeat and disaster, 
 
 The chances are great against you. 
 
 Don't trust your bright hopes for the 
 
 future, 
 The beautiful crown of your youth, 
 To the keeping of him who holds 
 
 lightly 
 His fair name of honor and truth. 
 
 To honor and love you must promise, 
 Don't pledge what you cannot fulfill, 
 
 If he'll have no respect for himself, 
 dear, 
 Most surely you then never will. 
 
 Tis told us the frown of a woman 
 Is strong as the blow of a man, 
 
 And the world will be better when 
 women 
 Frown on error as hard as they can. 
 
ISO 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 -Make virtue the price of your favor, 
 Place wrong-doing under a ban; 
 
 And let him who would win you and 
 wed you 
 Prove himself in full measure a mau. 
 
 Cannot Call Her Mother. 
 
 ^he marriage rite is over; 
 
 And though I turned aside 
 To keep the guests from seeing 
 
 The tears I could not hide, 
 I wreathed my face in smiling, 
 
 And led my little brother 
 To greet my father's chosen — 
 
 But I could not call her mother. 
 
 She is a fair young creature, 
 
 With meek and gentle air; 
 With blue eyes soft and loving, 
 
 And silken, sunny hair, 
 1 know my father gives her 
 
 The love he bore another. 
 But if sue were an angel 
 
 I could not call her mother. 
 
 To-night I heard her singing 
 
 A song I used to love, 
 When its sweet notes were uttered 
 
 By her who sings above. 
 It pained my heart to hear it, 
 
 And my tears I could not smother, 
 For every word was hal'owed 
 
 By the dear voice of my mother. 
 
 They have taken mother's picture 
 
 From the old accustomed place, 
 And hung beside my father's 
 
 A younger, fairer face, 
 They have made the dear old chamber 
 
 The boudoir of another; 
 But I shall ne'er forget thee, 
 
 My own, my angel mother. 
 
 My father, in the sunshine 
 
 Of happy days to come, 
 May half forget the shadow 
 
 That darkened our old home. 
 His heart no more is lonely; 
 
 But I and little brother 
 Must still be orphan children — 
 
 God can give us but one mother. 
 
 The Old, Old Story. 
 He was one of the fellows 
 
 That could drink or leave it alone, 
 With a fine, high scorn for common 
 men 
 Who were born with no backbone. 
 "And why," said he, 'should a man of 
 strength 
 Den} r to himself the use 
 Of the pleasant gift of the warm, red 
 wine 
 Because of its weak abuse?" 
 
 He could quote at a banquet, 
 
 With a manner half divine, 
 Full fifty things the poets say 
 
 About the rosy wine, 
 And he could sing a spirited song 
 
 About the lips of a lass, 
 And drink a toast to her fair young 
 worth 
 
 In a sparkling, generous glass; 
 
 And since this lordly fellow 
 
 Could drink or leave it alone, 
 He chose to drink at his own wild will 
 
 Till his will was overthrown. 
 And the lips of the lass are cold with 
 grief, 
 
 And her children shiver and shrink, 
 For the man who once could leave it 
 alone 
 
 Is a pitiful slave to drink. 
 
 Solitude- 
 Laugh, and the world laughs with you; 
 
 Weep, and you weep alone; 
 For the sad earth must borrow its 
 mirth, 
 
 But has trouble enough of its own. 
 Sing and the hills will answer; 
 
 Sigh, it is lost to the air. 
 The echoes bound to a joyful sound, 
 
 But shrink from voicing care. 
 
 Rejoice, and men will seek you; 
 
 Grieve, and they turn and go; 
 They want full measure of all your 
 pleasure, 
 
 But they do not need yourwoe. 
 Be glad, and your friends are many; 
 
 Be sad and you lose them all — 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 151 
 
 There are none to decline your neetar's 
 wine, 
 But alone you must drink life's gall. 
 
 Feast, and your halls are crowded; 
 
 Fast, and the world goes by. 
 Succeed and give and it helps you to 
 live, 
 
 But no man can help you to die, 
 'There is room in the halls of pleasure 
 
 For a large and lordly train, 
 But one by one we must all file on 
 
 Through the narrow isles of pain. 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 Children Nutting. 
 
 Lucy Marion Blinn. 
 
 Out in the pleasant sunshine of a bright 
 
 October day, 
 ttolieking,frolicking through the woods, 
 
 scaring the birds away, 
 Went a group of laughing girls and boys 
 
 to play till the sun was set; 
 Martha and Robbie, and Tom and Will, 
 
 and Dolly, the household pet! 
 
 They "'made believe"they were foragers 
 bold, scouring the country o'er, 
 
 To add to their scanty soldier fare from 
 an enemy's fruitful store, 
 
 And they charged on the squirrels' leaf y 
 homes till they beat a quick re- 
 treat; 
 
 "While their precious hoards came rat- 
 tling down at the noisy victor's 
 feet. 
 
 They played tag and follow my leader 
 
 and scampered up and down, 
 Covering each other in their glee with 
 
 the leaves so crisp and brown, 
 Till they huddled down to talk and rest 
 
 and plan some pleasure new, 
 While Martha unpacked the "goodies" 
 
 for the hungry, bright-faced crew. 
 
 "I'm too little to work," said Dolly, 
 
 tossing her curls away, 
 "You make the dinner, Mattie, dear, — 
 
 then I'll be papa, and pray! 
 I know just how he does it, 'cause I've 
 
 looked through my fingers, so: 
 
 And (rod will hear me better out-doors 
 than he would in the house, I 
 know!" 
 
 Then clasping her baity lingers, and 
 
 bo ving her leaf-crowned head, 
 With its tangled lloss half over her face, 
 
 shading its flush of red, 
 Sweetly the innocent little voice stole 
 
 out on the waiting air, 
 And up to the children's Father floated 
 
 this childish prayer: 
 
 "I thank you, God, 'way up in the skv, 
 for these nice things to eat; 
 
 For this happy day in the pleasant 
 woods, for the squirrels and bird- 
 ies sweet; 
 
 For fathers and mothers to love us — 
 only Robbie, his mother's dead; 
 
 But I guess you know that, God — you 
 took her away, they said! 
 
 "If you please, don't make my mother 
 
 die; I shouldn't know what to do! 
 I couldn't take care of myself at all; 
 
 you'd have to get me, too! 
 Make all the da} T s just as good as this, 
 
 and don't let Robbie cry — 
 That's all little Dolly knows to pray, 
 
 our Father in heaven, good-bye!" 
 
 Then the sweet child voices rose anew 
 like a beautiful refrain, 
 
 And the birds in the brown leaves over- 
 head caught up the merry strain, 
 
 Aud twittered it back till the yellow 
 sun was lost in the hazy west, 
 
 W T hen birds and children fluttered home, 
 each to a sheltering nest. 
 
 The Burial of Moses. 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain, 
 
 On this side Jordan's wave, 
 In a vale in the land of Moab, 
 
 There lies a lonely grave ; 
 But no man dug that sepulcher, 
 
 And no man saw it e'er, 
 For the angels of God upturned the sod, 
 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the grandest funeral 
 That ever passed on earth ; 
 
52 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 But no man heard the tramping, 
 
 Or saw the train go forth ; 
 Noiselessly as the daylight 
 
 Comes when the night is done, 
 And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
 
 Grows into the great sun. — 
 
 Noiselessly as the springtime 
 
 Her crown of verdure weaves, 
 And all the trees on all the hills 
 
 Open their thousand leaves. — 
 So, without sound of music, 
 
 Or voice of them that wept, 
 Silently down from the mountain crown 
 
 The great procession swept. 
 
 Lo! when the warrior dieth, 
 
 His comrades in the war, 
 With arms reversed, and muffled drum, 
 
 Follow the funeral car.. 
 They show the banners taken, 
 
 They tell his battles won, 
 And after him lead his masterless steed, 
 
 While peals the minute gun, 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land 
 
 Men laid the sage to rest, 
 And give the bard an honored place, 
 
 With costly marble dressed, 
 In the great 'Minster transept, 
 
 Where lights like glories fall, 
 And the choir sings, and the organ rings 
 
 Along the emblazoned wall. 
 
 This was the bravest warrior 
 
 That ever buckled sword ; 
 This the most gifted poet 
 
 That ever breathed a word ; 
 And never earth's philospher 
 
 Traced, with his golden pen, 
 On the deathless page, truths half so sage 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 
 And had he not high honor ? 
 
 The hill-side for his pall , 
 To live in state while angels wait, 
 
 With stars for tapers tall : 
 And the dark rock pines, like tossing 
 plumes, 
 
 Over his bier to wave ; 
 And God's own hand, in the lonely land, 
 
 To lay him in the grave, — 
 
 In that deep grave, without a name, 
 
 Whence his uncoffined clay 
 Shall break again,— O wondrous 
 thought ! — 
 
 Before the judgment day ; 
 And stand, with glory wrapped around, 
 
 On the hills he never trod, 
 And speak of the strife that won our 
 life, 
 
 With th' incarnate Son of God. 
 
 O lonely tomb in Moab's land ! 
 
 O dark Beth-peors hill ! 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 
 
 And teach them to be still. 
 God hath his mysteries of grace, — 
 
 Ways that we can not tell ; 
 He hides them deep, like the secret sleep* 
 
 Of him he loved so well. 
 
 C. F. Alexander. 
 
 The Charcoal Man- 
 Though rudely blows the wintry blasts 
 And sifting snows fall white and fast, 
 Mark Haley drives along the street, 
 Perched high upon his wagon seat; 
 His somber face the storm defies, 
 And thus from morn till eve he cries, — - 
 
 "Charco'! charco!" 
 While echo faint and far replies, — 
 
 "Hark, O! hark, O!" 
 "Charco'!"— "Hark, O!"— Such cheery 
 
 sounds 
 Attend him on his daily rounds. 
 
 The dust begrimes his ancient hat; 
 
 His coat is darker far than that; 
 
 'Tis odd to see his sooty form 
 
 All speckled with the feathery storm; 
 
 Yet in his honest bosom lies 
 
 Nor spot, nor speck, — though still he 
 
 cries, — 
 "Charco'! charco'!" 
 And many a roguish lad replies, — 
 
 "Ark, ho! ark, ho!" 
 "Charco'!" — "Ark, ho!"- Such various 
 
 sounds 
 Announce Mark Haley's morning 
 
 rounds. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 53 
 
 Thus all the cold and wintry clay 
 He labors much for little pay; 
 Yet feels no less of happiness 
 Than many a richer man, I guess, 
 Whe:i through the shades of eve he 
 
 spies 
 The light of his own home, and cries, — 
 
 "Charco'! charco'!" 
 And Martha from the door replies, — 
 
 "Mark, ho! Mark, ho!" 
 4 'Charco'!"— "Mark, ho!"— Such joy 
 
 abounds 
 When he has closed his daily rounds. 
 
 The hearth is warm, the fire is bright; 
 And w T hile his hand, washed clean and 
 
 white, 
 Holds Martha's tender hand once more, 
 His glowing face bends fondly o'er 
 The crib wherein his darling lies, 
 And in a coaxing tone he cries, 
 
 "Charco'! Charco'!" 
 And baby with a laugh replies, — 
 
 "Ah, go! ah, go!" 
 "Charco'!"— "Ah, go!"— while at the 
 
 sounds 
 The mother's heart with gladness 
 bounds. 
 
 Then honored be the charcoal man! 
 Though dusky as an African, 
 'Tis not for you, that chance to be 
 A little better clad than he, 
 His honest manhood to despise, 
 Although from morn till eve he cries, — 
 
 "Charco'!" charco'!" 
 While mocking echo still replies, — 
 
 "Hark, O! hark, O!" 
 "Charco'!"— "Hark, O!"— Long may 
 
 the sounds 
 Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds! 
 J. T. Trowbridge. 
 
 Three Grains of Corn. 
 Give me three grains of corn, mother — 
 
 Only three grains of corn: 
 It will keep the little life I have 
 
 Till the coming of the morn. 
 I am dying of hunger and cold moth- 
 er, — 
 Dying of hunger and cold; 
 
 And half the agony of such a death 
 My lips have never told. 
 
 It has gnawed like a wolf at my breast, 
 mother, 
 A wolf that is fierce for blood; 
 All the livelong day and the night be- 
 side, 
 Gnawing for lack of food. 
 I dreamed of bread in my sleep, moth 
 er, 
 And the sight was heaven to see; 
 I awoke with an eager famishing lip, 
 But you had no bread for me. 
 
 How could I look to you, mother — 
 
 How could I look to you, 
 For bread to give to your starving boy 
 
 When you were starving too? 
 For I read the famine in your cheek, 
 
 And in your eyes so wild, 
 And'I felt it in your bony hand, 
 
 As you laid it on your child. 
 
 The Queen has land and gold, mother — 
 
 The Queen has lands and gold, 
 While you are forced to your empty 
 breast 
 
 A skeleton babe to hold — 
 A babe that is dying of w r ant, mother, 
 
 As I am dying now, 
 With a ghastly look in its sunken eyes, 
 
 And famine upon its brow. 
 
 What has poor Ireland done, mother, 
 
 What has poor Ireland done, 
 That the w r orld looks on and sees us 
 starve, 
 
 Perishing one by one? 
 Do the men of England care not, moth- 
 er — 
 
 The great men and the high, 
 For the suffering sons of Erin's Isle, 
 
 Whether they live or die? 
 
 There is many a brave heart here, 
 mother, — 
 Dying of want and cold, 
 While only across the channel, mother, 
 
 Are many that roll in gold; 
 There are rich and proud men there, 
 mother, 
 With wondrous w r ealth to view, 
 
154 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 And the bread they fling to their dogs 
 to-night 
 Would give life to me and you. 
 
 Come nearer to my side, mother. 
 
 Come nearer to my side, 
 And hold me fondly as you held 
 
 My father when he died; 
 Quick, for I eaunot see you, mother. 
 
 My breath is almost gone, 
 Mother: dear mother: ere I die 
 
 Give me three grains of corn. 
 
 Miss Edwakds. 1847. 
 
 Don t Forget the Old Folks. 
 
 Don't forget the old folks. 
 
 Love them more and more, 
 As they with unshrinking feet 
 
 Xear the "shining: shore." 
 Let your words be tender, 
 
 Loving, soft and slow; 
 Let their last days be the best 
 
 They have known below. 
 
 Don't forget poor father, 
 
 With his failing sight, 
 With his locks, once thick and brown. 
 
 Scanty now, and white; 
 Though he may be childish. 
 
 Still do you be kind — 
 Think of him as years ago, 
 
 With his master mind. 
 
 Don't forget dear mother, 
 
 With her furrowed brow, 
 Once as fair, and smooth and white, 
 
 As the driven snow. 
 Are her steps uncertain? 
 
 Is her hearing poor? 
 Guide her gently till she stands 
 
 Safe at Heaven's door. 
 
 Don't forget the old folks, 
 
 Love them more and more. 
 As they with unshrinking feet 
 
 Near the "shining shore." 
 Let your words be tender. 
 
 Loving, soft and slow; 
 Let their last days be the best 
 
 Tney have known below. 
 
 A Woman's Question- 
 ' Do you know you have asked for the 
 costliest thing 
 Ever made by the hand above — 
 A woman's heart, and a woman's life, 
 And a woman's wonderful love ? 
 
 Do you know you have asked for this 
 priceless thing 
 As a child might ask for a toy ? 
 Demanding what others have died to 
 win, 
 With the reckless dash of a boy. 
 
 You have written my lesson of duty out, 
 Manlike you have questioned me : 
 
 Now stand at the bar of my woman's 
 soul 
 Until 1 shall question thee. 
 
 You require your mutton shall always be 
 hot, 
 Your socks and your shirts shall be 
 whole. 
 I require your heart to be true as God's 
 stars, 
 And pure as heaven your soul. 
 
 You require a cook for your mutton and 
 beef, 
 I require a far better thing ; 
 A seamtress you're wanting for stock- 
 ings and shirts — 
 I look for a man and a king. 
 
 A king for a beautiful realm called home, 
 And a man that the maker, God, 
 
 Shall look upon as he did the tirst. 
 And say. " It is very good." 
 
 I am fair and young, but the rose will 
 fade 
 From my soft, young cheek one day , 
 Will you love me then, 'mid the falling 
 leaves, 
 As you did 'mid the bloom of May ! 
 
 Is your heart an ocean so strong and 
 deep 
 
 I may launch my all on its tide ? 
 A loving woman tiuds heaven or hell 
 
 On the day she is made a bride. 
 
 I require all things that are grand and 
 true, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 »55 
 
 All things that a man should be : 
 Xf you give this all I would stake my 
 life 
 To be all you demand of me. 
 
 If you cannot do this, a laundress and 
 cook 
 
 You can hire with little to pay ; 
 But a woman's heart and a woman's life 
 
 Are not to be won that way." 
 
 Home and Friends. 
 There's a power to make each hour 
 
 As sweet as heaven designed it : 
 -Nor need we roam, to bring it home, 
 
 Though few there be that find it. 
 "We seek too high for things close by, 
 
 And lose what nature gave us ; 
 £or life hath here no charms so dear 
 
 As home and friends around us. 
 
 \Ve oft destroy the present joy 
 
 And future hopes, nor praise them. 
 While flowars as sweet bloom at our feet 
 
 If we'd but stoop to raise them . 
 -For things so fair still greater are 
 
 When youth's bright spell hath bound 
 us ; 
 -But soou we're taught that earth has 
 naught 
 
 Like home and friends around us. 
 
 The friends that speed in time of need, 
 
 When hope's last reed is shaken. 
 Do show us still that, come what will, 
 
 We are not quite forsaken. 
 Though all were night, if but the light 
 
 From friendship's alter crowned us, 
 N T would prove the bliss of earth was 
 this— 
 
 Our home and friends around us. 
 
 When I 60 Home, 
 tt comes to me often in silence, 
 
 When the firelight splutters low — 
 When the black, uncertain shadows 
 
 Seem wraiths of the long ago ; 
 Always with a throb of heartache, 
 
 That shrills each pulsive vein, 
 Comes the old, unquiet longing 
 
 For the peace of home again. 
 
 I'm sick of the roar of the cities 
 
 And of faces old and strange ; 
 I know where there's warmth of wel- 
 come, 
 
 And my yearning fancies range 
 Back to the dear old homestead, 
 
 With au aching sense of pain ; 
 Bnt there'll be joy iu the coming 
 
 W T hen I go home again. 
 
 When I go home again ! There's music 
 
 That may never die away, 
 And it seems the hand of angels, 
 
 On a mystic harp, at play, 
 Have touched with a yearning sadness 
 
 On a beautiful, broken strain, 
 To which is m} T fond heart wording — 
 
 When I go home again. 
 
 Outside of my darkening window 
 
 Is the great world's crash and din, 
 And slowly the autumn's shadows 
 
 Come drifting, drifting in. 
 Sobbing, the night wind murmurs 
 
 To the plash of the autumn rain ; 
 But I dream of the glorious greeting 
 
 When I go home again. 
 
 Eugene Field. 
 
 Sufferings of the Pilgrims. 
 
 EVERETT. 
 
 From the dark portals of the star- 
 chamber, and in the stern text of the 
 acts of uniformity, the pilgrims receiv- 
 ed a commission more efficient than 
 any that ever bore the royal seal. Their 
 banishment to Holland was fortunate; 
 the decline of their little company in 
 the strange land was fortunate; the dif- 
 ficulties which they experienced in get- 
 ting the royal consent tc banish them- 
 selves to this wilderness were fortunate; 
 all the tears and heart-breakings of 
 that ever memorable parting at Delft- 
 haven, had the happiest influence on 
 the rising destinies of New England. 
 
 All this purified the ranks of the 
 settlers. These rough touches of for- 
 tune brushed off the light, uncertain, 
 selfish spirits. They made it a grave, 
 
1 5 6 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Bolemn, self-denying expedition, and 
 required of those who engaged in it to 
 be so too. They east a broad shadow 
 of thought and seriousness over the 
 cause; and if this sometimes deepened 
 into melancholy and bitterness, can we 
 find no apology for such a human weak- 
 ness? 
 
 Their trials of wandering and exile, 
 of the ocean, the winter, the wilder- 
 ness, and the savage foe, were the final 
 assurances of success. It was this that 
 put far away from our fathers* cause, 
 all patrician softness, all hereditary 
 claims to preeminence. Xo effeminate 
 nobility crowded into the dark and aus- 
 tere ranks of the pilgrims. 
 
 Methinks [ see one solitary, adven- 
 trous vessel, the Mayflower, of a for- 
 lorn hope, freighted with the prospects 
 of a future state, and bound across the 
 unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, 
 with a thousand misgivings, the un- 
 certain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise 
 and set, and weeks and months pass, 
 and winter surprises them on the 
 deep, but brings them not the sight of 
 the wished-for shore. I see them now 
 scantily supplied with provisions, 
 crowded almost 10 suffocation in their 
 ill-stored prison; delayed by calms, 
 pursuing a circuitous route; and now 
 driven in fury before the raging tem- 
 pest, on the high and giddy waves. 
 The awful voice of the storm l.owls 
 through the rigging. 
 
 The laboring masts seem straining 
 from their base; the dismal sound of 
 the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as 
 it were from billow to billow; the ocean 
 breaks, and settles with enguliing 
 floods over the floating deck, and beats 
 with deadening, shivering weight, 
 against the staggering vessel. I see 
 them escaped from these perils, pur- 
 suing their all but desperate undertak- 
 ing, and landed at last, after a five 
 months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks 
 of Plymouth; weak and weary from the 
 voyage, poorly armed, scantily pro- 
 
 visioned, depending on the charity of 
 their ship-master for a draught of beer 
 on board, drinking nothing but water 
 on shore, without shelter, without 
 means, surrounded by hostile tribes. 
 
 Shut now the- volume of history, and 
 tell me on any principle of human 
 probability, what shad be the fate o$ 
 this handful of adventurers? Tell me 
 men of military science, in how many 
 months were they all swept off by the 
 thirty savage tribes, enumerated with- 
 in the early limits of New England?- 
 Tell me, politician, how long did a 
 shadow of a colony, on which your 
 conventions and treaties had not smil- 
 ed, languish on the distaut coast? 
 Student of history, compare for me the 
 baffled projects, the deserted settle- 
 ments, the abandoned adventures of 
 other times, and find the parallel of 
 this. 
 
 Was it the winter's storm, beating 
 upon the houseless heads of women 
 and children? was it hard labor and 
 spare meals? was it disease? was it 
 the tomahawk? was it the deep malady 
 of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise* 
 and a broken heart, aching in its last 
 moments at the recollection of the 
 loved and left, beyond the sea? was it 
 some, or all of these united, that hur- 
 ried this forsaken company to their 
 melancholy fate? And is it possible* 
 that neither of these causes, that 
 not all combined, were able to blast 
 this bud of hope? Is it possible that 
 from a beginning so feeble, so frail* 
 so worthy not so much of admiration 
 as of pity, there has gone forth a pro- 
 gress so steady, a growth so wonderful, 
 an expansion so ample, a reality so im- 
 portant, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, 
 so glorious? 
 
 The Pilgrims. 
 
 MRS. SIGOURXEY. 
 
 How slow yon tiny vessel plows the 
 main! amid the heavy billows now she 
 seems a toiling atom; then from wave 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 157 
 
 to wave leaps madly by the tempest 
 lashed, or reels, half wrecked, through 
 gulfs profound. Moons wax and wane, 
 but still that lonely traveler treads the 
 
 deep; 
 
 I see an ice-bound coast, toward 
 which she steers with such a tardy 
 movement, that it seems stern Winters 
 hand hath turned her keel t'> stone, and. 
 sealed his victory on her slippery 
 shrouds. They land!— They land! 
 
 Forth they come from their long pris- 
 on, hardy forms, that brave the world's 
 unkindness, men of hoary hair, and vir- 
 gins of firm heart, and matrons grave. 
 Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them 
 round, eternal forests, and unyielding 
 earth, aud savage men who through the 
 thickest peer with vengeful arrow. 
 
 What could lure their steps to this 
 drear desert? Ask of him who left his 
 father's home to roam through Harau's 
 wilds, distrasting no: the guide who 
 railed him forth, nor doubting, though 
 a stranger, that his seed should be as 
 ■ocean's sands. 
 
 But yon lone bark hath spread her 
 parting sail. They crowd the strand, 
 those few, lone pilgrims. Can ye scan 
 the woe that wrings their bosoms, as the 
 last frail link binding to man, and hab- 
 itable earth, is severed? Can ye tell 
 what pangs were there, what keen re- 
 grets, what sickness of the heart, what 
 yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth, 
 their distant dear oues? 
 
 Long, with straining eyes they watch 
 the lessening speck. Hear ye no shriek 
 of anguish, when that bitter loneliness 
 sank down into their bosoms? No ! 
 they turn back to their dreary, famish- 
 ed huts, aud pray! Pray.— and the ills 
 that hauut this transient life fade into 
 air. Up in each girde I breast there 
 sprang a rooted and mysterious 
 strength, — A loftiness to face a world 
 in arms, to strip the pomp from scepter 
 and to lay upon the sacred alter the 
 warm blood of slain all'ectious, when 
 they rise between the soul aud God. 
 
 And can ye deem it strange that from 
 their planting such a branch should 
 bloom as nations envy? Would a germ, 
 embalmed with prayer'8 pure tear- 
 drops, strike no deeper root than that 
 which mad ambition's hand doth strew 
 upon the winds, to reap the winds 
 again? Hid by its veil of waters from 
 the hand of greedy Europe, their bold 
 vine spread forth in giant strength. Its 
 early clusters, crushed in England's 
 wine-press, gave the tryant host a 
 draught of deadly wine. 
 
 O, ye who boast in your free veins 
 the blood of sires like these, lose not 
 their .lineaments. Should Mammon 
 cling too close around your heart, or 
 wealth beget that bloated luxury which 
 eats the core from manly virtue, or the 
 tempting world make faint the Christ- 
 ian purpose in your soul, turn ye to 
 Plymouth's beach, and on that rock 
 kneel in their footprints, and renew the 
 vow thev breathed to God. 
 
 Fifty Years Ago. 
 W. D. Gallagher. 
 A song for the early times out west, 
 
 And our green old forest home, 
 Whose pleasant memories freshly yet 
 
 Across the bosom come: 
 A song for the free aud gladsome life 
 
 In those early days we led, 
 With a teeming soil beneath our feet. 
 
 And a smiliug heaven o'erhead! 
 Oh, the waves of life danced merrily, 
 
 And had a joyous flow, 
 In the days when we were pioneers. 
 
 Fifty years ago! 
 
 The hunt, tue shot, the glorious chase, 
 
 The captured elk or deer; 
 The camp, the big bright lire, and then 
 
 The rich and wholesome cheer; 
 The sweet, sound sleep. at dead of night, 
 
 By our camp-tire blazing high — 
 Unbroken by the wolf's long howl, 
 
 And the panther springing by. 
 Oh, merrily passed the time, despite 
 
 Our wily Indian foe, 
 
i 5 8 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 In the days when we were pioneers, 
 Fifty years ago! 
 
 We shunned not labor; when 'twas due 
 
 We wrought with right good will; 
 And for the home we won for them 
 
 Our children bless us still. 
 We lived not hermit lives; but oft 
 
 In social converse met; 
 And fires of love were kindled then, 
 
 That burn on warmly yet. 
 Oh, pleasantly the stream of life 
 
 Pursued its constant How, 
 In the days that we were pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago! 
 
 We felt that we were fellow-men ; 
 
 We felt we were a band ■ 
 Sustained here in the wilderness, 
 
 By Heaven's upholding hand. 
 And when the solemn Sabbath came, 
 
 We gathered in the wood, 
 And lifted up our hearts in prayer 
 
 To God, the only Good. 
 Our Temples then were earth and sky; 
 
 None other did we know, 
 In the days when we were pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 
 Our forest life was rough and rude, 
 
 And dangers closed us round, 
 But here, amid the green old trees, 
 
 Freedom we sought and found. 
 Oft through our dwellings wintry blasts 
 
 Would rush with shriek and moan; 
 We cared not — though they were but 
 frail, 
 
 We felt they were our own! 
 Oh, free and manly lives we led, 
 
 Mid verdure or mid snow, 
 In the days when we were pioneers, 
 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 
 But now our course of life is short; 
 
 And as, from day to day, 
 We're walking on with halting step, 
 
 And fainting by the way, 
 Another land, more bright than this, 
 
 To our dim sighs appears, 
 And on our way to it we'll soon 
 
 Again be pioneers! 
 And while we linger, we may all 
 
 A backward glance still throw 
 To the days when we were pioneers, 
 Fifty years ago ! 
 
 .1^1 — » 
 
 The Indian. As He Was, And As He Is. 
 
 SPRA.GUE. 
 
 1. Not many generations ago, where 
 you now sit circled with all that exalts 
 and embellishes civilized life, the rank 
 thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild 
 fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived 
 another race of beings. Beneath the 
 same sun that rolls over your heads, the 
 Indian hunter pursued the panting deer ; 
 gazing on the same moon that smiles for 
 you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky 
 mate. 
 
 2. Here the wigwam blaze beamed on 
 the tender and helpless, the council-fire 
 glared on the wise and daring. Now- 
 they paddled the light canoe along your 
 rocky shores. Here they warred ; the 
 echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the 
 defying death-song, all were here; and 
 when the tiger strife was over, here, 
 curled the smoke of peace. 
 
 3. Here, too, they worshiped ; and 
 from many a dark bosom went up a pure 
 prayer to the great Spirit. He had not 
 written his laws for them on tables of 
 stone, but he had traced them on the 
 tables of their hearts. The poor child of 
 nature knew not the God of revelation, 
 but the God of the universe he acknow-. 
 ledged in every thing around. 
 
