PART II. Readings and Recitations from the Most Celebrated Authors (continued 2)

Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise; The queen of the world, and the child of the skies; Thy genius commands thee; with rapture behold, While ages on ages thy splendors unfold. Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time, Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime; Let the crimes of the east ne’er encrimson thy name, Be freedom, and science, and virtue, thy fame. To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire, Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire; Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, And triumph pursue them, and glory attend. A world is thy realm—for a world be thy laws— Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause; On freedom’s broad basis thy empire shall rise, Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies. Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, The nations admire, and the ocean obey; Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, And the east and the south yield their spices and gold. As the day-spring, unbounded, thy splendor shall flow, And earth’s little kingdoms before thee shall bow, While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled, Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world. Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o’erspread, From war’s dread confusion, I pensively strayed, The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired; The winds ceased to murmur; the thunder expired; Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along, And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung, “Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise; The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.” Joel Barlow.

On the bloody field of Monmouth flashed the guns of Greene and Wayne; Fiercely roared the tide of battle; thick the sward was heaped with slain. Foremost, facing death and danger, Hessian horse and grenadier, In the vanguard, fiercely fighting, stood an Irish cannoneer. Loudly roared his iron cannon, mingling ever in the strife, And beside him, firm and daring, stood his faithful Irish wife; Of her bold contempt of danger, Greene and Lee’s brigade could tell, Every one knew “Captain Molly,” and the army loved her well. Surged the roar of battle round them; swiftly flew the iron hail; Forward dashed a thousand bayonets that lone battery to assail; From the foeman’s foremost columns swept a furious fusilade, Mowing down the massed battalions in the ranks of Greene’s brigade. Faster and faster worked the gunner, soiled with powder, blood and dust; English bayonets shone before him, shot and shell around him burst; Still he fought with reckless daring, stood and manned her long and well, Till at last the gallant fellow dead beside his cannon fell. With a bitter cry of sorrow, and a dark and angry frown, Looked that band of gallant patriots at their gunner stricken down. “Fall back, comrades! It is folly thus to strive against the foe.” “Not so!” cried Irish Molly, “we can strike another blow!” Quickly leaped she to the cannon in her fallen husband’s place, Sponged and rammed it fast and steady, fired it in the foeman’s face. Flashed another ringing volley, roared another from the gun; “Boys, hurrah!” cried gallant Molly, “for the flag of Washington!” Greene’s brigade, though shorn and shattered, slain and bleeding half their men, When they heard that Irish slogan, turned and charged the foe again; Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally, to the front they forward wheel, And before their rushing onset Clinton’s English columns reel. Still the cannon’s voice in anger rolled and rattled o’er the plain, Till they lay in swarms around it mingled heaps of Hessian slain. “Forward! charge them with the bayonet!” ’twas the voice of Washington; And there burst a fiery greeting from the Irishwoman’s gun. Monckton falls; against his columns leap the troops of Wayne and Lee, And before their reeking bayonets Clinton’s red battalions flee; Morgan’s rifles, fiercely flashing, thin the foe’s retreating ranks, And behind them, onward dashing, Ogden hovers on their flanks. Fast they fly, those boasting Britons, who in all their glory came, With their brutal Hessian hirelings to wipe out our country’s name. Proudly floats the starry banner; Monmouth’s glorious field is won; And, in triumph, Irish Molly stands besides her smoking gun. William Collins.

Hear, gentle friends! ere yet, for me, Ye break the bands of fealty. My life, my honor, and my cause, I tender free to Scotland’s laws. Are these so weak as must require The aid of your misguided ire? Or, if I suffer causeless wrong, Is then my selfish rage so strong, My sense of public weal so low, That, for mean vengeance on a foe, Those cords of love I should unbind Which knit my country and my kind? Oh no! believe, in yonder tower It will not soothe my captive hour, To know those spears our foes should dread For me in kindred gore are red; To know, in fruitless brawl begun, For me, that mother wails her son; For me that widow’s mate expires, For me, that orphans weep their sires, That patriots mourn insulted laws, And curse the Douglas for the cause. O let your patience ward such ill, And keep your right to love me still. Sir Walter Scott.

