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NEGLECTED GEMS 
 
 NATIONAL AIRS, BATTLE ECHOES, 
 
 AND HEEOIC VERSES 
 
 CONTAINING MANY 
 
 Beautiful Poems 
 
 NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED IN BOOK FORM. 
 
 Compiled and Edited bt 
 
 WALTEE TRUMBULL 
 
 CHICAGO : 
 
 RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY, PRINTERS. 
 
 1891. 
 

 Copyrtght, Walter Trumbull, 1891. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 :.: 
 
INTBODUCTION. 
 
 This little Conservatory of Song contains few of the brilliant 
 flowers of poetry found in larger collections, but rather a few 
 fragrant bnt neglected roses, gathered by the wayside of life by 
 one whose soul is easily kindled at the Muse's flame, and who 
 appreciates that 
 
 " Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air." 
 
 To these is added a second part, containing a few National 
 Airs, Battle Echoes, and Heroic Verses, suggested by the Compiler's 
 son, eleven years old, who has a great fondness for such pieces, 
 knows most of them by heart, speaks them well, and thinks them 
 peculiarly suited to be declaimed by boys in school. 
 
 As this is published as a Christmas book, and is intended to be 
 sold chiefly for Christmas presents, the Compiler thought it emi- 
 nently proper to open it with the beautiful ode to Bethlehem, by 
 Bishop Brooks, and to close it with Lincoln's Gettysburg speech, 
 the Apostles' Creed, and the solemn Amen. Carping critics 
 may say that the Creed and Lincoln's speech have no place in a 
 book of poems, but, in the Compiler's opinion, they are as poetical 
 as Solomon's Song or Paradise Lost, and as interesting as the wan- 
 derings of Moses and his Tribes or the explorations of iEneus. 
 
 " Thou must be true thyself, 
 
 If thou the truth would'st teach ; 
 Thy soul must overflow 
 
 If thou another's soul would'st reach ; 
 It needs the overflowing heart 
 To give the lips full speech. 
 
 (5) 
 
" Think truly, and thy thought 
 
 Shall be a fruitful seed ; 
 Speak truly, and thy word 
 
 Shall the world's famine feed ; 
 Live truly, and thy life 
 
 Shall be a great and noble creed." 
 
 " Though far away, 
 
 Though ruthless Time has scattered memory's dream, 
 Some scenes can ne'er decay, 
 But rest where all is change, like islands on a stream." 
 
 So some of the more beautiful of these poems, though laid 
 away in unused scrap-books for many years, when read again, 
 gave the Compiler as much joy as of yore. If others now find 
 a like pleasure in their perusal, he will feel well repaid for having 
 given them to the public. 
 
CONTENTS OF THE FIRST PART. 
 
 Introduction, ........ 5 
 
 Little Town of Bethlehem — Phillips Brooks, . . . 11 
 
 Christmas Carol — Phillips Brooks, . . . . .12 
 
 There is No Death — E. Buliver-Lytton, . . . . 13 
 
 What God Hath Joined — Phoebe Cary, . . . . .14 
 
 I'll Know Thee There — Unknown,, ..... 16 
 
 Resignation — H. W. Longfellow, . . . . . .18 
 
 The Last Man — Thomas Campbell, ..... 20 
 
 A Prison Lay — Thomas Francis Meagher, . • . .22 
 
 The GREvr Commander — Melville W. Fuller, ... 25 
 
 Magnanimity — Unknown, . . . . . . .27 
 
 Albert Sydney Johnston — Kate Brownlee Sherwood, . . 28 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith — Dublin University Magazine, . . .30 
 
 Kubla Khan — Samuel Taylor Coleridge, . . . . 31 
 
 To My Wife— Joseph Brennan, . . . . .33 
 
 The Welcome— T. 0. Davis, . . . . .34 
 
 Modern Medicine — E. Frank Lintdber, . . . . .35 
 
 SHORT PIECES. 
 
 From the Hymn of St. Bernard— St. Bernard cle Cluny, . . 36 
 
 From the Rubaeyat, ....... 36 
 
 The Might of One Fair Face — Michael Angelo, . . .38 
 
 The Whispering Lute — James Bacliman, .... 38 
 
 The Rose in the Garden— A ustin Dobson, . .39 
 
 The Transformation — Austin Dobson, .... 39 
 
 Lines with a Miniature— Unknown, . . . . .40 
 
 Strephon and Chloe, ....... 40 
 
 The Lay of a Freedman — Unknown, . . . . .41 
 
 Gettysburg Speech — Abraham Lincoln, .... 42 
 
 The Apostles' Creed, . . . . . . .42 
 
 Amen — F. Q. Browning, ....... 43 
 
 (7) 
 
PART FIRST. 
 
 NEGLECTED GEMS. 
 
 (9) 
 
NEGLECTED GEMS. 
 
 O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 little town of Bethlehem, 
 
 How still we see thee lie ! 
 Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 
 
 The silent hours go by; 
 Yet in thy dark streets shineth 
 
 The everlasting Light; 
 The hopes and fears of all the years 
 
 Are met in thee to-night. 
 
 For Christ is born of Mary, 
 
 And gathered all above; 
 While mortals sleep the angels keep 
 
 Their watch of wondering love. 
 morning stars, together 
 
 Proclaim the holy birth! 
 And praises sing to God the King, 
 
 And peace to men on earth. 
 
 How silently, how silently, 
 
 The wondrous gift is given! 
 So God imparts to human hearts 
 
 The blessings of His heaven. 
 No ear may hear His coming, 
 
 But in this world of sin, 
 Where meek souls will receive Him still, 
 
 The dear Christ enters in. 
 (ii) 
 
12 
 
 holy Child of Bethlehem, 
 
 Descend to us, we pray! 
 Oast out our sin and enter in, 
 
 Be born in us to-day. 
 We hear the Christmas angels 
 
 The great, glad tidings tell; 
 come to us, abide with us, 
 
 Our Lord Emanuel ! 
 
 Phillips Brooks. 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 The earth has grown old with its burcien of care, 
 
 But at Christmas it always is young; 
 The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair, 
 And its soul full of music breaks forth on the air, 
 
 When the song of the angels is sung. 
 
 It is coming, old Earth, it is coming to-night ! 
 
 On the snowflakes which cover thy sod 
 The feet of the Christ-child fall gentle and white, 
 And the voice of the Christ-child tells out with delight 
 
 That mankind are the children of God. 
 
 On the sad and the lonely, the wretched and poor, 
 
 That voice of the Christ-child shall fall,. 
 And to every blind wanderer open the door 
 Of a hope that he dared not to dream of before, 
 
 With a sunshine of welcome for all. 
 
 The feet of the humblest may walk in the field 
 
 Where the feet of the Holiest have trod. 
 This, this is the marvel to mortals revealed, 
 When the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed, 
 
 That mankind are the children of God. 
 
 Phillips Brooks. 
 
13 
 
 THERE IS NO DEATH. 
 
 There is no death: The stars go down 
 To rise upon some fairer shore; 
 
 And bright in Heaven's jeweled crown 
 They shine forevermore. 
 
 There is no death: The dust we tread 
 Shall change beneath the summer showers 
 
 To golden rain, or mellow fruit, 
 Or rainbow - tinted flowers. 
 
 The granite rocks disorganize 
 
 To feed the hungry moss they bear; 
 
 The forest leaves drink daily life 
 From out the viewless air. 
 
 There is no death: The leaves may fall, 
 The flowers may fade and pass away— 
 
 They only wait, through wintry hours, 
 The coming of the May. 
 
 There is no death: An angel form 
 Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; 
 
 He bears our best loved things away, 
 And then we call them "dead." 
 
 He leaves our hearts all desolate — 
 
 He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers; 
 
 Transplanted into bliss, they now 
 Adorn immortal bowers. 
 
 The bird -like voice, whose joyous tones 
 Made glad the scene of sin and strife, 
 
 Sings now an everlasting song 
 Amid the tree of life. 
 
 And where He sees a smile too bright, 
 Or hearts too pure for taint and vice, 
 
 He bears it to that world of light, 
 To dwell in Paradise. 
 
14 
 
 Born unto that undying life, 
 
 They leave us but to come again; 
 With joy we welcome them — the same 
 Except in sin and pain. 
 
 And ever near us, though unseen, 
 
 The dear immortal spirits tread; 
 For all the boundless universe 
 
 Is life — there are no dead. 
 
 Edward Bulwer-Lytton. 
 
 WHAT GOD HATH JOINED. 
 
 ["And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from 
 following after thee ; for whither thou goest, I will go ; and where thou 
 lodgest, I will lodge ; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my 
 God. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried. The 
 Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me."] 
 
 Eair youth, too timid to lift your eyes 
 
 To the maiden with downcast look, 
 As you mingle the gold and brown of your curls 
 
 Together over a book ; 
 A fluttering hope that she dare not name 
 
 Her trembling bosom heaves, 
 And your heart is thrilled when your fingers meet, 
 
 As you softly turn the leaves. 
 
 Perchance you two will walk alone 
 
 Next year at some sweet day's close, 
 And your voice will fall to a tenderer tone 
 
 As you liken her cheeks to a rose; 
 And then her face will flush and glow 
 
 With a hopeful, happy red, 
 Outblushing all the flowers that grow 
 
 Anear in the garden bed. 
 
 If you plead for hope, she may bashful drop 
 
 Her head on your shoulder low, 
 And you will be lovers and sweethearts then, 
 
 As youths and maidens go; 
 
15 
 
 Lovers and sweethearts, dreaming dreams, 
 
 And seeing visions that please, 
 With never a thought that life is made 
 
 Of great realities! 
 
 That the chords of love must be strong as death 
 
 If they hold and keep a heart; 
 Not daisy-chains, that snap in the breeze, 
 
 Or break with their weight apart; 
 For the pretty colors of youth's sweet morn 
 
 Fade out from the noonday sky; 
 And blushing k)ves in the roses born, 
 
 Alas! with the roses die! 
 
 But the faith that when our morn is past, 
 
 Tender and true survives, 
 Is the faith we need to lean upon 
 
 In the crisis of our lives; 
 The love that shines in the eye grown dim, 
 
 In the voice that trembling speaks, 
 And sees the roses that years ago 
 
 Withered and died in our cheeks! 
 