 4. He beheld him in the star that sunk 
 behind his lonely dwelling ; in the sacred 
 orb that flamed on him from his mid-, 
 day throne; in the flower that snapped 
 in the morning breeze ; in the lofty pine, 
 that defied a thousand whirlwinds ; in 
 the timid warbler, that never left his nat-. 
 ive grove ; in the fearless eagle, whose 
 untired pinion was wet in clouds ; in the 
 worm that crawled at his feet ; and in 
 his own matchless form, glowing with a 
 spark of that light, to whose mysterious 
 Source he bent in humble, though blinds 
 adoration. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 159 
 
 5. And all this has passed away. A- 
 cross the ocean came a pilgrim bark, 
 bearing the seeds of life and death. The 
 former were sown for you ; the latter 
 sprang up in the path of the simple nat- 
 ive Two hundred years have changed 
 the character of a great continent, and 
 blotted forever from its face a whole 
 people. Art has usurped the bowers of 
 nature, and the anointed children of ed- 
 ucation have been too powerful for the 
 tribes of the ignorant. 
 
 6. Here and there a stricken few re- 
 main ; but how unlike their bold, un- 
 tamed, untameable progenitors ! The 
 Indian of falcon glance and lion bearing, 
 the theme of the touching ballad, the he- 
 ro of the pathetic tale, is gone ! and his 
 degraded offspring crawl upon the soil 
 where he walked in majesty, to remind 
 us how miserable is man, when the foot 
 of the conqueror is on his neck. 
 
 7. As a race, they have withered from 
 the land. Their arrows are broken, 
 their spriugs are dried up, their cabins 
 in the dust. Their council-fires has long 
 since gone out on the shore, and their 
 war-cry is fast dying to the untrodden 
 west. Slowly and sadly they climb the 
 distant mountai :s, and read their doom 
 in the setting sun. They are shrinking 
 before the mighty tide which is pressing 
 them away ; they must soon hear the 
 roar of the last wave, which will aettle 
 over them forever. 
 
 8. Ages hence, the inquisitive white 
 man, as he stands by some growing city, 
 will ponder on the structure of their dis- 
 turbed remains, and wonder to what 
 manner of person they belonged. They 
 will live only in the songs and chronicles 
 of their exterminators. Let these be 
 faithful to their rude virtues as men, and 
 pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as 
 a people. 
 
 The Fall of Tecumseh. 
 
 NEW YORK STATESMAN. 
 
 What heavy-hoofed coursers the wilder 
 
 ne6s roam, 
 
 To the war-blast indignantly tramp- 
 ing? 
 Their mouths are all white, as if frosted 
 with foam; 
 The steel bit impatiently champing. 
 
 'Tifl the hand of the mighty that grasps 
 the rein, 
 Conducting the free and fearless, 
 Ah! see them rush forward with wild 
 dihdain, 
 Through paths unfrequented and 
 cheerless. 
 
 From the mountains had echoed the 
 charpe of death, 
 Announcing that chivalrous sally, 
 The savage was heard with untrem- 
 bling breath, 
 To pour his response from the valley. 
 
 One moment, and nought but the bugle 
 was heard, 
 And nought but the war-whoop giv- 
 en; 
 The next, aud the sky was convulsively 
 stirred, 
 As if by the lightning riven. 
 
 The din of the steed, and the sabred 
 stroke, 
 The blood-stifled gasp of the dying, 
 Were screened by the curling sulphur- 
 smoke, 
 That upward went wildly flying. 
 
 In the mist that hung over the field of 
 
 blood, 
 
 The chief of the horsemen contended. 
 
 His rowells were bathed in the purple 
 
 flood, 
 
 That fast from his charger descended. 
 
 That steed reeled, and fell, in the van 
 of the fight, 
 But the rider repressed not his dar- 
 ing, 
 Till met by a savage, whose rank aixl 
 might 
 Were shown by the plume he was 
 wearing. 
 
 The moment was fearful; a mightier 
 foe 
 
i6o 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Had ne'er swung the battle-ax o'er 
 him; 
 But hope nerved his arm for a desper- 
 ate blow, 
 And Tecumseh fell prostrate before 
 him. 
 
 O ne'er may the nations again be curs- 
 ed 
 With conflict so dark and appalling! — 
 Foe grappled with foe till the life- 
 blood burst 
 From their agonized bosoms in fall- 
 ing. 
 
 Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on 
 the spot 
 Where the hopes of the red men per- 
 ished; 
 But the fame of the hero who fell shall 
 not, 
 By the virtuous, cease to be cherish- 
 ed. 
 
 He fought in defense of his kindred 
 and king, 
 
 With 2 spirit most loving and loyal; 
 And long shall the Indian warrior sing 
 
 The deeds of Tecumseh, the royal. 
 
 The lightning of intellect flashed from 
 his eye, 
 In his arm slept the force of the thun- 
 der, 
 But the bolt passed the suppliant 
 harmlessly by. 
 And left left the freed captive to 
 wonder. 
 
 Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he 
 sleeps. 
 With a rudely-built tumulus o'er him; 
 And the bright-bosomed Thames, in its 
 majesty, sweeps, 
 By the mound where his followers 
 bore him. 
 
 Man "Was Made to Mourn. 
 
 BY ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 When chill November's surely made 
 
 fields and forests bare, 
 One evening, as I wandered forth along 
 
 the banks of Ayr, 
 
 I 'spied a man whose aged steps seemed 
 
 weary, worn with care, 
 His face was furrowed o'er with years, 
 
 and hoary was his hair. 
 
 ''Young stranger, whither wanderest 
 thou?" began the reverend sage; 
 
 "Does thirst of wealth thy steps con- 
 strain, or youthful pleasure's 
 rage ? 
 
 Or, haply, prpssed with cares aud woes, 
 too soon thou hast began 
 
 To wander forth with me to mourn the 
 miseries of Man! 
 
 "The sun that overhangs yon moors, 
 
 out-spreading far and wide, 
 Where hundreds labor to support a 
 
 haughty Lordling's pride — 
 I've seen yon weary winter's sun twice 
 
 forty times return; 
 And every time has added proofs that 
 
 'Man was made to mourn." 
 
 "O Man! while in thy early years, how 
 prodigal of time! 
 
 Misspending all thy precious hours, thy 
 glorious youthful prime! 
 
 Alternate follies take the sway; licen- 
 tious passions burn. 
 
 Which tenfold force give Nature's law. 
 that Man was made to mourn:' 
 
 Look not alone on youthful prime, or 
 manhood's active might; 
 
 Man then is useful to his kind, sup- 
 ported is his right; 
 
 But see him on the edge of life, with 
 cares and sorrows worn; 
 
 Then age and want— O ill-matched 
 
 p a i r :— show, • Man was made to mourn !' 
 
 A few seem favorites of Fate, in 
 
 Pleasure's lap caressed; 
 Yet think not all the rich and great are 
 
 likewise truly blessed: 
 But. oh! what crowds in every land are 
 
 wretched and forlorn: 
 Through weary life this lesson learn, 
 
 that -Man was made to mourn!' 
 
 Many and sharp the numerous ills in- 
 woven with our frame; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 161 
 
 More pointed still, we make ourselves, 
 regret, remorse, and shame; 
 
 And Man, whose heaven-erected face 
 the smiles of Love adorn — 
 
 Man's inhumanity to Man makes count- 
 less thousands mourn! 
 
 See yonder poor o'er-labored weight, 
 
 so abject, mean, and vile, 
 Who begs a brother of the earth to give 
 
 him leave to toil; 
 And his lordly fellow-worm the poor 
 
 petition spurn! 
 Unmindful though a weeping wife and 
 
 helpless offspring mourn. 
 
 If I'm designed young Lordling's slave- 
 by Nature's law designed — 
 
 Why was an independent wish, e'er 
 planted in my mind? 
 
 If not, why am I subjected to his cruel- 
 ty or scorn? 
 
 Or why has Man the will and power to 
 make his fellow mourn? 
 
 Yet let not this too much, my Son, dis- 
 turb thy youthful breast; 
 
 This partial view of human kind is 
 surely not the best. 
 
 The poor, oppressed, honest man, had 
 never, sure, been born, 
 
 Had there not been some recompense 
 to comfort those that mourn. 
 
 O death, the poor man's dearest friend, 
 
 the kindest and the best; 
 Welcome the hour my aged limbs are 
 
 laid with thee to rest! 
 The great the wealth}', fear thy blow, 
 
 from pomp and pleasure torn; 
 But oh! a blessed relief to those that 
 
 weary laden, mourn. 
 
 Bernardo Dv ; l Carpio- 
 
 BY MRS. HE MANS. 
 
 The warrior bowed his crested head, 
 
 and tamed his heart of tire, 
 And sued the haughty king to free his 
 
 long-imprisoned sire; 
 "I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I 
 
 bring my captive train, 
 I pledge -thee faith, my liege, my lord! 
 
 — O! break my father's chain!" 
 
 11 
 
 — "Rise, rise! even now thy father 
 
 comes, a ransomed man this day! 
 Mount thy good horse; and thou and 
 
 I will meet him on bis way." 
 Then lightly rose that loyal son, and 
 
 bounded on his steed, 
 And urged, as if wi.li lance in rest, the 
 
 charge's foamy speed. 
 
 Andlo! from far, as on they pressed, 
 
 there came a glittering band, 
 With one- that 'midst them stately rode, 
 
 as a leader in the land; 
 "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there 
 
 in very truth is he, 
 The father whom thy faithful heart 
 
 hath yearned so long to see." 
 
 His dark eye flashed, his proud breast 
 
 heaved, his cheek's hue came and 
 
 went: 
 He reached that gray- haired chieftain's 
 
 side, aud there, dismounting, 
 
 bent; 
 A lowly knee to earth -he bent, his 
 
 father's hand he took — 
 What was there in its touch that all his 
 
 lieiy spirit shook? 
 
 That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it 
 
 dropped from his like lead! 
 He looked up to the face above — the 
 
 face was of the dead! 
 A plume waved o'er the noble brow — 
 
 the brow w r as fixed aud white: 
 He met, at last, his father's eyes — but 
 
 in them was no -light! 
 Up from the ground he sprang and 
 
 gazed — but who could paint that 
 
 gaze ? 
 They hushed their very hearts that saw 
 
 its horror and amaze — 
 They might have chained him as before 
 
 that stony form he stood; 
 For the power was stricken from his 
 
 arm, and from his lip the blood. 
 
 "Father!" at length he murmured low, 
 and wept like childhood then; 
 
 Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the 
 tears of warlike men! 
 
 He thought on all his glorious hopes, 
 and all his young renown — 
 
162 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 He flung his falchion from his side, and 
 in the dust sat down. 
 
 Then covering with his steel-gloved 
 hands his darkly mournful brow. 
 
 "No more, there is no more." he said, 
 "to lift the sword for now: 
 
 My king is false. — my hope betrayed: 
 My father— O: the worth. 
 
 The glory and the loveliness, are pass- 
 ed away from earth: 
 
 "I thought to- stand where banners 
 
 waved, my sire, beside thee yet! 
 I would that there our kindred blood 
 
 on Spain's free soil had met! 
 Thou vould'st have known my spirit 
 
 then;— for thee my fields were 
 
 wou; 
 And thou hast perished in thy chains, 
 
 as though thou h;tdst no son!" 
 
 Then starting from the ground once 
 
 more, he seized the monarch's 
 
 rein. 
 Amidst the pale and wildered dooks of 
 
 all the courtier train; 
 And, with a tierce, o'ermastering grasp, 
 
 the rearing war-horse led. 
 And sternly set them face to face — the 
 
 king before the dead: — 
 
 "Came I not forth. upon thy pledge, my 
 
 ■ father's hand to kiss? — 
 Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! 
 
 and tell me what is this? 
 The voice. the glance, the heart I sought, 
 
 — give answer, where are they? 
 If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, 
 
 send life through this cold clay! 
 
 "Into these glassy eyes pnt ligit; — be 
 still! keep down thine ire! — 
 
 Bid these white lips a blessing speak, — 
 this earth has not my sire: 
 
 Give me back him for whom I strove, 
 for whom my blood was shed? 
 
 Thou canst not! — and a king! — his dust 
 be mountains on thy head." 
 
 He loosed the steed — his slack hand 
 fell; — upon the silent face 
 
 He cast one long, deep, troubled look, 
 then turned from that sad place: 
 
 His hope was crushed, his after fate 
 untold in martial strain:— 
 
 His banner led the spears no more s 
 amidst the hills of Spain. 
 
 The Lord of Burleigh. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 In her ear he whispers gayly. — 
 
 " If my heart by signs can tell, 
 Maiden, I have watched thee daily, 
 
 And I think thou lov*st me well." 
 She replies, in accent^ fainter, — 
 
 "There is none I love like thee." 
 He is but a landscape painter. 
 
 And a village maiden - 
 He to lips that fondly falter, 
 
 Presses his, without reproof ; 
 Leads her to the village altar, 
 
 And they leave her father's roof , 
 "I can make no marriage present ; 
 
 Little can I give my wife ; 
 Love will make our cottage pleasant. 
 
 And I love thee more than life." 
 
 Then, by parks and lodges going, 
 
 See the-lordly castles stand ; 
 Summer woods, about them blowing. 
 
 Made a murmur in the land. 
 From deep thought himself he rouses,. 
 
 Says to her that loves him well, — 
 "Let us see these handsome houses*. 
 
 Where the wealthy nobles dwell.*' 
 So she goes, by, him attended, 
 
 Hears him lovingly converse, 
 Sees whatever fair and splendid 
 
 Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
 Parks with oak and chestnut shady. 
 
 Parks aud ordered gardens great ^ 
 Ancient homes of lord and lady, 
 
 Built for pleasure and for state. 
 
 All he shows her makes him dearer ; 
 
 Evermore she seems to gaze 
 On that cottage growing nearer, 
 
 Where they twain will spend their 
 days. 
 O, but she will love him truly ; 
 
 He shall have a cheerful home ; 
 She will order all things duly. 
 
 When beneath his roof they come. 
 Thus her heart rejoices greatly,. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 16J 
 
 Till a gateway she discerns, 
 With armorial bearings stately, 
 
 And beneath the gate she turns, — 
 Sees a mansion more majestic 
 
 Than all those she saw before ; 
 Many a gallant, gay domestic 
 
 Bows before them at the door. 
 
 And they speak iu gentle murmur, 
 
 When they answer to his call, 
 While he treads with footstep firmer, 
 
 Leading on from hall to hall. 
 And, while now she wonders blindly, — 
 
 Nor the meaning can divine, 
 Proudly turns he round, and kindly, — 
 
 "All of this is mine and thine. " 
 Here he lives in state and bounty, 
 
 Lord of Burleigh, fair and free ; 
 Not a lord in all the country 
 
 Is so great a lord as he. 
 All at once the color iiushes 
 
 Her sweet face from brow to chin : 
 As it were with shame she blushes, 
 
 And her spirit changed within. 
 
 Then her countenance all over 
 
 Pale again as death did prove ; 
 But he clasped her like a lover, 
 
 And he cheered her soul with love. 
 43o she strove against her weakness, 
 
 Though at times hei spirit sank ; 
 Shaped her heart, with woman's meek- 
 ness, 
 
 To all duties of her rank : 
 And a gentle consort made he, 
 
 And her gentle mind was such, 
 That she grew a noble lady, 
 
 And the people loved her much. 
 
 But a trouble weighed upon her. 
 
 And perplexed her night and morn, 
 With the burden of an hor.or 
 
 Unto which she was not born. 
 Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 
 
 As she murmured, — "O, that he 
 Were once more that landscape painter, 
 
 Which did win my heart from me !" 
 So she drooped and drooped before him, 
 
 Fading slowly from his side ; 
 Three fair children first she bore him, 
 
 Then, before her time, she died. 
 
 Weeping, weeping late and early, 
 
 Walking up and pacing down, 
 Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh, 
 
 Burleigh House, by Stamford town. 
 And he came to look upon her, 
 
 And he looked at her and said, — 
 " Bring the dr. ss, and put it on her, 
 
 That she wore when she was wed." 
 Then her people, softly treading. 
 
 Bore to earth her body dressed 
 In the dress that she was wed in, 
 
 That her spirit might have rest. 
 
 The Diver. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER BY 
 
 BULWEB. 
 
 "Oh, where is the knight or the squire 
 
 so bold 
 As to dive to the howling Charybdis 
 
 below? — 
 I cast in the whirlpool a goblet of gold, 
 And o'er it already the dark waters 
 
 flow; 
 Wnoever to me may the goblet bring, 
 Shall have for his guerdon that gift of 
 
 his king." 
 
 He spoke, and the cup from the terrible 
 
 steep, 
 That, rugged and hoary, hung over 
 
 the verge 
 Of the endless and measureless world 
 
 of the deep, 
 Twirled into the maelstrom that 
 
 maddened the surge. 
 "And where is the diver so stout to go — 
 I ask ye again — to the deep below?" 
 
 And the knights and the squires that 
 
 gathered around, 
 Stood silent — and fixed on the ocean 
 
 their eyes; 
 They looked on the dismal and savage 
 
 Profound, 
 And the peril chilled back every 
 
 thought of the prize. 
 And thrice spoke the monarch — "The 
 
 cnp to win, 
 Is there never a wight who will venture 
 
 in?" 
 
164 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 And all, as before, heard in silence the 
 
 king, 
 Till a youth with au aspect unfearing 
 
 but gentle, 
 'Mid the tremulous squires — stepped 
 
 out from the ring, 
 Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing 
 
 his mantle; 
 And the murmuring crowd, as they 
 
 parted asunder, 
 On the stately boy cast their looks of 
 
 wonder. 
 
 As he strode to the marge of the sum- 
 mit, and gave 
 One glance on the gulf of that 
 merciless main, 
 
 Lo! the wave that forever devours the 
 wave, 
 Casts roaringly up the Ch'arybdis 
 again; 
 
 And, as with the swell of the far 
 thunder-boom, 
 
 Rushes foamingly forth from the heart 
 of the gloom. 
 
 And it bubbles and seethes, and it 
 
 hisses and roars, 
 As when fire is with water commixed 
 
 and contending, 
 And the spray of its wrath to the 
 
 welkin np-soars, 
 And flood upon flood hurries on, 
 
 never ending; 
 And it never will rest, nor from travail 
 
 be free, 
 Like a sea that is laboring the birth of 
 
 a sea. 
 
 mighty commotion, 
 And dark through the ^hitness, and 
 
 still through the swell, 
 The whirlpool cleaves downward and 
 
 downward in ocean, 
 A yawning abyss, like the pathway 
 
 to hell; 
 The stiller and darker the farther it 
 
 goes, 
 Sucked into that smoothness the 
 
 breakers repose. 
 
 The youth gave his trust to his Maker! 
 
 Before 
 That path through the riven abyss 
 
 closed again, 
 Hark! a shriek from the gazers that 
 
 circle the shore, — 
 And behold! he is whirled in the 
 
 grasp of the main! 
 And o'er him the breakers mysteriously 
 
 rolled, 
 And the giant mouth closed on the 
 
 swimmer so bold. 
 
 All was still on the bight, save the 
 
 murmur that went 
 From the grave of the deep, sounding 
 
 hollow and fell. 
 Or save when the tremulous sighing 
 
 lament 
 Thrilled from lip unto lip, — "Gallant 
 
 youth, fare thee well !" 
 More hollow and more wails the deep 
 
 on the ear — 
 More dread and more dread grows 
 
 suspense in its fear. 
 
 If thou shouldst in those waters thy 
 diadem fling, 
 And cry, — "Who may find it, shall 
 win it and wear; 
 God wot, though the prize were the 
 crown of a king — 
 A crown, at such hazard, were valued 
 too dear. 
 For never shall lips of the living reveal 
 What the deeps that howl yonder in 
 terror conceal. 
 Oh, many a bark, to that breast 
 grappled fast, 
 Has gone down to the fearfrl and 
 fathomless grave; 
 Again, crashed togethe" the keel and 
 the mast, 
 To be seen tossed aloft in the glee of 
 the wave! 
 Like the growth of a storm, ever louder 
 
 and clearer. 
 Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer 
 and nearer. 
 
 And it bubbles and seethes and it 
 hisses and roars, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 165 
 
 As when lire is with water commixed 
 and contending; 
 
 And the spray of its wrath to the 
 welkin np-soars, 
 And Hood upon Hood hurries on, 
 never ending, 
 
 And as with the swell of the far 
 thunder-boom, 
 
 Rushes roaringly forth from the heart 
 of the gloom. 
 
 And lo! from the heart of th#t far-float- 
 ing gloom, 
 Like the wing of the cygnet — what 
 gleams on the sea? 
 
 Lo! an arm and a neck glancing up 
 from the tomb! 
 Steering stalwart and shoreward. O 
 joy it is he! 
 
 The left hand is lifted in triumph; be- 
 hold, 
 
 It waves as a trophy the goblet of gold! 
 
 And he breathed deep, and he breathed 
 long, 
 And he greeted the heavenly delight 
 of the day 
 
 They gaze on each other — they shout as 
 they throng — 
 "He lives — lo, the ocean has render- 
 ed its prey! 
 
 And safe from the whirlpool and free 
 from the grave, 
 
 Comes back to the daylight the soul of 
 the brave!" 
 
 And he comes, with the crowd in their 
 
 clamor and glee; 
 And the goblet his daring had won 
 
 from the water, 
 He lifts to the king as he sinks on his 
 
 knee — 
 . And the king from her maidens has 
 
 beckoned his daughter. 
 She pours to the boy the bright wine 
 
 which they bring, 
 And thus spoke the Diver— "Long life 
 
 to the King! 
 
 "Happy they whom the rose-hues of 
 daylight rejoice, 
 The air and the sky that to mortals 
 are given! 
 
 May the horror below never more find 
 
 a voice — 
 Nor man stretch too far 'the wide 
 
 mercy of Heaven! 
 Nevermore, nevermore may he lift 
 
 from the sight 
 The vail which is woven with terror 
 
 and night! 
 
 "Quick brightening like lightning, the 
 ocean rushed o'er me, 
 Wild floating, borne down fathoms 
 deep from the day; 
 Till a torrent rushed out on the tor- 
 rent that bore me, 
 And doubled the tempest that whirl- 
 ed me away. 
 Vain, vain was my struggle — the circle 
 
 had won me; 
 Round and round in its dance the wild 
 1 elements spun me. 
 
 "From the deep, then I called upon 
 God, and He heard me, 
 In the dread of my need, He vouch- 
 safed to mine eye 
 
 A rock juttiug out from the grave that 
 interred me; 
 I sprung there, I clung there, and 
 death passed me by, 
 
 And, lo! where the goblet gleamed 
 through the abyss, 
 
 By a coral reef saved from the farFath- 
 omless. 
 
 "Below, at the foot of that precipice 
 drear, 
 Spread the gloomy, and purple, and 
 pathless Obscure! 
 A silence of horror that slept on the 
 ear, 
 That the eye more appalled might 
 the horror endure! 
 Salamander, snake, dragon — vast rep- 
 tiles that dwell 
 In the deep — coiled about the grim 
 jaws of their hell. 
 "Dark crawled, glided dark the un- 
 speakable swarms, 
 Clumped together in masses, mis- 
 shapen and vast; 
 
1 66 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Here clung and here bristled the fash- 
 
 ionless forms; 
 Here the dark moving hulk of the 
 
 hammer-tish passed; 
 And, with teeth grinning white, and a 
 
 menacing motion, 
 Went the terrible shark — the hyena of 
 
 ocean. 
 
 "There I hung, and the awe gathered 
 icily o'er me. 
 So far from the earth, where man's 
 help there was none! 
 The one human thing, with the goblin s 
 before me — 
 Alone — in a loneness so ghastly — 
 
 ALONE ! 
 
 Deep under the reach of the sweet 
 living breath, 
 
 And begirt with the broods of the des- 
 ert of death. 
 
 "Methought, as I gazed through the 
 darkness, that now 
 I saw a dread hundred-limbed creat- 
 ure—its prey! — 
 
 And darted, devouring; I sprung from 
 the bough 
 Of the coral, and swept on the hor- 
 rible way; 
 
 And the whirl of the mighty wave seiz- 
 ed me once more, 
 
 It seized me to save me, and dash to 
 the shore." 
 
 On the youth gazed the monarch, and 
 marveled: quoth he, 
 "Bold diver, the goblet I promised is 
 thine; 
 
 And this ring I will give, a fresh guer- 
 don to thee — 
 Never jewels more precious shone up 
 from the mine — 
 
 If thou'lt bring me fresh tidings, and 
 venture again, 
 
 To say what lies hid in the innermost 
 main!" 
 
 Then out spake the daughter in tender 
 emotion — 
 "Ah! father, my father, what more 
 can there rest? 
 
 Enough of this sport with the pitiless 
 
 ocean — 
 He has served thee as none would, 
 
 thyself hastconfest. 
 If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of 
 
 desire, 
 Let thy knights put to shame the exploit 
 
 of the squire! 
 
 The king seized the goblet, he swung it 
 
 on high, 
 And whirling, it fell in the roar of 
 
 the tide: 
 "But bring back that goblet again to 
 
 my eye, 
 And I'll hold thee the dearest that 
 
 rides by my side; 
 And thine arms shall embrace, as thy 
 
 bride, I decree. 
 The maiden whose pity now pleadeth 
 
 for thee.'' 
 
 And heaven, as he listened, spoke out 
 
 from the space, 
 And the hope that makes heroes shot 
 
 flame from his eyes 
 He gazed on the blush in that beautiful 
 
 face- 
 It pales — at the feet of her father she 
 
 lies! 
 How priceless the guerdon! a moment — 
 
 a breath — 
 And headlong he plunges to life and to 
 
 death! 
 
 They hear the loud surges sweep back 
 in their swell, 
 Their coming the thunder-sound her- 
 alds along! 
 
 Fond eyes yet are tracking -the spot 
 where he fell, 
 They come, the wild waters, in tum- 
 ult and throng 
 
 Roaring up to the cliff — roaring back as 
 before, 
 
 But no wave ever brings the lost youth 
 to the shore! 
 
 A Legend of Bregenz. 
 Girt round with rugged mountains 
 
 The fair Lake Constance lies; 
 In her blue heart reflected 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 67 
 
 Shine back the starry skies; 
 And, watching each white cloudlet 
 
 Float silently and slow, 
 You think a piece of Heaven 
 
 Lies on our earth below! 
 
 Midnight is there: and Silence, 
 
 Enthroned in Heaven, looks down 
 Upon her own calm mirror, 
 
 Upon a sleeping town: 
 For Bregenz, that quaint city 
 
 Upon the Tyrol shore, 
 Has stood above Lake Constance 
 
 A thousand years and more. 
 
 Her battlements and towers, 
 
 From off their rocky steep, 
 Have cast their trembling shadow 
 
 For ages on the deep: 
 Mountain, and lake, and valley, 
 
 A sacred legend know, 
 Df how the town was saved, one night, 
 
 Three hundred years ago. 
 
 ^Far from her home and kindred, 
 
 A Tyrol maid had tied, 
 Y To serve in the Swiss valleys, 
 
 And toil for daily bread ; 
 And every year that fleeted 
 
 So silently and fast, 
 Seemed to bear farther from her 
 
 The memory of the Past. 
 
 She served kind, gentle masters, 
 
 Nor asked for rest or change; 
 Her friends seemed no more new ones, 
 
 Their speech seemed no more strange; 
 And when she led her cattle 
 
 To the pasture every day, 
 She ceased to look and wonder 
 
 On which side Bregenz la}^. 
 
 She spoke no more of Bregenz, 
 
 With longing and with tears; 
 Her Tyrol home seemed faded 
 
 In a deep mist of years; 
 She heeded not the rumors 
 
 Of Austrian war and strife; 
 Each day she rose contented, 
 
 To the calm toils of life. 
 
 Yet, when her master's children 
 
 Would clustering round her stand, 
 She sang them ancient ballads 
 
 Of her own native land; 
 And when at morn and evening 
 
 She knelt before God's throne, 
 The accents of her childhood 
 
 Rose to her lips alone. 
 
 And so she dwelt: the valley 
 
 More peac ful year by year; 
 When suddenly strange portents 
 
 Of some great deed seemed near. 
 The golden corn was bending 
 
 Upon its fragile stalk, 
 While farmers, heedless of their fields, 
 
 Paced up and down in talk. 
 
 The men seemed stern and altered, — 
 
 With looks cast on the ground; 
 With anxious faces, one by one, 
 
 The women gathered round; 
 All talk of flax, or spinning, 
 
 Or work, was put away; 
 The very children seemed afraid 
 
 To go alone to play 
 
 One day, out in the meadow 
 
 With strangers from the town, 
 Some secret plan discussing, 
 
 The men walked up and down. 
 Yet now and then seemed watching 
 
 A strange uncertain gleam, 
 That looked like lances 'mid the trees 
 
 That stood below the stream. 
 
 At eve they all assembled, 
 
 Then care and doubt were fled; 
 With jovial laugh they feasted; 
 
 The board was nobly spread. 
 The elder of the village 
 
 Rose up, his glass in hand, 
 And cried, "We drink the downfall 
 
 Of an accursed land! 
 
 "The night is growing darker, 
 
 Ere one more day is flown, 
 Bregenz, our foemens' stronghold, 
 
 Bregenz shall be our own! ' 
 The women shrank in terror 
 
 (Yet Pride, too, had her part), 
 But one poor Tyrol maiden 
 
 Felt death within her heart 
 
 Before her stood fair Bregenz; 
 Once more her towers arose; 
 What were the friends beside her? 
 
i6S 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Only her country's foes! 
 The faces of her kinsfolk, 
 
 The days of childhood flown, 
 The echoes of her mountains, 
 
 Reclaimed her as their own. 
 
 Nothing she heard around her 
 
 (Though shouts rang forth again), 
 Gone were the green Swiss valleys, 
 
 The pasture, and the plain; 
 Before her e3~es one vision, 
 
 And in her heart one cry, 
 That said, 'Go forth, saveBregeuz, 
 
 And then, if need be, die!" 
 
