Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over towered Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote, The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse— Like some bold seër in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance— With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right— The leaves upon her falling light— Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turned to towered Camelot; For ere she reached upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this? and what is here, And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" Men say it was a stolen tyde— The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was nought of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea wall. I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song.— "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." If it be long, aye, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire it seemeth mee Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby. Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. The swannerds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, "And why should this thing be, What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby! "For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) "The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy sea, To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" With that he cried and beat his breast; For lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud. And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout— Then beaten foam flew round about— Then all the mighty floods were out. So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea. Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by: I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high— A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang "Enderby." They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I—my sonne was at my side. And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "O come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth." And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith) And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha, Cusha, Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha, Cusha!" all along, Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth. When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town. I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver. Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed." Jean Ingelow.

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below. Now my brothers call from the bay; Now the great winds shoreward blow; Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away, This way, this way! Call her once before you go. Call once yet, In a voice that she will know: "Margaret! Margaret!" Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear: Children's voices wild with pain. Surely she will come again. Call her once, and come away. This way, this way! "Mother dear, we cannot stay." The wild white horses foam and fret, Margaret! Margaret! Come, dear children, come away down. Call no more. One last look at the white-walled town, And the little gray church on the windy shore, Then come down. She will not come though you call all day. Come away, come away. Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; Where the salt weed sways in the stream; Where the sea-beasts rang'd all round Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world forever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sat with you and me, On a red-gold throne in the heart of the sea. And the youngest sat on her knee. She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell, She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea, She said, "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to-day. 'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee." I said, "Go up, dear heart, through the waves: Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves." She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, were we long alone? The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; "Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say." "Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach in the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town, Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little gray church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear; "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. Dear heart," I said, "we are here alone. The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book. Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more, Come away, come down, call no more. Down, down, down, Down to the depths of the sea, She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy, For the priest and the bell, and the holy well, For the wheel where I spun, And the blessèd light of the sun." And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the shuttle falls from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window and looks at the sand; And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow clouded eye, And a heart sorrow laden, A long, long sigh, For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair. Come away, away, children, Come children, come down. The hoarse wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing, "Here came a mortal, But faithless was she, And alone dwell forever The kings of the sea." But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr'd with broom; And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch'd sands a gloom: Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie; Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze from the sand-hills At the white sleeping town; At the church on the hillside— And then come back, down. Singing, "There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she: She left lonely forever The kings of the sea." Matthew Arnold.

I "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee;" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. II The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land— And never home came she. III "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair— A tress o' golden hair, A drownèd maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." IV They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee! Charles Kingsley.

"Oh, tell me, sailor, tell me true, Is my little lad, my Elihu, A-sailing with your ship?" The sailor's eyes were dim with dew. "Your little lad, your Elihu?" He said with trembling lip,— "What little lad? what ship?" "What little lad? as if there could be Another such a one as he! What little lad, do you say? Why Elihu, that took to the sea The moment I put him off my knee! It was just the other day The 'Gray Swan' sailed away." "The other day?" The sailor's eyes Stood open with a great surprise: "The other day? the 'Swan'?" His heart began in his throat to rise. "Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on." "And so your lad is gone?" "Gone with the 'Swan'?"—"And did she stand With her anchor clutching hold of the sand For a month, and never stir?" "Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, The wild sea kissing her,— A sight to remember, sir!" "But, my good mother, do you know All this was twenty years ago? I stood on the 'Gray Swan's' deck, And to that lad I saw you throw, Taking it off as it might be,—so!— The kerchief from your neck." "Ay, and he'll bring it back!" "And did the little lawless lad, That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the 'Gray Swan's' crew?" "Lawless! The man is going mad! The best boy ever mother had!— Be sure he sailed with the crew! What would you have him do?" "And has he never written line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign, To say he was alive?" "Hold! If 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; Besides, he may lie in the brine; And could he write from the grave? Tut, man! what would you have?" "Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise! 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse! But if the lad still live, And come back home, think you you can Forgive him?" "Miserable man! You're mad as the sea, you rave! What have I to forgive?" The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild. "O God, my Father! is it true? My little lad, my Elihu! My blessed boy, my child! My dead, my living child!" Alice Cary.