 That sheds its halo round us still 
 
 Of soft immortal light, 
 When we change youth's golden coronal 
 
 For a crown of silver white; 
 A love for sickness and for health, 
 
 For rapture and for tears, 
 That will live for us, and bear with us, 
 
 Through all our mortal years. 
 
 And such there is — there are lovers here, 
 
 On the brink of the grave that stand, 
 Who shall cross to the hills beyond and walk 
 
 Forever hand in hand. 
 Pray, youth and maid, that your fate be theirs 
 
 Who are joined no more to part; 
 For death comes not to the living soul, 
 
 Nor age to the loving heart. 
 
 Phcebe Cary. 
 
16 
 
 I'LL KNOW THEE THERE. 
 
 [George D. Prentice said: " No living poet can surpass in gracefulness 
 and beauty the following lines."] 
 
 Pale star, with thy soft, sad light, 
 
 Come out upon my bridal eve, 
 I have a song to sing to-night, 
 
 Before thou tak'st thy mournful leave. 
 Since then so softly time has stirr'd 
 
 That months have almost seemed like hours, 
 And I am like a little bird 
 
 That slept too long among the flowers, 
 And waking sits with waveless wing, 
 
 Soft singing 'mid the shades of even; 
 But oh, with sadder heart I sing — 
 
 I sing of one who dwells in Heaven. 
 
 The winds are soft, the clouds are few, 
 
 And tenderest thought my heart beguiles, 
 As floating through the mist and dew 
 
 The pale young moon comes out and smiles. 
 And to the green resounding shore, 
 
 In silvery troops the ripples crowd, 
 Till all the ocean, dimpled o'er, 
 
 Lifts up its voice and laughs aloud; 
 And star on star, all soft and calm, 
 
 Floats up yon arch serenely blue; 
 And lost to earth and steeped in balm, 
 
 My spirit floats in ether, too. 
 
 Loved one ! though lost to human sight, 
 
 I feel thy spirit lingering near, 
 As softly as I feel the light 
 
 That trembles through the atmosphere, 
 As in some temple's holy shades, 
 
 Though mute the hymn and hush'd the prayer, 
 A solemn awe the soul pervades, 
 
 Which tells that worship has been there; 
 
17 
 
 A breath of incense, left alone 
 
 Where many a censer swung around, 
 
 Will thrill the wanderer like to one 
 Who treads on consecrated ground. 
 
 I know thy soul from worlds of bliss 
 
 Yet stoops awhile to dwell with me, 
 Hath caught the prayer I breathed in this, 
 
 .That I at last might dwell with thee; 
 I hear a murmur from the seas 
 
 That thrills me like the spirit's sighs; 
 I hear a yoice on every breeze 
 
 That makes to mine its low replies — 
 A voice all low and sweet like thine; 
 
 It gives answer to my prayer, 
 And brings my soul from Heaven a sign 
 
 That I will know and meet thee there. 
 
 Ill know thee there by that sweet face, 
 
 Round which a tender halo plays, 
 Still touched with that expressive grace 
 
 That made thee lovely all thy days; 
 By that sweet smile that o'er it shed 
 
 A beauty like the light of even, 
 Whose soft expression never fled 
 
 Even when its soul had flown to Heaven; 
 I'll know thee by thy starry crown 
 
 That glitters in thy raven hair; 
 Oh ! by these blessed signs alone 
 
 I'll know thee there, I'll know thee there. 
 
 For, ah ! thine eye, within whose sphere 
 
 The sweets of youth and beauty met, 
 That swam in love and softness here, 
 
 Must swim in love and softness yet. 
 For, ah ! its dark and liquid beams, 
 
 Though saddened by a thousand sighs, 
 Were holier than the light that streams 
 
 Down from the gates of Paradise — 
 
18 
 
 Were bright and radiant like the morn, 
 
 Yet soft and dewy as the eve, 
 Too sad for eyes where smiles are born, 
 
 Too young for eyes that learn to grieve. 
 
 I wonder if this cool, sweet breeze 
 
 Hath touched thy lips and found thy brow, 
 For all my spirit hears and sees 
 
 Eecalls thee to my memory now; 
 For every hour we breathe apart 
 
 Will but increase, if that can be, 
 The love that fills this lonely heart 
 
 Already filled so full of thee. 
 Yet many a tear these eyes must weep, 
 
 And many a sin must be forgiven, 
 Ere those pale lids shall sink to sleep — 
 
 And you and I shall meet in Heaven. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 [Many years ago Edmund Yates lectured before the Young Men's Chris- 
 tian Association of New York upon pieces of forgotten poetry. He said that 
 in wandering through the bookstalls of old London he had found this beautiful 
 piece, but had never been able to learn who was the author. A smile rippled 
 over the faces of his audience as he read the first verse, as he was, perhaps, the 
 only person present who did not know who wrote it.] 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 
 But one dead lamb is there! 
 There is no fireside, howsoever defended, 
 
 But has one vacant chair! 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
 
 And mournings for the dead; 
 The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
 
 Will not be comforted! 
 
 Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 
 
 Not from the ground arise, 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
19 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists aud vapors; 
 
 Amid these earthly damps 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
 
 May be Heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 There is no death! What seems so is transition: 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
 She is not dead — the child of our affection — 
 
 But gone unto that school 
 Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
 
 And Christ Himself doth rule. 
 
 In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 
 
 By guardian angels led, 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 
 
 She lives whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day we think what she is doing 
 
 In those bright realms of air; 
 Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 
 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 
 The bond which Nature gives, 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her; 
 
 For when with raptures wild 
 In our embraces we again enfold her, 
 
 She will not be a child: 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 
 
 Clothed with celestial grace; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
20 
 
 And though, at times, impetuous with emotion 
 
 And anguish long suppressed, 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
 
 That can not be at rest — 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We may not wholly stay; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
 He^ry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 
 
 The Sun himself must die, 
 Before this mortal shall assume 
 
 Its immortality! 
 I saw a vision in my sleep, 
 That gave my spirit strength to sweep 
 
 Adown the gulf of Time! 
 I saw the last of human mold 
 That shall Creation's death behold, 
 
 As Adam saw her prime ! 
 
 The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 
 
 The earth with age was wan; 
 The skeletons of nations were 
 
 Around that lonely man! 
 Some had expired in fight — the brands 
 Still rusted in their bony hands, 
 
 In plague and famine some! 
 Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
 And ships were drifting with the dead 
 
 To shores where all was dumb! 
 
 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 
 With dauntless words and high, 
 
 That shook the sere leaves from the wood 
 As if a storm pass'd by, 
 
21 
 
 Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun; 
 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 
 
 'Tis mercy bids thee go; 
 For thou ten thousand thousand years 
 Hast seen the tide of human tears, 
 
 That shall no longer flow. 
 
 What though beneath thee man put forth 
 
 His pomp, his pride, his skill; 
 And arts that made fire, flood, and earth 
 
 The vassals of his will? 
 Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
 Thou dim, discrowned king of day; 
 
 For all those trophied arts 
 And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
 Heal'd not a passion or a pang 
 
 EntaiFd on human hearts. 
 
 G-o, let oblivion's curtain fall 
 
 Upon the stage of men, 
 Nor with thy rising beams recall 
 
 Life's tragedy again: 
 Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
 Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 
 
 Of pain anew to writhe; 
 Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, 
 Or mown in battle by the sword, 
 
 Like grass beneath the scythe. 
 
 Even I am weary in yon skies 
 
 To watch thy fading fire; 
 Test of all sumless agonies, 
 
 Behold not me expire. 
 My lips that speak thy dirge of deatn 
 Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 
 
 To see thou shalt not boast. 
 The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, 
 The majesty of darkness shall 
 
 Receive my parting ghost! 
 
22 
 
 This spirit shall return to Him 
 
 That gave its heavenly spark, 
 Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 
 
 When thou thyself art dark ! 
 No! it shall live again, and shine 
 In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 
 
 By Him recalled to breath 
 Who captive led captivity, 
 Who robbed the grave of Victory, 
 
 And took the sting from Death. 
 
 Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 
 
 On Nature's awful waste 
 To drink this last and bitter cup 
 
 Of grief that man shall taste. 
 Go, tell the Night that hides thy face 
 Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race 
 
 On earth's sepulchral clod 
 The darkening Universe defy 
 To quench his immortality, 
 
 Or shake his trust in God. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 A PRISON LAY. 
 
 [The compiler reached Fort Benton, Montana Territory, on the 2d of 
 July, 1867, where he was introduced to Colonel Meagher, then acting Governor 
 of the Territory. That night the Colonel, either by accident or design, stepped 
 from the side of a steamer moored at the wharf into the Missouri River and 
 was drowned. This incident lent a melancholy interest to the following lines, 
 clipped from a paper at the time. They were written by Colonel Meagher 
 in Clonmel jail, while under sentence of death for treason, which sentence 
 was afterward commuted to banishment.] 
 
 I Love, I love, these gray old walls! 
 Although a chilly shadow falls 
 Along the iron-grated halls; 
 
 And in the silent, narrow cells, 
 
 Brooding darkly, ever dwells. 
 
23 
 
 Oil! still I love tliem — for the hours 
 Within them spent are set with flowers 
 That blossom, spite of wind and showers, 
 And through that shadow dull and cold 
 Build their sparks of blue and gold. 
 
 Bright flowers of mirth, that wildly spring 
 From fresh young hearts, and o'er them fling 
 Like Indian birds with sparkling wing, 
 Seeds of sweetness, grains all glowing, 
 Sun-gilt leaves with dew-drops flowing. 
 
 * 
 
 And hopes as bright, that softly gleam, 
 Like stars which o'er the churchyard stream 
 A beauty on each faded dream — 
 Mingling the light they purely shed 
 With other hopes whose light has fled. 
 
 Fond memories, too, undimmed with sighs, 
 Whose fragrant sunshine never dies, 
 Whose summer song-bird never flies — 
 These, too, are chasing, hour by hour, 
 The clouds that round this prison lower. 
 
 And thus, from hour to hour, Fve grown 
 To love these walls, though dark and lone, 
 And fondly prize each gray old stone 
 
 Which flings the shadow deep and chill 
 
 Across my fettered footstejis still. 
 
 Yet let these memories fall and flow 
 Within my heart, like waves that glow 
 Unseen in spangled caves, below 
 
 The foam which frets, the mists which sweep 
 The changeful surface of the deep. 
 