 With trembling haste and breathless, 
 
 With noiseless step, she sped; 
 Horses and weary cattle 
 
 Were standing in the shed; 
 She loosed the strong, white charger, 
 
 That fed from out her hand, 
 She mounted, and she turned his head 
 
 Toward her native land. 
 
 Out — out into the darkness- 
 Faster, and still more fast; 
 
 The smooth grass flies behind her, 
 The chestnut wood is past; 
 
 She looks up; clouds are heavy; 
 Why is her steed so slow? — 
 
 Scarcely the wind beside them 
 Can pass them as they go. 
 
 "Faster!" she cries, "O faster!" 
 
 Eleven the church-bells chime: 
 "O God," she cries, " help Bregenz, 
 
 And bring me there in time!" 
 But louder than the bell's ringing, 
 
 Or lowing of the kine. 
 Grows nearer in the midnight 
 
 The rushing of the Rhine. 
 
 Shall not the roaring waters 
 
 Their headlong gallop check? 
 The steed draws back in terror, — 
 
 She leans upon his neck 
 To watch the flowing darkness; 
 
 The bank is high and steep; 
 One pause — he staggers forward, 
 
 And plunges in the deep 
 
 She strives to pierce the blackness, 
 
 And looser throws therein; 
 Her steed must breast the waters 
 
 That dash above his mane. 
 Haw gallantly, how nobly, 
 
 He struggles through the foam, 
 And see — in the far distance 
 
 Shine out the lights of home! 
 
 Up the steep bank he bears her, 
 
 And now, they rush again 
 Towards the heights of Bregenz, 
 
 That Tower above the plain. 
 They reach the gate of Bregenz 
 
 Just as the midnight rings, 
 And out come serf and soldier 
 
 To meet the news she brings. 
 
 Bregenz is saved! Ere da3 T 13ght 
 
 Her battlements are manned; 
 Defiance greets the army 
 
 That marches on the land. 
 And if to deeds heroic 
 
 Should endless fame be paid, 
 Bregenz does well to honor 
 
 The noble Tyrol maid. 
 
 Three hundred years are vanished, 
 
 And yet upon the hill 
 An old stone gateway rises, 
 
 To do her honor still. 
 And there; when Bregenz women 
 
 Sit spinning in the shade, 
 They see in quaint old carving 
 
 The Charger and the Maid. 
 
 And when, to guard old Bregenz, 
 
 By gateway, street and tower; 
 The warder paces all night long 
 
 And calls each passing hour; 
 "Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud 
 
 And then (O crown of Fame!) 
 When midnight pauses in the skies, 
 
 He calls the maiden's name! 
 
 Adelaide Procter. 
 
 Absalom. 
 N. P. Willis. 
 The waters slept. Night's silvery veil 
 hung low on Jordan's, bosom, and the 
 eddies curled their glassy rings beneath 
 it, like the still, unbroken beating of the 
 sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down 
 the stream : the willow leaves, with a 
 soft cheek upon the lulling tide, forgot 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 169 
 
 the Lifting winds; and the long stems, 
 whose flowers the water, like a gentle 
 nurse, bears on its bosom, quietly gave 
 way, and leaned in graceful attitudes, to 
 rest. How strikingly the course of nat- 
 ure tells, by its light heed of human 
 suffering, that it was fashioned for a 
 happier world ! King David's limbs 
 were weary. He had fled from far Jeru- 
 salem ; and now he stood, with his faint 
 people for a little rest upon the shore of 
 Jordan. The light wind of morn was 
 stirring, and he bared his brow to its re- 
 freshing breath ; for he had worn the 
 mourner's covering, and he had not 
 felt that he could see his people until 
 now. They gathered round him on the 
 fresh green bank, and spoke their kindly 
 words ; and, as the sun rose up in heav- 
 en, he knelt among them there, and 
 bowed his head upon his hands to pray. 
 Oh ! ;vhen the heart is full — when bitter 
 thoughts come crowding thickly up for 
 utterance, and the poor common words 
 of courtesy are such a very mockery — 
 how much the bursting heart may pour 
 itself in prayer ! He prayed for Israel ; 
 and his voice went up strongly and fer- 
 vently. He prayed for those whose love 
 had been his shield ; and his deep tones 
 grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom 
 — for his estranged, misguided Absalom 
 — the proud bright being, who had 
 burst away in all his princely beauty, to 
 defy the heart that cherished him — for 
 him he poured, in agony that w ould not 
 be controlled, strong supplication, and 
 forgave him there, before his God, for 
 his deep sinfulness. 
 
 The pall was settled. He who slept 
 beneath was straightened for the grave ; 
 and, as the folds sunk to the still pro- 
 portions, they betrayed the matchless 
 symmetry of Absalom. His hair was 
 yet unshorn, and silken curls were float- 
 ing round the tassels as they swayed to 
 the admitted air, as glossy now as when, 
 in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing the 
 snowy fingers of Judea's girls. His 
 helm was at his feet : his banner, soiled 
 
 with trailing through Jerusalem, was 
 laid, reversed, beside him : and the jew- 
 elled hilt, whose diamonds lit the pass- 
 age of his blade, rested, like mockery, 
 on his covered brow. The soldiers <»f 
 the King trod to and fro, clad in the 
 garb of battle ; and their chief, the 
 mighty Joab. stood beside the bier, and 
 gazed upon the dark pall steadfastl} T , as 
 if he feared the slumberer might stir. A 
 slow step startled him. He grasped his 
 blade as if a trumpet rang ; but the bent 
 form of David entered, and he gave com- 
 mand, in alow tone, to his few followers, 
 and left him with his dead. The king 
 stood still till the last echo died ; then, 
 throwing off the sackcloth from his brow, 
 and laying back the pall from the still 
 features of his child, he bow r ed his head 
 upon him, and broke forth in the resist- 
 less eloquence of wo : — 
 
 "Alas! my noble boy ! that thou should' st 
 die! 
 Thou, who wert made so beautifully 
 fair ! 
 That death should settle in thy glorious 
 eye, 
 And leave his stillness in this cluster- 
 ing hair ! 
 How could he mark thee for the silent 
 tomb, 
 My proud boy Absalom ! 
 
 "Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am 
 chill, 
 And to my bosom I have tried to press 
 thee. 
 How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 
 Like a rich harp-string, yearning to 
 caress thee, 
 And hear thy sw r eet "my father" from 
 these dumb 
 And cold lips, Alsalom ! 
 
 "The grave hath won thee. I shall "heaT 
 the gush 
 Of music, and the voices of the young 
 And life will pass me in the mantling 
 blush, 
 And the dark tresses of the soft winds 
 flung ; — 
 
70 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet voice 
 shalt come 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 
 And, oh ! when I am stricken, and my 
 
 heart, 
 Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be 
 broken, 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart, 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last 
 deep token ! 
 It were»so sweet, amid death's gathering 
 gloom, 
 To see thee, Absalom ! 
 
 "And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give 
 thee up, 
 With death so like a gentle slumberon 
 thee : — 
 And thy dark sin !— Oh ! I could drink 
 the cup, 
 If from this wo its bitterness had won 
 thee. 
 May God have called thee, like a wand- 
 erer, home, 
 My erring Absalom !" 
 
 He covered up his face and bowed him- 
 self 
 A moment on his child ; then, giving 
 him 
 A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
 His hands convulsively, as if in pray- 
 er ; 
 And, as a strength were given him of 
 God, 
 He rose up calmly and composed the 
 pall 
 Firmly and decently, and left him there, 
 As if his rest had been a breathing 
 sleep. 
 
 Marco Bozzaris- 
 F. G. Halleck. 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent, 
 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
 When Greece, her knee in suppliance 
 bent, 
 Should tremble at his power; 
 In dreams, through camp and court, he 
 
 bore 
 The trophies of a conqueror; 
 
 In dreams, his song of triumph heard; 
 Then wore his monarch's signet ring, — 
 Then pressed that monarch's throne, — 
 
 a king; 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
 
 As Eden's garden bird. 
 
 An hour passed on — the Turk awoke; 
 
 That bright dream was his last; 
 He woke— to hear his sentry's shriek, 
 "To arms! they come: the Greek! the 
 
 Greek!" 
 He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke, 
 And death-shots falling thick and 
 fast 
 As lightnings from the mountain cloud; 
 And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band; — 
 "Strike — till the last armed foe expires, 
 Strike — for your altars and your tires, 
 Strike—for the green graves of your 
 sires, 
 God— and your native land!" 
 They fought, like brave men, long and 
 well, 
 They piled that ground with Moslem 
 slain, 
 They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 
 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 His smile, when rang their proud hur- 
 rah, 
 And the red field was won; 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Come to the bridal chamber, Death! 
 
 Come to the mother, when she feels, 
 For the first time, her first-born's 
 breath; — 
 Come when the blessed seals 
 Which close the pestilence are broke, 
 And crowded cities wail its stroke; — 
 Come in Consumption's ghastly form, 
 The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; 
 Come when the heart beats high and 
 warm, 
 With banquet-song, and dance, and 
 wine, — 
 And thou art terrible: the tear, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 7i 
 
 'The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
 And all we know, or dream, or fear 
 Of agony, are thine. 
 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 Has won the battle for the free, 
 
 "Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 The thanks of millions yet to be. 
 
 Bozzaris! with the storied brave 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
 
 Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 
 Even in her own proud clime, 
 We tell thy doom without sigh; 
 
 For thou art Freedom's now, and 
 Fame's — 
 
 'One of the few, the immortal names, 
 That were not born to die. 
 
 The Inchcape Rock. 
 
 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 
 The ship was still as she could be; 
 Her sails from heaven received no mo- 
 tion, 
 Her keel was steady in the ocean. 
 
 Without even sign or sound of their 
 
 shock, 
 The- waves flowed over the Inchcape 
 
 Rock> 
 So little they rose, so little they fell, 
 They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 
 
 The Abbot of Aberbrothock 
 
 Had placed that bell on the Inchcape 
 
 Rock; 
 On a buoy in the storm it floated and 
 
 swung, 
 And over the waves its warning rung. 
 
 When the rock was hid by the surge's 
 
 swell 
 The m triners heard the warning bell; 
 And then they knew the perilous rock, 
 And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock. 
 
 The sun in heaven was shining gay; 
 All things were joyful on that day; 
 The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled 
 
 round, 
 And there was joyance in their sound. 
 
 The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen; 
 A darker speck on the ocean green; 
 Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, 
 And he lixed his eye on the darker 
 sneck. 
 
 He felt the cheering power of spring; 
 It made him whistle, it made him sing; 
 His heart was mirthful to excess, 
 But the Rover's mirth was wickedness, 
 
 His eye was on the Inchcape float; 
 Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat, 
 And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
 And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrot- 
 hock." 
 
 The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 
 And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 
 Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 
 And he cut the bell from the Inchcape 
 float. 
 
 Down sunk the bell with a gurgling 
 sound; 
 
 The bubbles rose and burst around; 
 
 Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes 
 to the rock, 
 
 Won't bless the Abbot ,of Aberbro- 
 thock." 
 
 Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; 
 He scoured the seas for many a day, 
 And now grown rich with plundered 
 
 store, 
 He steers his course for Scotland's 
 
 shore. 
 
 So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, 
 They cannot see the sun on high; 
 The wind hath blown a gale all day; 
 At evening it hath died away. 
 
 On the deck the Rover takes his stand; 
 
 So dark it is they see no land. 
 
 Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter 
 
 soon, 
 For there is the dawn of the rising 
 
 moon." 
 
 "Canst hear," said one, "the breaker's 
 
 roar? 
 For methinks we should be near the 
 
 shore," 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 •Now where we are I cannot tell, 
 But I wish I could hear the Inchcape 
 Bell." 
 
 They hear no sound ;the swell is strong; 
 Though the wind hath fallen, they drift 
 
 along 
 Till the vessel strikes with a shivering 
 
 shock, — 
 4, Oh God! it is the Inchcape Rock!" 
 
 Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; 
 He cursed himself in his despair; 
 The waves rush in on every side; 
 The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 
 
 But even in his dying fear, 
 
 One dreadful sound could the Rover 
 
 hear, — 
 A sound, as if, with the Inchcape Bell, 
 The fiend below was ringing his knell. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 Horatius. 
 
 A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE 
 CITY CCCLX. 
 
 Lars Porsena of Clusium 
 
 By the Nine Gods he swore 
 That the great house of Tarquin 
 
 Should suffer wrong no more. 
 By the Nine Gods he swore it, 
 
 And named a try sting day, 
 And bade his messengers ride forth, 
 East and west and south and north, 
 
 To summon his array. 
 
 East and west and south and north 
 
 The messengers ride fast, 
 And tower and town and cottage 
 
 Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
 Shame on the false Etruscan 
 
 Who lingers in his home 
 When Porsena of Clusium 
 
 Is on the march for Rome. 
 
 But by the yellow Tiber 
 
 Was tumult and affright; 
 From all the spacious champaign 
 
 To Rome men took their night. 
 A mile around the city, 
 
 The throng stopped up the ways; 
 A fearful sight it was to see 
 
 Through two long nights and days. 
 
 Now from the rock Tarpean, 
 
 Could the wan burghers spy 
 The line of blazing villages 
 
 Red in the midnight sky. 
 The Fathers of the City, 
 
 They sat all night and day, 
 For every hour some horseman camt> 
 
 With tidings of dismay. 
 
 They held a council standing 
 
 Before the River-gate ; 
 Short time was there, ye well may guess^ 
 
 For musing or debate. 
 Out spake the Consul roundly ; 
 
 " The bridge must straight go dowfi ^ 
 For, since Jauiculum is iost, 
 
 Naught else can save the town." 
 
 Just then a scout came flying, 
 
 All wild with haste and fear ; 
 "To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul ; 
 
 Lars Porsena is here." 
 On the low hills to westward 
 
 The Consul fixed his eye, 
 And saw the swarthy storm of diist,. 
 
 Rise fast along the sky. 
 
 Fast by the royal standard, 
 
 O'erlooking all the war, 
 Lars Porsena of Clausiam 
 
 Sat in his ivory car. 
 By the right wheel rode Mamilius y , 
 
 Prince of the Latian name ; 
 And by the left false Sextus, 
 
 That wrought the deed of shame.. 
 
 But when tne face of Sextns 
 
 Was seen among the foes, 
 A yell that rent the firmament 
 
 From all the town arose. 
 On the house-tops was no woman 
 
 But spat toward him and hissed - 
 No child but screamed out curses. 
 
 And shook its little fist. 
 
 But the Consul's brow was sad, 
 
 And the Consul's speech was low„ 
 And darkly looked he at the wall. 
 
 And darkly at the foe. 
 11 Their van will be upon us 
 
 Before the bridge goes down ; 
 And if they once may win the bridge 
 
 What hope to save the town 9 .'" 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 173 
 
 Then out spake brave Horatius, 
 
 The Captaia of the gate : 
 * K To every man upon (his earth 
 
 Death coineth soon or late. 
 Aud how can 111 in die better 
 
 Theu facing fearful odds, 
 For the ashes of his fathers 
 
 And the temples of his Gods, 
 
 ■*• Aud for the tender mother 
 
 Who dandled him to rest, 
 And for the wife who nurses 
 
 His baby at her breast, 
 And for the holy maidens 
 
 Who feed the eternal flame, 
 To save them from false Saxtus 
 
 That wrought the tleed of shame ? 
 
 *" Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 
 
 With all the speed ye may ; 
 I, with two more 10 help me, 
 
 Will hold the foe in play. 
 In yon strait path a thousaud 
 
 May well be stopped by three. 
 Now who will stand on either hand, 
 
 And keep the bridge with me ?" 
 
 Then out spake Spurius Lartius ; 
 
 A Ramnian proud was he : 
 ^'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 
 
 Aud keep the bridge with thee." 
 And out spake strong Herminius; 
 
 Of Titian blood was lie: 
 "M will abide on thy left side, 
 
 And keep the bridge with thee." 
 
 "'"Horatius," quoth the Consul, 
 
 "As thou sayest, so let it be." 
 And straight against that great array 
 
 Forth went the dauutless Three. 
 For Romans in Rome's quarrel 
 
 Spared neither land nor gold, 
 Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 
 
 la the brave days of old. 
 
 Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 
 
 Right glorious to behold, 
 CJame flashing back the noonday light, 
 liauk behind rank, like surges bright 
 
 Of a broad sea of gold. 
 Four hundred trumpets sounded 
 
 A peal of warlike gle< j , 
 As that great host, with measured tread, 
 
 And spears advanced, and ensigns 
 
 spread, 
 Rolled slowly toward the bridge's head, 
 Where stood the dauntless Three. 
 
 The Three stood calm and silent 
 
 And looked upon the foes, 
 Aud a great shout of laughter 
 
 From all the vanguard rose. 
 And forth three chiefs came spurring 
 
 Before that deep array; 
 To earth they sprang, their swords they 
 
 drew, 
 And lifted high their shields, and flew 
 
 To win the narrow way, 
 
 Herminius smote down Aruns: 
 
 Lartius laid Ocnus low: 
 Right to the heart of Lausulus 
 
 Horatius sent a blow. 
 "Lie there," he cried, ''fell pirate! 
 
 No more, agast and pale, 
 From Ostia's walls the crowd shall 
 
 mark 
 The track of thy destroying bark. 
 No moie Campauia's hinds shall fly 
 To woods and caverns when they spy 
 
 Thy thrice accursed sail." 
 But now no sound of laughter 
 
 Was heard among the foes. 
 A wild and wrathful clamor 
 
 From all the vanguard rose. 
 Six spears' length from the entrance 
 
 Halted that deep arrry, 
 And for a space no man came forth 
 
 To win the narrow way. 
 
 Yet one man for one moment 
 
 Strode out before the crowd; 
 Well known was he to all the Three, 
 
 And they gave him greeting lo.d. 
 "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus, 
 
 Now welcome to thy home! 
 Why dost thou stay, aud turn away? 
 
 Here lies the road to Rome." 
 
 But meanwhile axe and lever 
 
 Have manfully been plied, 
 And now the bridge hangs tottering 
 
 Above the boiling tide. 
 "Come back, come back. Horatius!" 
 
 Loud cried the Fathers all. 
 
1/4 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 •Buck, Lartiu*! back Herminius! 
 Back, ere the ruin fall!" 
 
 Back darted Spurius Lartius; 
 
 Herminius darted back: 
 And, as they passed, beneath their feet 
 
 They felt the timbers crack. 
 But when they turned their faces, 
 
 And ou the farther shore 
 Saw bry ve Horatius stand alone, 
 
 They would have crossed once more. 
 But with a crash like thunder 
 
 Fell every loosened beam, 
 And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 
 
 Lay right athwart the stream: 
 And a long shout of triumph 
 
 Rose from the walls of Rome, 
 As to the highest turret-tops 
 
 Was splashed the yellow foam. 
 
 Alone stood brave Horatius, 
 
 But constant still in mind; 
 Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 
 
 And the broad flood behind. 
 "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, 
 
 With a smile on his pale face. 
 "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, 
 
 "Now yield thee to our grace." 
 
 Round turned he, a& not deigning 
 
 Those craven ranks to see; 
 Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 
 
 To Sextus naught spake he: 
 But he saw on Palatinus 
 
 The white porch of his home; 
 And he spake to the noble river 
 
 That rolls by the towers of Rome. 
 
 "Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber! 
 
 To whom the Romans pray, 
 A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 
 
 Take thou in charge this day!" 
 So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 
 
 The good sword by his side, 
 And with his harness on his back, 
 
 Plunged headlong in the tide. 
 
 No sound of joy or sorrow 
 Was heard from either bank; 
 
 But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
 
 With parted lips and straining eyes, 
 Stood gazing where he sank; 
 
 And when above the surges 
 
 They saw his crest appear, 
 All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
 
 And even the ranks of Tuscany 
 Could scarce forbear to cheer. 
 
 "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus: 
 
 "Will not the villian drown? 
 But for this stay, ere close of day 
 
 We should have sacked the town." 
 "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena^ 
 
 "And bring him safe to shore; 
 For such a gallant feat of arms 
 
 Was never seen before." 
 
 And now he feels the bottom; 
 
 Now on dry earth he stands; 
 Now round- him throng the Fathers 
 
 To press his gory hands; 
 And now, with shouts and clapping,., 
 
 Aud noise of weeping loud, 
 He enters through the River-Gate, 
 
 Borne by the joyous crowd. 
 
 They gave him of the corn-land 
 
 That was of public right 
 As much as two strong oxen 
 
 Could plough from morn till nighty 
 Ane they made a molten image, 
 
 And set it up on high, 
 And there it stands unto this day 
 
 To witness if I lie.' 
 
 It stands in the Comitium, 
 
 Plain for all folk to see; 
 Horatius in his harness, 
 
 Halting upon one knee: 
 And underneath is written, 
 
 In letters all of gold, 
 How valiantly he kept the bridge 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 And in the nights of winter, 
 
 When the cold north winds blow. 
 And the long howling of the wolve& 
 
 Is heard amidst the snow ; 
 When round the lonely cottage 
 
 Roars loud the tempest's din, 
 And the good logs of Algidus 
 
 Roar louder yet within ; 
 
 When the oldest cask is opened, 
 
 And the largest lamp is lit j 
 When the chestnuts glow in the embers*.. 
 
 And the kid turns on the spit ; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 75 
 
 When young and old in circle 
 Around the firebrands close ; 
 
 When the girls are weaving baskets, 
 And the lads are shaping bows ; 
 
 When the good man mends his armor, 
 
 And trims his helmet's plume ; 
 When the good wife's shuttle merrily 
 
 Goes Hashing through the loom ; 
 With weeping and with laughter 
 
 Still is the story told. 
 How well Horatius kept the bridge 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 MACAU LAY. 
 
 The Battle of Bunker Hill. 
 
 COZZENS. 
 
 It was a starry night in June, the air 
 
 was soft and still, 
 When the "Minute-men" from Cam- 
 bridge came, and gathered on the 
 
 hill; 
 Beneath us lay the sleeping town, 
 
 around us frowned the fleet, 
 But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, 
 
 within our bosoms beat; 
 Bnd every heart rose high with hope, 
 
 as fearlessly we said, 
 "We will be numbered with the free, 
 
 or numbered with the dead!" 
 
 "Bring out the line to mark the trench, 
 
 and stretch it on the swardl" 
 The trench is marked, the tools are 
 
 brought, we utter not a word, 
 But stack our guns, then fall to work, 
 
 with mattock aud with spade, 
 A thousand men with sinewy arms, and 
 
 not a sound is made; 
 So still were we, the stars beneath, that 
 
 scarce a whisper fell; 
 We heard the red-coat's musket click, 
 
 and heard him cry, "All's well!" 
 ******* 
 See how the morn is breaking! The red 
 
 is in. the sky; 
 The mist is creeping from the stream, 
 
 that floats in silence lry; 
 TheJJvely's hull looms through the fog, 
 
 and they our works have spied; 
 
 For the ruddy Hash and round-shot 
 
 part in thunder from her side; 
 And the Falcon and the Cerberus make 
 
 every busom thrill, 
 With gun and shell, and drum and bell, 
 
 and boatswain's whistle shrill; 
 But deep and wider grows the trench, 
 
 as spade and mattock ply, 
 For we have to cope with fearful odds, 
 
 and the time is drawing nigh! 
 
 Up with the pine-tree banner! Our 
 
 gallaut Prescott stands 
 Amid the plunging shells and shot, and 
 
 plants it with his hands; 
 Up with the shout for Putnam comes 
 
 upon his reeking bay, 
 With bloody spur and foa ning bit, in 
 
 haste to join the fray; 
 And Pomeroy, with his snow-whit*' 
 
 hair and face all flush aud sweat, 
 Unscathed by French and Indian, wears 
 
 a youthful glory yet. 
 
 But thou whose soul is glowing in the 
 
 summer of thy years, 
 Unvanquishable Warren, thou, the 
 
 youngest of thy peers, 
 Wert born and bred, and shaped and 
 
 made, to act a patriot's part, 
 And clear to us thy presence is as 
 
 heart's blood to the heart! 
 ******* 
 Hark! from the town a trumpet! The 
 
 barges at the wharf 
 Are crowded with the living freight, 
 
 and now they're pushing off: 
 W T ith clash and glitter, trump and 
 
 drum, in all its bright array, 
 Behold the splendid sacrifice move 
 
 slowly o'er the bay! 
 And still and still the barges fill; and 
 
 still across the deep, 
 Like thunder-clouds along the sky, the 
 
 hostile transports sweep. 
 
 And now they're forming at the Point; 
 
 and now the lines advance: 
 We see beneath the sultry sun their 
 
 polished bayonets glance; 
 We hear a-nearthe throbbing drum, the 
 
 bugle-challenge ring; 
 
176 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Quick bursts and loud the flashing 
 
 cloud, and rolls from wing to 
 
 wing; 
 But on the height our bulwark stands, 
 
 tremendous in its gloom, — 
 As sullen as a tropic sky, and silent as 
 
 a tomb. 
 
 And so we waited till we saw, at scarce 
 
 ten rifles' length, 
 The old vindictive Saxon spite in all its 
 
 stubborn strength; 
 When sudden, flash on flash, around 
 
 the jagged rampart burst 
 From every gun the livid light upon 
 
 the foe accursed. 
 Then quailed a monarch's might before 
 
 a free-born people's ire; 
 Then drank the sword the veteran's 
 
 life, when swept the yoeman's 
 
 tire. 
 
 Then, staggered by the shot, we saw 
 their serried columns reel, 
 
 And fall, as falls the bearded rye be- 
 neath the reaper's steei; 
 
 And then arose a mighty shout that 
 might have waked the dead — 
 
 "Hurrah! they run! the field is won! 
 Hurrah! the foe is fled!" 
 
 And every man hath dropped his gun 
 to clutch his neighbor's hand, 
 
 As his heart kept praying all the time 
 for home and native land. 
 
 Thrice on that day we stood the shock 
 
 of thrice a thousand foes, 
 And thrice that day within our lines 
 
 the shout of victory rose; 
 And though our swift tire slackened 
 
 then, and, reddened in the skies, 
 We saw from Charlestown's roofs and 
 
 walls the flaming columns rise, 
 Yet, while we had a cartridge left, we 
 
 still maintained the tight, 
 Nor gained the foe one foot of ground 
 
 upon that blood-stained height. 
 
 What though for us no laurels bloom, 
 nor o'er the nameless brave 
 
 No sculptured trophy, scroll, nor hatch 
 records a warrior's grave! 
 
 What though the day to us was lost! 
 
 Upon that deathless page, 
 The everlasting charter stands for 
 
 every land and age! 
 For man hath broke his felon bonds 
 
 and cast them in the dust, 
 And claimed his heritage divine, and 
 
 justified the trust; 
 While through his rifted prison bars 
 
 the hues of freedom pour, 
 O'er every nation, race, and clime; on 
 
 every sea and shoae, 
 Such glories as the patriarch viewed, 
 
 when, 'mid the darkest skies, 
 He saw above a ruined world the Bow 
 
 of Promise lise. 
 
 Death of Leonidas. 
 
 CROLY. 
 
 It was the wild midnight,— a storm was 
 
 in the sky; 
 The lightning gave its light, and the 
 
 thunder echoed by; 
 The torrent swept the glen, the ocean 
 
 lashed the shore; 
 When rose the Spartan men, to make 
 
 their bed in gore! 
 
 Swift from the deluged ground three 
 
 hundred took the shield; 
 Then, in silence, gathered round the 
 
 leader of the field. 
 All up the mountain's side, all down 
 
 the woody vale, 
 All by the rolling tide waved the 
 
 Persian banners pale. 
 
 And foremost from the pass, among 
 the slumbering band, 
 
 Sprang King Leonidas, like the light- 
 ning's living brand. 
 
 Then double darkness fell, and the 
 forest ceased its moan; 
 
 But there came a clash of steel, and a 
 distant dying groan. 
 
 Anon, a trumpet blew, and a fiery 
 sheet burst high. 
 
 That o'er the midnight threw a blood- 
 red cauopy. 
 
 A host glared on the hill; a host glared 
 by the bay; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 177 
 
 Hut the Greeks rushed onward still, 
 like leopards in their play. 
 
 The air was all a yell, and the earth 
 
 was all a flame, 
 Where the Spartan's bloody steel on 
 
 the silken turbans came. 
 And still the Greek rushed on, where 
 
 the fiery torrent rolled, 
 Till, like a rising sun, shone Xerxes' 
 
 tent of gold. 
 
 They found a royal feast, his midnight 
 
 banquet there; 
 And the treasures of the East lay 
 
 beneath the Doric spear. 
 Then sat to the repast the bravest of 
 
 the brave; 
 That feast must be their last— that spot 
 
 must be their grave! 
 
 Up rose the glorious rank, to Greece 
 
 one cup poured high, 
 Then hand in hand they drank, "To 
 
 immortality!" 
 Fear on King Xerxes fell, when, like 
 
 spirits from the tomb, 
 With shout and trumpet knell, he saw 
 
 the warriors come. 
 But ddwn swept all his power, with 
 
 chariot and with charge; 
 Down poured the arrows' shower, till 
 
 sank the Dorian targe. 
 Thus fought the Greek of old! Thus 
 
 will he fight again! 
 Shall not the self same mould bring 
 
 forth the self -same men? 
 
 For so the king had planned the matter, 
 That he might reach his purpose better. 
 
 "Which way, good man ?" the monarch 
 
 *The King and the Rustic, or One or the Other. 
 
 OLDHAM'S HUMOROUS SPEAK ER. 
 