It was the schooner Hesperus That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailòr Had sailed to the Spanish main, "I pray thee put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. "Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and colder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring; O say, what may it be?" "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns; O say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father I see a gleaming light; O say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savèd she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board: Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank,— Ho! ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach A fisherman stood aghast To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this On the reef of Norman's Woe! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

They ran through the streets of the seaport town; They peered from the decks of the ships that lay: The cold sea-fog that comes whitening down Was never as cold or white as they. "Ho, Starbuck, and Pinckney, and Tenterden, Run for your shallops, gather your men, Scatter your boats on the lower bay!" Good cause for fear! In the thick midday The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, Filled with the children in happy play, Parted its moorings and drifted clear; Drifted clear beyond reach or call,— Thirteen children they were in all,— All adrift in the lower bay! Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all! She will not float till the turning tide!" Said his wife, "My darling will hear my call, Whether in sea or heaven she bide!" And she lifted a quavering voice and high, Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. The fog drove down on each laboring crew, Veiled each from each and the sky and shore; There was not a sound but the breath they drew, And the lap of water and creak of oar. And they felt the breath of the downs fresh blown O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, But not from the lips that had gone before. They came no more. But they tell the tale That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef, The mackerel-fishers shorten sail; For the signal they know will bring relief, For the voices of children, still at play In a phantom-hulk that drifts alway Through channels whose waters never fail. It is but a foolish shipman's tale, A theme for a poet's idle page; But still, when the mists of doubt prevail, And we lie becalmed by the shores of age, We hear from the misty troubled shore The voice of the children gone before, Drawing the soul to its anchorage! Bret Harte.

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." De Lorge's love o'erheard the king,—a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine." She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that." Leigh Hunt.

Ho, sailor of the sea! How's my boy—my boy? "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?" My boy John— He that went to sea— What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. You come back from sea And not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. How's my boy—my boy? And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Brass button or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no! Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton— "Speak low, woman, speak low!" And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town! Why should I speak low, sailor? "That good ship went down." How's my boy—my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor, I never was aboard her. Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound Her owners can afford her! I say, how's my John? "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." How's my boy—my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother— How's my boy—my boy? Tell me of him and no other! How's my boy—my boy? Sydney Dobell.

He had played for his lordship's levee, He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor little head was heavy, And the poor little brain would swim. And the face grew peaked and eerie, And the large eyes strange and bright; And they said—too late—"He is weary! He shall rest, for at least to-night!" But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent room, With the sound of a strained cord breaking, A something snapped in the gloom. 'Twas the string of his violoncello, And they heard him stir in his bed:— "Make room for a tired little fellow, "Kind God!" was the last he said. Austin Dobson.

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he: I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through, Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace— Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime— So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!" At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past; And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray; And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance; And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her; We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh; 'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" "How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrups, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer— Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is friends flocking round, As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. Robert Browning.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be; Her sails from heaven received no motion; Her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell. The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, The mariners heard the warning Bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. The Sun in heaven was shining gay; All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round. And there was joyance in their sound. The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen A darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck. He felt the cheering power of spring; It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float; Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound; The bubbles rose and burst around; Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away; He scour'd the seas for many a day; And now, grown rich with plunder'd store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore. So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, They cannot see the Sun on high; The wind hath blown a gale all day; At evening it hath died away. On the deck the Rover takes his stand; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising Moon." "Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore." "Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,— "Oh God! it is the Inchcape Rock!" Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; He curs'd himself in his despair; The waves rush in on every side; The ship is sinking beneath the tide. But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear— A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, The fiends below were ringing his knell. Robert Southey.

Little one, come to my knee! Hark, how the rain is pouring Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, And the wind in the woods a-roaring! Hush, my darling, and listen, Then pay for the story with kisses; Father was lost in the pitch-black night, In just such a storm as this is! High up on the lonely mountains, Where the wild men watched and waited; Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated. The rain and the night together Came down, and the wind came after, Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, And snapping many a rafter. I crept along in the darkness, Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,— Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, And a sheltering rock behind it. There, from the blowing and raining, Crouching, I sought to hide me: Something rustled, two green eyes shone, And a wolf lay down beside me. Little one, be not frightened; I and the wolf together, Side by side, through the long, long night Hid from the awful weather. His wet fur pressed against me; Each of us warmed the other; Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, That beast and man was brother. And when the falling forest No longer crashed in warning, Each of us went from our hiding-place Forth in the wild, wet morning. Darling, kiss me in payment! Hark, how the wind is roaring; Father's house is a better place When the stormy rain is pouring! Bayard Taylor.