 Not so the many hopes that bloom 
 Amid this voiceless waste and gloom, 
 Strewing my pathway to the tomb 
 
 As though it were a bridal bed, 
 
 And not the prison of the dead. 
 
24 
 
 I would these hopes were traced in fire, 
 Beyond those walls — above that spire — 
 Amid yon bine and starry choir, 
 
 Whose sounds play round us with the streams 
 Which glitter in the white moon's beams. 
 
 Fd twine those ho}3es above our Isle, 
 
 Above the path and ruined pile, 
 
 Above each glen and rough defile — 
 The holy well — the Druid's shrine — 
 Above them all, these hopes I'd twine! 
 
 So shall I triumph o'er my fate, 
 And teach this poor desponding state, 
 In sighs of tenderness, not hate, 
 
 Still to think of our old story, 
 
 Still to hope for future glory. 
 
 Within these walls, those hopes have been 
 The music sweet, the light serene, 
 
 Which softly o'er this silent scene 
 
 Have, like the autumn streamlets, flowed, 
 And, like autumn sunshine, glowed. 
 
 And thus, from hour to hour, I've grown 
 To love these walls, though dark and lone, 
 And fondly prize each gray old stone 
 That flings the shadow deep and chill 
 Across my fettered footsteps still. 
 
25 
 
 THE GREAT COMMANDER. 
 
 [Written and read by Honorable Melville W. Fuller at the memorial 
 meeting held in Battery D, Chicago, Illinois, on Saturday evening, August 8, 
 1885, to commemorate the death of General Grant. 
 
 This exalted strain, filled with noble sentiments, in a meter appropriate 
 to the occasion, was read as only Judge Fuller could read it, but, as applied to 
 Grant, many of its laudations were as far from the mark as any eulogy ever 
 pronounced upon him. 
 
 The author sacrified everything to the motto " De mortuis nil nisi 
 bonum." 
 
 It has been said, "If you would injure your enemy praise him for 
 qualities which he manifestly docs not possess." Though nothing was farther 
 from the kind heart of Judge Fuller, it was just what he did. Grant had noble 
 qualities, though some of them were dreadfully misapplied. He was indus- 
 trious, persistent, patient, brave, personally honest, and, above all, not 
 exactly true to his friends, but true to those he thought friends. Though he 
 once said, " Let us have peace ! " he was only for peace when his opponents 
 or antagonists submitted. Personally he was the most resentful of all the 
 Presidents, as others than Andrew Johnson could testify. His "meed of 
 fame " rests "in his battles won." In history military glory alone will render 
 his name immortal. As the Honorable Tioscoe Conklin, his most devoted and 
 consistent advocate, said in nominating him for a third term: 
 
 " When asked what State he hails from 
 
 Our sole reply shall be, 
 ' He comes from Appomattox, 
 
 And its famous apple tree.' "] 
 
 I. 
 
 Let drum to trumpet speak, 
 The trumpet to the cannoneer without, 
 The cannon to the heavens, from each redout, 
 
 Each lonely valley and each lofty peak — 
 As to his rest the Great Commander goes, 
 Into the pleasant land of earned repose ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 The Great Commander ! When 
 Is heard no more the sound of War's alarms, 
 The bugle's stirring note, the clang of arms, 
 
 Depreciation's tongue would whisper then, 
 Only good fortune gave to him success; 
 When was there greatness fortune did not bless? 
 
26 
 
 in. 
 
 Not in his battles won, 
 Though long the well-fought fields may kee|) their name, 
 
 But in the wide world's sense of duty done, 
 The gallant soldier finds the meed of fame. 
 
 His life no struggle for ambition's prize, 
 
 Simply the duty done that next him lies. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And, as with him of old, 
 Immortal captain of triumphant Kome, 
 Whose eagles made the rounded globe their home. 
 
 How the grand soul, of true heroic mold, 
 Despised resentment and such meaner things, 
 That peace might gather all beneath her wings ! 
 
 y. 
 
 No lamentation here ! 
 The weary hero lays him down to rest, 
 As tired infant at the mother's breast, 
 
 Without a care, without a thought of fear- 
 Waking to greet upon the other shore 
 The glorious host of comrades gone before. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Earth to its kindred earth, 
 The spirit to the fellowship of souls! 
 As slowly Time the mighty scroll unrolls 
 
 Of waiting ages yet to have their birth, 
 Fame, faithful to the faithful, writes on high 
 His name as one that was not born to die ! 
 
27 
 
 MAGNANIMITY. 
 
 [When it was sought to remove Mr. Sumner, by reason of differences 
 with the Grant administration, from the Chairmanship of the Committee on 
 Foreign Relations, a position which he had long held and for which he was 
 eminently fitted, Mr. Trumbull, whose relations had not been pleasant with 
 him for some years, struck with the rank injustice of such action, promptly 
 came to Mr. Sumner's defense, saying as he began: "I have differed with the 
 Senator from Massachusetts at times — I am sorry to say sometimes bitterly — but 
 I always have and always will insist that justice be done that Senator. I 
 stood by the Senator when he was struck down by the advocates of Slavery, 
 and I stand by him to-day when the blow comes from those who have been 
 put into power as much through the instrumentality of the Senator from 
 Massachusetts as of any other man living." 
 
 At the conclusion of Mr. Trumbull's remarks, Mr. Sumner came forward 
 extending his hand to Mr. Trumbull with thanks, which restored their former 
 friendly relations, never afterward to be broken. This incident gave rise to 
 the following earnest lines.] 
 
 Up spoke from the ranks of the alien 
 A voice without favor or fear; 
 "This man was my foe and I fought him, 
 God help me! Fll stand by him here." 
 
 Brave words when the stoutest kept silence, 
 Strong heart when all else stood aloof, 
 
 Rare gleam of fine gold in the weaving 
 Of Treachery's base warp and woof. 
 
 Frail friend or true foe, which were better? 
 
 Now answer me woman or man, 
 To him among thieves who was neighbor, 
 
 Pray answer me that if you can. 
 
 Henceforth be it writ in our story, 
 
 A great man there was whom none knew; 
 
 Of all, he it told to his glory, 
 
 A foe alone proved to him true. 
 
 land of the beautiful rivers, 
 
 And green intervales lying low, 
 Land stretching from ocean to ocean, 
 
 From palm plume to sharp peak of snow! 
 
28 
 
 land by thy Lord made so lovely, 
 
 Thy children defile thee for greed; 
 But one — tell it loud to the nations — 
 
 One stood by a foe in his need. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 ALBEKT SYDNEY JOHNSTON. 
 
 [This poem was read at the unveiling ceremonies of the Albert Sydney 
 Johnston equestrian statue, held by the ex-Confederate Army of the Tennessee 
 at New Orleans, on the 6th of April, 1887, the twenty-fifth anniversary of 
 the battle of Shiloh and of General Johnston's death.] 
 
 I hear again the tread of war go thundering through the land, 
 And Puritan and Cavalier are clinching neck and hand; 
 Round Shiloh's church the furious foes have met to thrust and slay, 
 Where erst the peaceful sons of Christ were wont to kneel and pray. 
 
 The wrestling of the ages shakes the hills of Tennessee, 
 With all their echoing mounts athrob with war's wild minstrelsy; 
 A galaxy of stars new-born flares round the shield of Mars, 
 And set against the stars and stripes the flashing stars and bars. 
 
 f Twas Albert Sydney Johnston led the columns of the Gray, 
 Like Hector on the plains of Troy, his presence fired the fray; 
 And dashing horse and gleaming sword spake out his royal will, 
 As on the slopes of Shiloh's field the blasts of war blew shrill. 
 
 " Down with the base invaders!" the Gray shout forth the cry, 
 " Death to the presumptuous rebels!" the Blue ring out reply; 
 All day the conflict rages, and yet again all day, 
 Though Grant is on the Union side he can not stem nor stay. 
 
 They are a royal race of men, these brothers face to face, 
 Their fury speaking through their guns, their frenzy in their pace; 
 The sweeping onset of the Gray bears down the sturdy Blue, 
 Though Sherman and his legions are heroes through and through. 
 
 Though Prentiss and his gallant men are forcing scaur and crag, 
 They fall like sheaves before the scythes of Hardee and of Bragg; 
 Ah! who shall tell the victor's tale when all the strife is past, 
 When man and man in one great mold the men who strive are cast. 
 
29 
 
 As when the Trojan hero came from that fair city's gates, 
 With tossing mane and flaming crest to scorn the scowling fates, 
 His legions gather round him and madly charge and cheer, 
 And fill the besieging armies with wild disheveled fear; 
 
 Then bares his breast unto the dart the daring spearman sends, 
 And dying hears his cheering foes, the wailing of his friends. 
 So Albert Sydney Johnston, the chief of belt and scar, 
 Lay down to die at Shiloh and turned the scales of war. 
 
 Now five and twenty years are gone, and lo! to-day they come, 
 The Blue and Gray, in proud array, with throbbing fife and drum; 
 But not as rivals, not as foes, as brothers reconciled, 
 To twine love's fragrant roses where the thorns of hate grew wild. 
 
 They tell the hero of three wars, the lion-hearted man, 
 Who wore his valor like a star — uncrowned American. 
 Above his heart, serene and still, the folded stars and bars; 
 Above his head, like mother-wings, the sheltering stripes and stars. 
 
 Aye, five and twenty years, and lo! the manhood of the South 
 Has held its valor stanch and strong as at the cannon's mouth; 
 With patient heart and silent tongue has kept its true parole, 
 And in the conquests born of peace has crowned its battle roll. 
 
 But ever while we sing of war, of courage tried and true, 
 
 Of heroes wed to gallant deeds, or be it Gray or Blue, 
 
 Then Albert Sydney Johnston's name shall flash before our sight 
 
 Like some resplendent meteor across the sombre night. 
 
 America, thy sons are knit with sinews wrought of steel, 
 They will not bend, they will not break, beneath the tyrant's heel; 
 But in the white-hot flames of love, to silken cobwebs spun, 
 They whirl the engines of the world, all keeping time as one. 
 
 To-day they stand abreast and strong, who stood as foes of yore, 
 The world leaps up to bless their feet, heaven scatters blessings o'er; 
 Their robes are wrought of gleaming gold, their wings are 
 
 freedom's own, 
 The trampling of their conquering hosts shakes pinnacle and throne. 
 