 In Henry's reign— the darling king, 
 Whose praises .-till the Frenchmen 
 
 sing— 
 A peasant once, with idle song, 
 Was riding happily along 
 Toward Paris ; and, when near that 
 
 place, 
 A stately horseman met his face. 
 It was the king. His retinue 
 Was at a distance out of view ; 
 
 12 
 
 Does business } r ou to Paris lead ?" 
 "It does ; but yet another thing — 
 I wish to see our darling king, 
 Who loves his people all so dearly, 
 And whom they love, and that sincere- 
 ly." 
 The monarch sm.iled, and blandly 
 
 said : — 
 "In that, my friend, I'll give you aid." 
 "But how," the rustic asked, "shall I. 
 'Mid all the great folks standing by, 
 Tell which is he ?" — "I'll tell you how," 
 The king replied. You've only now 
 To notice who, of all the crowd 
 That lowly bow, or shout aloud, 
 Keeps on his hat, while others bare 
 Their heads and gaze with reverent 
 air.'* 
 
 Now had they got in Paris quite : 
 The rustic riding on the right. 
 W T hatever boorish life can teach, 
 Whatever awkwardness can reach, 
 In manner, motion, look, or speech, 
 That simple lout that day displayed, 
 When he in Paris entry made. 
 
 He answered all the monarch asked, 
 And all his humble powers tasked, 
 To show him how his farm he kept; 
 How well he fed, how sweet he slept; 
 How every Sunday 'twas his lot 
 To have a "pullet in his pot," — 
 "Which lot," says he, "is just the thing, 
 That all should have, so says our king!" 
 
 Long, long he talked— his tongue ran 
 
 fleet' 
 As up they rode the crowded street; 
 Nor yet perceived — most strange to 
 
 say— 
 From all that met his eye that day, 
 What must have seemed the oddest 
 
 thing — 
 A rustic riding with the king. 
 But when he saw the windows fly 
 Open wide, and every eye 
 Straining at the -passers-by 
 
1 7 8 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 While all the air was made to ring 
 With "Vive le Hoi!"—' 'Long live the 
 King!" 
 
 "Friend," said he to his unknown 
 guide, 
 
 While with wonder and fright the mon- 
 arch he eyed, 
 
 ''Sure, you must be the king, or I! 
 
 For nobody else, in all this crowd, 
 
 Has a hat on his head, whether humble 
 01; proud." 
 
 The good king smiled. "You're right," 
 said he, 
 
 'I'm the person yon wished to see!" 
 
 Guilty or Not Guilty. 
 Anonymous. 
 She stood at the bar of justice, 
 
 A creature wan and wild, 
 In form too small for a woman, 
 
 In features too old for a child; 
 For a look so worn and pathetic 
 
 Was stamped on her pale young face, 
 It seemed long years of suffering 
 
 Must have left that silent trace. 
 
 "Your name," said the judge, as he 
 eyed her 
 With kindly look yet keen, 
 "Is Mary#lcGuire, if you please sir." 
 "And your age?" — "lam turned fif- 
 teen/' 
 "Well, Mar}*," and then from a paper 
 
 He slowly and gravely read, 
 "You are charged here — I'm sorry to 
 say it — 
 With stealing three loaves of bread. 
 
 "You look not like an offender, 
 
 And I hope that you can show 
 The charge to be false. Now, tell me, 
 
 Are you guilty of this, or no?" 
 A passionate burst of weeping 
 
 Was at first her sole reply, 
 But she dried her eyes in a moment, • 
 
 And looked in the judge's eye. 
 
 "I will tell you just how it was, sir, 
 My father and mother are dead, 
 
 And my little brothers and sisters 
 Were hungry and asked me for bread. 
 
 At first I earned it for them 
 
 By working hard all day, 
 But somehow times were bad, sii\ 
 
 And the work all fell away. 
 
 "I could get no more employment 
 
 The weather was bitter cold, 
 The young ones cried and shivered— 
 
 (Little Johnny's but four years old);-— 
 So what was I to do, sir? 
 
 I am guilty, but do not condemn, 
 I took— oh, was it stealing*? — 
 
 The bread to give to them." 
 
 Every man in the court-room — 
 
 Gray-beard and thoughtless youth- 
 Knew, as he looked upon her, 
 
 That the prisoner spake the truth, 
 Out from their pockets came kerchiefs v 
 
 Out from their eyes sprung tears, 
 And out from their old faded wallets 
 
 Treasures hoarded for years. 
 
 The judge's face was a study — 
 
 The strangest you ever saw, 
 As he cleared his throat and murmnred 
 
 Something about the law 
 For one so learned in such matters, 
 
 So wise in dealing with men,- 
 He seemed, on a simple question, 
 
 Sorely puzzled just then. 
 
 But no one blamed him or wondered, 
 
 When at last these words they heard 
 "The sentence of this young prisoner 
 
 Is, for the present, deferred." 
 And no one blamed him or wondered 
 
 When he went to her and smiled, 
 And tenderly led from the court-room k 
 
 Himself, the "guilt}*" child. 
 
 The Blind Boy. 
 F. L. Hawks. 
 
 It was a blessed summer day, 
 
 The flowers bloom'd — the air w T as 
 mild — 
 The little birds poured forth their lay, 
 
 And every thing in nature smiled. 
 In pleasant thought I wandered on 
 
 Beneath the deep wood's ample shade, 
 Till suddenly I came upon 
 
 Two children who had thither stray'd. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 179' 
 
 Juffl at an aged birch tree's foot, 
 
 A little boy and girl reclined; 
 His hand in hers he kindly put, 
 
 And then I saw tha't h<> was blind. 
 The children knew not I was near, 
 
 The tree concealed nie from their 
 view; 
 But all they said. I well could hear, 
 
 And I could see all they might do. 
 
 "Dear Mary," said the poor blind boy, 
 
 "That little bird sings very long: 
 Say, do you see him in his joy, 
 
 Aud is he pretty as his song?" 
 "Yes, Edward, yes;" replied the maid, 
 
 "I see the bird on yonder tree." 
 The poor boy sigh'd, and gently said: 
 
 "Sister, I wish that I could see. 
 
 "The flowers, you say, are very fair, 
 And bright green leaves are on the trees, 
 And pretty birds are singing there — 
 
 How beautiful for one who sees! 
 "Yet I the fragrant flowers cau smell, 
 
 And I can feel the green leafs shade, 
 And I can hear the notes that swell 
 
 From those dear birds that God has 
 made. 
 
 "So, sister, God to me is kind, 
 
 Though sight, alas! He has not given; 
 But tell me, are there any blind 
 
 Among the children up in heaven?" 
 "No; dearest Edward, there all see — 
 
 But why ask me a thing so odd?" 
 ' 'Oh, Mary, He's so good to me, 
 
 I thought I'd like to look at God!". 
 
 (pi.) Ere long, Disease his hand had 
 laid, 
 
 On that dear boy, so meek and mild; 
 His widowed mother wept and pray'd 
 
 That God would spare her sightless 
 child. 
 He felt her warm tears on his face, 
 
 And said: "Oh, never weep for me; 
 I'm going to a bright, bright place, 
 
 Where Mary says I God shall see! 
 
 "And you'll be there, dear Mary, too; 
 
 But, mother, when you get up there, 
 Tell Edward, mother, that 'tis you, 
 
 You know I never saw you here." 
 He spoke no more but sweetly smiled 
 
 Until the final blow was given — 
 When GOD took up the poor blind child 
 And opened first his eyes in heaven! 
 
 The White Rose of Miama. 
 Mrs. E. L. Schermebhorn. 
 
 Let me stay at my home, in the beauti- 
 ful west, 
 
 Where 1 played when a child, in my age 
 let me rest, 
 
 Where the bright prairies bloom, and 
 the wild waters play, 
 
 In the home of my heart, dearest friends 
 let me stay. 
 
 O, here let me stay, where my chief, in 
 
 the pride 
 Of a brave warrior-youth, wandered 
 
 forth by my side; 
 Where he laid at my feet, the young 
 
 hunter's best prey, 
 Where I roamed a wild huntress, — O 
 
 fripnds let me stay! 
 
 Let me stay where the prairies I've oft 
 
 wandered through, 
 While my moceasius brushed from the 
 
 flowers the dew; 
 Where my warrior would pluck the. 
 
 wild blossoms and say, 
 His white rose was the fairest, — O, here 
 
 let me stay! 
 
 O, here let me stay! where bright 
 
 plumes from the wing 
 Of the bird 'that his arrow had pierced, 
 
 he would bring; 
 Where in parting for battle, he softly 
 
 would say: 
 '"Tis to shield thee I tight," O, with 
 
 him let me stay! 
 
 Let me stay, though he strength of my 
 chieftain is o'er, 
 
 Though his warriors he leads to the bat- 
 tle no more; 
 
 He loves through the woods a wild 
 hunter to stray, 
 
 His heart clings to home,— O, then here 
 let me stay! 
 
 Let me stay where my children in child- 
 hood have played, 
 
i8o 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Where through the green forest they 
 
 often have strayed; 
 They never would bend to the white 
 
 man's cold sway. 
 For their hearts are of tire, — O, here 
 
 let them stay. 
 
 Yon tell me of leaves of the spirit that 
 
 speak, 
 But the Spirit I own, in the bright 
 
 stars I seek; 
 In the prairie, in the forest, the water's 
 
 wild play 
 I see him, I see him, — O, then let me 
 
 stay, 
 
 Twenty Years Ago. 
 
 I wandered to the village,Tom,I sat be- 
 neath the tree, 
 
 Upon the school house playing ground, 
 that sheltered you and me: 
 
 But few were there to greet me, Tom, 
 but few are left j T ou know, 
 
 That played with us upon the green, 
 some twenty years ago. 
 
 The grass is just as green, dear Tom; 
 bare-footed boys at play, 
 
 Were sporting just as we did then, with 
 spirits just as gay, 
 
 But master sleeps upon the hill, all cov- 
 ered o'er with snow, 
 
 Which afforded us a sliding ground, 
 some twenty years ago. 
 
 The river, Tom, is running still, the 
 
 willows on its side 
 Are larger than they were, Tom — the 
 
 stream appears less wide; 
 The grape-vine swing is ruined, Tom, 
 
 where once we played the beau, 
 And swung our sweethearts, pretty 
 
 girls, some twenty years ago. 
 
 The spring that bubbled 'neath the 
 
 rocks, close b} r the spreading 
 
 beach, 
 Is very low; 'twas once so high that we 
 
 could scarcely reach, 
 And kneeling down to get a drink, dear 
 
 Tom, I started so, 
 
 To see how much that I was changed 
 siuce twenty years ago. 
 
 Down by the spring, upon an elm, you 
 
 know I cut.yonr name, 
 Your sweetheart's just beueath it, Tom, 
 
 and you did mine the same; 
 Some heartless wretch has peeled the 
 
 bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, 
 Just like the one whose name you cut 
 
 died twenty years ago. 
 
 My lids have long been dry, dear Tom, 
 
 but tears come to my eyes; 
 I thought of her I loved so well — those 
 
 early broken ties; 
 I visited the old church-yar I. and took 
 
 some flowers to strew, 
 Upon the graves of those we loved some 
 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 Some are in the church-yard laid, some 
 
 sleep beneath the sea, 
 But few are left of our old class.except- 
 
 ing you and me; 
 And when the time shall come, Tom, 
 
 and we are called to go, 
 I hope they'll lay us where we played, 
 
 some twenty years ago. 
 
 ^ ■ i ^i 
 
 The Battle of Waterloo. 
 
 BYROX. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gathered 
 then 
 Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone over fair women and 
 brave men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and 
 whan 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spoke 
 again ; 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell: 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes 
 like a rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it V— No ; 'twas but the 
 wind, 
 Orthe car rattliugo'erthe stony street; 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 181 
 
 Oa with the dance ! let* joy be uucon- The mustering squadron, and the clat- 
 
 fined; tering car 
 
 No sleep till morn, when Youth and Went pouring forward with impetuous 
 
 Pleasure meet speed, 
 
 To chase the glowing hours with Hying And swiftly forming in the ranks o! 
 
 feet— war; 
 
 But hark !— that heavy sound breaks And the deep thunder peal on peal 
 
 in once more, 
 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat-, 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than be- 
 fore ! 
 
 Arm ! Arm! it is -it is the cannon's open- 
 ing roar ! 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high 
 hall 
 Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he 
 did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival, 
 And caught its tone with Death's pro- 
 phetic ear; 
 And when they smiled because he deem- 
 ed it near, 
 His heart more truly knew that peal 
 too well 
 
 afar, 
 And near, the beat of the alarming 
 drum 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning- 
 star ; 
 While throng'd the citizens, with 
 terror dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white lips — "The 
 foe ! they come ! they come !" 
 
 And wild and high the "Cameron's Gath- 
 ering" rose ! 
 The war-notes of Lochiel, which Al- 
 byn's hills 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her 
 Saxon foes ; — 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch 
 thrills, 
 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody Savage and shrill ! But with the breath 
 bier, that fills 
 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone Their mountain-pipe, so till the mount- 
 
 could quell: aineers 
 
 He rush'd iuto the field, and foremost With the tierce native daring which in- 
 fighting, fell. stills 
 Ah ! then and there was burring to and The stilTiD S nteinoij of a thousand 
 
 fro, y ears * 
 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each 
 
 of distress, clansman's ears ! 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour " And Ardennes waves above them her 
 
 ago green leaves, 
 
 Blushed at the praise of their own Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they 
 
 loveliness ; pass, 
 
 And there were sudden partings, such Grieving, if aught inanimate ere grieves, 
 
 as press Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
 
 The life from out young hearts, and Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 
 choking sighs Which now beneath them but above 
 Which ne'er might be repeated; who 
 
 could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mut- 
 ual eyes, 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful 
 morn could rise ! 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste; 
 the steed, 
 
 shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 
 Of living valor, rolling on the foe 
 And burning with higjh hope, shall 
 
 moulder cold and low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly 
 
 gay, 
 
82 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 The midnight brought the signal sound 
 of strife, 
 The morn the marshalling in arms. — 
 the (.lay 
 Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, 
 which, when rent, 
 The earth is cover' d thick with other 
 clay, 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd 
 and pent, 
 Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one 
 red burial blent ! 
 
 Out of the Old House, Nancy. 
 
 WILL M. CARLETON. 
 
 Out of the old house, Nancy — moved 
 up into the new; 
 
 All the hurry and worry is just as good 
 as through. 
 
 Only a bounden duty remains for you 
 and I — 
 
 And that's to stand on the door-step, 
 here, and bid the old house good- 
 bye. 
 
 What a shell we've lived in, these nine- 
 teen or twenty years! 
 
 Wonder it hadn't smashed in and tum- 
 bled abcut our ears; 
 
 Wonder it's stuck together, and an- 
 swered till to-day; 
 
 But every individual log was put up 
 here to sta} T . 
 
 Things looked rather new, though, 
 
 when this old house was built; 
 And things that blossomed you 
 
 would' ve made some women wilt; 
 And every other day, then, as sure as 
 
 day would break, 
 My neighbor "Ages" come this way, in- 
 
 vitin' me to "shake." 
 
 And you, for want of neighbors, was 
 
 sometimes blue and sad, 
 For wolves and bears and wild- cats 
 
 was the nearest ones you had: 
 But lookin' ahead to the clearin' we 
 
 worked with all our might, 
 Until we was fairly out of the woods, 
 
 and things was goin' right. 
 
 Look up there at our new house— ain't 
 
 it a thing to see? 
 Tall and big and handsome, and new 
 
 as new can be; 
 All is in apple-pie order, especially the 
 
 shelves, 
 And never a debt to say but what we 
 
 own it all ourselves. 
 
 Look at our old log house— how little 
 it now appears! 
 
 But it's never gone back on us for nine- 
 teen or twenty years; 
 
 An' I won't go back on it now, or go to 
 poking fun — 
 
 There's such a thing as praisin' a thing 
 for the good that it has done. 
 
 Probably you remember how rich we 
 
 was that night, 
 When we was fairly settled, an' had 
 
 things snug and tight: 
 We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, 
 
 over the house that's new, 
 But we felt as proud under this old 
 
 roof, and a good deal prouder, 
 
 too. 
 
 Never a handsomer house was seen be- 
 neath the sun: 
 
 Kitchen and parlor and bed-room — we 
 had 'em all in one; 
 
 And the fat old wooden clock that we 
 bought when we come West, 
 
 Was tickin' away in the corner there, 
 and doin' its level best. 
 
 Trees was all around us, a-whisperin' 
 
 cheering words; 
 Loud was the squirrel's chatter, and 
 
 sweet the songs of birds; 
 And home grew sweeter and brighter — 
 
 our courage began to mount — 
 And things looked hearty and happy 
 
 then, and work appeared to 
 
 count. 
 
 And here one night it happened, when 
 
 things was goin' bad, 
 We fell in a deep old quarrel— the first 
 
 we ever had; 
 And when you give out and cried, then 
 
 I, like a fool give in, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 183 
 
 And then we agreed to rub all out, and 
 start the thing ag'in. 
 
 Here it was yon remember, we sat 
 
 when the day was done, 
 And yon was a- making clothing that 
 
 wasn't for either one; 
 And often a soft word of love I was 
 
 soft enough to say, 
 And the wolves were howlin' in the 
 
 woods not twenty rods away. 
 
 Then our first-born baby — a regular 
 
 little joy. 
 Though I fretted a little because it 
 
 wasn't a boy: 
 Wa'n't she a little flirt, though, with 
 
 all her pouts and smiles V 
 \Vhy, settlers come to see that show a 
 
 half a dozen miles. 
 
 Yonder sat the cradle — a homely, home- 
 made thing, 
 
 And many a night I rocked it, provid- 
 in' you would sing, 
 
 And. many a little squatter brought up 
 with us to stay — 
 
 And so that cradle for many a year, 
 was never put away. 
 
 How they kept a-comin', so cunnin' and 
 
 fat and small! 
 How they grov\ ed! 'twas a wonder how 
 
 we found room for them all; 
 But though the house was crowded, it 
 
 empt} 7 seemed that day 
 When Jennie lay by the fire-place, 
 
 there, and moaned her life away. 
 
 And right in there the preacher, with 
 
 Bible and hymn-book stood, 
 ""Twixt the dead and the living," and 
 
 ' hoped 'twould do us good;" 
 And the little whitewood coffin on the 
 
 table there w r as set, 
 And now as I rub my eyes it seems as 
 
 if I could see it yet, 
 
 Then that fit of sickness it brought on 
 
 you, you know, 
 Just by a single thread you hung, and 
 
 you e'en-a'most let go; 
 And here is the spot 1 tumbled, and 
 
 give the Lord his due, 
 
 When the doctor said the fever'd lurn- 
 
 «mL :t n' he could fetch you through. 
 
 Yes, a deal has happened to make this 
 old house dear: 
 
 Christenin's, funerals, weddin'a — what 
 haven't we had there? 
 
 Not a log in this buildin' but its mem- 
 ories has got. 
 
 And not a nail in this old floor but 
 touches a tender spot. 
 
 Out of the old house, Nancy —moved 
 
 up into the new; 
 All the hurry and worry is just as good 
 
 as through; 
 But I tell you a thing right here, that I 
 
 ain't ashamed to say, 
 There's precious things in this old 
 
 house we never can take away. 
 
 Here the old house will stand, but not 
 
 as it stood before: 
 Winds will whistle through it, and 
 
 rains will flood the floor; 
 And over the hearth, once blazing, the 
 
 snow-drifts oft will pile. 
 And the old thing will seem to be a- 
 
 mournin' all the while. 
 
 Fare yon well, old house! you're naught 
 
 that can feel or see, 
 But you seem like a human being— a 
 
 dear old friend to me; 
 And we'll never have a better home, if 
 
 my opinion stands, 
 Until we commence a-keepin' house in 
 the house not made with hands. 
 
 ^ ■ ■ —^— 
 
 Graves of a Household. 
 They grew in beauty side by side, 
 They till'd one home with glee; 
 Their graves are sever'd far and wide, 
 
 By mount, and stream, and sea. 
 The same fond mother bent at night, 
 
 O'er each fair sleeping brow; 
 She had each folded flower in sight, 
 Where are those dreamers now? 
 
 One midst the forest of the west 
 
 By a dark stream is laid , 
 The Indian knows his place of rest, 
 
 Far in the cedar shade. 
 
1 84 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 The sea, the blue, lone sea hath one, 
 He lies where pearls lie deep; 
 
 He was the loved of all, yet none 
 O'er his bed may weep. 
 
 One sleeps where southern vines are 
 dress'd, 
 
 Above the noble slain; 
 He wound his colors round his breast, 
 
 On a blood-red field of Spain. 
 And one— o'er her the myrtle showers 
 
 Its leaves by soft winds fann'd; 
 She faded 'midst Italian flowers, 
 
 The last of that fair band. 
 
 And parted thus, they rest, who play'd 
 
 Beneath the same green tree; 
 Whose voices mingled, as they pray'd 
 
 Around one parent knee. 
 They that with smiles lit up the hall, 
 
 And cheer'd with song the hearth — 
 Alas! for loved, if thou art all, 
 
 And naught beyond, O earth. 
 
 The Will and the Way. 
 We have faith in old proverbs full 
 surely, 
 For Wisdom has traced what they 
 tell; 
 And truth may be drawn up as purely 
 
 From them as it may from a well. 
 Let us question the thinkers and doers, 
 
 And hear what they honestly say, 
 And you'll find they believe, like bold 
 wooers, 
 In "where there's a will there's a 
 way." 
 
 Have ye vices that ask a destroyer? 
 
 Or passions that need your control? 
 Let Reason become your employer, 
 
 And your body be ruled by your soul. 
 Fight on, though ye bleed in the trial, 
 
 Resist with all strength that you may; 
 Ye may couquer sins host by denial, 
 
 For "where there's a will there's a 
 way." 
 
 Have ye Poverty's pinching "to cope 
 with? 
 Does Suffering weigh down your 
 might? 
 
 Or call up a spirit to hope with, 
 And dawn may come out of the night, 
 
 Oh! much may be done by defying 
 The ghosts of Despair and Dismay; 
 
 And much may be gained by relying 
 On " where there's a will there's a 
 way." 
 
 Should 3'ou see afar off that worth win* 
 ning. 
 Set out on the journey with trust ; 
 And ne'er heed if your path at begin- 
 ning 
 Should be among brambles and dust, 
 Though it is but by footsteps ye do it, 
 And hardships may hinder and stay, 
 Keep a heart, and be sure 3 7 #>u'll get 
 through it, 
 For "where there's a will there's a. 
 way." 
 
 The Golden Side. 
 
 There is many a rest on the road of life, 
 
 If we would only stop to take it ; 
 And many a one from the better laud, 
 
 If the querulous heart would wake it. 
 To the sunny soul that is full of hope, 
 
 And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth, 
 The grass is green and the flowers are 
 bright, 
 
 Though the wintry storm prevaileth, 
 
 Better to hope, though the cloud's hang- 
 low, 
 And to keep the heart still lifted ; 
 For the sweet blue sky will soon peep 
 through, 
 When the ominous clouds are rifted. 
 There was never a night without a day, 
 Nor an evening without a morning, a 
 And the darkest hour, the proverb goes, 
 
 Is the hour before the dawning. 
 There is many a gem in the path of 
 life, 
 Which we pass in our idle pleasure, 
 That is richer far than the jewellec) 
 crown 
 Or the miser'sjioarded treasure. 
 It may be the love of a little child, 
 Or a mother's prayer to heaven, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 185 
 
 Or only a beggar's grateful thanks 
 For a cup of water given. 
 
 Better to weave in the web of life 
 
 A bright and golden tilling, 
 And to do God's will with a ready heart 
 
 And hands that are swift and willing, 
 Than to snap the delicate silver threads 
 
 Of our curious lives asunder; 
 And then Heav'n blame for the tangled 
 ends, 
 
 And sit and grieve and wonder. 
 
 Deeds Versus Creeds- 
 By Annie L. Muzzey. 
 And seeking truth, I wholly lost my 
 way; 
 Rocked back and forward by the 
 
 swinging tides 
 Of doubt and faith, confused by many 
 guides, 
 Each one armed with a doctrine and a 
 creed 
 Which each felt safe to say 
 Would meet and satisfy my every deed. 
 
 And one claimed Jesus was the son of 
 God; 
 And one denied that he was more 
 
 than man. 
 One scented wrath in the redeeming 
 plan; 
 One dwelt upon its mercy and its love; 
 
 One threatened with the rod; 
 One woed me with the cooings of the 
 dove. 
 
 And whether souls were foreordained 
 to bliss: 
 And whether faith, or works, were 
 
 strong to save* 
 And whether judgment lay beyond 
 the grave, 
 And love with pardoning power went 
 down to hell; 
 Whether that road or this, 
 Led up to Heaven's gate I could not 
 tell. 
 
 Amid this dust of theologic strife, 
 I hungered with want unsatisfied. 
 
 Heaven while I lived, not Heaven 
 when I died, 
 Was what 1 craved; and how to make 
 sublime 
 And beautiful my life 
 While yet I lingered on the shon 
 Time. 
 
 To judgment swift my guides in doe 
 trine came: 
 Which one lived out the royal truths 
 
 he preached ? 
 Which one loved mercy, and ne'er 
 over* reached 
 His weaker brother? And which one 
 forgot 
 His own to other's claim. 
 And putself last? I sought, but found 
 him not. 
 
 And wept and railed because religion 
 seemed 
 Only the thin ascending smoke of 
 
 words — 
 The jangling rude of inharmonious 
 chords; 
 Until — my false inductions to disprove- 
 Across my vision streamed 
 The glory of a life aflame with love. 
 
 One who was silent while his brethreh 
 taught, 
 And showed me not the beauties of 
 
 his creed, 
 But went before me, sowing silent 
 seed 
 That made the waste and barren desert 
 glad ; 
 Whese hand in secret brought 
 Healing and comfort to the sick and 
 sad. 
 
 Aglow; I cried, "Here all my question- 
 ings end; 
 Oh! what is thy religion, thy belief ? w 
 Smiling he shook his head with an- 
 swer brief — 
 This man so swift to act, so slow t© 
 speak — 
 "In deeds, not creeds, my friend, 
 Lives the religion that I humbly seek,** 
 
 And soft and sweet across my spirit 
 stole 
 
i 86 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 The Dest and peace so. long and vain- 
 ly sought; 
 Ami though I mourn the graces 1 
 have not; 
 If I may help my brother in his need, 
 
 And love him as my soul, 
 I trust God's pardon if I have no creed. 
 
 Scatter thus your seeds of kindness, 
 
 All enriching as you go. 
 Leave them. Trust the Harvest Giver 
 
 He will make each step to grow. 
 So, until the happy end; 
 Your life shall never lack a friend. 
 
 • A Sermon in Rhyme- 
 
 If you have a friend worth loving 
 Love him. Yes, and let him know 
 
 That you love him, ere life's evening 
 Tinge his brow with sunset glow. 
 
 Why should good words ne'er be said 
 
 Of a friend — till he is dead. 
 
 If you hear a song that thrills you, 
 
 Sung by any child of song, 
 Praise it. Do not let the singer 
 
 Wait deserved praises long 
 Why should one who thrills your heart 
 Lack the joy you uia,y impart? 
 
 If you hear a prayer that moves you 
 By its humble, pleading tone, 
 
 Join it. Do not let the seeker 
 Bow before his God alone. 
 
 Why should not your brother share 
 
 The strength of "two or three" in 
 prayer? 
 
 If you see the hot tears falling 
 From a brother's weeping eyes, 
 
 Stop them, and by kindly sharing, 
 Own your kinship with the skies. 
 
 Wiry should anyone be glad 
 
 When a brother's heart is sad? 
 
 If a silvery laugh goes rippling 
 Through the sunshine on. his face, 
 
 Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying — 
 For both joy and grief a place. 
 
 There's health and goodness in the 
 mirth 
 
 In which an honest laugh has birth. 
 
 If your work is made more easy 
 By a friendly, helping hand; 
 
 Say so. Speak out brave and truly 
 Ere the darkness veils the land. 
 
 Should a brother workman dear 
 
 Falter for a word of cheer? 
 
 She Always Made Home Happy. 
 
 In an old churchyard stood a stone, 
 
 Weather-marked and stained ; 
 The hand of time had crumbled it, 
 
 So only part of it remained : 
 Upon one side I could just trace — 
 
 "In memory of my mother." 
 An epitaph which spoke of ''home." 
 
 Was chiseled on the other. 
 
 I'd gaze on monuments of fame, 
 
 High towering to the skies ; 
 I'd seen the sculptured marble stone 
 
 Where a great hero lies ; 
 But by this epitaph I paused, 
 
 And read it o'er and o'er, 
 For I had never seen inscribed 
 
 Such words as these before : 
 
 "She always made home happy," 
 
 A noble record left, 
 A legacy of memory sweet 
 
 To those she loved bereft ; 
 And what a testimony given 
 
 By those who knew her best, 
 Engraved on this plain rude stone, 
 
 That marked the mother's rest ! 
 
 It was an humble resting place, 
 
 I knew that they were poor ; 
 But they had seen their mother sink, 
 
 And patiently endure. 
 They had marked her cheerful spirit. 
 
 When bearing one by one, 
 Her many burdens up the hill, 
 
 Till all her work was done. 
 
 So, when was stilled her weary heart, 
 
 Folded her hands so white, 
 And she was carried from the home 
 
 She always made so bright, 
 Her children made a monument 
 
 That money can't secure, 
 As witness of a noble life, 
 
 Whose record will endure. 
 
Oi.mstead's Recitations. 
 
 ■87 
 
 A noble life ! but written not 
 
 In tiny book of fame ; 
 Among the list of noted i 
 
 None ever saw her name ; 
 For only Inn- own household knew 
 
 The victories she had won, 
 And none but they could testify 
 
 How well her work was done. 
 
 The Family Bible- 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 How painfully pleasing the fond recol- 
 lection 
 Of youthful connexions and innocent 
 joy, 
 When, blessed with parental advice and 
 affection, 
 Surrounded with mercies, with peace 
 from on high, 
 I still view the chair of my sire and my 
 • mother, 
 The seats of their offspring as ranged 
 on each hand, 
 And that richest of all books, which ex- 
 celled every other — 
 The family Bible, that lay on the stand ; 
 The old-fashioned Bible, the dear, bless- 
 ed Bible, 
 The family Bible that lay on the stand. 
 