Our country!—’tis a glorious land! With broad arms stretched from shore to shore, The proud Pacific chafes her strand, She hears the dark Atlantic roar; And, nurtured on her ample breast, How many a goodly prospect lies In Nature’s wildest grandeur drest, Enamelled with her loveliest dyes. Rich prairies, decked with flowers of gold, Like sunlit oceans roll afar; Broad lakes her azure heavens behold, Reflecting clear each trembling star, And mighty rivers, mountain-born, Go sweeping onward dark and deep, Through forests where the bounding fawn Beneath their sheltering branches leap. And, cradled mid her clustering hills, Sweet vales in dreamlike beauty hide, Where love the air with music fills; And calm content and peace abide; For plenty here her fulness pours In rich profusion o’er the land, And sent to seize her generous stores, There prowls no tyrant’s hireling band. Great God! we thank thee for this home— This bounteous birthland of the free; Where wanderers from afar may come, And breathe the air of liberty!— Still may her flowers untrampled spring, Her harvests wave, her cities rise; And yet, till Time shall fold his wing, Remain Earth’s loveliest paradise! W. G. Peabodie.

Yes, yes, my boy, there’s no mistake, You put the contract through! You lads with Shafter, I’ll allow, Were heroes, tried and true; But don’t forget the men who fought About Manila Bay, And don’t forget brave McIlrath Who died at Malaté. The night was black, save where the forks Of tropic lightning ran, When, with a long deep thunder-roar, The typhoon storm began. Then, suddenly above the din, We heard the steady bay Of volleys from the trenches where The Pennsylvanians lay. The Tenth, we thought, could hold their own Against the feigned attack, And, if the Spaniards dared advance, Would pay them doubly back. But soon we marked the volleys sink Into a scattered fire— And, now we heard the Spanish gun Boom nigher yet and nigher! Then, like a ghost, a courier Seemed past our picket tossed With wild hair streaming in his face— “We’re lost—we’re lost—we’re lost.” “Front, front—in God’s name—front!” he cried: “Our ammunition’s gone!” He turned a face of dazed dismay— And through the night sped on! “Men, follow me!” cried McIlrath, Our acting Sergeant then; And when he gave the word he knew He gave the word to men! Twenty there—not one man more— But down the sunken road We dragged the guns of Battery H, Nor even stopped to load! Sudden, from the darkness poured A storm of Mauser hail— But not a man there thought to pause, Nor any man to quail! Ahead, the Pennsylvanians’ guns In scattered firing broke; The Spanish trenches, red with flame, In fiercer volleys spoke! Down with a rush our twenty came— The open field we passed— And in among the hard-pressed Tenth We set our feet at last! Up, with a leap, sprang McIlrath, Mud-spattered, worn and wet, And, in an instant, there he stood High on the parapet! “Steady, boys! we’ve got ’em now— Only a minute late! It’s all right, lads—we’ve got ’em whipped. Just give ’em volleys straight!” Then, up and down the parapet With head erect he went, As cool as when he sat with us Beside our evening tent! Not one of us, close sheltered there Down in the trench’s pen, But felt that he would rather die Than shame or grieve him then! The fire, so close to being quenched In panic and defeat, Leaped forth, by rapid volleys sped, In one long deadly sheet! A cheer went up along the line As breaks the thunder-call— But, as it rose, great God! we saw Our gallant Sergeant fall! He sank into our outstretched arms Dead—but immortal grown; And Glory brightened where he fell, And valor claimed her own! John Jerome Rooney.