 Oh, veterans of the Blue and Gray, who fought on Shiloh field, 
 The purposes of God are true, His judgment stands revealed; 
 The pangs of war have rent the veil, and lo! His high decree: 
 One heart, one hope, one destiny, one flag, from sea to sea. 
 
 Kate Bbownlee Shekwood. 
 
30 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 A lad slunk out of the college gate 
 With a parchment grasped in his fist; 
 
 He tried to dodge past the sniggering boys 
 Who snubbed him with " Last on the list! " 
 
 He stole to a lodging, up three pair of stairs, 
 In a wretched old tumble-down lane, 
 
 And took up his flute to get rid of the thoughts 
 That were racking about in his brain. 
 
 " Just passed through! and so many a lad 
 Honored and medaled and praised! 
 Oh, what a crazy foundation whereon 
 My fortunes will have to be raised! 
 
 "An awkward, ungainly, diminutive dolt, 
 With nothing on earth to attract; 
 Alike for the desk and the drawing-room unfit- 
 Devoid of both talent and tact." 
 
 He whispered some melodies into his flute 
 As a tear gathered up in his eye; 
 "What — what shall I turn to? Physic or Law? 
 Or Divinity? folly to try! 
 
 "The coif or the mitre — it is not for me; 
 I shall ne'er be addressed as ' my lord;' 
 And as for the baton or flag — bless my heart! 
 Only fancy poor 'Noll' with a sword! 
 
 "Well! jests at least at the gate again 
 
 None shall fling at the Graduate's head; 
 Since fellowships, scholarships, are not for me, 
 I'll take to my flute for bread ! " 
 
 Now, as you enter that college gate, 
 
 Lift up your eyes and you'll see, 
 Towering above your heads a bronze, 
 
 In its proud serenity. 
 
31 
 
 Yes! the strains from that wretched flute 
 
 To the ends of the earth have sped; 
 Though "Noll" was a drudge so long as he lived, 
 
 He's deified now that he's dead. 
 
 And what is this world? — the college gate — 
 Through which genius may slink with shame; 
 
 The list is the ledger of life's success, 
 And the statue is posthumous fame. 
 
 Dublin University Magazine. 
 
 KUBLA KHAN. 
 
 Ik Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree; 
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 
 Down to a sunless sea. 
 So twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled round; 
 
 And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; 
 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
 But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
 
 A savage place! as holy and enchanted 
 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
 By woman wailing for her demon-lover; 
 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 
 
 As if' this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced, 
 Amid whose swift, half -intermit ted burst 
 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail; 
 And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 
32 
 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
 Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; 
 And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far, 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war! 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 Floated midway on the waves, 
 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 
 It was a miracle of rare device, 
 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw; 
 It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 And on her dulcimer she played, 
 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 Could I revive within me 
 
 Her symphony and song, 
 To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
 
 That, with music loud and long, 
 I would build that dome in air, 
 
 That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 And all should cry, Beware! beware! 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 
 
 Weave a circle round him thrice, 
 And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise. 
 
 Samuel Tayole Coleeidge. 
 
33 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee; 
 Day-time and night-time I'm thinking about thee; 
 Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold thee; 
 Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee. 
 
 Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten; 
 Come in thy beauty, to bless and to brighten; 
 Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly; 
 Come in thy loveliness, queenly and holy. 
 
 Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, 
 Telling of Spring and its joyous renewing; 
 And thoughts of thy love and its manifold treasure 
 Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. 
 
 Spring of my spirit ! May of my bosom ! 
 Smile out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom; 
 The waste of my life has a rose root within it, 
 And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. 
 
 Figure that moved like a song through the even; 
 Features lit up by a reflex of heaven — 
 Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, 
 Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other 
 
 Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, 
 Opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple; 
 Oh, thanks to the Savior, that even thy seeming 
 Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. 
 
 You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened: 
 Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? 
 Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love; 
 As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love. 
 
 1 can not weep but your tears will be flowing; 
 You can not smile but my cheek will be glowing; 
 I would not die without you at my side, love; 
 You will not linger when I shall have died, love. 
 
34 
 
 Come to me, dear, ere I die in my sorrow, 
 
 Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow; 
 
 Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love, 
 
 With a song on your lips and a smile on your cheek, love. 
 
 Come, for my heart in your absence is weary; 
 Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary; 
 Come to my heart that is aching to press thee, 
 Come to the arms that would fondly caress thee. 
 
 Joseph Brennan. 
 
 THE WELCOME. 
 
 i. 
 Come in the evening, or come in the morning; 
 Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; 
 Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
 And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! 
 Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
 And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don't sever! " 
 
 ir. 
 I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them! 
 Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom; 
 I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ; 
 I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 
 Oh, your step's like the rain to the summer-vex'd farmer, 
 Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; 
 I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, 
 Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love me. 
 
 in. 
 We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie; 
 We'll tread 'round the rath on the track of the fairy; 
 We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, 
 Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. 
 Oh, she'll whisper you, " Love, as unchangeably beaming, 
 And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming; 
 Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, 
 As our souls flow in one down Eternity's river." 
 
35 
 
 IV. 
 
 So come in the evening, or come in the morning; 
 
 Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; 
 
 Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 
 
 And the of tener you come here the more I'll adore you ! 
 
 Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; 
 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; 
 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 
 
 And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don't sever!" 
 
 Thomas Osborne Davis. 
 
 MODERN MEDICINE. 
 
 First they pumped him full of virus from some mediocre cow, 
 
 Lest the small-pox might assail him and leave pit-marks on his brow; 
 
 Then one day a bulldog bit him — he was gunning down at Qnogue — 
 
 And they filled his veins in Paris with an extract of mad-dog; 
 
 Then he caught tuberculosis, so they took him to Berlin, 
 
 And injected half a gallon of bacilloe into him; 
 
 Well, his friends were all delighted at the quickness of the cure, 
 
 Till he caught the typhoid fever, and speedy death was sure; 
 
 Then the doctors with some sewage did inoculate a hen. 
 
 And injected half its gastric juice into his abdomen; 
 
 But as soon as he recovered, as of course he had to do, 
 
 There came along a rattlesnake and bit his thumb in two; 
 
 Once again his veins were opened to receive about a gill 
 
 Of some serpentine solution with the venom in it still; 
 
 To prepare him for a voyage in an Asiatic sea, 
 
 New blood was pumped into him from a lep'rous old Chinee; 
 
 Soon his appetite had vanished, and he could not eat at all, 
 
 So the virus of dyspepsia was injected in the fall; 
 
 But his -blood was so diluted by the remedies he'd taken 
 
 That one day he laid him down and died, and never did awaken. 
 
 With the Brown-Sequard elixir though they tried resuscitation, 
 
 He never showed a symptom of reviving animation; 
 
 Yet his doctor still could save him (he persistently maintains), 
 
 If he only could inject a little life into his veins. 
 
 E. Frank Lintaber. 
 
SHORT PIECES. 
 
 FROM THE HYMN OF ST. BERNARD. 
 
 holy, placid harp-notes 
 
 Of that eternal hymn! 
 sacred, sweet refection, 
 
 And peace of Seraphim! 
 thirst forever ardent, 
 
 Yet evermore content! 
 true peculiar vision 
 
 Of God cunctipotent ! 
 Ye know the many mansions 
 
 For many a glorious name, 
 And divers retributions 
 
 That diverse merits claim; 
 For midst the constellations 
 
 That deck our earthly sky, 
 This star than that is brighter, 
 
 And so it is on high. 
 
 St. Bernard de Cluny. 
 
 In 1886, the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, the Astronomer-Poet of 
 Persia, translated by Fitzgerald, and magnificently embellished by the power- 
 ful drawings of Elihu Vedder, was sent as a present to the compiler, who was 
 then living in New Mexico, by one of his best friends and charming com- 
 panions, his father's present wife. After reading a few verses he caught the 
 metre of Fitzgerald, and sent his thanks in the two stanzas in the same strain 
 given below. A few verses are also given from the Rubaiyat to show what 
 that meter is. Would that I could also give Vedder's illustrations. 
 
 FROM THE RUBAIYAT. 
 
 (Frontispiece.) 
 [Omar, surrounded by his jovial companions, looks down upon the 
 ambitious warrior, the miser, the student, and the theologian, and delivers his 
 thought.] 
 
 " Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit 
 Of this and that endeavor and dispute; 
 
 (36) 
 
37 
 
 Better be jocund with the fruitful grape 
 Than sadden after none or bitter fruit." 
 
 I. 
 
 "Wake ! for the Sun, who scattered into flight 
 The stars before him from the field of night, 
 
 Drives night along with them from Heaven, and strikes 
 The sultan's turret with a shaft of light." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Some for the glories of this world, and some 
 Sigh for the prophet's Paradise to come; 
 
 Ah, take the cash and let the credit go, 
 Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum." 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 "Oh, threats of hell and hopes of Paradise ! 
 One thing at least is certain — this life flies; 
 
 One thing is certain and the rest is lies. 
 The flower that once has blown forever dies. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 " Oh, Thou ! who man of baser earth didst make, 
 And ev'n with Paradise devise the snake; 
 
 For all the sin wherewith the face of man 
 Is blackened, man's forgiveness give — and take ! 
 
 THANKS OF THE COMPILER. 
 
 Its weird and ancient art 
 Inspires my grateful heart 
 
 With love for Orient lore; 
 And still more is the donor's part. 
 
 The gentle tenderness, 
 
 That thought a distant soul to bless, 
 
 Instruct, and cheer, commands my love, 
 Invites a soft caress. 
 
38 
 
 THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE. 
 
 The might of one fair face sublimes my love, 
 For it hath weaned my heart from low desires; 
 Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires; 
 
 Thy beauty, antepast of joys above, 
 
 Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; 
 For oh, how good, how beautiful must be 
 The God that made so good a thing as thee, 
 
 So fair an image of the heavenly Dove! 
 Forgive me if I can not turn away 
 
 From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, 
 
 For they are guiding stars benignly given 
 To tempt my footsteps in the upward way; 
 
 And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 
 
 I live and love in God's peculiar light. 
 
 Michael Akgelo. 
 
 THE WHISPERING LUTE. 
 