 That Bible, the volume of God's inspira- 
 tion, 
 At morning at evening, could yield us 
 delight, 
 And the prayer of our sire was a sweet 
 invocation, 
 For mercy by day, and for safety 
 through night. 
 Our hymns of thanksgiving, with har- 
 mony swelling, 
 Half raised us from earth to that raptur- 
 ous dwelling, 
 Described iu the Bible, that lay on the 
 stand ; 
 That richest of books, which excelled 
 every other— 
 The family Bible, that lay on the stand . 
 
 Ye scenes of tranquility, long have we 
 parted ; 
 
 My hope's almost gone, and my parents 
 no more ; 
 In sorrow and sadness I live broken- 
 hearted. 
 And wander unknown on a far distant 
 shore. 
 Yet how can I doubt, a dear Savior's pro- 
 tection. 
 Forgetful of gifts from his bountiful 
 hand ! 
 O, let me, with patience, receive his 
 correction, 
 And think of the Bible, that lay on the 
 stand ; 
 The richest of books, which excelled any 
 other 
 The family Bible, that lay on the stand 
 
 The Dream of Ambition- 
 
 T UPPER. 
 
 I left the happy fields that smile around 
 the village of content, and sought with 
 wayward feet the torrid desert of 
 ambition. Long time parched and 
 weary, I travelled that burning sand, 
 and the hooded basilisk and adder were 
 strewed in my way for palms; Black 
 scorpians thronged me round with 
 sharp uplifted stings, seeming to mock 
 me as I ran, then I guessed it was a 
 dream, but life is oft so like a dream, 
 we know not where we are. 
 
 So I toiled on doubting in myself, up 
 a steep gravel cliff, whose yellows sum- 
 mit shot up far into the brazen sky; 
 and quickly I was wafted to the top, 
 as upon unseen wings, carrying me 
 upward like a leaf, then I thought it 
 was a dream, yet life is oft so like a 
 dream we know not what we are. So 
 I stood on the mountain, and behold! 
 before me a giant pyramid, and I clomb 
 with eager haste its high and difficult 
 steps;for-I longed like another Bel us, to 
 mount up, 3 r ea to heaven, nor sought I 
 rest until my feet had spurned the 
 crest of earth. 
 
 Then I sat on my grauite throne 
 under the burning sun and the world 
 
188 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 lay smiliug beneath me but I was 
 wrapped in flames and I hoped in 
 glimmering consciousness that all this 
 torture was a dream, yet life is oft so 
 like a dream, we know not where we 
 are. And anon, as T sat scorching, 
 the pyramid shuddered to its root, and 
 I felt the quarried mass leap from its 
 sand foundations: awhile it tottered 
 and tilted, as raised by invisible levers 
 — and now my reason spake with me; I 
 new it was a dream; yet I hushed that 
 whisper into silence, for I hoped to 
 learn of wisdom, by tracking up my 
 truant thoughts, whereunto they might 
 lead. 
 
 And suddenly as rolling upon wheels, 
 adown the cliff it rushed and I thought 
 in my hot brain, of the muscovites icy 
 slope; a thousand yards in a moment 
 we ploughed the sandy seas, and crush- 
 ed those happy fields, and that smiling 
 village, and onward, as a living thing, 
 still rushed my mighty thi one, thunder- 
 ing along, and pounding, as it went, 
 the millions in my way. Before me all 
 was life and joy and full blown summer, 
 behind me death and woe, the desert 
 and simoon. 
 
 Then I wept and shrieked aloud, 
 for pity and for fear, but might not stop 
 for, comet like flew on the maddened 
 mass over the crashing cities, and fall- 
 ing okelisks and towers, and columns 
 razed as by a scythe and high domes 
 shivered as an egg shell. And deep 
 embattled ranks, and women, crowded 
 in the streets, and children, kneeling 
 as for mercy, and all I had ever loved, 
 yea, over all, mine awful throne rushed 
 on with seeming instinct and over the 
 crackling forests, and over the rugged 
 beach, and on, with a terrible hiss 
 through the foaming wild atlantic, that 
 roared around me as I sat, but could not 
 quench my spirit, — Still on, through 
 startled solitudes we shattered the 
 pavement of the deep, down, down, to 
 that central vault the bolted doors of 
 tell; and these, with horrid shock, my 
 
 huge throne battered in, ynd on to the- 
 deepest deep, where the fierce flames, 
 were hottest; blazing tenfold as con- 
 quering furiously the seas that rushed 
 in with me, — and there I stopped: and 
 a fearful voice shouted in mine ear,, 
 "behold the home of discontent; beholdi 
 the rest of ambition. 
 
 The Raising of Dorcas- 
 
 (By permission.) 
 
 Rev. Alfred J. Hough. 
 
 It was long ago, w r hen the church was 
 
 young; 
 And the preachers preached with a 
 
 fiery tongue, 
 When the people prayed in the Holy- 
 Ghost, 
 And a handful grew in a day to a host, 
 That a lowly worker with needle and. 
 
 thread 
 In the city of Joppa was lying dead. 
 In an upper chamber by the sea 
 She waited her last sad minstrelsy; 
 The Chisel of Sorrow had left no trace 
 To mar the form of her noble face, 
 She seemed as one who had wrought. 
 
 all day, 
 Then quietly laid her w r ork away, 
 And peacefully turned to rest a while 
 In the tender light of her Master's 
 
 smile; 
 For a brighter sheen than the mornings 
 
 wear 
 Flowed over her face as she slumbered 
 
 there. 
 But the people rushed through the- 
 
 streets all day, 
 And the ships weighed anchor and 
 
 sailed away; 
 The world moved on, for it would not 
 
 miss 
 From its countless throngs such a life 
 
 as this. 
 Only a worker with needle and thread 
 In an upper chamber was lying dead; 
 But thither the widows and children 
 
 came, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 189 
 
 Wailing their sorrows and calling her 
 
 name, 
 Ever deferring the burial day, 
 Refusing to carry the body away; 
 •Counting her alms, deeds, telling them 
 
 o'er, 
 A disciple of Jesus, a friend of the 
 
 poor, 
 ^Cheering the sad as an angel of light. 
 How could they bury her out of their 
 
 sight? 
 Then a mother in Israel rose and said, 
 "This sorrow avails not; Dorcas is 
 
 dead. 
 But Jesus hath power to quicken her 
 
 clay! 
 Bring Peter from Lydda aud let him 
 
 praj." 
 The counsel was timely. Peter was 
 
 brought, 
 They showed him the garments that 
 
 Dorcas had wrought. 
 With their passionate pleas they 
 
 troubled the air. 
 Would Jesus have mercy and answer 
 
 prayer? 
 Then Peter sent all the people away, 
 And knelt at the side of the dead to 
 
 pray; 
 His face was turned to the gates of 
 
 gold, 
 At the touch of his prayer they back- 
 ward rolled, 
 And there in a listening attitude 
 The form of his glorious Mastar stood. 
 <4 Jesus of Nazereth!" Heaven grew 
 
 still 
 As Peter prayed. "If it be thy will, 
 Send back to this form the spirit fled. 
 Thy servant worked with a needle and 
 
 thread ; 
 She ministered daily to human ueeds, 
 The Gospel preached by her loving 
 
 deeds; 
 And the poor of the city are sore dis 
 
 tressed 
 Because thou hast called her home to 
 
 rest. 
 We have thousands left who will face 
 
 the stake, 
 
 The rack and the prison for thy name's 
 
 sake, 
 But nobody comes her place to fill — 
 O send her back if it be thy will! 
 No shivering children throng the 
 
 streets 
 Of thy heavenly home; not'a sad heart 
 
 beats 
 In one of thy mansions fair and new — 
 Thou hast nothing there for Dorcas to 
 
 do!" 
 Then the Master turned as he heard 
 
 the prayer, 
 And beckoned to one of his children 
 
 there, 
 And forth she ,came with obedience 
 
 sweet 
 All robed and crowned to the Master's 
 
 feet. 
 He told her the burden of Peter's plea: 
 How the widows were weeping bitterly 
 In the city of Joppa far away, 
 And Peter was kneeling beside her clay 
 Till the answer came; could she forego 
 The joys of the heavenly life; and show 
 Her love for God with as sweet a grace 
 As she sang his praise in the heavenly 
 
 place? 
 Pass out from the song and fadeless 
 
 bloom 
 To her lowly task in a narrow room, 
 With never a sigh for the glory tied, 
 As she worked again with needle and 
 
 thread? 
 Swift as the lightning flies through 
 
 heaven, 
 Was the purpose formed and the an- 
 swer given. 
 To work for the love of the Lord below 
 To sit in a desolate room and sew 
 The seams of a coat, that an orphan lad 
 Might leap for joy and be better clad, 
 To her royal heart seemed a nobler 
 
 thing, 
 Than to stand up there by the throne 
 
 and sing. 
 Serving the Lord with a needle and 
 
 thread, 
 Stitchiug away till her fingers bled 
 In a cheerless room in a louely street 
 
190 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Through the winter's cold and the sum- He sprang to his feet and called her 
 
 mer's heat; name. 
 
 That a widow's heart for a garment She answered with outstretched hand 
 
 given and rose 
 
 Might turn with praise to the Lord in As one who had taken a sweet repose. 
 
 heaven; And the people paused in the street 
 
 Filled her son 1 with a richer melody that day; 
 
 Thau the harpers make on the jasper Not a ship weighed anchor or sailed 
 
 sea. m away. • 
 
 And that is the kind of religion we For the news through the city of Joppa 
 
 need — sped. 
 
 Enshrining itself in a loving deed; That the power of God had raised from 
 
 Counting it better to serve the least, the dead 
 
 Than to sit a guest at a royal feast. A lowly worker with nef die and 
 
 Then the wondrous news through the thread. 
 
 city sped To the valley of death the kings go 
 
 That she who had wrought with needle down, 
 
 and thread And never come back to the throne 
 Had left the paradise of the blest, and the crown; 
 Its cloudless skies and its vales of rest, Apostles and martyrs, a glorious band, 
 Deeming it nobler to carry an alms Return not again from the silent land; 
 To a suffering $oul than to sing high The masters of speech, the singers sub- 
 Psalms lime, 
 With a harp of gold in a grove of Are heard only once in the forum of 
 
 palms. . time; 
 
 And the heavens rang with a glorious The favored of fortune, the noble by 
 
 strain, birth, 
 
 That the love of the Lamb for sinners Leave once and forever their places on 
 
 slain . earth; 
 
 Did such an abounding glory shed But a lowly worker in Joppa plies 
 
 That a lowly worker with needle and Her needle and thread for the poor and 
 
 thread dies, 
 
 Could sit in a narrow room and sew And she out of all that adorable train 
 
 A coat for a child; and never know Was worthy to live her life over again. 
 
 Her heart had a single pleasure lost, And all that remained to speak for the 
 
 Though her soul had over the river dead 
 
 crossed! Was a little lone labor with needle and 
 
 Though her feet the heavenly floors thread. 
 
 had trod The work of the sculptor shall suffer 
 
 And her eyes had looked on the glory decay. 
 
 of God: The tints of the painter shall vanish 
 
 Then Peter knew that his prayer was away, 
 
 heard; O'er temple and tower wild ruin shall 
 
 The motion of wings the still air stir- spread, 
 
 red, But the work of this woman Avith 
 
 And the odor of heaven's unfading needle and thread 
 
 bloom Shall shine when the stars drop out of 
 
 Swept suddenly into the narrow room. the skv. 
 
 A flush to the face of the sleeper came; As something too beautiful ever to die. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 19 
 
 The spirit of Dorcas is still abroad, 
 For the women work for the Love of 
 God 
 
 With needle and thread through weary 
 
 hours; 
 They build our churches with graceful 
 
 towers; 
 They pay Uie sexton-, the balance find 
 
 When the minister's salary runs be- 
 hind; 
 
 They cushion the pews of the holy 
 place, 
 
 Aud with needle and thread will -stand 
 aud face 
 
 The mightiest debt that ever was pour- 
 ed 
 
 On a feeble church by a quarterly 
 board. 
 
 While the brethren fly the impending 
 ills, 
 
 The women walk up aud pay the bills; 
 
 And churches that now sweet influence 
 shed, 
 
 Once held to life by their brittle thread. 
 
 They purchase the organs with stops 
 aud swells; 
 
 They hang in the steeples the happy 
 bells; 
 
 They shingle the roofs, and they fresco 
 the walls, 
 
 And promptly respond to a hundred- 
 calls, 
 
 Williug their varied talents to use — 
 
 In serving the Master or telling the 
 news. 
 
 They are ready to work and ready to 
 
 pray, 
 And they preach sometimes in a quiet 
 
 way, 
 Aud a man would rather enlist for the 
 
 war 
 Than the women should tell him just 
 
 how things are. 
 When the funds of the church are run- 
 ning low, 
 They call for a needle and thread and 
 
 sew, 
 Or the dimes of the people lightly take 
 In exchange for delicious coffee and 
 
 cake. 
 
 They talk sometimes as their needles 
 fly, 
 
 lint a woman must either talk or die; 
 
 Aud what if they should our faults re- 
 hearse, 
 
 Why, nobody seems one penny the 
 worse, 
 
 So gracefully is his death prepared, 
 
 A man would rather be slain than spar- 
 ed. 
 
 The spirit of Dorcas is living still. 
 
 For the women with consecrated skill. 
 
 In the churches of God- throughout the 
 land, 
 
 Are working away with a willing hand. 
 
 The mountains before them fade from 
 view, 
 
 And the ruins divide to let them 
 through; 
 
 If they ask for a dollar you'd better 
 pay, 
 
 Your money and get straight away. 
 
 If you stand a moment to plead . or 
 strive. 
 
 Instead of one dollar they'll ask for 
 live. 
 
 A single heart with the word of God, 
 
 The grace and the grit to pray and 
 plod, 
 
 The banner of Truth aloft unfurled 
 
 And a sewing-circle— might beat the 
 world. 
 
 Hagar in the Wilderness. 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 The morning broke. Light stole upon 
 the clouds with a strange beauty. Earth 
 received again its garment of a thousand 
 dies ; and leaves, aud delicate blossoms, 
 aud the painted {lowers, and everything 
 that bendeth to the dew, and stirreth 
 with the daylight, lifted up its beauty to 
 the breath of that sweet morning. 
 
 All things are dark to sorrow ; and 
 the light, and loveliness, and fragrant 
 air were sad to the dejected Hagar. The 
 moist earth was pouring odors from its 
 spicy pores, and the young birds were 
 caroling as life were a new tiling to them ; 
 but oh ! it came upon her heart like 
 
192 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 tffocord, and she felt how cruelly it tries 
 a broken heart, to see a mirth in any- 
 thing it loves. She stood at Abraham's 
 lent. Her lips were pressed till the 
 Mood left them ; aud the wandering 
 veins of her transparent forehead were 
 swelled out, as if her pride would burst 
 them. Her dark eye was clear and tear- 
 less, and the light of heaven, which made 
 its language legible, shot back from her 
 iong lashes, as it had been flame. Her 
 noble boy stood by her, with his hand 
 clasped in her own, and his round, deli- 
 cate feet, scarce trained to balance on 
 the tented floor, sandaled for journey- 
 ing. He had looked up into his mother's 
 face until he caught the spirit there, and 
 his young heart was swelling beneath 
 his snowy bosom, and his form straigh- 
 tened up proudly in his tiny wrath, as if 
 his light proportions would have swell- 
 ed, had they but matched his spirit, to 
 ihe man. 
 
 Why bends the patriarch as he cometh 
 now upon his staff so wearily ? His 
 i>eard is upon his breast, and his high 
 brow, so written with the converse of 
 his God, beareth the^ swollen vein of 
 agony. His lip is quivering, and his 
 wonted step of vigor is not there ; and, 
 though the morn is passing fair and 
 beautiful, he breathes its freshness as it 
 were a pestilence. Oh ! man may bear' 
 with suffering ; his heart is a strong 
 thing, and godlike in thegrasp of pain 
 that wrings mortality ; but tear one cord 
 affection clings to, part one tie that 
 "binds him to a woman's delicate love, 
 and his great spirit yieldeth like a 
 ireed. 
 
 He gave her the water and the bread, 
 but spoke no word, and trusted not him- 
 self to look upon her face but liid his 
 hand, in silent blessing, on the fair- 
 haired boy, and left her to her lot of 
 loneliness. 
 
 Should Hagar weep V May slighted 
 rroman turn, and, as a vine the oak hath 
 shaken off, bend lightly to her tender 
 trust again? O no! by all her loveliness, 
 
 by all that makes life poetry and beauty, 
 no ! make her a slave ; steal from her 
 rosy cheek by needless jealousies ; let 
 the last star leave her a watcher by your 
 couch of pain ; wrong her by petulance, 
 suspicion, all that makes her cup a 
 bitterness — yet give one evidence of love . 
 and earth has not an emblem of devoted - 
 ness like hers. Bnt, oh ! estrange her 
 once, it boots not how, by wrong or sil- 
 ence, anything that tells a change has 
 come upon your tenderness, — and there 
 is not a thing out of high heaven her 
 pride o'ermastereth not. 
 
 She went her way with a strong step 
 and slow ; her pressed lip arched, and 
 her clear eye undimmed,as it had been a 
 diamond, and her form borne proudly 
 up, as if her heart breathed through. 
 Her child kept on in silence, though she 
 oressed his hand till it was pained ; for 
 he had caught, her spirit, there 
 and the seed of a stern nation had been 
 breathed upon. 
 
 The morning past, and Asia's sun rode 
 up in the clear heaven, and every beam 
 was heat. The cattle of the hills were in 
 the shade, and the bright plumage of 
 Orient lay on beating bosoms in her 
 spicy trees: it was an hour of rest ; but 
 Hagar found no shelter in the wilder- 
 ness, and on she kept her weary way 
 the boy hnng down his head, and opened 
 his parched lips for water ,but she could 
 not give it him. She laid him down be- 
 neath the sultry sky, — for it was better 
 than the close, hot breath of the thick 
 pines. — and tried to comfort him ; but 
 he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes 
 were dim and bloodshot, and he could 
 not know why God denied him water in 
 the wild. She sat a little longer, and 
 he grew ghastly and faint, as if he would 
 have died. It was too much for her. 
 She lifted him, and bore him farther on, 
 and laid his head beneath the shadow of 
 a desert shrub ; and, shrouding up her 
 face, she went away, and sat to watch, 
 where he could see her not, till he should 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 193 
 
 die ; and, watchiag him, she mourn- 
 ed :— 
 
 "God stay thee in thine agony my boy; 
 
 I cannot see thee die; I cauuot brook 
 Upon thy blow to look, 
 
 And see death settle on my cradle joy. 
 How have I drunk the light of thy blue 
 eye ! 
 
 And could I see thee die ? 
 
 "I did not dream of this when thou wast 
 straying, 
 Like an unbound gazelle, among the 
 flowers ; 
 Or wearing rosy hours, 
 By the rich gush of water-sources 
 playing, 
 Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, 
 So beautiful and deep- 
 
 "Oh no ! and when I watched by thee 
 the while, 
 And saw thy bright lip curling in thy 
 dream, 
 And thought of the dark stream 
 
 In my own land of Egypt, the deep 
 Nile, 
 How prayed I that my father's land might 
 be 
 An heritage for thee ! 
 
 "And now the grave for its cold breast 
 hath won thee, 
 An I thy white delicate limbs the 
 earth will press ; 
 And oh ! my last caress 
 Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand 
 is on thee 
 How can I leave my boy, so pillowed 
 there 
 Upon his clustering hairl" 
 
 She stood beside the well her God 
 had given to gush in that deep wilder- 
 ness, and bathed the forehead of her 
 child until he laughed in his reviving 
 happiness, and lisped his infant thought 
 of gladness at the sight of the cool plash- 
 ing of his mother's hand. 
 
 Castles in the Air. 
 As through this world we wander 
 
 13 
 
 Hopes brilliant star hangs high; 
 We're looking ahead for belter things 
 In the coming "by and by," 
 Of life's troubles and its burdens, 
 All, have doubtless their full share; 
 But, where'er you go each one you meet 
 Builds Castles in the Air. 
 
 The jurist on the judges bench 
 That law cannot evade; 
 The artist at his canvass bright, 
 The mechanic at his trade; 
 The blacksmith at his anvil 
 With brawny arm aud bare, 
 The stoker in the steamer's hold — 
 Build their Casfcles in the Air. 
 
 Kind Providence, in His wisdom 
 
 Has devised this happy plan; 
 
 Its His law of nature applied to all 
 
 Since first the world begau, — 
 
 Just watch that darling little child, 
 
 Fla3'ing so pretty there; 
 
 She's building with her toys and blocks, 
 
 Her, Castles in the Air. 
 
 Observe the school-boy, rough and rude, 
 
 No thought of books has he; 
 
 He wander's with his dog and gun, 
 
 A sportsman wild aud free; 
 
 He scares the wild bird from her nest, 
 
 The rabbit from his lair; 
 
 You deem it strange, but, still, that boy 
 
 Has, his Castles in the Air. 
 
 The student o'er his midnight lamp, 
 
 Tries hard to apply his rule; 
 
 He's thinking now of other things 
 
 Besides his work in school; 
 
 He's dreaming of the time to come, 
 
 W r hen with a maiden fair, 
 
 By his own hearthstone, he'll realize 
 
 His Castles in the Air. 
 
 That boy and girl have now grown old, 
 Their hair Is streaked with gray; 
 They've seen their shattered Castles fall, 
 Full many, and many a day; 
 But they gather round the old hearth- 
 stone 
 Their heads bowed down with care; 
 And o'ev their children's cradles, 
 Still build Castles in the Air. 
 
194 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Now, good friends, in conclusion, — 
 My advice to every man, 
 While sailing o'er the sea of life 
 Is "do the best you can"; 
 And when death summons you to go 
 If you've acted on the square; 
 To the full extent you'll realize 
 Your Castles in the Air. 
 
 S. Olmstead. 
 If sung, tune— Wearing of the Green. 
 
 What one Boy thinks. 
 A stitch is always dropping in the 
 everlasting knitting, 
 And the needles that I've threaded, 
 no you couldn't count to-day; 
 And I've hunted for the glasses till I 
 thought my head was splitting, 
 When there npon her forehead as 
 calm as clocks they lay. 
 
 I've read to her till I was hoarse, the 
 Psalms and the Epistles, 
 When the other boys were burning 
 tar-barrels down the street; 
 And I've stayed and learned my verses 
 when I heard their willow whistles, 
 And I've stayed and said my chapter 
 with fire in both my feet. 
 
 And I've had to walk beside her when 
 she went to evening meeting, 
 When I wanted to be racing, to be 
 kicking, to be off; 
 And I've waited while she gave the 
 folks a word or two of greeting, 
 First on one foot and the other and 
 most strangled with a cough. 
 
 "You can talk of Young America," I 
 say, "till you are scarlet, 
 It's Old America that has the inside 
 of the track!" 
 Then she wraps me with her thimble 
 and calls me a young varlet, 
 And then she looks so wo-begone I 
 have to take it back. 
 
 But! There always is a peppermint or 
 a penny in her pocket — 
 There never was a pocket that was 
 half so big and deep — 
 
 And she lets the candle in my room 
 burn away down to the socket, 
 While she stews and putters round 
 about till I am sound asleep. 
 
 There's always somebody at home when 
 everyone is scattering; 
 She spreads the jam upon your bread 
 in a way to make you grow; 
 She always takes a fellow's side when 
 everyone is battering: 
 And when I tear my jacket I know 
 just where to go! 
 
 And when I've been in swimming after 
 father's said I shouldn't, 
 And mother has her slipper off' 
 according to the rule: 
 It sounds as sweet as silver, the voice 
 that says, "I wouldn't; 
 The boy that won't go swimming 
 such a day would be a fool!" 
 
 Sometimes there's something in her 
 voice as if she gave a blessing, 
 And I look at her a moment and I 
 keep still as a mouse — 
 And who she is by this time there is no 
 need of guessing; 
 For there's nothing like a Grand- 
 mother to have about the house! 
 
 HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 
 
 The Burial of Arnold. 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 Ye've gathered to your place of prayer 
 
 With slow and measured tread : 
 Your ranks are full, your mates all 
 there— 
 
 But the soul of one has fled. 
 He was the proudest in his strength. 
 
 The manliest of ye all ; 
 Why lies he at that fearful length, 
 
 And ye around his pall ? 
 
 Ye reckon it in days, since he 
 Strode up that foot-worn aisle, 
 
 With his dark eye flashing gloriously, 
 With his lip wreathed with a smile. 
 
 O, had it been but told you, then, 
 To mark whose lamp was dim, 
 
 From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 95, 
 
 Would ye have singled him ? 
 
 Whose was the sinewy arm, which flung 
 Defiance to the ring ? 
 
 Whose laugh of victory loudest rung- 
 Yet not for glorying V 
 
 Whose heart, in generous deed and 
 thought, 
 No rivalry might brook, 
 
 And yet distinction claiming not ? 
 There lies he— go and look ! 
 
 On now — his requiem is done, 
 
 The last deep prayer is said 
 On to his burial, comrades — on, 
 
 With the noblest of the dead ! 
 Slow — for it presses heavily — 
 
 It is a man ye bear ! 
 Slow for our thoughts dwell wearily 
 
 On the noble sleeper there. 
 
 Tread lightly, comrades ! — we have laid 
 
 His dark locks on his brow — 
 Like life— save deeper light and shade : 
 
 We'll not disturb them now. 
 Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful, 
 
 That blue-veined eye-lid's sleep, 
 Hiding the eye death left so dull — 
 
 Its slumber we will keep. 
 
 Rest now ! — his journeying is done — 
 
 Your feet are on his sod- 
 Death's chain is on your champion — 
 
 He waiteth here his God ! 
 Ay — turn and weep— 'tis manliness 
 
 To be heart-broken here— 
 For the grave of earth's best nobleness 
 
 Is watered by the tear. 
 
 CDjur Da Lion at 'the Bier of HisFather- 
 
 Torches were blazing clear, 
 
 Hymns pealing deep and slow, 
 Where a king lay stately on his bier 
 
 In the church of Fontevrault. 
 Banner's of battle o'er him hung. 
 
 And warriors slept beneath 
 Aud light as noon's broad light was 
 flung 
 
 On the settled face of death : 
 
 On the settled face of death 
 A strong and ruddy glare, — 
 
 Though dimmed at times by the ^cen- 
 ser's breath, 
 
 Yet it fell still brightest there ; 
 As if each deeply furrowed trace 
 
 Of earthly years to show, — 
 Alas ! that sceptred mortal's race 
 
 Had surely closed in woe ! 
 
 The marble floor was swept 
 
 By many a long dark stole, 
 As the kneeling priests, round him that 
 slept, 
 Sang mass for the parted soul ; 
 And solemn were the strains they pour- 
 ed 
 Through the stillness of the night, 
 With the cross above, and the crown and 
 sword, 
 And the silent king in sight. 
 
 There was heard a heavy clang, 
 
 As of steel-girt men the tread, 
 And the tombs and the hollow pavement 
 rang 
 
 With a sounding thrill of dread ; 
 And the holy chant was hushed awhile,, 
 
 As by the torch's flame, 
 A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle 
 
 With a mail-clad leader came. 
 
 He came with haughty look, 
 
 An eagle glance and clear ; 
 But his proud heart thongh its breast- 
 plate shook 
 
 When stood beside the bier ! 
 
 The Burning of Chicago. 
 
 Reprinted, by permission, from 'Farm Legends* 
 copyright. 18&7, by Harper Brothers. 
 
 I 
 
 'Twas night in the beautiful city, 
 
 The famous and wonderful city. 
 
 The proud and magnificent city, 
 
 The Queen of the North and the West.. 
 
 The riches of nations were gathered in, 
 wondrous and plentiful store; 
 
 The swift-speeding bearers of commerce- 
 were waiting on river and shore;. 
 
 The great staling walls towered sky- 
 ward, with visage undaunted and 
 bold 
 
 Aud said, "We are ready, O Winter^ 
 
9 6 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Come on with your hunger and cold! 
 Sweep down with your storms, from the 
 
 northward! Come out from your 
 ice-guarded lair! 
 
 Our larders have food for a nation! our 
 
 wardrobes have clothing to spare! 
 For off from the corn-bladed prairies, 
 
 and out from the valleys and hills, 
 The farmer has swept us his harvest, 
 
 the miller has emptied his mills; 
 And here, in the lap of our city, the 
 
 treasures of autumn shall rest, 
 In golden-crowned, glorious Chicago, 
 
 the Queen of the North aud the 
 
 West!" 
 
 II 
 'Twas night in the church-guarded city, 
 The temple and alter-decked city, 
 The turreted, spire-adorned city, 
 The Queen of the North and the West. 
 And out from the beautiful temples that 
 
 wealth in its fullness had made, 
 And out from the haunts that were 
 
 humble, where poverty peacefully 
 
 prayed, 
 Where praises and thanks had been of- 
 fered to Him where they rigntly 
 
 belonged, 
 In peacefulness quietly homeward the 
 
 worshiping multitude thronged. 
 The Pharisee, laden with riches and 
 
 jewehw, costly and rare, 
 Who proudly deigned thanks to Jehov- 
 ah he was not as other men are; 
 The penitent, crushed in his weakness, 
 
 and laden with pain and with sin; 
 The outcast who yearningly waited to 
 
 hear the glad bidding, "Come 
 
 in." 
 And thus went they queitly homeward, 
 
 with sins and omissions confessed, 
 In spire-adorned, templed Chicago, the 
 
 Queen of the North and the West. 
 
 Ill 
 
 'Twas night in the sin-burdened city, 
 The turbulent, vice-laden city, 
 The sin-compassed, rogue-haunted city, 
 Though Queen of the North and the 
 
 West. 
 
 And low in their caves of pollution 
 great beasts of humanity growled; 
 
 And.over his money strewn table the 
 gambler bent fiercely, and scowl- 
 ed; 
 
 And men with no seeming of manhood, 
 with countenance flaming and 
 fell, 
 
 Drank deep from the fire-laden fount- 
 ains that spring from the rivers 
 of hell; 
 
 And men with no seaming of manhood, 
 who dreaded the coming of day, 
 
 Prowled, cat-like, for blood-purchased 
 plunder from men who were bet- 
 ter than they. 
 