“Brave captain! canst thou speak? What is it thou dost see? A wondrous glory lingers on thy face, The night is past; I’ve watched the night with thee. Knowest thou the place?” “The place? ’Tis San Juan, comrade. Is the battle over? The victory—the victory—is it won? My wound is mortal; I know I cannot recover— The battle for me is done! “I never thought it would come to this! Does it rain? The musketry! Give me a drink; ah, that is glorious! Now if it were not for this pain—this pain— Didst thou say victorious? “It would not be strange, would it, if I do wander? A man can’t remember with a bullet in his brain. I wish when at home I had been a little fonder— Shall I ever be well again? “It can make no difference whether I go from here or there. Thou’lt write to father and tell him when I am dead?— The eye that sees the sparrow fall numbers every hair Even of this poor head. “Tarry awhile, comrade, the battle can wait for thee; I will try to keep thee but a few brief moments longer; Thou’lt say good-bye to the friends at home for me?— If only I were a little stronger! “I must not think of it. Thou art sorry for me? The glory—is it the glory?—makes me blind; Strange, for the light, comrade, the light I cannot see— Thou hast been very kind! “I do not think I have done so very much evil— I did not mean it. ‘I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul’—just a little rude and uncivil— Comrade, why dost thou weep? “Oh! if human pity is so gentle and tender— Good-night, good friends! ‘I lay me down to sleep!’— Who from a Heavenly Father’s love needs a defender? ‘My soul to keep!’ “‘If I should die before I wake’—comrade, tell mother, Remember—‘I pray the Lord my soul to take!’ My musket thou’lt carry back to my little brother For my dear sake! “Attention, company! Reverse arms! Very well, men; my thanks. Where am I? Do I wander, comrade,—wander again?— Parade is over. Company E, break ranks! break ranks! I know it is the pain. “Give me thy strong hand; fain would I cling, comrade to thee; I feel a chill air blown from a far-off shore; My sight revives; Death stands and looks at me. What waits he for? “Keep back my ebbing pulse till I be bolder grown; I would know something of the Silent Land; It’s hard to struggle to the front alone— Comrade, thy hand. “The reveille calls! be strong, my soul, and peaceful; The Eternal City bursts upon my sight! The ringing air with ravishing melody is full— I’ve won the fight! “Nay, comrade, let me go; hold not my hand so steadfast; I am commissioned—under marching orders— I know the Future—let the Past be past— I cross the borders.”

Dark, dark is the night; not a star in the sky, And the Maine rides serenely; what danger is nigh? Our nation’s at peace with the Kingdom of Spain, So calmly they rest in the battleship Maine. But, hark to that roar! See, the water is red! And the sailor sleeps now with the slime for his bed. Havana then shook, like the leaves of the trees, When the tornado rides on the breast of the breeze; Then people sprang up from their beds in the gloom, As they’ll spring from their graves at the thunder of doom; And they rushed through the streets, in their terror and fear, Crying out as they ran, “Have the rebels come here?” “Oh, see how the flame lights the shores of the bay, Like the red rising sun at the coming of day; ’Tis a ship in a blaze! ’Tis the battleship Maine! What means this to us and the Kingdom of Spain? The eagle will come at that loud sounding roar, And our flag will fly free over Cuba no more.” Dark, dark is the night on the face of the deep, In the forts all is still; are the soldiers asleep? Oh, see how that ship glides along through the night; ’Tis the ghost of the Maine—she has come to the fight; A flash, and a roar, and a cry of despair; The eagle has come, for brave Dewey is there. Oh, Spaniards, come out, for the daylight has fled, And look on those ships—look with terror and dread; The eagle has come, and he swoops to his prey; Oh, fly, Spaniards, fly, to that creek in the bay! The eagle has come—“Remember the Maine!” And the water is red with the blood of the slain. They rest for a time—now they sail in again! Oh, woe, doom and woe, to the kingdom of Spain. Their ships are ablaze, they are battered and rent, By the death-dealing shells which our sailors have sent. Not a man have we lost; yet the battle is o’er, And their ships ride the bay of Manila no more. Dark, silent and dark, on the face of the deep, A ship glides in there; are the Spaniards asleep? The channel is mined! Oh, rash sailors beware! Or that death dealing fiend will spring up from his lair; He will tear you, and rend you, with wild fiendish roar, And cast you afar on the bay and the shore! They laugh at the danger; what care they for death? ’Tis only a shock and the ceasing of breath; Their souls to their Maker, their forms to the wave, What nation has sons like the home of the brave? That ship they would steer to the pit of despair, If duty cried “Onward!” and glory were there. The shore is ablaze, but the channel they gain; A word of command, and the rattle of chain; A flash—and the Merrimac’s sunk in the bay, And the Spaniard must leave in the light of the day. Santiago and Hobson remembered shall be, While waves the proud flag of the brave and the free. The Spaniards sail out—what a glorious sight! Now, sailors, stand by and prepare for the fight; O, Glo’ster, in there, pelt the Dons as they fly, Make us glorious news for the Fourth of July! And Wainwright remembered the Maine with a roar, And that shell-battered hulk is a terror no more. Then Schley and the Brooklyn were right in the way, But Sampson had gone to see Shafter, they say; And the Oregon flew like a fury from hell, Spreading wreckage and death with the might of her shell; Then Evans stood out, like a chivalrous knight, Giving mercy to all at the end of the fight. The Colon still flies, but a shell cleaves the air, Its number is fatal—a cry of despair— She turns to the shore, she bursts into flame, And down comes the flag of the kingdom of Spain; Men float all around, the battle is done, And their ships are all sunk for the sinking of one. Not ours is the hand that would strike in the night, With the fiendish intention to mangle and slay; We strike at obstruction to freedom and right, And strike when we strike in the light of the day. W. B. Collison.