 O'er David's couch, as old tradition says, 
 There hung a lute tuned ever to God's praise; 
 And when, upon the passing of the night, 
 The soft wind whispered toward the gates of light, 
 The lute filled all the chamber of the King 
 With its melodious murmuring. 
 
 Then woke the royal singer, and with head 
 Half raised, as if he heard an angel's tread, 
 Listened, until, his poet soul on fire, 
 He caught with eager, yearning hands the lyre, 
 And sang the songs the world's heart sings again — 
 Inspired outpourings of the souls of men. 
 
 So, o'er our heads, new dawning truth abroad, 
 
 The whispering lutes sing sweeter thoughts of God! 
 
 poet, whom the world has waited long, 
 
 Come, smite the murmuring harp-strings clear and strong! 
 
 Come, thou new seer, who shalt rise and sing 
 
 This day's evangel of thy God and King! 
 
 James Bachman. 
 
39 
 
 THE ROSE IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 The Kose in the garden slipped her bud, 
 
 And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood, 
 
 As she thought of the gardener standing by, 
 
 He is old, so old, and he soon must die. 
 
 And the full rose waxed in the warm June air, 
 And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare, 
 And she thought again as she heard his tread, 
 He is older now, and will soon be dead. 
 
 But the breeze of the morning blew and found 
 That the leaves of the blown rose strewed the ground: 
 And he came at noon, that gardener old, 
 And he softly raked them under the mold. 
 
 And I wove the thing to a random rhyme, 
 For the rose was Beauty — the gardener Time. 
 
 Austin Dobson. 
 
 THE TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 When love was young it asked for wings, 
 
 That it might still be roaming; 
 And away it sped, by fancy led, 
 
 Through dawn, and noon, and gloaming. 
 Each daintiness that blooms and blows 
 
 It wooed in honeyed metre, 
 And when it won the sweetest sweet 
 
 It flew off to a sweeter; 
 When love was young. 
 
 When love was old it craved for rest, 
 
 For home, and hearth, and haven; 
 For quiet talks round sheltered walks, 
 
 And long lawns smoothly shaven. 
 And what love sought at last it found — 
 
 A roof, a porch, a garden; 
 And from a fond unquestioning heart, 
 
 Peace, sympathy, and pardon; 
 When love was old. Austin Dobson. 
 
40 
 
 LINES WITH A MINIATURE. 
 
 I send my silent self to see 
 
 If loving eyes can trace 
 Resemblance to that better one, 
 
 That happy lover's face, 
 Enshrined in the gentle breast 
 
 Of her he holds most dear, 
 Oh, may it herald him who writes 
 
 Not less the coming year. 
 
 Pray, as you gaze, that soon cold eyes 
 
 Glow with a living bliss, 
 And lips of Heaven, unconscious now, 
 
 Shall claim their own, a kiss ! 
 But to that hour when Time and Fate 
 
 Are powerless to part, 
 Wear, darling, one of these upon 
 
 And one within your heart. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 A witty young lady, who had broken a score of hearts in her time, 
 married. She sent a young gentleman, whom she had terribly jilted, a bit of 
 wedding-cake, a noosed string, and the following verse: 
 
 " Deae Strephon: 
 
 In Chloe lost, consider what you lose, 
 
 And for the bridal knot accept this noose; 
 
 This healing slip-knot, dexterously applied, 
 
 Will help you bear the loss of such a bride. 
 
 "Chloe." 
 He returned the noose to her with the following reply: 
 
 " Dear Chloe: 
 
 Your gift as a symbol with candor you chose; 
 My narrow escape almost everyone knows; 
 As a gift from a lady, I ought not to refuse it, 
 But your husband, you know, may soon want to use it; 
 And so, by the bearer, your gift I restore, 
 For your bridegroom will want it ere the honeymoon's o'er. 
 
 "Strephon." 
 
41 
 
 THE LAY OF A FREEDMAN. 
 
 Fse free ! Fse free ! cle 'pressor's yoke, 
 
 De sword am cut in two, 
 And daref ore, white men, hear me spoke, 
 
 For Fse as free as you. 
 
 From massa, oberseer, and lash 
 
 Fse free, as you'm aware, 
 Fse free — to sleep in swamp and marsh — 
 
 Fse free — to feed on air. 
 
 De Yankee preachers preach to kill, 
 
 Dey squench de spirit's thirst; 
 I wish dare bread of life would fill 
 
 De empty stummuck first. 
 
 Dey talk about de promised land 
 
 Wiv milk and honey flowing; 
 But when I reaches out de hand, 
 
 Dare's no setch rations going. 
 
 Fse free to work for daily bread, 
 
 And butter it if I can; 
 "And dis," de white man says to Ned, 
 
 " Dis is to be a man ! " 
 
 I s'pose it am; I bress de Lord 
 
 Dat Linkum guv me free ! 
 But nebberd'less it's berry hard 
 
 To starve on liberty. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
42 
 
 LINCOLN'S GETTYSBURG SPEECH. 
 
 Four-scoke and seven years ago our fathers brought forth 
 on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated 
 to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are 
 engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any 
 nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are 
 met on a great battle-field of that war; we have come to dedicate a 
 portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave 
 their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and 
 proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we can not 
 dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. 
 The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have conse- 
 crated it far above our }:>oor power to add or detract. The world 
 will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can 
 never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, 
 to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought 
 here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be 
 here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from 
 these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for 
 which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that Ave here 
 highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this 
 nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that 
 government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall 
 not perish from the earth. 
 
 THE APOSTLES' CREED. 
 
 I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven 
 and earth: 
 
 And in Jesus Christ, His only son, our Lord; who was con- 
 ceived by the Holy Ghost; born of the Virgin Mary; suffered under 
 Pontius Pilate; was crucified, dead, and buried. He descended into 
 hell. The third day He rose again from the dead. He ascended 
 into Heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of God, the Father Al- 
 mighty; from thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead. 
 
 I believe in the Holy Ghost; the Holy Catholic Church; the 
 communion of saints; the forgiveness of sins; the resurrection of 
 the body; and the life everlasting. Amen. 
 
43 
 
 AMEN. 
 
 I cannot say, 
 Beneath the pressure of life's cares to-day, 
 
 I joy in these; 
 
 But I can say 
 That I had rather walk this rugged way, 
 
 If Him it please. 
 
 I cannot feel 
 That all is well, when darkening clouds conceal 
 
 The shining sun; 
 
 But then, I know 
 Grod lives and loves; and say, since it is so, 
 "Thy will be done." 
 
 I cannot speak 
 In happy tones; the tear-drops on my cheek 
 
 Show I am sad; 
 
 But I can speak 
 Of grace to suffer with submission meek, 
 
 Until made glad. 
 
 I do not see 
 Why God should e'en permit some things to be, 
 
 When He is love; 
 
 But I can see, 
 Though often dimly, through the mystery, 
 
 His hand above! 
 
 I do not know 
 Where falls the seed that I have tried to sow 
 
 With greatest care; 
 
 But I shall know 
 The meaning of each waiting hour below, 
 
 Sometime, somewhere! 
 
44 
 
 I do not look 
 Upon the present, nor in Nature's book, 
 
 To read my fate; 
 
 But I do look 
 For promised blessings in God's Holy Book: 
 
 And I can wait. 
 
 I may not try 
 To keep the hot tears back, but hush that sigh — 
 i( It might have been" — 
 And try to still 
 Each rising murmur, and to God's sweet will 
 Respond, "Amen!" 
 
 Rev. F. G. Browning. 
 
 Mr. Trumbull wrote part of Introduction and added the Apostles' Creed 
 the day before his death. 
 
PART SECOND. 
 
 NATIONAL AIRS, BATTLE ECHOES, 
 AND HEROIC VERSES, 
 
 GATHERED BY THE COMPILER'S SON, 
 
 WALTER S. TRUMBULL, 
 
 ELEVEN YEARS OLD. 
 
 (47) 
 
CONTENTS OP THE SECOND PART. 
 
 NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Star-Spangled Banner — Francis Scott Key, . . . . 5 L 
 
 God Save the King — Henry Carey, ..... 52 
 
 The Marseillaise — From the French of Roget de Lisle, . . .52 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Republic — Julia Ward Howe, . . 54 
 
 The American Flag- Joseph Hodman Brake, . . . .54 
 
 BATTLE ECHOES AND HEROIC VERSES. 
 
 Hohenlinden t — Thomas Campbell, . . . . . .57 
 
 The Charge of the Light Brigade — Alfred Tennyson, . . 58 
 
 Warsaw's Last Champion — Thomas Campbell, . . . .60 
 
 Marco Bozzaris — Fits-Greene Halleck, . . . . .61 
 
 Lochinvar — Sir Walter Scott, . . . . . .64 
 
 Lochiel's Warning— Thomas Campbell, . . .65 
 
 Thk Battle of Ivry— Thomas Babington Macaiday, . . .68 
 
 Horatius at the Bridge — Thomas Babington Macaiday, . . 69 
 
 (49) 
 
NATIONAL AIRS. 
 
 \ 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 
 
 0, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
 
 What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? 
 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, 
 O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming; 
 
 And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
 
 Grave proof through the night that our flag was still there. 
 0, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? 
 
 On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
 As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? 
 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
 
 In full glory reflected now shines on the stream. 
 'Tis the star-spangled banner! 0, long may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 
 
 And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
 That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
 
 A home and a country should leave us no more? 
 
 Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. 
 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 
 From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave. 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 
 
 0, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
 
 Between their loved homes and the Avar's desolation; 
 
 Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land 
 Praise the power that made and preserved us a nation. 
 
 Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just, 
 
 And this be our motto, " In God is our trust." 
 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 
 
 Fkakcis Scott Key. 
 
 (51) 
 
52 
 GOD SAVE THE KING. 
 
 English National Anthem. 
 
 God save our gracious king, 
 Long live our noble king, 
 
 God save ^he king. 
 Send him victorious, 
 Happy and glorious, 
 Long to reign over us, 
 
 God save the king. 
 
 Lord our God, arise, 
 Scatter his enemies, 
 
 And make them fall; 
 Confound their politics, 
 Frustrate their knavish tricks; 
 On him our hopes we fix, 
 
 God save us all. 
 
 The choicest gifts in store 
 On him be pleased to pour, 
 
 Long may he reign. 
 May he defend our laws, 
 And ever give us cause 
 To sing with heart and voice, 
 
 God save the king. 
 