 And men with no seeming of manhood, 
 whose dearest craved gLory was 
 shame, 
 
 Whose joys were the sorrows of others, 
 whose harvests were acres of 
 flame, 
 
 Slnnk, whispering and low, in their corn- 
 ers with bowie and pistol tight 
 pressed, 
 
 In rogue-haunted, sin-cursed Chicago, 
 though Queen of the North and 
 the West. 
 
 IV 
 
 'Twas night in the elegant city, 
 
 The rich and voluptuous city, 
 
 The beauty thronged, mansion-decked 
 city, 
 
 Gay Queen of the North aud the West. 
 
 And childhood was placidly resting in 
 slumbers untroubled and deep; 
 
 And softly the mother was fondling her 
 innocent baby to sleep; 
 
 And maidens were dreaming of pleas- 
 ures and triumphs the future 
 should show, 
 
 And scanning the brightness and glory 
 of joys they were never to know; 
 
 And firesides were cheerful and happy, 
 and comfort smiled sweety 
 around; 
 
 But grim desolation and ruin looked in- 
 to the window and frowned. 
 
 And pitying angels looked downward, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 97 
 
 and gazed on their loved ones 
 below, 
 
 And longed to reaeh forth a deliverance, 
 and yearned to beat backward 
 the foe; 
 
 But pleasure and comfort were reign- 
 ing, nor dauger was spoken or 
 guessed, # 
 
 In beautiful, golden Chicago, gay Queen 
 of the North and the West. 
 
 Taen up in the streets of the city 
 
 The careless and negligent city, 
 
 The soon to be sacrificed city, 
 
 Doomed Queen of the North and the 
 West, 
 
 Crept, softly and slyly, so tiny it hardly 
 was worthy the name, 
 
 Crept, slowly and soft through the rub- 
 bish a radiant serpent of flame. 5 
 
 The south-wind and west-wind came 
 shrieking, "Rouse up in your 
 strength and your ire! 
 
 For many a year they have chained you 
 and crushed you, O demon of 
 tire! 
 
 For many a year they have bound you, 
 and made you their servant and 
 slave ! 
 
 Now, rouse you, and dig for this city a 
 fiery and desolate grave! 
 
 Freight heavy with grief and with wail- 
 ing her world-scattered pride and 
 renown! 
 
 Charge straight on her mansions of 
 splendor and battle her battle- 
 ments clown! 
 
 And we, the strong south-wind and 
 west-wiud, with thrice-doubled 
 fury possessed, 
 
 Will sweep with you over this city, this 
 Queen of the North and the 
 West!" 
 
 VI 
 
 Then straight at the great quiet city, 
 The strong and o'erconfident city, 
 The well nigh invincible city, 
 Doomed Queen of the North and the 
 West. 
 
 The fire-devil rallied his legions, and 
 speeded them forth on the wind, 
 
 With tinder and treasures before him, 
 with ruins and tempests behind. 
 
 The tenement crushed neath his foot- 
 steps, the mansions oped wide at 
 his knock; 
 
 And walls that had frowned him defi- 
 ance, they trembled and fell with 
 a shock; 
 
 And down on the hot, smoking house- 
 tops came raining a deluge of fire; 
 
 And serpents of flame writhed and 
 clambered, and twisted off steeple 
 and spire; 
 
 And beautiful, glorious Chicago, trie 
 city of riches and fame, 
 
 Was swept by a storm of destruction, 
 was flooded by billows of flame. 
 
 The tire-king loomed high in his glory, 
 with crimson and flame-stream- 
 ing crest, 
 
 And grinned his fierce scorn on Chicago 
 doomed Queen of the North and 
 the West. 
 
 VII 
 
 Then swiftly the quick-breathing city, 
 
 The fearful and pauic-struck city, 
 
 The startled and fire-deluged city, 
 
 Rushed back from the South and the 
 West, 
 
 And loudly the fire-bells were clanging, 
 and ringing their funeral notes; 
 
 And loudly wild accents of terror came 
 pealing from thousands of throats; 
 
 And loud was the wagon's deep rumbl- 
 ing, and loud the wheel's clatter 
 anil creak; 
 
 And loud was the calling for succor 
 from those who were sightless 
 and weak; 
 
 And loud were the hoofs of the horses, 
 and loud was the tramping of 
 feet; 
 
 And loud was the gale's ceaseless howl- 
 ing through fire-lighted alley and 
 street; 
 
 But louder, yet louder, the crashing of 
 roofs aud of walls, as they fell; 
 
 And louder, yet louder, the roaring that 
 
i9» 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 told of the coming of hell. 
 
 T..-I ~ r -::: zzr-z-v ■;.,;•..; 7z z.^izzizii- 
 tie from off his great blood-dap- 
 : '.? i :,..-: 
 
 And sneered in the face of Chicago, the 
 
 •^ :-:. : :i~ y :::;. 11 :". ::: *X-s: 
 
 vni 
 
 Ailuere iz ::t :e: rizir v:it. 
 7_t : ii: :■->!: zk ~.-z ::-.:..::: :■::- 
 7_r ijizg n 1 -i-r :::>:rl :-:it. 
 The torch of the North and the W 
 
 A Zrizzi77 ziiidzi 7ij -_.ii::: i- 
 mi 7 :. lij -It 111 ii.i 
 
 :i: :' :::- : : izzzi ; iii 
 Tir izzrz ;.s :.:••:::: zzzr :: _z_ — _t 
 ":t^::t:::> _:: irz/zz :z iri 
 ::ttl. 
 She fled from his touch, but he caught 
 L-: 111 i-\: l-z 77 ::^:r^ 
 
 111 — ri£ 
 
 Tit:::-!::! iizzi: ir: 11 i ir.i 
 
 zz: ii — ir_ ill i:j:t!::i: rzz 
 
 Kt — zi :t: it: i': : z: iz ii; -Ti:zri:i 
 i~ :::-t: lis 1:: ii. ? z 1t::.:- 
 
 Tiri ji:-rii- i :iiri~:: :^::::z:: 
 he scornfully flung her away, 
 
 An 1 izikzfzzi i:i :r^:ri zz :i- 
 
 zzi- ":i£i : ~: izi iiizziitZ 
 
 •:f -17— 
 L:-7 kiiz-Zr : izi :z ziri .7 zif z:z- 
 
 knz. -- rziz-ri ii: irs-zii- rz-: 
 : 
 
 i-ri :: :zr > r:z -.11 :- VT r « : 
 
 rx 
 
 7~i? zzrz iz kir i-riiiiz-r ztj 
 Tic nzr-i 11 i rzii-izizri :irj. 
 The homeless and hot-smoking city. 
 7zr rzz : Zr > :z.z 111 Zr -7,: 
 E 1: i — 1 zzzi iz -Vri: zir :z ai- 
 ding, "O Queen, lift in courage 
 :i7~irii 
 7_j fz-.rZ.Ls iii :i7 z ri :: ; zziz 
 ni iizri — i:z :z ziri: 111 
 bread." 
 And up from the Booth came the bid- 
 dings, "Cheer up, 
 :: :z 77i,- 
 
 For comfort and aid shall be coming 
 from out our ravannas and 
 
 And down from the North came the 
 biddings, *0 city, be hopeful of 
 cheer! 
 
 We Ye some what to spare for thy suf- 
 t ferers, for all of our suffering 
 
 And up from the East came the-bidding, 
 "O city, be dauntless and bold! 
 
 Look hither for food and for raiment — 
 look hither for credit and gold!" 
 
 And all through the world went the bid- 
 dings, "Bring hither your ehoic- 
 tz iii \ t ■: 
 
 For weary and hungry Chicago, sad 
 ^z-tZ :: z: y n z .,_ i :z- 
 West 
 
 O crushed but invincible city! 
 
 i'":::iTZ z izizz: :■;:- 
 
 O glorious and uneonquered city. 
 
 Still Queen of the North and the West! 
 
 7_.rzir rzirz 7,11- :: :_, : zz 
 
 Zllr 
 
 Shall glisten upon thy rich garments, 
 shall -twine in the folds of thy 
 
 :zz :zzr izizz- :: Z17 : zz- 
 new columns of beauty shall 
 
 A:::'.:: :.z: i::irf 7i77 iz: rzizi- 
 
 z:zz::zziz:z :: iz 
 
 ::z zztz'tZizt; :: zziiz 
 the treasures of 
 
 zr ZttZ- kzz". -tt: izzzt nni- 
 — ir: 111 iitzt :ir kiii? :: ::j 
 
 For Heaven will look downward in 
 
 : 1 : 1 : - r — 1 . "z z^: 
 :zt r: 7 
 
 Azi nil- 7 izz:i :ir7 — iii -7:-z,: 
 111 :i-> zi Zt ":z-ziz- :: -: 1 
 Once more thou shall stand "mid the 
 by 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 199 
 
 grand and unconquered Chicago, 
 still Queen of the North and the 
 West! 
 
 Damon and Pythias; or, True Friendship. 
 Wm, Peter. 
 
 '"Here, guards!" pale with fear, Dion}*- 
 sius cries, 
 "Here, guards, yon intruder arrest! 
 'Tis Damon — but ha! speak, what means 
 this disguise? 
 And the dagger which gleams in thy 
 vest?" 
 '"T was to free," says the youth, "this 
 dear land from its chains!" 
 "Free the land! wretched fool, thou 
 shalt die for thy pains." 
 
 "'I am ready to die— 1 ask not to live, — 
 
 Yet three days of respite, perhaps thou 
 may'st give, 
 For to-morrow, my sister will wed, 
 
 And 'twould damp all her joy. were her 
 brother not there; 
 
 Then let me, I pray, to her nuptials re- 
 pair, 
 While a friend remains here in my 
 stead." 
 
 With a sneer on his brow, and a curse 
 in his breast, 
 
 "Thou shalt have," cries the tyrant, 
 "shalt have thy request; 
 To thy sister repair, and her nuptails 
 attend, 
 
 Enjoy thy three days, but — mark well 
 what I say — 
 
 Return on the third; if beyond that fix- 
 ed day, 
 
 There be but one hour's, but one mom- 
 ent's delay, 
 That delay shall be daath to thy 
 friend!" 
 
 Then to Pythias he went; and he told 
 
 him his case; 
 That true friend answered not, but, with 
 
 instant embrace, 
 Consenting, rushed forth to be bound 
 
 in his room; 
 And now as if winged with new life 
 
 from above, 
 
 To his sister he Hew, did his errand of 
 love, 
 
 And ere a third morning had brighten- 
 ed the grove, 
 Was returning with joy to his doom. 
 
 But the heavens interpose, 
 Stern the tempest arose, 
 And when the poor pilgrim arrived at 
 the shore, 
 Swoll'n to torrents, the rills 
 Rushed in foam from the hills, 
 And crash went the bridge in the whirl- 
 pool's wild roar. 
 
 Wildly gazing, despairing, half frenzied 
 he stood; 
 
 Dark, dark were the skies, and dark 
 was the Hood, 
 And still darker his lorn heart's emo- 
 tion; 
 
 And he shouted for aid, but ho aid was 
 at hand, 
 
 No boat ventured forth from the surf- 
 ridden strand, 
 
 And the waves sprang, like woods, o'er 
 the lessening land, 
 And the stream was becoming an 
 ocean. 
 
 Now with knees low to earth, and with 
 
 hands to the skies, 
 "Still the storm, God of might, God of 
 
 mercy!" he cries — 
 "O, hush with Thy breath this loud 
 
 sea; 
 The hours hurry by, — the sun glows on 
 
 high; 
 And should he go down, and I reach 
 
 not yon town, 
 My friend — he must perish for me!" 
 
 Yet the wrath of the torrent still went 
 
 on increasing, 
 And waves upon waves still dissolved 
 
 without ceasing, 
 And hour after hour hurried on; 
 Then by anguish impelled, hope and 
 
 fear alike o'er, 
 He, reckless, rushed into the water's 
 
 deep roar; 
 Rose — sunk — struggle d o n — t ill, at 
 
 length, the wished shore, — 
 
200 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Thauks to Heaven's outstretched 
 hand — it is won: 
 
 But new perils await him; scarce "scap- 
 ed from the Hood, 
 And intent on redeeming each mom- 
 ent's delay, 
 
 As onward he sped, lo! from out a dark 
 wood, 
 A baud of fierce robbers encompassed 
 his way. 
 
 "What would ye?" he cried, save my 
 life, I have naught;? 
 
 "Nay, that is the king's."— Then swift 
 having caught 
 
 A club from the nearest, and swiuging 
 it round 
 
 With might more than man's, he laid 
 three on the ground, 
 While the rest hurried off in dismay. 
 
 But the noon's scorching flame 
 Soon shoots through his frame, 
 And he turns, faint and way-worn, to 
 Heaven with a sigh — 
 'From the flood and the foe, 
 Thou'st redeemed me, and oh! 
 Thus, by thirst overcome, must I effort- 
 less lie, 
 And leave him, the beloved of my bos- 
 om, to die?" 
 
 Scarce uttered the word, 
 When startled he heard 
 Purling sounds, sweet as silver's, fall 
 fresh on his ear; 
 And lo! a small rill 
 Trickled down from the hill! 
 He heard, and he saw, and, with joy 
 
 drawing near. 
 Laved his limbs, slaked his thirst, and 
 renewed his career. 
 
 And now the sun's beams through the 
 
 deep boughs are glowing. 
 And rock, tree, and mountain, their 
 
 shadows are throwing, 
 Huge and grim, o'er the meadow's 
 
 bright bloom; 
 And two travelers are seen coming 
 
 forth ou their way, 
 And just as they passed, he hears one 
 
 of them say — 
 
 "Tis the hour that was fixed for his 
 doom!" 
 
 Still anguish gives strength to his wav- 
 ering flight; 
 
 On he speeds; and lo! now in eve's red- 
 dening light 
 The domes of far Syracuse blend; — 
 
 There Philostratus meets him, ia ser- 
 vant grown gray 
 
 In his house,) crying, ••Back! not 'a 
 moment's delay. 
 No cares can avail for thy friend. 
 
 "No; nothing can save his dear head 
 from the tomb; 
 So think of preserving thy own. 
 Myself, I beheld him led forth to his 
 doom ; 
 Ere this his brave spirit has flown ! 
 With confident soul he stood, hour after 
 hour. 
 Thy return never doubting to see; 
 No sneers of the tyrant that faith could 
 o'erpower. 
 Or shake his assurance in thee!" 
 
 •'And is it too late*? and can not I save 
 
 His dear life? then, at least, let me 
 share in bis grave! 
 
 Yes. death shall unite us! no tyrant 
 shall say. 
 
 That friend to his friend proved untrue; 
 he may slay; — 
 
 May torture. — may mock at all mercy 
 and ruth, 
 
 But ne'er shall he doubt of our friend- 
 ship and truth." 
 
 Tis sunset; and Damon arrives at the 
 
 gate. 
 Sees the scaffold and multitudes gaz 
 
 ing below; 
 Already the victim is bared for his fate, 
 Already the deathsman stands armed 
 
 for the blow; 
 When hark! a wild voice which echoed 
 
 around, 
 •Stay! — 'tis I — it is Damon, for whom 
 
 he was bound! 
 
 And now tney sink in each other's em- 
 brace. 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 201 
 
 And are weeping for joy and despair; 
 
 Not a soul, among thousands, but melts 
 
 at their 
 
 Which swift to the monarch they 
 
 bear; 
 
 Even he. too is moved— feels for once 
 
 as he ought — 
 And commands, that they both to his 
 throne shall be brought. 
 
 Then, — alternately gazing on each gal- 
 laut youth. 
 With looks of awe. wonder and 
 shame; — 
 •Ye have conquered:" he cries 
 now that truth,— 
 That friendship is not a mere name. 
 Go; — you're free; but, while -life's dear- 
 est blessings you prove. 
 Let one prayer of your monarch be 
 heard. 
 That— his past sins forgot— in this union 
 of love. 
 And of virtue — you make him the 
 third." 
 
 The African Chief. 
 
 BYBOX 
 
 Chain'd in the market place he stood, 
 
 A man of giant frame. 
 Amid the gathering multitude 
 
 That shrunk to hear his name. — 
 All stern of look and strong of limb, 
 
 His dark eye on the ground, — 
 And silently they gazel on him. 
 
 A- . bound. 
 
 Vainly, but well, the chief had fought, 
 
 He was a captive now; 
 Yet pride that fortune humbles not, 
 
 Was written on his brow. 
 The scars, his dark broad bosom wore, 
 
 Show'd warrior true and brave ; 
 A prince among his tribe before, 
 
 He could not be a s 
 
 Then to his conqueror he spake — 
 
 (o) "My brother is a king : 
 Undo this necklace from my neck. 
 
 And take this bracelet ring. 
 And send me where my brother reigns, 
 
 And I will till thy hands 
 With store of ivory from the plai 
 
 And gold dust from the sands." 
 
 "Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 
 
 Will I unbind thy chain ; 
 That bloody hand shall never hold 
 
 The battle spear again. 
 A price thy nation never gave 
 
 Shall yet be paid for thee ; 
 For thou shalt be the Christaiu's slave, 
 
 In lauds beyond the sea." 
 
 Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 
 
 To shred his locks away; 
 And, one by one, each heavy braid 
 
 Before the victor lay. 
 Thick were the plaited locks, and long, 
 
 And deftly hidden there, 
 Shone many a wedge of gold among 
 
 The dark and crisped hair. 
 
 Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold 
 
 Long kept for sorest need ; 
 Take it — thou askest sums untol 
 
 And say that I am freed. 
 Take it— (— my wife, the long, long day 
 
 Weeps by the cocoa tree, 
 And my young children leave their play, 
 
 And ask in vain for me." 
 
 '•I take thy gold — but I have made 
 
 Thy fetters fast aud strong, 
 And mean that by the cocoa shade, 
 
 Thy wife shall wait thee long." 
 Strong was the agony that shook 
 
 The captive's frame to hear. 
 And the proud meaning of his look 
 
 Was changed to mortal fear. 
 
 His heart was broken — crazed his brain. — 
 
 At once his eye grew wild, 
 He struggled fiercely with his chain, 
 
 Whisper'd, and wept, and smil'd ; 
 Yet wore not long those fatal bands. 
 
 For once, at shut of day. 
 They drew him forth vpon the sands. 
 
 The foul hyena's prey. 
 
 King Volmer and Elsie- 
 
 Where, over heathen doom-rings and 
 gray stones of the Horg. 
 
202 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 In its little Christian city stands the 
 church of Vordingborg, 
 
 In merry mood King Volmer &at, for- 
 getful of his power, 
 
 As idle as the Goose of Gold that brood- 
 ed on his tower. 
 
 Out spake the king to Henrik, his 
 young and faithful squire: 
 
 "Dar'st trust thy little Elsie, the maid 
 of thy desire?" 
 
 "Of all the men in Denmark she loveth 
 only me; 
 
 As true to me isElsie as Lily is to thee." 
 
 Loud laughed the king: "To-morrow 
 
 shall bring another day, 
 When I myself will tempt her, she 
 
 will not say me nay," 
 Thereat the lords and gallants that 
 
 round about him stood, 
 Wagged all their heads in concert and 
 
 smiled as courtiers should, 
 
 The gray lark sings o'er Vordingburg, 
 
 and on the ancient town 
 From the tall tower of Valdemar the 
 
 Golden Goose looked down: 
 The yellow grain is waving in the 
 
 pleasant wind of morn, 
 The wood resounds with cry of hounds 
 
 and blare of hunter's horn. 
 
 In the garden of her father little Elsie 
 
 sits and spins, 
 And, singing with the early birds, her 
 
 daily task begins. 
 Gay tulips bloom and sweet mint curls 
 
 around her garden-bower, 
 But she is sweeter than the mint and 
 
 fairer than the flower. 
 
 About her form her kirtel blue clings 
 
 lovingly, and, white 
 As snow, her loose sleeves only leave 
 
 her small round wrists in sight; 
 Below the modest petticoat can only 
 
 half conceal 
 The motion of the lightest foot that 
 
 ever turned a wheel. 
 
 The cat sits purring at her side, bees 
 hum in sunshine warm. 
 
 But look! she starts, she lifts her face, 
 she shields it with her arm. 
 
 And hark! a train of horsemen, with 
 sound of dog and horn, 
 
 Come leaping o'er the ditches, come 
 trampling down the corn! 
 
 Merrily rang the bridle-reins, and scarf 
 
 and plume streamed gay, 
 As fast beside her father's gate the 
 
 riders held their way; 
 And one was brave in scarlet cloak, 
 
 with gollden spur on heel, 
 And, as he checked his foaming steed, 
 
 the maiden checked her wheel. 
 
 "All hail among the roses the fairest 
 rose to me! 
 
 For weary months in secret my heart 
 hath longed for thee!" 
 
 What noble knight was this? What 
 words for modest maiden's ear? 
 
 She dropped a lowly courtesy of bash- 
 fulness and fear. 
 
 She lifted up her spinning-wheel; she 
 
 fain would reach the door, 
 Trembling in every limb, her cheek 
 
 with blushes crimsoned o'er. 
 "Nay, fear me not," the rider said, i'l 
 
 offer heart and hand, 
 Bear witness these good Danish knights 
 
 who round about me stand. 
 
 "I grant you time to think of this, to 
 answer as you may, 
 
 For to-morrow little Elsie, shall bring 
 another day." 
 
 He spake the old phrase slyly as, glanc- 
 ing round his train, 
 
 He saw his merry followers seek to 
 hide their smiles in vain. 
 
 "The snow of pearls I'll scatter in your 
 
 curls of golden hair, 
 I'll line with fur the velvet of the kirtla 
 
 that you wear; 
 All precious gems shall twine your 
 
 neck; and in a chariot gay 
 You shall ride, my little Elsie, drawn 
 
 by four steeds of gray. 
 
 "And harps shall sound, and flutes 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 203 
 
 play, and brazen lamps shall 
 
 glow; 
 Oil marble floors your feet shall weave 
 
 the dances to and fro. 
 At frosty eventide for us the blazing 
 
 hearth shall shine, 
 While, at our ease we play at draughts, 
 
 and drink the blood-red wine." 
 
 Then Elsie raised her head and met her 
 
 wooer.'face to face; 
 A roguish smile shone in her eye and 
 
 on her lip found place. 
 Back> from her low white forehead the 
 
 curls of gold she threw, 
 And lifted up her eyes to his steady 
 
 and clear and blue. 
 
 "I am a lowly peasant, and you a gal- 
 lant knight; 
 
 I will not trust a love that soon may 
 cool and turn to slight. 
 
 If you would wed me henceforth be a 
 peasant, not a lord; 
 
 I bid you hang upon the wall your 
 tried and trusty sword." 
 
 "To please you, Elsie, I will lay keen 
 
 Dynadel away, 
 And in its place will swing the scythe 
 
 and mow your father's hay." 
 "Nay, but your gallant scarlet cloak 
 
 my eyes can never bear; 
 A Vadmal coat, so plain and gray, is 
 
 all that you must wear." 
 
 "Well, Vadmal will I wear for you," 
 
 the rider gayly spoke, 
 "And on the Lord's high altar I'll lay 
 
 my scarlet cloak. " 
 "But mark," she said, "no stately horse 
 
 my peasant love must ride, 
 A yoke of steers before the plough is all 
 
 that he must guide." 
 
 The knight looked down upon his 
 
 steed: "Well let him wander free: 
 No other man must ride the horse that 
 
 has been backed by me. 
 Henceforth I'll tread the furrow and to 
 
 my oxen talk, 
 If only little Elsie beside my plough 
 
 will walk." 
 
 "You must take from out your cellar 
 cask of wine and flask and can; 
 
 The homely mead I brew you may 
 serve a peasant-man." 
 
 "Most willingly, fair Elsie, I'll drink 
 
 that mead of thine, 
 And leave my minstrel's thirsty throat 
 
 to drain my generous wine." 
 
 "Now break your shield asunder, and 
 
 shatter sign and boss, 
 Unmeet for peasant-wedded arms, your 
 
 knightly knee across. 
 And pull me down your castle from 
 
 top to basement wall, 
 And let your plough trace furrows in 
 
 the ruins of your hall!" 
 
 Then smiled he with a lofty pride; 
 
 right well at least he knew 
 The maiden of the spinning-wheel was 
 
 to her troth- plight true. 
 "Ah, rougish little Elsie! you act your 
 
 part full well: 
 You know that I must bear my shield 
 
 and in my castle dwell! 
 
 "The lions ramping on that shield be- 
 tween the hearts aflame 
 
 Keep watch o'er Denmark's honor, and 
 guard her ancient name. 
 
 For know that I am Volmer; I dwell in 
 yonder towers, 
 
 Who ploughs them ploughs up Den- 
 mark, this goodly home of ours! 
 
 "I tempt no more, fair Elsie! your heart 
 
 I know is true; 
 Would God that all our maidens were 
 
 good and pure as you! 
 Well have you pleased your monarch, 
 
 and he shall well repay; 
 God's peace! Farewell! To-morrow will 
 
 bring another day!" 
 
 He lifted up his bridle hand, he spurred 
 
 his good steed then, 
 And like a whirl-blast swept away with 
 
 all his gallant men. 
 The steel hoofs beat the rocky path; 
 
 again on winds^of morn 
 The wood resounds with cry of hounds 
 
 and blare of hunter's horn. 
 
204 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 "Thou true ami ever faithful!" the 
 
 listening Henri cried; 
 And, leaping o'er the green hedge, he 
 
 stood by Elsie's side. 
 None saw the fond embracing, save 
 
 shining from afar, 
 The Golden Goose that watched them 
 
 from the tower of Valdemar. 
 
 O darling girls of Denmark! of all the 
 
 flowers that throng 
 Her vales of spring the fairest, I sing 
 
 for you my song; 
 No praise as yours so bravely rewards 
 
 the singer's skill; 
 Thank God! of maids like Elsie the 
 
 laud has plenty still! 
 
 Godiva. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Not only we the latest seed of time, 
 new men that in the flying of a wheel, 
 cry down the past ; not only we that 
 prate of rights and wrongs, have loved 
 the people well, and loathed to see them 
 overtaxed ; but she did more, and over- 
 went and overcame, the woman of a 
 thousand summers back, Godiva. wife 
 to that grim Earl who ruled in Coven- 
 try : for when he laid a tax upon his 
 town, and all the mothers brought their 
 children, clamoring, "If we pay, we 
 starve!" she sought her lord and found 
 him, where he strode about the hall a- 
 mong his dogs, alone, his beard a foot 
 before him, and his hair a yard behind. 
 She told him of their tears, and prayed 
 him, "If they pay this tax they starve." 
 Whereat he stared, replying, half amaz- 
 ed, "you would not let your little finger 
 ache for such as these ?"— "But I would 
 die," said she. He laughed, and swore 
 by Peter and by Paul : then filliped at 
 the diamond in her ear ; "O, ay, ay, 
 ay, you talk!" — "Alas!" she said, "But 
 prove me what it is I would not do." and 
 from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, 
 he answered, "Ride you naked through 
 the town, and I repeal it;" and nodding 
 
 as in scorn, he parted, with great 
 strides among his dogs. 
 
 So left alone, the passions of her mind, 
 as winds from all the compass shift and 
 blow, made war upon each other for an 
 hour, till pity won. She sent a herald 
 forth, and bade him cry with sound of 
 trumpet, all the hard condition ; but 
 that she would loose the people ; there- 
 fore, as they loved her well, from then 
 till noon no foot should pace the sireet, 
 no eye look down, she passing ; but 
 that all should keep within, door shut 
 and window barred. Then fled she to 
 her inmost bower, and there unclasped 
 the wedded eagles of her belt, the grim 
 Earl's gift; but ev r at a breath she 
 lingered, looking like a summer moon 
 half dipt in cloud : anon she shook her 
 head, and showered the rippled ringlets 
 to her knee; unclad herself in haste; a- 
 down the stair stole on; and like a 
 creeping sunbeam, slid from pillar unto 
 pillar, until she reached the gateway; 
 there she found her palfrey trapt in pur- 
 ple, blazoned with armorial gold. Then 
 she rode forth, clothed onAvith chastity: 
 the deep air listened round, her as she 
 rode, and all the low wind hardly breath- 
 ed for fear. The little wide-mouthed 
 heads upon the spout had cunning eyes 
 to see: the barking cur made her cheek 
 flame: her palfre3 7 's footfall shot light 
 horrors through her pulses: the blind 
 w^alls were full of chinks and holes; and 
 overhead fantastic gables, crowding, 
 stired; but she not less through all bore 
 up, till, last, she saw the white-flowered 
 elder-thicket from the field gleam 
 through the Gothic archways in the 
 wall. Then she rode back, clothed on 
 with chastity: and one low churl, com- 
 pact of thankless earth, the fatal by- 
 word of all years to come, boring a iittle 
 auger-hole in fear, peeped— but his eyes, 
 before they had their will, were shriveled 
 into darkness in his head, and dropt be- 
 fore him. So the powers, who wait on 
 noble needs, canceled a sense misused; 
 and she, that knew not, passed: and all 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 205 
 
 at once, with twelve great shocks of 
 sound, the shameless noon was clashed 
 and hammered from a hundred towers 
 one after one: but even then she gained 
 her bower; whence re-issuing, robed and 
 crowned, to meet her lord, she took the 
 tax away, and built herself an everlast- 
 ing name. 
 