The freed dove flew to the Rajah's tower— Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings— And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur. Dove—dove—oh, homing dove! Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings! The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall; He set in his bosom a dove of flight— "If she return, be sure that I fall." Dove—dove—oh, homing dove! Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight. "Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep— Leave to the foeman no spoil at all. In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep If the dove, if the dove—if the homing dove Come and alone to the palace wall." The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad— The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all. Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,— And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove! She thought of her cote on the palace wall. She opened her wings and she flew away— Fluttered away beyond recall; She came to the palace at break of day. Dove—dove—oh, homing dove! Flying so fast for a kingdom's fall. The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame— Slept in the flame of the palace old— To save their honour from Moslem shame. And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove! She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled. The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet, Followed as fast as a horse could fly, He came and the palace was black at his feet; And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove! Circled alone in the stainless sky. So the dove flew to the Rajah's tower— Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings; So the thorns covered the city of Gaur, And Dacca was lost for a white dove's wings. Dove—dove—oh, homing dove! Dacca is lost from the roll of the kings! Rudyard Kipling.

I The Abbot of Inisfalen Awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves Went he forth to pray. The lake around his island Lay smooth and dark and deep, And, wrapt in a misty stillness, The mountains were all asleep. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac, When the dawn was dim and gray; The prayers of his holy office He faithfully 'gan say. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac, When the dawn was waxing red, And for his sins' forgiveness A solemn prayer he said. Low kneel'd that holy Abbot When the dawn was waxing clear; And he pray'd with loving-kindness For his convent brethren dear. Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot, When the dawn was waxing bright; He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, He pray'd with all his might. Low kneel'd that good old father, While the sun began to dart; He pray'd a prayer for all mankind, He pray'd it from his heart. II The Abbot of Inisfalen Arose upon his feet; He heard a small bird singing, And, oh, but it sung sweet! He heard a white bird singing well Within a holly-tree; A song so sweet and happy Never before heard he. It sung upon a hazel, It sung upon a thorn; He had never heard such music Since the hour that he was born. It sung upon a sycamore, It sung upon a briar; To follow the song and hearken This Abbot could never tire. Till at last he well bethought him He might no longer stay; So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, And gladly went his way. III But when he came to his Abbey walls, He found a wondrous change; He saw no friendly faces there, For every face was strange. The strangers spoke unto him; And he heard from all and each The foreign tone of the Sassenach, Not wholesome Irish speech. Then the oldest monk came forward, In Irish tongue spake he: "Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, And who hath given it to thee?" "I wear the holy Augustine's dress, And Cormac is my name, The Abbot of this good Abbey By grace of God I am. "I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; And when my prayers were said, I hearkened awhile to a little bird That sung above my head." The monks to him made answer, "Two hundred years have gone o'er, Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, And never was heard of more. "Matthias now is our Abbot, And twenty have passed away. The stranger is lord of Ireland; We live in an evil day." IV "Now give me absolution; For my time is come," said he. And they gave him absolution As speedily as might be. Then, close outside the window, The sweetest song they heard That ever yet since the world began Was uttered by any bird. The monks looked out and saw the bird, Its feathers all white and clean; And there in a moment, beside it, Another white bird was seen. Those two they sung together, Waved their white wings, and fled; Flew aloft, and vanished; But the good old man was dead. They buried his blessed body Where lake and greensward meet; A carven cross above his head, A holly-bush at his feet; Where spreads the beautiful water To gay or cloudy skies, And the purple peaks of Killarney From ancient woods arise. William Allingham.