 Heney Caeey. 
 
 MARSEILLAISE. 
 
 French National Hymn. 
 
 Ye sons of Freedom, wake to glory; 
 
 Hark, hark, what myriads bid you rise! 
 Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary- 
 
 Behold their tears and hear their cries! 
 Shall hateful tyrants mischief breeding, 
 With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, 
 Affright and desolate the land, 
 While peace and liberty lie bleeding! 
 To arms, to arms, ye brave! 
 Th' avenging sword unsheath! 
 March on! March on! 
 All hearts resolved on victory or death! 
 
53 
 
 ~Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling, 
 
 Which treacherous kings confederate raise; 
 The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, 
 
 And lo! our walls and cities blaze! 
 And shall we basely view the ruin, 
 
 While lawless force, with guilty stride, 
 Spreads desolation far and wide, 
 With crimes and blood his hands embruing? 
 To arms, to arms, ye brave! 
 Th' avenging sword unsheath! 
 March on! March on! 
 All hearts resolved on victory or death! 
 
 With luxury and pride surrounded, 
 
 The vile insatiate despots dare, 
 Their thirst of gold and power unbounded, 
 
 To mete and vend the light and air! 
 Like beasts of burden they would lead us, 
 Like gods would bid their slaves adore; 
 But man is man, and who is more? 
 Then shall they longer lash and goad us? 
 To arms, to arms, ye brave! 
 Th' avenging sword unsheath! 
 March on! March on! 
 All hearts resolved on victory or death! 
 
 Liberty! can man resign thee, 
 
 Once having felt thy generous flame? 
 Can dungeons 7 bolts and bars confine thee, 
 
 Or whips thy noble spirit tame? 
 Too long the world has wept, bewailing 
 That falsehood^ dagger tyrants wield : 
 But Freedom is our sword and shield, 
 And all their arts are unavailing! 
 To arms, to arms, ye brave! 
 Th" avenging sword unsheath! 
 March on! March on! 
 All hearts resolved on victory or death! 
 
 From the French of Roget de Lisle. 
 
54 
 
 BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: 
 He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of His terrible swift sword : 
 His truth is marching on. 
 
 I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; 
 They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; 
 I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: 
 "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; 
 Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with His heel, 
 Since God is marching on." 
 
 He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat; 
 0, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
 In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
 With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me; 
 As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
 While God is marching on. 
 
 Julia Waed Howe. 
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 When Freedom, from her mountain height, 
 Unfurled her standard to the air, 
 
 She tore the azure robe of night, 
 And set the stars of glory there! 
 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 
 The milky baldric of the skies, 
 
55 
 
 And striped its pure, celestial white 
 With streakings of the morning light; 
 Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
 She called her eagle-bearer down, 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 The symbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 
 
 Who rear's t aloft thy regal form, 
 To hear the tempest trumping loud, 
 And see the lightning lances driven, 
 
 When strive the warriors of the storm, 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven — 
 Child of the Sun! to thee 'tis given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free, 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To ward away the battle stroke, 
 And bid its blendings shine afar, 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 
 The harbingers of victory! 
 
 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
 The sign of hope and triumph high! 
 When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
 And the long line comes gleaming on, 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
 Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
 And, as his springing steps advance, 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 
 
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
56 
 
 Flag of the seas! on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
 When death, careering on the gale, 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 
 
 By angel hands to valor given! 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet! 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before us; 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! 
 
 Joseph Eodmax Deake. 
 
BATTLE ECHOES AND HEROIC VERSES. 
 
 HOHENLIJNDEK 
 
 On Linden, when the sim was low, 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 But Linden saw another sight, 
 When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
 And furious every charger neighed, 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
 Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
 And louder than the bolts of heaven 
 Ear flashed the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory or to grave! 
 Wave, Munich ! all thy banners Avave, 
 And charge with all thy chivalry! 
 
 (5?) 
 
58 
 
 Few,, few shall part where many meet! 
 The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 
 
 Half a league, half a league, 
 
 Half a league onward, 
 All in the valley of Death 
 
 Eode the six hundred. 
 "Forward, the Light Brigade! 
 Charge for the guns!" he said; 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Eode the six hundred. 
 
 "Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
 Was there a man dismayed? 
 Not though the soldier knew 
 
 Some one had blundered. 
 Their's not to make reply, 
 Their's not to reason why, 
 Their's but to do and die; 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Eode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon in front of them 
 
 Volley "d and thundered; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well, 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of Hell 
 
 Eode the six hundred. 
 
59 
 
 Flashed all their sabres bare, 
 Flash'd as they turn'd in air, 
 Sabring the gunners there, 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wonder'd. 
 Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
 Right through the line they broke; 
 
 Cossack and Russian 
 ReeFd from the sabre-stroke 
 
 Shattered and sundered. 
 Then they rode back, but not — 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon behind them 
 
 Volley'd and thundered; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
 While horse and hero fell, 
 They that had fought so well 
 Came through the jaws of Death 
 Back from the mouth of Hell, 
 All that was left of them — 
 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 When can their glory fade? 
 Oh, the wild charge they made! 
 
 All the world wondered. 
 Honor the charge they made! 
 Honor the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred! 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
60 
 
 WARSAW'S LAST CHAMPION. 
 
 sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased awhile, 
 And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, 
 When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars 
 Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, 
 Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, 
 Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; 
 Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 
 Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man! 
 
 Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed, 
 Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, — 
 "0 Heaven/' he cried, "my bleeding country save! — 
 Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 
 Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, 
 Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! 
 By that dread name we wave the sword on high! 
 And swear for her to live! — with her to die!" 
 
 He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed 
 His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed ; 
 Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
 Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; 
 Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
 Revenge, or death! — the watchword and reply; 
 Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
 And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm! — 
 
 In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! 
 From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew: — 
 bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 
 Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; 
 Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
 Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! 
 Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, 
 Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; — 
 Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
 And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
61 
 
 MARCO BOZZARIS. 
 
 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 throne — a king; 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
 
 As Eden's garden bird. 
 
 At midnight, in the forest shades, 
 
 Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 
 True as the steel of their tried blades, 
 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
 There had the glad earth drunk their blood, 
 
 On old Platsea's day; 
 And now there breathed that haunted air 
 The sons of warriors who conquered there, 
 With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
 
 As quick, as far, as they. 
 
 An hour passed on — the Turk awoke: 
 
 That bright dream was his last; 
 He woke to hear his sentries 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 arm'd foe expires; 
 Strike for your altars and your fires; 
 Strike for the green graves of your sires, 
 
 God and your native land ! " 
 
62 
 
 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 smiles when rang their proud hurrah, 
 
 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's, when she feels, 
 For the first time, her first-born's breath; 
 
 Come when the blessed seals 
 That 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, 
 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. 
 Come when his task of fame is wrought, 
 Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought, 
 
 Come in her crowning hour, and then 
 Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
 To him is welcome as the sight 
 
 Of sky and stars to prison'd men; 
 Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
 Of brother in a foreign land; 
 Thy summons welcome as the cry 
 That told the Indian isles were nigh 
 
63 
 
 To the world-seeking Genoese, 
 When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
 And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 
 
 Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 
 
 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. 
 She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 
 
 Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
 Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 
 In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 
 
 The heartless luxury of the tomb. 
 But she remembers thee as one 
 Long loved, and for a season gone; 
 For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
 Her marble wrought, her music breathed, 
 For thee she rings the birth-day bells, 
 Of thee her babe's first lisping tells; 
 For thine her evening prayer is said 
 At palace couch and cottage bed; 
 Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
 Gives, for thy sake, a deadlier blow; 
 His plighted maiden, when she fears 
 For him, the joy of her young years, 
 Thinks of thy fate and checks her tears; 
 
 And she, the mother of thy boys, 
 Though in her eye and faded cheek 
 Is read the grief she will not speak, 
 
 The memory of her buried joys, 
 And even she who gave thee birth, 
 Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 
 
 Talk of thy doom without a sigh; 
 For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, 
 One of the few — the immortal names — 
 
 That were not born to die. 
 
 Fitz-Greene Halleck. 
 
64 
 
 LOCHINVAR. 
 
 Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West — 
 Through all the wide border his steed was the best, 
 And save his good broadsword he weapons had none — 
 He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 
 
 He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 
 
 He swam the Eske Eiver where ford there was none, 
 
 But ere he alighted at JSTetherby gate, 
 
 The bride had consented, the gallant came late; 
 
 For a laggard in love and a dastard in war 
 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 
 'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all. 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword 
 (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 
 "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 
 
 "I long woo'd your daughter — my suit you denied; 
 Love swells like the Sol way, but ebbs like its tide; 
 And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
 There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
 That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up, 
 He quafiPd off the wine and he threw down the cup. 
 She look'd down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
 With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 
 He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar: 
 "Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar. 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
 
 That never a hall such a galliard did grace, 
 
 While her mother did fret and her father did fume, 
 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, 
 
 And the bridemaidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far 
 
 To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." 
 
65 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
 When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 
 : She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; 
 They'll have fleet steeds that follow/' quoth young Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; 
 
 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; 
 
 There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, 
 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 LOCHIEL' S WARNING. 
 
 Wizard — Lochiel. 
 
 Wizard. 
 
 Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day 
 When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! 
 For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
 And the clans of Oulloden are scattered in fight. 
 They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown; 
 Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! 
 Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
 And their hoof -beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
 But hark! through the fast flashing lightning of war, 
 What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 
 'Tis thine, Glenullin ! whose bride shall await 
 Like a love-lighted watch-fire all night at the gate. 
 A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; 
 But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
 Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! 
 Oh, weep, but thy tears can not number the dead; 
 For a merciless sword on Oulloden shall wave, 
 Culloden! that reeks ivith the blood of the brave. 
 
M 
 
 Lochiel. 
 
 Go preach to the coward, thou death-dealing seer! 
 Or, if gory Oulloden so dreadful appear, 
 Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, 
 This mantle to cover the phantoms of fright. 
 
 Wizard. 
 
 Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? 
 Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! 
 Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingiy forth, 
 From his home in the dark rolling clouds of the north? 
 Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
 Oompanionless, bearing destruction abroad; 
 But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! 
 Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast 
 Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 
 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
 From his eyrie, that becomes the darkness of heaven. 
 Oh! crested Lochiel, the peerless in might, 
 Whose banners arise on the battlement's height, 
 Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; 
 Eeturn to thy dwelling, all lonely return! 
 For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
 And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 
 
 Lochiel. 
 