 King Robert of Sicily. 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 Robert of Sicily, brother of PopeUrbane 
 And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
 Appareled in magnificent attire 
 With retinue of many a knight and 
 
 squire, 
 On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly 
 
 sat 
 And heard the priests chant the Mag- 
 nificat. 
 And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 
 Repeated, like a burden or refrain, 
 He caught the words, " Deposuit potentcs 
 De sede, et exaltavit humiles;" 
 And slowly lifting up his kingly head, 
 He to a learned clerk beside him said, 
 ''What mean those words?" The clerk 
 
 made answer meet, 
 *'He has put down the mighty from 
 
 their seat, 
 And has exalted them of low degree." 
 Thereat King Robert muttered scorn- 
 fully, , 
 *"Tis well that such seditious words are 
 
 sung 
 Only by priests, and in the Latin 
 
 tongue; 
 For unto priests and people be it 
 
 known, 
 There is no power cau push me from 
 
 my throne!" 
 And leaning back he yawned and fell 
 
 asleep, 
 Lulled by the chant monotonous and 
 deep. 
 
 When he awoke, it was already night; 
 The church was empty, and there was 
 no light, 
 
 Save where the lamps, that glimmered 
 
 few and faint, 
 Lighted a little space before some saint. 
 He started from his seat and gazed 
 
 around, 
 But saw no living thing and heard no 
 
 sound. 
 He groped towards the door, but it was 
 
 locked; 
 He ciied aloud, and listened, and then 
 
 knocked, 
 And uttered awful threaten ings and 
 
 complaints, 
 And imprecations upon men and saints. 
 The sounds re-echoed from the roof 
 
 and walls 
 As if dead priests were laughing in 
 
 their stalls. 
 
 At length the sexton, hearing from 
 
 without 
 The tumult of the knocking and the 
 
 shout; 
 And thinking thieves were in the house 
 
 of prayer, 
 Came with his lantern, asking, "Who 
 
 is there?" 
 Half choked with rage, King Robert 
 
 fiercely said, 
 "Open 'tis J, the king? Art thou 
 
 afraid?" 
 The frightened sexton, muttering with 
 
 a curse. 
 'This is some drunken vagabond, or 
 
 worse!" 
 Turned the great key and flnug the 
 
 portal wide; 
 A man rushed by him at a single stride, 
 Haggard, half-naked, without hat or 
 
 cloak, 
 Who neither turned, nor looked at 
 
 him, nor spoke, 
 But leaped into the darkness of the 
 
 night, 
 And vanished like a spectre from his 
 
 sight. 
 
 Robert of Sicily, brother of PopeUrbane 
 And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
 Despoiled of his magnificent attire; 
 Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent 
 with mire, 
 
2o6 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 With sense of wrong aud outrage des- 
 perate, 
 
 Strode on and thundered at the palace 
 gate; 
 
 Rushed through the court-yard, thrust- 
 ing in his rage 
 
 To right and left each seneschal and 
 page, 
 
 And hurried up the broad and sound- 
 ing stair, 
 
 His white face ghastly in the torches' 
 glare. 
 
 From hall to hall he passed with breath- 
 less speed; 
 
 Voices and cries he heard, but did not 
 heed, 
 
 Until at last he reached the banquet- 
 room, 
 
 Blazing with light, hnd breathing with 
 perfume. 
 
 There on the dias sat another king, 
 
 Wearing his robes, his crown, his sig- 
 net-ring — 
 
 King Robert's self in features, form, 
 and height, 
 
 But all transfigured with angelic light; 
 
 It was an angel; and his presence there 
 
 With a divine effulgence filled the air, 
 
 An exaltation, piercing the disguise, 
 
 Though none the hidden angel recog- 
 nize. 
 
 A mornem speechless, motionless, amaz- 
 ed, 
 
 The throneless monarch on the angel 
 gazed, 
 
 Who met his look of anger and surprise 
 
 With the divine compassion of his eyes! 
 
 Then said, "Who art thou, and why 
 com' st thou here?" 
 
 To which King Robert answered with 
 a sn8er, 
 
 "I am the king, and come to claim my 
 own 
 
 From an imposter who usurps my 
 throne!" 
 
 And suddenly at these audacious 
 words, 
 
 Up sprang the angry guests and drew 
 their swords; 
 
 The angel answered with unruffled 
 brow, 
 
 "Nay, not the king, but the king's jest- 
 er; thou 
 
 Henceforth shall wear the bells and 
 scalloped cape 
 
 And for thy counselor shall lead an 
 ape; 
 
 Thou shalt obey my servants when 
 they call, 
 
 And wait upon my henchmen in the 
 hall!" 
 
 Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries 
 and prayers, 
 
 They thrust him from the hall and 
 down the stairs; 
 
 A group of tittering pages ran before, 
 
 And as they opened wide the folding 
 door, 
 
 His heart failed, for he heard with 
 faint alarms; 
 
 The boisterous laughter of the men-at- 
 arms, 
 
 And all the vaulted chamber roar and 
 ring 
 
 With the mock plaudits of "Long live 
 the king!" 
 
 Next morning, waking with the day's 
 
 first beam, 
 He said within himself, "It was a 
 
 dream!" 
 But the straw rustled as he turned his 
 
 head, 
 There were the cap and bell beside his 
 
 bed, 
 Around him rose the bare, discolored 
 
 walls, 
 Close by, the steeds were champing in 
 
 their stalls 
 And in the corner a revolting shape, 
 Shivering and chattering, sat the 
 
 wretched ape. 
 It was no dream; the world he loved so 
 
 much 
 Had turned to dust aud ashes at his 
 
 touch ! 
 
 Days came and went; and now return- 
 ed again 
 
 To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; 
 
 Under the angel's governance benign 
 
 The happy island danced with corn 
 and wine, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 207 
 
 And deep within the mountain's burn- 
 ing breast 
 Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 
 Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his 
 
 fate, 
 Sullen aud silent and disconsolate. 
 Dressed in the motley garb that jesters 
 
 wear, 
 With look bewildered and a vacant 
 
 stare, 
 Close shaven above the ears as monks 
 
 are shorn, 
 By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed 
 
 to scorn, 
 His only friend the ape, his only food 
 What others left— he still was unsub- 
 dued. 
 And when the angel met him on his 
 
 way, 
 And half in earnest, half in jest "would 
 
 say, 
 Sternly, though tenderly that he might 
 
 feel 
 The velvet scabbard held a sword of 
 
 steel, 
 "Art thou the king?" the passion of 
 
 his woe 
 Burst from him in resistless overflow, 
 And lifting high his forehead, he would 
 
 fling 
 The haughty answer back, "I am, I am 
 
 the king!" 
 
 Almost three years were ended, when 
 
 there came 
 Ambassadors of great repute and name 
 From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
 Unto King Robert, saying that Pope 
 
 Urbane 
 By letter summoned them forthwith to 
 
 come 
 On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 
 
 The ang3l with great joy received his 
 guests. 
 
 And gave them presents of embroider- 
 ed vests, 
 
 And velvet mantles with rich ermine 
 lined, 
 
 And rings and jewels of the rarest 
 kind. 
 
 Then he departed with them o'er the 
 
 sea 
 Into tha lovely land of Italy, 
 Whose loveliness was more resplendent 
 
 made 
 By the mere passing of that cavalcade, 
 With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, 
 
 aud the stir 
 Of jeweled bridle and of goldeu spur. 
 
 And lo! among the menials, in mock 
 state, 
 
 Upon a piebald steed, with shambling 
 gait, 
 
 His cloak of foxtails flapping in the 
 wind, 
 
 The solemu ape demurely perched be- 
 hind, 
 
 King Robert rode making huge merri- 
 ment 
 
 In all the country towns through which 
 they went. 
 
 The Pope received them with great 
 
 pomp and blare 
 Of bannered trumpets, on St. Peter's 
 
 Square, 
 Giving his benediction and embrace, 
 Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
 While with congratulations and with 
 
 prayers 
 He entertained the angel unawares, 
 Robert, the jester, bursting through 
 
 the crowd, 
 Into their presence rushed, aud cried 
 
 aloud: 
 "I am the king! Look and behold in 
 
 me 
 Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! 
 This man, who wears my semblance 
 
 to your eyes, 
 Is an imposter in a king's disguise. 
 Do you not know me! Does no voice 
 
 within 
 Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" 
 The Pope in silence, but with troubled 
 
 mein, 
 Gazed at the angel's countenance se- 
 rene; 
 The Emperor, laughing, said, '"It is 
 
 strange sport 
 

 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 To keep a madman for thy fool at 
 
 court !" 
 And the poor, baffled jester, in dis- 
 grace 
 Was hustled back among the populace. 
 In solemn state the holy week went by, 
 And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the 
 
 sky; 
 The presence of the angel, with its 
 
 light, 
 Before the sun rose, made the city 
 
 bright, 
 And with new fervor filled the hearts 
 
 of men, 
 Who felt that Christ indeed had risen 
 
 again. 
 Even the jester on his bed of straw, 
 \\ ith haggard eyes the untold splendor 
 
 saw; 
 He felt within a power unfelt before. 
 And kneeling humbly on his chamber 
 
 floor, 
 He heard the rustling garments of his 
 
 Lord 
 Sweep through the silent air, ascend- 
 ing heavenward. 
 And now the visit ending, and once 
 
 more 
 Valmond returning, to the Danube's 
 
 shore, 
 Homeward the angel journeyed, and 
 
 again 
 The land was made resplendent with 
 
 his train, 
 Flashing along the towns of Italy 
 Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. 
 And when once more within Palermo's 
 
 wall, 
 And, seated on the throne in his great 
 
 hall, 
 He heard the Angelus from convent 
 
 towers, 
 As if the better world conversed with 
 
 ours, 
 He beckoned to King Robert to draw 
 
 nigher, 
 And with a gesture bade the rest retire. 
 And when they were alone, the angel 
 
 said; 
 
 King Robert crossed both hands upon 
 his breast, 
 
 And meekly answered him; "Thou 
 knowest best! 
 
 My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, 
 
 And in some cloister's school of peni- 
 tence, 
 
 Across those stones that pave the way 
 to heaven 
 
 Walk barefoot till my g. ilty soul is 
 shriven !" 
 
 The angel smiled, and from his radiant 
 
 face 
 A holy light illumined all the place, 
 And through the open window, loud 
 
 and clear, 
 Then heard the monks chant in the 
 
 chapel near, 
 Above the stir and tumult of the street, 
 "He has put down the mighty from 
 
 their seat, 
 And has exalted them of low degree!" 
 And through the chant a second melody 
 Rose like the throbbing of a single 
 
 string: 
 "I am an angel, and thou art the king!" 
 
 King Robert, who was standing near 
 
 the throne, 
 Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! 
 But all appareled as in days of old, 
 With ermined mantle and with cloth 
 
 of gold; 
 And when his courtiers came, they 
 
 found him there, 
 Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in 
 
 silent prayer. 
 
 Brier- Rose- 
 
 Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. 
 Said Brier-Rose's mother to the naughty 
 
 Brier-Rose: 
 "What will become of you, my child, 
 
 the Lord Almighty knows. 
 You will not scrub the kettles, and you 
 
 will not touch the broom ; 
 You never sit a minute still at spinning- 
 
 wheel or loom." 
 
 "Art thou the king?" Then, bowing Thus grumbled in the morning, and 
 down his head, grumbled late at eve, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 209 
 
 The good-wife as she bustled with pot 
 
 and tray and sieve; 
 But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she 
 
 cocked her dainty head: 
 "Why, I shall niaiVv, mother dear," full 
 
 merrily she said. 
 
 "You marry; saucy Brier-Rose! The 
 
 rmin he is not found 
 To marry such a worthless wench, 
 
 these seven leagues around" 
 But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she 
 
 thrilled a merry lay: 
 "Perhaps he, 11 come, my mother dear, 
 
 from eight leagues away." 
 
 The good -wife with a "humph" and a 
 
 sigh forsook the battle, 
 And flung her pots and pails about 
 
 with much vindictive rattle: 
 "O Lord, what sin did I commit in 
 
 youthful days, and wild, 
 That thou hast punished me in age 
 
 with such a wayward child?" 
 
 Up stole the girl on tiptoe, so that none 
 her step could hear, 
 
 And laughing pressed an airy kiss be- 
 hind the good-wife's ear. 
 
 And she, as e'er relenting, sighed: "Oh 
 Heaven only knows 
 
 Whatever will become of you, my 
 naughty Brier-Rose!" 
 
 The sun was high and summer sounds 
 
 were teeming in the air; 
 The clauk of scythes, the cricket's 
 
 whir, and swelling wood-notes 
 
 rare, 
 From held and copse and meadow; and 
 
 through the open door 
 Sweet, fragrant w hilt's of new-mown 
 
 hay the idle breezes bore. 
 
 Then Brier-Rose grew pensive, like a 
 
 bird of thoughtful mien, 
 Whose little life has problems among 
 
 the branches green. 
 She heard the river brawling where 
 
 the tide was swift and strong, 
 She heard the summer singing its 
 
 strange, alluring song. 
 
 14 
 
 And out she skipped the meadows o'er 
 
 and gazed into the sky; 
 Her heart o'erbrimmed with gladness, 
 
 she scarce herself knew why, 
 And to a merry tune she hummed, "Oh, 
 
 Heaven only knows 
 Whatever will become of the naughty 
 
 Brier-Rose!" 
 
 Whene'er a thrifty matron this idle 
 
 maid espied, 
 She shook her head in warning, and 
 
 scarce her wrath could hide; 
 For girls were made for housewives, 
 
 for spinning-wheel and loom, 
 And not to drink the sunshine and 
 
 wild-flower's sweet perfume. 
 
 And oft the maidens cried, when the 
 
 Brier-Rose went by, 
 "You cannot knit a stocking, and you 
 
 cannot make a pie." 
 But Brier-Rose, as was her wont, she 
 
 cocked her curly head: 
 "But I can sing a pretty song," full 
 
 merrily she said. 
 
 And oft the young lads shouted, when 
 
 they saw the maid at play. 
 "Ho, good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, how 
 
 do you do to-day?" 
 Then she shook her tiny fist; to her 
 
 cheeks the color flew: 
 "However much you coax me, I'll never 
 
 dance with you." 
 
 Thus flew the years light-wiuged over 
 
 Brier- Rose's head, 
 Till she was twenty summers old and 
 
 yet remained unwed. 
 And all the parish wondered: "The 
 
 Lord Almighty knows 
 Whatever will become of that naughty 
 
 Brier-Rose!" 
 
 And while they wondered came the 
 spring a dancing o'er the hills; 
 
 Her breath was warmer than of yore, 
 and all the mountain rills, 
 
 With their tinkling and their rippling 
 and their rushing, filled the air, 
 
 And the misty sounds of water forth- 
 welling everywhere. 
 
2IO 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 And in the valley's depth, like a lusty- 
 beast of prey. 
 
 The river leaped and roared aloud and 
 tossed its mane of spray; 
 
 Then hushed again its voice to a softly 
 plashing croon, 
 
 As dark it rolled beneath the sun and 
 white beneath the moon. 
 
 It was a merry sight to see the lumber 
 
 as it whirled 
 Adown the tawny eddies that hissed 
 
 and seethed and swirled, 
 Now shootiug through the rapids and 
 
 with a reeling swing, 
 Into *the foam-crests diving like an 
 
 animated thing. 
 
 But in the narrows of the rocks, where 
 
 o'er a steep incline 
 The waters plunged, and wreathed in 
 
 foam the dark bough of the pine, 
 The lads kept watch with shout and 
 
 song, and sent each straggling 
 
 beam 
 A-spinning down the rapids, lest it 
 
 should lock the stream. 
 
 And yet — methinks I hear it now — wild 
 voices in the night, 
 
 A rush of feet, a dog's harsh bark, a 
 torch's flaring light, 
 
 And wandering gusts of dampness, and 
 round us far and nigh, 
 
 A throbbing boom of water like a pulse- 
 beat in the sky. 
 
 The dawn just pierced the pallid east 
 with spears of gold and red, 
 
 As we, with boat-hooks in our hands, 
 towards the narrows sped. 
 
 And terror smote us: for we heard the 
 mighty tree-tops sway, 
 
 And thunder, as of chariots, and hiss- 
 ing showers of spray. 
 
 "Now lads," the sheriff shouted, "you 
 are strong, like Norway's rock: 
 
 A hundred crowns I give to him who 
 breaks the lumber-lock! 
 
 For if another hour go by, the angry 
 waters' spoil 
 
 Our homes \\ ill be, and fields and our 
 weary years of toil." 
 
 We looked each at the other; each 
 
 hoped his neighbor would 
 Brave death and danger for his home, 
 
 as valiant Norsemen should. 
 But at our feet the brawling tide ex- 
 
 panded like a lake, 
 And whirling beams came shooting on, 
 
 and made the firm rock quake. 
 
 '•Two hundred crowns!" the sheriff 
 
 cried and breathless stood the 
 
 crowd. 
 "Two hundred crowns, my bonny 
 
 lads!" in anxious tones and loud. 
 But not a man came forward, and no 
 
 one spoke or stirred, 
 And nothing save the thunder of the 
 
 cataract was heard. 
 
 But as with trembling hands and with 
 
 fainting hearts we stood, 
 We spied a little curly head emerging 
 
 from the wood. 
 We heard a little snatch of a merry 
 
 little song, 
 And saw the dainty Brier-Rose come. 
 
 dancing through the throng. 
 
 An angry murmur rose from the people 
 
 round about. 
 "Fling her in the river!" we heard the 
 
 matrons shout; 
 "Chase her away, the silly thing ; for 
 
 God himself scarce knows 
 Why ever he created that worthless 
 
 Brier-Rose." 
 
 Sweet Brier-Rose, she heard their cries; 
 
 a little pensive smile 
 Across her fair face flitted that might a 
 
 stone beguile; 
 And then she gave her pretty head a 
 
 dainty little cock: 
 "Hand me a boat-hook, lads," she said; 
 
 "I think I'll break the lock." 
 
 Derisive shouts of laughter broke from 
 throats of young and old. 
 
 "Ho! good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, your 
 tongue was ever- bold." 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 21 I 
 
 And, mockingly, a boat-hook into her 
 
 hand was flung, 
 When, lo! into the river's midst with 
 
 daring leaps she sprung! 
 
 We saw her dimly through a mist of 
 
 dense and blinding spray; 
 From beam to beam she skipped, like 
 
 a water-sprite at play. 
 And now and then faint gleams we 
 
 caught of color through the mist: 
 A crimson waist, a golden head, a 
 
 little dainty wrist. 
 
 In terror pressed the people to the 
 margin of the hill, 
 
 A hundred breaths were bated, a hun- 
 dred hearts stood still. 
 
 Fpr, hark! from out tne rapids came a 
 strange and creaking sound, 
 
 And then a crash of thunder which 
 shook the very ground. 
 
 The water hurled the lumber mass 
 
 down o'er the rocky steep. 
 We heard a muffled rumbling and a 
 
 rolling in the deep; 
 We saw a tiny form which the torrent 
 
 swiftly bore 
 And flung into the wild abyss, where it 
 
 was seen no more. 
 
 Ah. little naughty Brier-Rose, thou 
 
 couldst nor weave nor spin; 
 Yet thou couldst do a nobler deed than 
 
 all thy mocking kin; 
 For thou hadst courage e'en to die, and 
 
 by thy death to save 
 A thousand farms and lives from the 
 
 fury r of the wave. 
 
 And yet the adage, lives, in the valley 
 of thy birth, 
 
 When wayward children spend their 
 days in heedless play and mirth, 
 
 Oft mothers say, half smiling, half sigh- 
 ing, "Heaven knows 
 
 Whatever will become of the naughty 
 Brier-Rose!" 
 
 Saxon Grit. 
 
 ROBERT COLLYEU. 
 
 Worn with the battle, by Stamford 
 town, 
 
 Fighting the Normans by Hastings 
 Bay, 
 Harold the Saxon's sun went down, 
 While the acorns were falling oue Au- 
 tumn day. 
 Then the Norman said, "I am lord of 
 the land ; 
 By tenor of conquest here I sit ; 
 I will rule you now with the iron hand;'' 
 But he had not thought of the Saxon 
 grit. 
 
 He took the land, and he took the men, 
 And burnt the homesteads from Trent 
 to Tyne, 
 Made the freeman serfs by a stroke of 
 the pen, 
 Eat up the corn and drank the wine, 
 And said to the maiden, pure «ud fair, 
 
 "You shall be my leman, as is most fit, 
 Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair;" 
 But he had not measured the Saxon 
 grit. 
 
 To his merry green wood went bold 
 Robin Hood, 
 With his strong-hearted yeomanry 
 ripe for the fray, 
 Driving the arrow into the marrow 
 Of all the proud Normans who came 
 in his way, 
 Scorning the fetter, fearless and free, 
 Winning by valor, or foiling by wit, 
 Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he, 
 This merry old rogue, with the Saxon 
 grit. 
 
 And Kett, the tanner, whipt out his 
 knife ; 
 And Watt, the smith, his hammer 
 brought down 
 For Ruth, the maid he loved better than 
 life, 
 And by breaking a head made a hole 
 in the crown. 
 From the Saxon heart rose a mighty 
 roar, 
 "Our life shall not be by the king's 
 permit; 
 We will fight for the right, we want no 
 more," 
 Then the Norman found out the Saxon, 
 grit. 
 
212 
 
 Olmsiead's Recitations. 
 
 For slow and sure as the oaks had grown 
 
 From the acorns falling that Autumn 
 
 day, 
 
 So the Saxon mauhood in thorp and 
 
 town 
 
 To a nobler stature grew alway. 
 
 Winning by inches, holding by clinches. 
 
 Standing by law and the human right, 
 
 Many times failing, never ouce qualing, 
 
 So the new day came out of the night. 
 ***** 
 
 Then arising afar in the western sea, 
 A new world stood in the morn of the 
 day, 
 
 Ready to welcome the brave and free, 
 Who could wrench out the heart and 
 march away 
 From the narrow, contracted, dear old 
 land 
 Where the poor are held by a cruel 
 bit, 
 To ampler spaces for heart and hand — 
 And here was a chance for the Saxon 
 grit. 
 
 Steadily steering, eagerly peering, 
 
 Trusting in God, your fathers came, 
 Pilgrims and strangers fronting all dan- 
 gers, 
 Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts all 
 aflame. 
 Bound by the letter, but free from the 
 fetter 
 And hiding their freedom in Holy 
 Writ, 
 They gave Deuteronomy hints in econo- 
 my, 
 And made a new Moses of Saxon grit. 
 
 They whittled and waded through forest 
 and fen, 
 Fearless a3 ever of what might befall; 
 Pouring out life for the nurture of men; 
 In faith that by manhood the world 
 wins all. 
 Invented baked beans and no end of 
 machines; 
 Great with the rifle and great with the 
 ax, 
 Sending their notions over the oceans, 
 To till empty stomachs and straighten 
 bent backs. 
 
 Swift to take chances that end in a dol- 
 lar, 
 Yet open of hand when the dollar is 
 made, 
 Maintaining the meetin', exalting the 
 scholar. 
 But a little too anxious about a good 
 trade. 
 This is young Jonathan, son of old John, 
 Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, 
 Saxon men all of us may we be one, 
 Steady for freedom, and strong in her 
 might. 
 
 Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have 
 grown 
 From the acorns that fell on that old 
 dim day, 
 So this new manhood, in city and town, 
 
 To a noble stature will grow alway; 
 Winning by inches, holding by clinches, 
 Slow to contention, and slower to 
 quit, 
 Now and then failing, but never once 
 quailing. 
 Let us thank God for the Saxon grit. 
 
 Little Nellie in Prison. 
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. 
 
 The eyes of a child are sweeter than any hymn 
 we have sung, and wiser than any sermon is the 
 lisp of a ciiildsh tongue ! 
 
 Hugh Falcon learned this happy truth 
 one day; 
 ('Twas a fair noontide in the month of 
 May)— 
 When as the chaplain of the convict's 
 jail, 
 He passed its glowing archway, sad 
 and pale, 
 Bearing his tender daughter on his arm. 
 Alive years' darling she! The dewy 
 charm 
 Of Eden star-dawns glistened in her 
 eyes, 
 Her dimpled cheeks were rich with 
 sunny dyes. 
 
 "Papa!" the child that morn, while still 
 abed, 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 213 
 
 Drawing him close toward her, shyly 
 said: 
 "Papa! oh, wout you let your Nellie go 
 To see those naughty men that plague 
 you so, 
 Down in the ugly prison by the wood? 
 Papa, I'll beg and pray them to be 
 good. 1 ' 
 "What, you, my child?" he said, with 
 half a sigh. 
 "Why not, papa? I'll beg them so to 
 
 try." 
 
 The chaplain, with a father's gentlest 
 grace, 
 Kissed the small ruffled brow, the 
 pleading face; 
 "Out of the mouths of babes and suck- 
 lings still, 
 Praise is perfected," thought he; thus 
 his will . 
 Blended with hers, and though those 
 gates of sin, 
 Black, even at noontide, sire and child 
 passed in. 
 
 Fancy the foulness of the sulphurous 
 lake, 
 Wherefrom a lily's snow-w r hite leaves 
 should break, 
 Flushed by the shadow of an unseen 
 rose! 
 So, at the iron gate's loud clang and 
 close, 
 Shone the drear twilight of that place 
 defiled, 
 Touched by the flower-like sweetness 
 of the child! 
 
 O'er many a dismal vault, and stony 
 floor, 
 The chaplain walked from ponderous 
 door to door. 
 Till now beneath a stair- way's dizzy 
 flight 
 He stood, and looked up the far-cir- 
 cling height; 
 But risen of late from fever's torture-bed, 
 How could he trust his faltering limbs 
 
 Just then, he saw, next to the mildewed 
 wall 
 
 A man in prisoner's raiment, gaunt 
 and tall, 
 Of sullen aspect, and wan, downcast 
 face, 
 Gloomed in the midnight of some deep 
 disgrace; 
 He shrank as one who yearned to fade 
 away, 
 Like a vague shadow on the stone- 
 work gray, 
 Or die beyond it, like a viewless wind; 
 His seemed a spirit faithless, passion- 
 less, blind 
 To all fair hopes which light the hearts 
 of men, — 
 A dull, dead soul, never to wake a- 
 gaic! 
 
 The chaplain paused, half doubting 
 what to do, 
 When little Nellie raised her eyes of 
 blue, 
 And, nowise daunted by the downward 
 stir 
 Of shaggy brows that glowered ask- 
 ance at her. 
 Said, putting back her wealth of sunny 
 hair, — 
 "Sir, will you kindly take me up the 
 si air? 
 Papa is tired, and I'm too small to 
 climb." 
 Frankly her eyes in his gazed all the 
 time, 
 And something to her childhood's in- 
 stinct known 
 So worked within her, that her arms 
 "were thrown 
 About his neck. She left her s'n*e's em- 
 brace 
 Near that sad convit heart to take her 
 place, 
 Sparkling and trustfull — more she did 
 not speak; 
 But her quick fingers patted his swart, 
 cheek 
 Carressingly, — in time to some old tune 
 Hummed by her nurse, in summer's 
 drowsy noon! 
 
 Perforce he turned his wild, uncertain 
 gaze 
 
214 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Down ou the child! Then stole a tre- 
 mulous haze 
 Across his eyes, but-rounded not to tears; 
 Wherethrough he saw faint glimmer- 
 ings of lost years 
 And perished loves! A cabin by a rill 
 Rose through the twilight on a happy 
 hill; 
 And there were lithe child-figures at 
 their play , 
 
 That Hashed and faded in the dusky 
 ray ; 
 And near the porch a gracious wife who 
 smiled, 
 Pure as young Eve in Eden, unbeguil- 
 edi 
 
 Subdued, yet thrilled, 'twas beautiful to 
 
 see 
 With what deep reverence, and how 
 
 tenderly 
 He clasped the infant frame so slight 
 
 and fair, 
 And safely bore her up the darkening 
 
 stair ! 
 The landing reached, in her arch, 
 
 childish ease, 
 Our Nellie clasped his neck and whis- 
 pered: 
 "Please wont you be good, sir? For 
 
 I like you so, 
 And you are such a big, strong man you 
 
 know — " 
 With pleading eyes, her sweet face 
 
 sidewise set. 
 Then suddenly his furrowed cheek grew 
 
 wet 
 With sacred tears — in whose divine 
 
 eclipse 
 Upon her nestling head he pressed his 
 
 lips 
 As softly as a dreamy west-wind's 
 
 sigh,— 
 What time a something, undefined but 
 
 high, 
 As 'twere a new soul, struggled to the 
 
 dawn 
 Through his raised eyelids. Thence, 
 
 the gloom withdrawn 
 Of brooding vengeance and unholy 
 
 pain, 
 
 He felt no more the captive's galling 
 
 chain; 
 But only knew a little child had come 
 To smite despair, his taunting, demon 
 
 dumb; 
 A child whose marvelous innocence 
 
 enticed 
 All white thoughts back, that from the 
 
 heart of Christ 
 Fly dove-like earthward, past our 
 
 clouded ken, 
 Child-like to bless, or lives of child-like 
 
 men! 
 
 Thus he went his way, 
 
 An altered man from that thrice blessed 
 
 day; 
 His soul turned ever to the soft refrain 
 Of words once uttered in a sacred fane: 
 "The little children, let them come to 
 
 me; 
 Of such as these my realm of heaven 
 
 must be," 
 But mo ^t he loved of one dear child to 
 
 tell, 
 The child whose trust had saved him, 
 
 tender Nell! 
 
 Alma Mater's Roll- 
 Edward Everett Hale. 
 
 (At a dinner at Cambridge, 1875.) 
 I saw her scan her sacred scroll, 
 I heard her read her record roll, 
 Of men who wrought to win the right, 
 Of men who fought and died in fight, 
 When now a hundred years by gone, 
 The day she welcomed Washington, 
 She showed to him her boys and men 
 And told him of their duty then. 
 
 Here are the beardless boys I sent, 
 
 And whispered to them my intent 
 
 To free a struggling continent. 
 
 The marks upon this scroll will show 
 
 Their work a hundred years ago. 
 
 "Otis," — no lesser death was given 
 
 To him than by a bolt from Heaven! 
 
 "Quincy" — he died before he heard 
 
 The echo of his thunder word . 
 
 And these were stripling lads whom I 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 215 
 
 Sent out to speak a nations cry 
 
 lu "glittering generality." 
 