Trample! trample! went the roan, Trap! trap! went the gray; But pad! pad! pad! like a thing that was mad, My chestnut broke away. It was just five miles from Salisbury town, And but one hour to day. Thud! thud! came on the heavy roan, Rap! rap! the mettled gray; But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare, That she showed them all the way. Spur on! spur on!—I doffed my hat, And wished them all good-day. They splashed through miry rut and pool,— Splintered through fence and rail; But chestnut Kate switched over the gate,— I saw them droop and tail. To Salisbury town—but a mile of down, Once over this brook and rail. Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofs Past the walls of mossy stone; The roan flew on at a staggering pace, But blood is better than bone. I patted old Kate, and gave her the spur, For I knew it was all my own. But trample! trample! came their steeds, And I saw their wolf's eyes burn; I felt like a royal hart at bay, And made me ready to turn. I looked where highest grew the May, And deepest arched the fern. I flew at the first knave's sallow throat; One blow, and he was down. The second rogue fired twice, and missed; I sliced the villain's crown,— Clove through the rest, and flogged brave Kate, Fast, fast to Salisbury town! Pad! pad! they came on the level sward, Thud! thud! upon the sand,— With a gleam of swords and a burning match, And a shaking of flag and hand; But one long bound, and I passed the gate, Safe from the canting band. Walter Thornbury.

I Hamelin town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The River Weser, deep and wide, Washes its walls on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity. II Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. III At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy, "And as for our Corporation—shocking "To think we buy gowns lined with ermine "For dolts that can't or won't determine "What's best to rid us of our vermin! "You hope, because you're old and obese, "To find in the furry civic robe ease? "Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking "To find the remedy we're lacking, "Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. IV An hour they sate in Council; At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; "I wish I were a mile hence! "It's easy to bid one rack one's brain— "I'm sure my poor head aches again, "I've scratched it so, and all in vain. "Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door, but a gentle tap? "Bless us!" cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous.) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat! "Anything like the sound of a rat "Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" V "Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger, And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat, from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin; And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as if my great-grandsire, "Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone, "Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" VI He advanced to the council table: And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able, "By means of a secret charm, to draw "All creatures living beneath the sun, "That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, "After me so as you never saw! "And I chiefly use my charm "On creatures that do people harm,— "The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper: "And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe To match his coat of the self-same cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon his pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, "In Tartary I freed the Cham, "Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; "I eased in Asia the Nizam "Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats: "And as for what your brain bewilders, "If I can rid your town of rats "Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One! fifty thousand!" was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. VII Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails, and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped, advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the River Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished! —Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill note of the pipe "I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, "And putting apples, wondrous ripe, "Into a cider-press's gripe: "And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, "And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, "And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, "And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: "And it seemed as if a voice "(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery "Is breathed) called out, 'Oh, rats, rejoice! "The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! "So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, "Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon!' "And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, "All ready staved, like a great sun shone "Glorious, scarce an inch before me, "Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' "—I found the Weser rolling o'er me." VIII You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, "Poke out the nests, and block up the holes! "Consult with carpenters and builders, "And leave in our town not even a trace "Of the rats!" When suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!" IX A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation, too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow, With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; "We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, "And what's dead can't come to life, I think. "So friend, we're not the folks to shrink "From the duty of giving you something to drink, "And a matter of money to put in your poke; "But, as for the guilders, what we spoke "Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. "Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. "A thousand guilders! come, take fifty!" X The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! "I've promised to visit by dinner-time "Bagdad, and accept the prime "Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, "For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, "Of a nest of scorpions no survivor. "With him I proved no bargain-driver; "With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! "And folks who put me in a passion "May find me pipe after another fashion." XI "How!" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook "Being worse treated than a Cook? "Insulted by a lazy ribald "With idle pipe and vesture piebald! "You threaten us, fellow! Do your worst; "Blow your pipe there till you burst!" XII Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. And all the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. XIII The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, —Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. And now the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! "He's forced to let the piping drop, "And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountain side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced, and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,— "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! "I can't forget that I'm bereft "Of all the pleasant sights they see, "Which the Piper also promised me: "For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, "Joining the town and just at hand, "Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew, "And flowers put forth a fairer hue, "And everything was strange and new; "The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, "And their dogs outran our fallow-deer, "And honey-bees had lost their stings, "And horses were born with eagles' wings: "And just as I became assured "My lame foot would be speedily cured, "The music stopped, and I stood still, "And found myself outside the hill, "Left alone against my will, "To go now limping as before, "And never hear of that country more!" XIV Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that Heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was man's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and the year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here "On the Twenty-second of July, "Thirteen hundred and seventy-six": And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street— Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand. XV So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men,—especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! Robert Browning.