 False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshaled my clan, 
 Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! 
 They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, 
 And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
 Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! 
 Let him dash his proud form like a wave on the rock! 
 But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
 When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; 
 Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
 All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 
 
 Wizard. 
 
 Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day; 
 
 For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
 
67 
 
 But man can not cover what G-od would reveal; 
 
 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
 
 And coming events cast their shadows before. 
 
 1 tell thee, Culloden's dead echoes shall ring 
 
 With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 
 
 Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 
 
 Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! 
 
 Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight; 
 
 Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 
 
 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; 
 
 Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 
 
 But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? 
 
 For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
 
 Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, 
 
 Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding and torn? 
 
 Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; 
 
 The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; 
 
 His death-bell is tolling; oh mercy, dispel 
 
 Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! 
 
 Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 
 
 And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 
 
 Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, 
 
 Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, 
 
 With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale. 
 
 Locliiel. 
 
 Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale; 
 
 For never shall Albin a destiny meet 
 
 So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 
 
 Tho' my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, 
 
 Like ocean weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, 
 
 Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
 
 While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
 
 Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 
 
 With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! 
 
 And leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
 
 Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
68 
 
 THE BATTLE OF IVRY. 
 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! 
 
 And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! 
 
 Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance [France ! 
 
 Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, pleasant land of 
 
 And thou, Kochelle, our own Kochelle, proud city of the waters, 
 
 Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. 
 
 As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, 
 
 For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. 
 
 Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war; 
 
 Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre. 
 
 0, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, 
 
 We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; 
 
 With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, 
 
 And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. 
 
 There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land, 
 
 And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand, 
 
 And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, 
 
 And good Colignfs hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; 
 
 And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, 
 
 To fight for his own holy name and Henry of Navarre. 
 
 The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, 
 
 And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest; 
 
 He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; 
 
 He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. 
 
 Eight graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing 
 
 Down all our line in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the King!" 
 
 "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may — 
 
 For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray — 
 
 Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, 
 
 And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." 
 
 Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din 
 Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin! 
 The fiery duke is pricking fast across St. Andrews plain, 
 With all the hireling chivalry of Guelclers and Almayne. 
 Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
 Charge for the golden lilies! upon them with the lance! 
 
69 
 
 A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, 
 A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; 
 And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding. star, 
 Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 
 
 Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein, 
 D'Aumale hath cried for Quarter, the Flemish Count is slain: 
 Their ranks are breaking like) thin cloudy before a Biscay gale; 
 The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, .and flags and cloven mail; 
 And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 
 "Kemember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man; 
 But out spake gentle Henry: "No Frenchman is my foe; 
 Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." 
 0, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, 
 As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre? 
 
 Ho, maidens of Vienna! — ho, matrons of Lucerne! 
 
 Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those avIio never shall return. 
 
 Ho, Philip! send for charity thy Mexican pistoles, 
 
 That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. 
 
 Ho, gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright! 
 
 Ho, burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night! 
 
 For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, 
 
 And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the brave. 
 
 Then glory to his holy name from whom all glories are; 
 
 And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre. 
 
 Thomas Babington Macaulay. 
 
 HORATIUS. 
 
 Lars Porsesta of Olusium, 
 
 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 trysting-day, 
 And bade his messengers ride forth, 
 East and west and south and north, 
 
 To summon his array. 
 
70 
 
 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 Olusium 
 
 Is on the march for Eome! 
 
 The horsemen and the footmen 
 
 Are pouring in amain 
 From many a stately market-place, 
 
 From many a fruitful plain, ' 
 From many a lonely hamlet, ,, 
 
 Which, hid by beech and pine, 
 Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest 
 
 Of purple Apennine; 
 
 From lordly Volaterrae, 
 
 Where scowls the far-famed hold 
 Piled by the hands of giants 
 
 For godlike kings of old; 
 From sea-girt Populonia, 
 
 Whose sentinels descry 
 Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops 
 
 Fringing the southern sky; 
 
 From the proud mart of Pisae, 
 
 Queen of the western waves, 
 Where ride Massilia's triremes, 
 
 Heavy with fair-hair'd slaves; 
 From where sweet Clanis wanders 
 
 Through corn and vines and flowers; 
 From where Cortona lifts to heaven 
 
 Her diadem of towers. 
 
 Tall are the oaks whose acorns 
 
 Drop in dark Auser's rill; 
 Fat are the stags that champ the boughs 
 
 Of the Ciminian hill; 
 
71 
 
 Beyond all streams Clitumiius 
 
 Is to the herdsman dear; 
 Best of all pools the fowler loves 
 
 The great Volsinian mere. 
 
 But now no stroke of woodman 
 
 Is heard by Auser's rill; 
 No hunter tracks the stag's green path 
 
 Up the Ciminian hill; 
 Unwatch'd along Clitumnus 
 
 Grazes the milk-white steer; 
 Unharmed the water-fowl may dip 
 
 In the Volsinian mere. 
 
 The harvests of Arretium 
 
 This year old men shall reap; 
 This year young boys in Umbro 
 
 Shall plunge the struggling sheep; 
 And in the vats of Luna 
 
 This year the must shall foam 
 Eound the white feet of laughing girls 
 
 Whose sires have marched to Eome. 
 
 There be thirty chosen prophets, 
 
 The wisest of the land, 
 Who always by Lars Porsena 
 
 Both morn and evening stand. 
 Evening and morn the thirty 
 
 Have turned the verses o'er, 
 Traced from the right on linen white 
 
 By mighty seers of yore; 
 
 And with one voice the thirty 
 
 Have their glad answer given: 
 ' ' Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena — 
 
 Go forth, beloved of heaven! 
 Go, and return in glory 
 
 To Clusium's royal dome, 
 And hang round Nurscia's altars 
 
 The golden shields of Eome! " 
 
72 
 
 And now hath every city 
 
 Sent up her tale of men; 
 The foot are fourscore thousand, 
 
 The horse are thousands ten. 
 Before the gates of Sutrium 
 
 Is met the great array; 
 A proud man was Lars Porsena 
 
 Upon the trysting-day. 
 
 For all the Etruscan armies 
 
 Were ranged beneath his eye, 
 And many a banished Koman, 
 
 And many a stout ally; 
 And with a mighty following, 
 
 To join the muster came 
 The Tuscnlan Mamilius, 
 
 Prince of the Latian name. 
 
 But by the yellow Tiber 
 
 Was tumult and affright; 
 From all the spacious champaign 
 
 To Kome men took their flight. 
 A mile around the city 
 
 The throng stopped up the ways; 
 A frightful sight it was to see 
 
 Through two long nights and days. 
 
 For aged folks on crutches, 
 
 And women great with child, 
 And mothers sobbing over babes 
 
 That hung to them and smiled, 
 And sick men borne in litters 
 
 .High on the necks of slaves, 
 And troops of sunburned husbandmen 
 
 With reaping hooks and staves. 
 
 And droves of mules and asses 
 
 Laden with skins of wine, 
 And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 
 
 And endless herds of kine, 
 
73 
 
 And endless trains of wagons, 
 That creaked beneath the weight 
 
 Of corn-sacks and of household goods, 
 Choked every roaring gate. 
 
 Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 
 
 Could the wan burghers spy 
 The line of blazing villages 
 
 Eed in the midnight sky. 
 The fathers of the city, 
 
 They sat all night and day, 
 For every hour some horseman came 
 
 With tidings of dismay. 
 
 To eastward and to westward 
 
 Have spread the Tuscan bands, 
 Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 
 
 In Crustumerium stands. 
 Verbenna down to Ostia 
 
 Hath wasted all the plain; 
 Astnr hath stormed Janiculum, 
 
 And the stout guards are slain. 
 
 I wis, in all the Senate, 
 
 There was no heart so bold 
 But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 
 
 When that ill news was told. 
 Forthwith up rose the consul, 
 
 Up rose the fathers all; 
 In haste they girded up their gowns, 
 
 And hied them to the wall. 
 
 They held a council standing, 
 
 Before the river gate; 
 Short time was there, ye may well guess, 
 
 For musing or debate. 
 Out spake the consul roundly: 
 " The bridge must straight go down; 
 For, since Janiculum is lost, 
 
 Naught else can save the town." 
 
74 
 
 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 fix'd his eye, 
 And saw the swarthy storm of dust 
 
 Rise fast along the sky. 
 
 And nearer fast and nearer 
 
 Doth the red whirlwind come; 
 And louder still, and still more loud, 
 From underneath that rolling cloud, 
 Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, 
 
 The trampling and the hum. 
 And plainly and more plainly, 
 
 Now through the gloom appears, 
 Far to the left and far to right, 
 In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
 The long array of helmets bright, 
 
 The long array of spears. 
 
 And plainly and more plainly, 
 
 Above that glimmering line, 
 Now might ye see the banners 
 
 Of twelve fair cities shine; 
 But the banner of proud Clusium 
 
 Was the highest of them all — 
 The terror of the Umbrian, 
 
 The terror of the Gaul. 
 
 And plainly and more plainly 
 
 Now might the burghers know, 
 By port and vest, by horse and crest, 
 
 Each warlike Lucumo: 
 There Cilnius of Arretium 
 
 On his fleet roan was seen; 
 And Astur of the fourfold shield, 
 Girt with the brand none else may wield; 
 Tolumnius, with the belt of gold, 
 And dark Verbenna from the hold 
 
 By reedy Thrasymene. 
 
75 
 
 Fast by the royal standard, 
 
 Overlooking all the war, 
 Lars Porsena of Clusium 
 
 Sat in his ivory car. 
 By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 
 
 Prince of the Latian name; 
 And by the left false Sextus, 
 
 That wrought the deed of shame. 
 
 But when the face of Sextus 
 
 Was seen among the foes, 
 A yell that rent the firmament 
 
 From all the town arose. 
 On the housetops was no woman 
 
 But spat toward him and hissM, 
 No child but screamed out curses, 
 
 And shook its little fist. 
 
 But the consults brow was sad, 
 
 And the consul's speech was low, 
 And darkly looked he at the wall, , 
 
 And darkly at the foe: 
 " 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?" 
 
 Then out spake brave Horatius, 
 
 The captain of the gate: 
 " To every man upon this earth 
 
 Death cometh soon or late. 
 And how can man die better 
 
 Than facing fearful odds, 
 For the ashes of his fathers 
 
 And the temples of his gods. 
 