 Of living words that cannot die, — 
 
 'Johu Hancock'! 'Here". 'John Adams'. 
 
 'Here' 
 'Paine, (Terry, Hooper, Williams!' 
 
 'Here.' 
 'My Narragansett Ellery!' 'Here.' 
 'Sam Adams, tirst of freeman!' 'HereV 
 My beardless boys, my graybeard men, 
 Summoned to take the fatal pen 
 Which gave eternal rights to men! — 
 All present or accounted for. 
 
 T saw her scan again the scroll, 
 I heard her read again the roll, 
 I heard her name her soldier son, 
 Ward, called from home by Lexington. 
 He smiled and laid his baton down, 
 Proud to be next to Washington! 
 He called her list of boys and men 
 Who served her for her battles then. 
 From north to south from east to west 
 He named her bravest and her best. 
 
 From distant fort, from bivouac near, 
 "Brook, Eustis, Cobb and Thatcher!" 
 
 "Here." 
 — Name after name with quick reply, 
 As twitched his lip and flashed his eye. 
 But then he choked and bowed his head 
 ''Warren — at Bunker Hill — lies dead." 
 The roll was closed — he only said 
 "All present, or accounted for!" 
 
 That scroll is stained with time and 
 
 dust, 
 They were not faithless to their trust. 
 "If those days come again — if I 
 Call on the grandsons— what reply? 
 What deed of courage new display 
 These fresher parchments of to-day?" 
 
 I saw her take the fresher scroll, 
 I heard her read the whiter roll, 
 And as the answers came, the while 
 Our mothers nodded with a smile: 
 "Chas. Adams." "Here!" "Geo. Ban- 
 croft." "Herer 
 "The Hoars." "Both herer "Dick 
 
 Dana." "Here!" 
 "Wads worth!" "He died at duty's 
 call." 
 
 "He fell as brave meu 
 
 'Struck down in Faneuel 
 
 "Webster!" 
 
 fall." 
 "Everett!" 
 
 Hall." 
 "Sumner!" "A nation bears his pall." 
 "Shaw!" "Abbott!' "Lowell" "Sav- 
 
 age! 
 
 'all 
 
 Died there — to live ou yonder wall!" 
 "Come east, come west, come far, come 
 
 near, 
 Lee! Bartlett, Davis, Devens!" "Here.'* 
 All present or accounted for. 
 
 Boys heed the omen! let the scroll 
 Fill as it may, as years unroll. 
 But when again she calls her youth 
 To serve her in the ranks of truth, 
 May she find all one heart, one soul; 
 At home, or on some distant shore, 
 All present, or accounted for. 
 
 The King's Christmas 
 (A Legend of Norway.) 
 With an hundred Jarls at least, 
 Held King Orm his Yule tide feast. 
 
 Drinking merrily; 
 Foamed the ale, the din of revels 
 Sounded down the long sand levels 
 Of the wild north sea. 
 
 Beserks chanted tunes and rhymes, 
 Sagas of the Elder times — 
 
 Deeds of force and might, 
 Mixed with hymns to martyrs glorious, 
 And the white Christ, the victorous, 
 
 Born a babe to-night. 
 
 Midnight came, and like a spell 
 On the Hall a silence fell — 
 
 Hushed the Berserks tale; 
 Only the deep ocean thunder, 
 And the pine groves rent asunder 
 
 By the Norland gale. 
 
 In that silence of the feast 
 
 Rose a white-haired Christian priest 
 
 Spoke with accents mild: 
 "Will not each some offering proffer — . 
 Each some birthnight present offer 
 
 To the new-born child?" 
 
 Up there started Svend the bold, 
 Red his shaggy locks as gold, 
 
i6 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Blue his restless eye; 
 "Lauds of Nordeu fields twice twenty 
 Miles, where firs grow tall and plenty 
 
 To the church give I. 
 
 Ranald next; where sailed his crew 
 Sea wolves swam, and eagles flew 
 
 Watching for the slain. 
 "Gold I give— Doubloons a hundred, 
 Last year in Sevilla plundered, 
 
 When we ravaged Spain." 
 
 Thus they shouted each and all, 
 Through the long low-raftered hall; 
 
 Each his gift proclaimed. 
 Then again the hush unbroken, 
 For the king had not } T et spoken, 
 
 Nor his offering named. 
 
 In a sweet and gentle tone 
 
 Brave King Orm spoke from his throne: 
 
 "What befits the king? 
 Christian priest I pray thee tell me, 
 That none other may excel me 
 
 In the gift I bring." 
 
 In the silence of the feast 
 
 Spoke again the white-haired priest 
 
 'Mid the listening throng: 
 "Pardon grant, O king, aid pity 
 To all men in lield or city 
 
 Who have done thee wrong. 
 
 "Who so pardoneth his foes, 
 On his Lord a gift bestows 
 
 More than lauds and sea, 
 Such a gift — it cometh solely 
 From a heart thats royal wholly 
 
 With Heaven's royalty." 
 
 "Be it so," the king replied, 
 
 "All men from this Christmas tide 
 
 Brothers do I call." 
 Through the Hall all heads bowed loyal; 
 "King, thy gift has proved thee royal: 
 
 Thou surpassest all!" 
 
 That sweet Yule tide gift went forth, 
 Bearing through the rugged north 
 
 Blessings far and wide; 
 Men grew gentler to each other, 
 And each called his neighbor brother 
 From that Christmas tide. 
 
 A Little Rebel. 
 
 BY JENNIE M. BINGHAM. 
 
 'Twas the year seveenteen hundred 
 and seventy-seven, 
 When Eugland was here looking 
 after her child; 
 The run-away, naughty, refractory 
 youngster, 
 By visions of freedom and future 
 beguiled. 
 
 From camps of the British a posse of 
 
 soldiers 
 Descended to plunder a neighboring 
 
 farm ; 
 Just taking possession of whatever 
 
 pleased them 
 Regardless of protest, or prayers, or 
 
 alarm. 
 
 It happened with others a fine cow 
 they captured, 
 Belonging expressly to Annie, the 
 
 A brave little daughter, you'll say, 
 when I tell how 
 She braved the great Britons, for 
 bossy, her Pearl. 
 
 She flew to the stables, and saddled her 
 pony, 
 Was soon on the road to the camp 
 near at hand; 
 The camp of the Britons, where dwelt 
 the commander, 
 Cornwallis, the leader of England's 
 proud band. 
 
 "Halt!" shouted the guard, laying hold 
 of the bridle, 
 (She would have rushed by him, her 
 haste Avas so great) 
 "I must see Corwallis, it's very import- 
 ant. 
 Don't hold me a moment, it may be 
 too late." 
 
 He knew lhat some rebels were still 
 
 true to England, 
 Would send in their spies to report 
 
 precious news 
 So summoned an escort to take to 
 
 head-quarters 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 217 
 
 This maid, whom the General would 
 not dare refuse. 
 
 'Twas a guy, festive room where he sat 
 with his council. 
 She glanced from herself to the full 
 dinner-dress, 
 Abashed for a moment at thought of 
 her boldness, 
 They, waiting to hear what she had 
 to confess. 
 
 "It's my cow," she declared, "your 
 soldies they took her. 
 I want her. Please don't let them 
 kill her for meat. 
 My father and brothers are Washing- 
 ton's soldiers, 
 So I had to come, spite the smoke 
 and the heat." 
 
 A moment they gazed on the daring 
 
 young maiden, 
 Then set up a shout that was deaf- 
 
 'ning to hear. 
 The General hushed them with stern 
 
 word, and answered, 
 "Here's spirit and courage I'm proud 
 
 to revere." 
 
 Then turning to Annie, he said with a 
 smile, 
 "So you are a rebel?" to w r hich she 
 replied, 
 "Yes sir, if you please, I'm a rebel, but 
 do, sir, 
 Give back my poor bossy again to 
 our side," 
 
 "She's yours," was the answer, "I'll 
 send a man with her." 
 Unclasping his knee-buckles bright, 
 as he said, 
 "These too shall be yours, then you'll 
 surely remember 
 Cornwallis knows courage, wherever 
 • it's bred." 
 
 Quite flushed with her triumph, she 
 turned her face homeward, 
 The buckles, as trophies, clasped 
 fast to her bow. 
 
 They're kept to this day by her happy 
 descendants, 
 
 Reminders how grandfathers fought 
 long ago. 
 
 An Extract 
 
 From a Poem delivered at the Departure of the 
 Senior Class of Yale College, in 1826. 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 
 We shall go forth together. There 
 will come 
 Alike the day of trial unto all. 
 And the rude world will buffet us alike. 
 Temptation hath a music for all ears; 
 And mad ambition trumpeteth to all; 
 And the ungovernable thought within 
 Will be in every bosom eloquent; — 
 But, when the silence and the calm 
 
 come on, 
 And the high seal of character is set, 
 We shall not all be similar. The scale 
 Of being is a graduated thing; 
 And deeper than the vanities of power, 
 Or the vain pomp of glory, there is writ 
 Gradation, in its hidden characters. 
 
 The pathway to the grave may be the 
 
 same, 
 And the proud man shall tread it, and 
 
 the low, 
 With his bowed head, shall bear him 
 
 company. 
 Decay will make no difference, and 
 
 death, 
 With his cold hand, shall make no dif- 
 ference; 
 And there will be no precedence of 
 
 power, 
 In waking at the coming trump of God; 
 But in the temper of the invisible mind, 
 The godlike and undying intellect, 
 There are distinctions that will live in 
 
 heaven, 
 When time is a forgotten circumstance! 
 The elevated brow of the kings will 
 
 lose 
 The impress of regalia, and the slave 
 Will wear his immortality as free, 
 Beside the crystal waters; but the depth 
 Of glory in the attributes of God, 
 Will measure the capacities of mind; 
 And as the angels differ, will the ken 
 
218 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Of gifted spirits glorify him more, 
 It is life's mystery. The soul of man 
 Createth its own destiny of power; 
 
 Ami, as the trial is intenser here, 
 His being hath a nobler strength in 
 heaven. 
 
 What is earthly victory? Press on! 
 For it has tempted angels. Yet press 
 
 on! 
 For it shall make you might}' among 
 
 men; 
 And from the eyrie of your eagle 
 
 thought, 
 Ye shall look down on monarchs. O, 
 
 press on! 
 For the high ones and powerful shall 
 
 come 
 To do you reverence; and the beautiful 
 Will know the purer language of your 
 
 brow, 
 And read it like a talisman of love! 
 Press on! for it is godlike to unloose 
 The spirit, and forget yourself in 
 
 thought; 
 Bending a pinion for the deeper sky, 
 And, in the very fetters of your flesh, 
 Mating with the pure essences of heav- 
 en! 
 Press on! — 'for in the grave there is no 
 
 work, 
 And no device.'— Press on! while yet ye 
 
 may! 
 
 King Down the Drop— I Cannot Play. 
 J. W. Watson. 
 O painted gauds and mimic scenes, 
 And pompous trick that nothing means! 
 O glaring light and shouting crowd, 
 And love-words in derision vowed! 
 O crowned king with starving eyes, 
 And dying swain who never dies! 
 Oh, hollow show and empty heart, 
 Great ministers of tragic art! 
 
 "There's that within which passeth 
 
 show." 
 The days they come, the days they go. 
 We live two lives, on either page — 
 The one, upon the painted stage, 
 
 With all the world to hear and gaze 
 And comment on each changing phase; 
 The other, that sad life within, 
 Where love may purify a sin. 
 
 Ring up the drop, the play is on; 
 Our hour of entrance comes anon! 
 Choke down the yearnings of the soul; 
 Weak, doling fool! art thou the whole? 
 The stage is waiting, take thy part; 
 Forget to-night thou hast a heart; 
 Let sunshine break the gathering cloud, 
 And smile thou on the waiting crowd. 
 
 Hear how their plaudits fill the scene! 
 
 Is not thy greedy ear full keen? 
 
 Is not a thousaud shouts a balm 
 
 For all thy throbbing heart's alarm? 
 
 "To be or not to be '—the screed 
 
 Is listened to with breathless heed. 
 
 O painter with a painted mask! 
 
 Is thy brain wandering from thy task? 
 
 Can it be true that scores of years 
 
 Do not suffice to murder tears? 
 
 Can it be true that all of art 
 
 Has failed to teach the human heart? 
 
 Can gauds, and tricks, and shout, and 
 
 glare, 
 » The deafening drum, the trumpet's 
 
 blare, 
 With all their w r ild, delirous din, 
 Not stifle this sad life within? 
 
 Pah, man! the eager people wait; 
 Go on with all thy studied prate; 
 Shalt thou not feed their longing eyes 
 Because — because a woman dies? 
 What cares the crowd for dying wives 
 For broken hearts, or blasted lives! 
 They paid their money, and — they say — 
 Living or dead, on with the play! 
 
 What! staggering/ man? why, where's 
 
 thy art 
 That stare was good; that tragic start 
 Would make thy fortune, were it not 
 That it rebukes the author's plot. 
 "My wife is dying!" He ne'er wrote 
 The words that struggle iu thy throat. 
 "Take back your money," did'st thou 
 
 say? 
 "Ring down the drop— I cannot play." 
 
Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 219 
 
 Ring down the drop; the act is o'er; 
 Her bark has touched the golden shore, 
 While reading from life's inner page, 
 Stands there the actor of the stage; 
 But not upon the cold, white corse 
 Falls there a word of sad remorse 
 From all that crowd who heard him 
 
 say, 
 ''Ring down the drop— I cannot play." 
 
 Parting Words. 
 
 E. Kent. 
 
 "Read at the close of her school, by the author, 
 who has since gone 
 
 >: to the Father's home. 
 Where tne careworn and the weary, and the 
 
 little children dwell. 
 Where love-tones alone are echoed, where U 
 
 breathed no sad farewell." 
 
 We are going homeward, homeward, 
 
 soon must fall the parting tear, 
 But unto my saddened spirit, children 
 
 you are very dear; 
 Days and weeks in qui ck^ succession, 
 
 pleasantly have tlown away, 
 And 'mid hours of useful labor, brought 
 
 us to this parting day. 
 Now before we part dear children; e'er 
 
 we breathe the fond farewell, 
 Let us turn our vision backwards, and 
 
 on other moments dwell; 
 You as pupils, I as teacher, have we 
 
 striven to obtain 
 Something of God's holier blessings 
 
 which shall be our future gain? 
 Ask yourselves the question, children, 
 
 have you through these wintry 
 
 hours, 
 Toiled to gain some useful knowledge 
 
 to increase your mental powers? 
 Felt your spirit stronger growing as 
 
 you gained some wholesome 
 
 truth. 
 Which hath made you wiser, better, in 
 
 the spring-time of your youth? 
 Now — to-morrow — and forever, shall 
 
 these words of truth and love, 
 As a beacon, guide you onward, unto 
 
 brighter lands above; 
 As ye gather in your childhood, so 
 
 when riper days shall dawn, 
 
 Shall ye reap the- full fruition of the 
 
 hours that are gone. 
 \U'(h\ ye then, oh! cherished spirits, 
 
 lest ye sow the seeds of woe 
 That shall bear a fruitful harvest in 
 
 this changeful world below, 
 Cloud old age with care and sorrow 
 that had else been pure and free, 
 Crowned with thorns instead ofroses — 
 
 not as it should ever be. 
 Life at best hath cares and sorrows 
 which to each and all must come; 
 He who takes them with the sunshine, 
 happier makes his friends and 
 home, 
 Strews sweet flowers around his path- 
 way, makes his life a life of love; 
 Makes his home a home of sunshine, as 
 
 the Father's home above. 
 We are going forth to labor, here life's 
 
 duties must divide, 
 No more in this pleasant school-room 
 
 shall we labor side by side. 
 I have loved you, dearest children, I 
 
 have striven to impart 
 Knowledge gathered from the way-side, 
 
 that will beautify the heart. 
 Not alone on science's hill-side have 
 
 you gleaned, or faltering trod, 
 I have tried to lead you nearer to the 
 
 bosom of your God; 
 To be kind to one another, pure in 
 
 action, pure in speech, 
 Lofty in your thoughts and feelings — 
 
 this, oh! this I've tried to teach. 
 If I've failed in this great mission, if 
 
 I've ever seemed unkind, 
 If you've deemed me harsh and hasty, 
 thought my judgment weak and 
 blind, 
 Oh! remember, dearest children, that 
 
 the teacher has to bear 
 With your weakness and your folly, 
 with your troubles and your care, 
 Has to study huma nature, curb the 
 
 passions of the child, 
 Patiently explain the probiem, teach 
 
 you to be true and mild; 
 Many duties crowd around her in this 
 temple of the mind; 
 
220 
 
 Olmstead's Recitations. 
 
 Oh! be lenient in your judgment, think 
 
 not she is harsh, unkind; 
 For the noblest ones have faltered, 
 
 moved by passions deep and wild 
 For a moment lost to reason, weak and 
 
 helpless as a child. 
 If I've wronged you, children, Oh! I 
 
 trust you will forgive. 
 High resolves and true repentance 
 
 teach us better how to live. 
 When the peaceful summer twilight 
 
 rests upon the scorching lands, 
 Often times in thought and feeling, in 
 
 this temple I shall stand, 
 See again your merry faces, live these 
 
 winter hours o'er, 
 Feel the presence of the loved ones, 
 
 gliding through the open door, 
 Hear your gladsome voices ringing on 
 
 the peaceful summer air, 
 Hear your kindly words of welcome 
 
 floating 'round me everywhere; 
 And your thoughtless words and actions 
 
 all forgotten then shall be, 
 While the memory of your good deeds 
 
 only shall be borne to me; 
 And this memory, Oh! beloved ones, 
 
 shall a green oasis be, — 
 In a union 'twixt our spirits, golden 
 
 chain of purity. 
 Wheresoe'er your feet shall wander, 
 
 keep your spirit firm and strong, 
 Live to make great men and women, 
 
 scorn to do that which is wrong; 
 Though the tempter stands beside you, 
 
 overcome each wild desire, 
 And through great and moral action 
 
 conquer passion's evil fire, 
 Thus you shall go forth to duty, strong 
 
 to labor and to do; 
 Pride of home and pride of parents and 
 
 a nation's glory too. 
 And to those whose words of wisdom 
 
 o'er our common life was thrown, 
 Who, when parted from the loved ones, 
 
 made for us a loving home; 
 Oh! we bless you cherished spirits, for 
 
 your great unwearied love, 
 For your kindness without measure, 
 
 sweet as sunshine from above; 
 
 Bless you for the useful lessons patient- 
 ly you've daily taught, 
 
 For the tenderness and home-love with 
 which every deed was fraught. 
 
 Oh! we feel our spirits stronger, having; 
 shared your love and home, 
 
 And our prayers shall still be with you,, 
 wheresoever we may roam. 
 
 We are going homeward, homeward, 
 sad thoughts flit across the mind, 
 
 Mingled with the thought of meeting- 
 treasured spirits left behind. 
 
 Feeling stronger, wiser, better, having; 
 met within these walls, 
 
 And o'er all the winter hours, sadly 
 now the curtain falls. 
 
 Oh! a thousand thoughts and feelings 
 rush across the weary mind, — 
 
 Little children love each other, be yon 
 ever just and kind, 
 
 Learn forgiveness, 'tis a lesson you 
 should learn in youth's spring- 
 time; 
 
 To "forget it on ly human" — to forgive 
 is half divine; 
 
 Thus where'er on life's great ocean may 
 our future life be thrown, 
 
 We shall feel that we are nearing near- 
 ing to the Father's home, 
 
 Where the care-worn and the weary,, 
 and the little children dwell, 
 
 Where love-tones alone are echoed- 
 where is breathed no sad fare- 
 well. 
 
TABLE Or CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 S anta Claus in the Mine .Anon 1 
 
 The Skeleton Story. Anon 8 
 
 The Monster Cannon. Victor Hugo 9 
 
 Death of Benedict Arnold. George Ltfppard 12 u/ 
 
 The Two Roads. Jean Paul Richter 14 
 
 The Firemans Prayer. Russel A. Conwell 15 
 
 The Ambitious Youth. Elihu Burritt 16 
 
 Regulus to the Earthagenians. E. Kellogg 19 
 
 At the Tom I) of Grant. Hou. John S. Wise 21 
 
 The Little Match Girl. Hans Christian Anderson 21 
 
 Sparticus to the Gladiators. E Kellogg 23 
 
 Survivors of Bunker Hill. Daniel Webster 24 
 
 The Veteran Soldiers.. Col. R G. Ingersoll 25 
 
 On the Shores of Tennessee. Mrs. E. L. Beers 26 
 
 The Dandy Fifth. Frank Cassaway 27 
 
 Curfew Must not King To-night. Mrs. Rose H. Thorpe 29 
 
 The Gamblers Wife 30 
 
 The Vagabonds. J. T. Trowbridge 31 
 
 Kentucky Belle. Constance Tenimore Woolston 33 
 
 The Polish Boy. Ann T. Stevens 35 
 
 8 ham us O'Brien. Samuel Lover 37 
 
 Death Doomed 41 
 
 Song of Marion's Men. W. C. Bryant 43 
 
 The Smith of Ragenback. Frank Murray 43 
 
 One in Blue and One in Gray. Anon 44 
 
 Kate Shelley. Eugene J. Hall 45 
 
 Flying Jim's Last Leap. Anon 47 
 
 Custer,s Last Charge 48 
 
 The Kaiser blumen. Celia Thaxter. ... 50 
 
 Ousters Last Ride. Frederic Whittaker 51 
 
 Wm. Tell 53 
 
 The Minuet 54 
 
 Rock of Ages 54 
 
 The Last Hymn. Marianne Farningham 55 
 
 Money Musk. Benj. F* Taylor 56 
 
 Engineer's Making Love. Robert Burdette 57 
 
 Sister and 1 58 
 
 Jesus Lover of my Soul. Eugene Hall 58 
 
 Searching for theSlain 60 
 
 The Country Dance. Joe Jot Jr 61 
 
 Pride of Battery B 62 
 
 The Widow's Light. Augusta Moore 63 
 
 Sioux Chief's Daughter. Joaquin Miller 64 
 
 You put no Flowers in my Papa's Grave. C. E. L. Holmes ()ii 
 
 Daisy's Faith. Joanna H, Mathews 67 
 
 Rock me to Sleep Mother. F. E. W. Cooperstown N. Y HI) 
 
 Cuddle Doon. Alexander Anderson 69 
 
 The Three Kingdoms. J. E. Bendall 70 
 
 Ginevra. Samuel Rogers 70 
 
 The Painter of Seville 72 
 
 Execution of Montrose. W. E. Aytoun 74 
 
 Mary the Maid of the Inn. Robert Southey ,76 
 
 The Mouster Diamond. J. B. O'Reilly 78 
 
 Lasca. Frank Disprez 80 
 
 Kit Carson's Ride. Joaquin Miller 82 
 
 The Bell of Lauora. VV. R. Rose 85 
 
 The Duelists Victory. Geo. T. Danergan 86 
 
 Wrecker's Oath on Baruegast. Henry Morford. 88 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Hancock at Gettysburg. Sherman D. Richardson 8& 
 
 Sheridan at Stone River. Sherman D. Richardson 91 
 
 The Fed Jacket. Geo. M Baker 92 
 
 Will the New Year come To-night. Cora M. Eager . 94 
 
 Accusing Bell or Blind Horse. (From the German) 95 
 
 Crmbysis and the Macrobian Bow. Paul H. Hayne 96 
 
 The Drummer Boy 98 
 
 Palmetto and the Pine. Virginia L. French 98- 
 
 The Victor of Maringo 99 
 
 The Dead Student. Will Carleton 100 
 
 How he Saved St. Michaels. Aldiue 101 
 
 The Roninu Soldier. Atherston 103. 
 
 Over the Hills From the Poor house. Will Carleton 104 
 
 Alexander Timing Bucephalus. Park Benjamin 106 
 
 The Pilot's Story. W. D. Howells 107 
 
 Death of the Old Squire. Anon 10a 
 
 What made the Judge Compromise. Sam Small Ill 
 
 Marion's Dinner. Edward C. Jones 112 
 
 Why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud. William Knox 112 
 
 The Seventh Plague of Egypt. Geo. Croly lift 
 
 Drummer Boy of Mission Ridge • • • ; 115 
 
 The Squire's Bargain. E. M. Traqnair 11? 
 
 Jem's Last Ride. Mary A. Stansbury 11& 
 
 The Singer's Alms. Henry L. Abbey 120 
 
 Antietam. Col. S. D. Richardson 121 
 
 The Bells. Edgar A. Poe 121 
 
 Creeds of the Bells. Geo. W. Bungay 128 
 
 Battle Above the Clouds. Theron Brown 124 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine. Mrs. Norton 125 
 
 Baron's la«t Banquet 126. 
 
 Bankrupt Visitor. Thos. Dunn English 12? 
 
 Relief of Lncknow. Robert Lowell 129 
 
 Farm Where we were Boys. E. L. Shuman 130 
 
 Independence Bell 131 
 
 The Old Year and the New. Tennyson 132 
 
 Convicts Christmas Eve 132 
 
 The Black Tiger. S. Olmsted 135 
 
 Incident of the Mohawk. S. Olmsted 137 
 
 Vashti. Julia C. Dorr 138 
 
 An Order for a Picture. Alice Gary 141 
 
 We Shall know. Annie Herbert , 142 
 
 How the Gates Came Ajar "". 142 
 
 Over the River. Nancy A. Priest 143 
 
 Old Way and the New. John H. Yates 144 
 
 Bernardo's Revenge 145 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra. Wm H. Lyttle. 145 
 
 Cleopatra Dying. Thos. Collier 146 
 
 The Storm. Geo. Alex Stevens 14fi 
 
 The Black Fox. Whittier 147 
 
 Don't Marry a Man to Reform Him 149 
 
 Cannot Call her Mother 150 
 
 The Old Old Story. Ella Wheeler Wilcox 150 
 
 Children Nutting. Lucy Marion Blynn 151 
 
 Burial of Moses. C. F. Alexander 151 
 
 The Charcoal Man. J. T. Trowbridge 152 
 
 Three Grains of Corn. Miss Edwards 153 
 
 Dont Forget the Old Folks 154 
 
 A Woman's Question 154 
 
 Home and Friends. . . 155 
 
 When I go Home. Eugene Field 155 
 
 Sufferings of the Pilgrims. Everett 155 
 
 The Pilgrims. Mrs. Sigourney 156 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Fifty Years Ago. W, D. Gallagher 157 
 
 Indian as he was and is. Sprague .168 
 
 Fall of Tecumseh. N. Y. Statesman 158 
 
 Man was made to Mourn. Robert Burns 160 
 
 Bernardo Del Carpio. Mrs. Hernans 161 
 
 Lord of Burleigh. Tennyson 162 
 
 The Diver. (German of Schiller) 163 
 
 Legend of Bregenz. Adalaide Proctor 166 
 
 Absalom. N. P. Willis 168 
 
 Marco Bozzaris. F. G. Halleck 170 
 
 The Inchcape Hock. Robert Southey 171 
 
 Horations. Macauley 172 
 
 Battle of Bunker Hill. Cozzens 175 
 
 Death of Leonidas 175 
 
 The King and the Rustic. Oldham 176 
 
 Guilty or not Guilty. Anon 178 X 
 
 The Blind Boy. F. L. Hawks. 178 
 
 The White Rose of Miami. Mrs. E. L. Schemerhorn 170 
 
 Twenty Years Ago 180 
 
 Battle of Waterloo. Byron 180 
 
 Out of the Old House Nancy. Will Carleton , 182 
 
 Graves of a Household .' 184 
 
 The Will and The Way 18* 
 
 The Goiden Side ' 184 
 
 Deeds Versus Creeds. Annie L. Muzzey : 185 
 
 Sermon in Rhyme 186 
 
 She Always Made Home Happy 186 
 
 The Family Bible. Anon 187 
 
 Dream of Ambition. Tupper 187 
 
 Raising of Dorcas. Rev. Alfred Hough 188 
 
 Hagar in the Wilderness. N. P. Willis 192 
 
 Castles in the Air. S. Olmstead 193 
 
 What one Boy thinks. Harriet Prescott Spofford 194 
 
 The Burial of Arnold. N. P. Willis .194 
 
 COeur De Lion, at the Bier of His Father 195 
 
 The Burning of Chicago. Will Carleton 195 
 
 Damon and Pythias; or, True Friendship. Wm. Peter 199 
 
 The African Chief. Byron 201 
 
 King Volmer and Elsie 201 
 
 Godiva. Alfred Tennyson 204 
 
 King Robert of Sicily. H. W. Longfellow 205 
 
 Brier-Rose. Hjalmar Hjorth Boyeren 108 
 
 Saxon Grit. Robert Collyer 211 
 
 Little Nellie in Prison. Paul Hamilton Hayne 212 
 
 Alma Mater's Roll. Edward Everett Hale 214 
 
 The King's Christmas 215 
 
 A Little Rebel. Jennie M.- Bingham 216 
 
 An Extract. N. P. Wallis 217 
 
 Ring Down the Drop. J. W. Watson 218 
 
 Parting Words. E. Kent 219 
 
Sherman D. Richardson, 
 
 (Author of '-Richardson's Recitations" of thrilling and entertaining 
 
 war poems) 
 
 Dramatie Reader. 
 
 Singly, or in connection with Seymour Olmstead. 
 G. A. R. Posts, Lodges, Committees, Etc. will do 
 well to write for terms. Address, 
 
 COL. SHERMAN D. RICHARDSON, 
 
 63 Arcade, Rochester, N. Y. 
 
 Seymour Olmstead, 
 
 Dramatic Reader. 
 
 Lodges, G. A. R., I. O. O. F., I. O. G. T., 
 
 A. O. U. W. , Societies, Committees, Etc. please 
 write for terms — alone or with Col. Richardson. 
 
 Address, SEYMOUR OLMSTEAD, 
 
 Albion, Orleans Co., N. Y.