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,—woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick—or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech.) Not a minute more to wait! "Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. "Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these —A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at foot of Solidor. "Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fitty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this Formidable clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, —Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,—here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried his chief. "Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief." Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face, As the big ship with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harboured to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"—sure as fate Up the English come, too late! So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance, As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?— Since 'tis ask and have, I may— Since the others go ashore— Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,—nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore! Robert Browning.

The King was on his throne, The Satraps throng'd the hall: A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, In Judah deem'd divine— Jehovah's vessels hold The godless Heathen's wine. In that same hour and hall, The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall, And wrote as if on sand: The fingers of a man— A solitary hand Along the letters ran, And traced them like a wand. The monarch saw, and shook, And bade no more rejoice; All bloodless wax'd his look, And tremulous his voice. "Let the men of lore appear, The wisest of the earth, And expound the words of fear, Which mar our royal mirth." Chaldea's seers are good, But here they have no skill; And the unknown letters stood Untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage, They saw—but knew no more. A captive in the land, A stranger and a youth, He heard the king's command, He saw that writing's truth. The lamps around were bright, The prophecy in view; He read it on that night— The morrow proved it true. "Belshazzar's grave is made, His kingdom pass'd away, He, in the balance weigh'd, Is light and worthless clay; The shroud his robe of state, His canopy the stone; The Mede is at his gate! The Persian on his throne!" George Gordon, Lord Byron.

When Solomon was reigning in his glory, Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came— (So in the Talmud you may read the story)— Drawn by the magic of the monarch's fame, To see the splendors of his court, and bring Some fitting tribute to the mighty King. Nor this alone: much had her highness heard What flowers of learning graced the royal speech; What gems of wisdom dropped with every word; What wholesome lessons he was wont to teach In pleasing proverbs; and she wished, in sooth, To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth. Besides, the Queen had heard (which piqued her most) How through the deepest riddles he could spy; How all the curious arts that women boast Were quite transparent to his piercing eye; And so the Queen had come—a royal guest— To put the sage's cunning to the test. And straight she held before the monarch's view, In either hand, a radiant wreath of flowers; The one bedecked with every charming hue, Was newly culled from Nature's choicest bowers; The other, no less fair in every part, Was the rare product of divinest Art. "Which is the true, and which the false?" she said. Great Solomon was silent. All amazed, Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head; While at the garlands long the monarch gazed, As one who sees a miracle, and fain For very rapture, ne'er would speak again. "Which is the true?" once more the woman asked, Pleased at the fond amazement of the King; "So wise a head should not be hardly tasked, Most learned Liege, with such a trivial thing!" But still the sage was silent; it was plain A deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain. While thus he pondered, presently he sees, Hard by the casement—so the story goes— A little band of busy bustling bees, Hunting for honey in a withered rose. The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head; "Open the window!"—that was all he said. The window opened at the King's command; Within the rooms the eager insects flew, And sought the flowers in Sheba's dexter hand! And so the King and all the courtiers knew That wreath was Nature's; and the baffled Queen Returned to tell the wonders she had seen. My story teaches (every tale should bear A fitting moral) that the wise may find In trifles light as atoms of the air Some useful lesson to enrich the mind— Some truth designed to profit or to please— As Israel's King learned wisdom from the bees. John G. Saxe.

By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab There lies a lonely grave. And no man knows that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturn'd the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth— Noiselessly as the daylight Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun; Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills, Open their thousand leaves; So without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown, The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle, On grey Beth-peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie Look'd on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking, Still shuns that hallow'd spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. But when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow his funeral car; They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed While peals the minute gun. Amid the noblest of the land We lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honour'd place With costly marble drest, In the great minster transept Where lights like glories fall (And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings) Along the emblazon'd wall. This was the truest warrior That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word. And never earth's philosopher Traced with his golden pen On the deathless page truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honour, The hill-side for a pall, To lie in state, while angels wait With stars for tapers tall, And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand in that lonely land To lay him in the grave. In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffin'd clay Shall break again, O wondrous thought! Before the Judgment Day, And stand with glory wrapt around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife, that won our life, With the Incarnate Son of God. O lonely grave in Moab's land! O dark Beth-peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell, He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep Of him he loved so well. Cecil Frances Alexander.