 " And for the tender mother 
 Who dandled him to rest, 
 And for the wife who nurses 
 His baby at her breast, 
 
76 
 
 And for the holy maidens 
 Who feed the eternal flame,, 
 
 To save them from false Sextus, 
 That wrought the deed of shame? 
 
 "Hew down the bridge, sir consul, 
 
 With all the speed ye may; 
 I, with two more to help me, 
 
 Will hold the foe in play. 
 In yon straight path a thousand 
 
 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 Eamnian proud was he: 
 " Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 
 And keep the bridge with thee." 
 And out spake strong Herminius — 
 Of Titian blood was he: 
 " I 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 
 
 Went forth the dauntless three. 
 For Komans in Rome's quarrel 
 
 Spared neither land nor gold, 
 Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, 
 
 Tn the brave days of old. 
 
 Then none was for a party — 
 
 Then all were for the State; 
 Then the great man help'd the poor, 
 
 And the poor man loved the great; 
 Then lands were fairly portioned; 
 
 Then spoils were fairly sold : 
 The Romans were like brothers 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
77 
 
 Now Roman is to Roman 
 
 More hateful than a foe, 
 And the tribunes beard the high, 
 
 And the fathers grind the low. 
 As we wax hot in faction, 
 
 In battle we wax cold; 
 Wherefore men fight not as they fought 
 
 In the brave davs of old. 
 
 Now, while the three were tightening 
 
 Their harness on their backs, 
 The consul was the foremost man 
 
 To take in hand an axe; 
 And fathers, mix'd with commons, 
 
 Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, 
 And smote upon the planks above, 
 
 And loosed the props below. 
 
 Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 
 
 Right glorious to behold, 
 Came flashing back the noonday light, 
 Rank behind rank, like surges bright 
 
 Of a broad sea of gold. 
 Four hundred trumpets sounded 
 
 A peal of warlike glee, 
 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, 
 And 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. 
 
78 
 
 Annus, from green Tifernum, 
 
 Lord of the hill of vines; 
 And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 
 
 Sicken in Ilva's mines; 
 And Picus, long to Olosium 
 
 Vassal in peace and war, 
 Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 
 From that gray crag, where, girt with towers, 
 The fortress of Nequinum lowers 
 
 O'er the pale waves of Nar. 
 
 Stout Lartius hurl'd down Annus 
 
 Into the stream beneath ; 
 Herminius struck at Seius, 
 
 And clove him to the teeth; 
 At Picus brave Horatius 
 
 Darted one fiery thrust, 
 And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 
 
 Clashed in the bloody dust. 
 
 Then Ocnus of Falerii 
 
 Kush'd on the Roman three; 
 And Lausulus of Urgo, 
 
 The rover of the sea; 
 And Aruns of Volsinium, 
 
 Who slew the great wild boar — 
 The great wild boar that had his den 
 Amidst the reeds of Oosa's fen, 
 And wasted fields and slaughtered men, 
 
 Along Albinia's shore. 
 
 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, aghast and pale, 
 From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 
 The track of thy destroying bark. 
 No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
 
 Thy thrice-accursed sail." 
 
79 
 
 But now no sound of laughter 
 
 Was heard among the foes. 
 A wild and wrathful clamor 
 
 From all the vanguard rose. 
 Six spears' lengths from the entrance 
 
 Halted that deep array, 
 And for a space no man came forth 
 
 To win that narrow way. 
 
 But, hark! the cry is Astur: 
 
 And lo! the ranks divide; 
 And the great lord of Luna 
 
 Comes with his stately stride. 
 Upon his ample shoulders 
 
 Clangs loud the four-fold shield, 
 And in his hand he shakes the brand 
 
 Which none but he can wield. 
 
 He smiled on those bold Romans 
 
 A smile serene and high; 
 He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 
 
 And scorn was in his eye. 
 Quoth he, " The she-wolfs litter 
 
 Stand savagely at bay; 
 But will ye dare to follow, 
 
 If Astur clears the way? " 
 
 Then whirling up his broadsword 
 
 With both hands to the height, 
 He rushed against Horatius, 
 
 And smote with all his might. 
 With shield and blade Horatius 
 
 Right deftly turned the blow. 
 The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh, 
 It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh — 
 The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 
 
 To see the red blood flow. 
 
 He reeFd, and on Herminius 
 
 He lean'd one breathing space; 
 Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, 
 
 Sprang right at Astur's face. 
 
80 
 
 Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, 
 
 So fierce a thrust he sped, 
 The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 
 
 Behind the Tuscan's head. 
 
 And the great lord of Luna 
 
 Fell at that deadly stroke, 
 As falls on Mount Alvernus 
 
 A thunder-smitten oak. 
 Far o'er the crashing forest 
 
 The giant arms lie spread, 
 And the pale augurs, muttering low, 
 
 Gaze on the blasted head. 
 
 On Astur's throat Horatius 
 
 Eight firmly press'd his heel, 
 And thrice, and four times tugged amain, 
 
 Ere he wrench'd out the steel. 
 " And see ! " he cried, " the welcome, 
 
 Fair guests, that waits you here! 
 What noble Lucumo comes next 
 
 To taste our Eoman cheer? " 
 
 But at this haughty challenge, 
 
 A sullen murmur ran, 
 Mingled with wrath, and shame, and dread, 
 
 Along that glittering van. 
 There lack'd not men of prowess, 
 
 Nor men of lordly race, 
 For all Etruria's noblest 
 
 Were round the fatal place. 
 
 But all Etruria's noblest 
 
 Felt their hearts sink to see, 
 On the earth the bloody corpses, 
 
 In the path the dauntless three. 
 And from the ghastly entrance 
 
 Where those bold Romans stood, 
 All shrank — like boys, who, unaware, 
 Ranging the woods to start a hare, 
 Come to the mouth of the dark lair 
 Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 
 
 Lies amidst bones and blood. 
 
81 
 
 Was none who would be foremost 
 
 To lead such dire attack: 
 But those behind cried "Forward !" 
 
 And those before cried "Back \" 
 And backward now, and forward, 
 
 Wavers the deep array. 
 And on the tossing sea of steel 
 To and fro the standards reel, 
 And the victorious trumpet peal 
 
 Dies fitfully away. 
 
 Yet one man, for one moment 
 
 Strode out before the crowd; 
 Well known was he to all the three, 
 
 And they gave him greeting loud: 
 Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 
 
 Now welcome to thy home ! 
 Why dost thou stay, and turn away?" 
 
 Here lies the road to Rome." 
 
 Thrice look\l he at the city: 
 
 Thrice lookM he at the dead; 
 And thrice came on in fury, 
 
 And thrice tuni'd back in dread: 
 And, white with fear and hatred, 
 
 Scow I'd at the narrow way 
 Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 
 
 The bravest Tuscans lay. 
 
 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 — 
 Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! 
 
 Back, ere the ruin fall!'" 
 
 Back darted Spurius Lartius; 
 
 Herminius darted back: 
 And, as they pass'd, beneath their feet 
 
 Thev felt the timbers crack. 
 
82 
 
 But when they turn'd their faces, 
 
 And on the farther shore 
 Saw brave Horatius stand alone. 
 They would have eross'd once more 
 
 But with a crash like thunder 
 
 Fell every loosen'd beam, 
 And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 
 
 Lay right athwart the stream; 
 And a long shout of triumph 
 
 Eose from the walls of Home, 
 As to the highest turret-tops 
 
 AVas splashM the yellow foam. 
 
 And like a horse unbroken, 
 
 When first he feels the rein. 
 The furious river struggled hard. 
 
 OCT 
 
 And toss'd his tawny mane, 
 And burst the curb, and bounded, 
 
 Rejoicing to be free; 
 And whirling down, in fierce career, 
 Battlement, and plank, and pier, 
 
 Rush'd headlong to the sea. 
 
 Alone stood brave Horatius, 
 But constant still in mind — 
 
 Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 
 And the broad flood behind. 
 
 Down with him! " cried false Sextiis. 
 With a smile on his pale face; 
 
 Xow yield thee," cried Lars Porsena. 
 
 " Xow yield thee to our grace! v 
 
 Round turn'd he, as not deigning 
 
 Those craven ranks to see; 
 X aught 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; 
 
S3 
 
 "0 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. 
 
 Xo 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; 
 .Hut 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. 
 
 But fiercely ran the current, 
 
 Swollen high by months of rain. 
 And fast his blood was flowing: 
 
 And he was sore in pain. 
 And heavy with his armor. 
 
 And spent with changing blows: 
 And oft they thought him sinking, 
 
 But still again he rose. 
 
 Never, I ween, did swimmer. 
 
 In such an evil case. 
 Struggle through such a raging flood 
 
 Safe to the landing-place; 
 But his limbs were borne up bravely 
 
 By the brave heart within. 
 And our good father Tiber 
 
 Bare bravely up his chin. 
 
 "Curse on him \" quoth false Sextus: 
 " Will not the villain drown? 
 But for this stay, ere close of day 
 We should have sack'd the town!" 
 
84 
 
 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; 
 jSTow round him throng the fathers 
 
 To press his gory hands; 
 And now, with shouts and clapping. 
 
 And 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 plow from morn till night; 
 And 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 still his name sounds stirring 
 
 Unto the men of Rome, 
 As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 
 
 To charge the Volscian home: 
 And wives still pray to Juno 
 
 For boys with hearts as bold 
 As his who kept the bridge so well 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
85 
 
 And in the nights of winter, 
 
 When the cold north winds blow. 
 And the long howling of the wolves 
 
 Is heard amidst the snow, 
 When round the lonely cottage 
 
 Roars loud the tempest's din, 
 And the good logs of Algid us 
 
 Roar louder yet within. 
 
 When the oldest cask is open'd, 
 
 And the largest lamp is lit; 
 When the chestnuts glow in the embers. 
 
 And the kid turns on the spit : 
 When young and old in circle, 
 
 Around the firebrands close; 
 When the girls are weaving baskets, 
 
 And the lads are shaping bows: 
 
 When the goodman mends his armor. 
 
 And trims his helmet's plume; 
 When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 
 
 Goes flashing 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. 
 
 Thomas BabixptTOn Maoaulay 
 
/ 
 

 
 
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