“The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await alike the inexorable hour; The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”

Burning sands, and isles of palm, and the Mamelukes’ fierce array, Under the solemn Pyramids, Napoleon saw that day; “Comrades,” he cried, “from those old heights, Fame watches the deeds you do, The eyes of forty centuries are fixed this day on you!” They answered him with ringing shouts, they were eager for the fray, Napoleon held their central square, in front was bold Desaix; They gave one glance to the Pyramids, one glance to the rich Cairo, And then they poured a rain of fire upon their charging foe. Only a little drummer boy, from the column of Dufarge, Tottered to where the “Forty-third” stood waiting for their “charge,” Bleeding—but beating still his call—he said, with tear-dimmed eye: “I’m but a baby, Forty-third, so teach me how to die!” Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard, and Joubert turned away, The lad had been the pet of all, they knew not what to say; “I will not shame you, ‘Forty-third,’ though I am but a child!” Then Regnier stooped and kissed his face, and shouted loud and wild: “Forward! Why are we waiting here? Shall Mamelukes stop our way? Come, little Jean, and beat the ‘charge,’ and ours shall be the day; And we will show thee how to die, good boy! good boy! Be brave! It is not every ‘nine years’ old’ can fill a soldier’s grave!” It was as though a spirit spoke, the men to battle flew; Yet each in passing, cried aloud: “My little Jean, Adieu!” “Adieu, brave Forty-third, Adieu!” Then proudly beat his drum— “You’ve showed me how a soldier dies—and little Jean will come!” They found him ’mid the slain next day, amid the brave who fell, Said Regnier, proudly, “My brave Jean, thou learned thy lesson well!” They hung the medal round his neck, and crossed his childish hands, And dug for him a little grave in Egypt’s lonely sands. But, still, the corps his memory keep, and name with flashing eye, The hero whom the “Forty-third,” in Egypt, taught to die. Lillie E. Barr.

Quick! man the life-boat! See yon bark That drives before the blast? There’s a rock ahead, the fog is dark, And the storm comes thick and fast. Can human power, in such an hour, Avert the doom that’s o’er her? Her mainmast’s gone, but she still drives on To the fatal reef before. The life-boat! Man the life-boat! Quick! man the life-boat! hark! the gun Booms through the vapory air; And see! the signal flags are on, And speak the ship’s despair. That forked flash, that pealing crash, Seemed from the wave to sweep her: She’s on the rock, with a terrible shock— And the wail comes louder and deeper, The life-boat! Man the life-boat! Quick! man the life-boat! See—the crew Gaze on their watery grave: Already, some, a gallant few, Are battling with the wave; And one there stands, and wrings his hand As thoughts of home come o’er him; For his wife and child, through the tempest wild, He sees on the heights before him. The life-boat! Man the life-boat! Speed, speed the life-boat! Off she goes! And, as they pulled the oar, From shore and ship a cheer arose, That startled ship and shore. Life-saving ark! yon fated bark Has human lives within her; And dearer than gold is the wealth untold, Thou’lt save if thou canst win her. On, life-boat! Speed thee, life-boat! Hurrah! the life-boat dashes on, Though darkly the reef may frown; The rock is there—the ship is gone Full twenty fathoms down. But cheered by hope, the seamen cope With the billows single-handed; They are all in the boat!—hurrah! they’re afloat; And now they are safely landed By the life-boat! Cheer the life-boat!

As I remember the first fair touch Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled Kissing the glove that I found unfilled— When I met your gaze and the queenly bow As you said to me laughingly, “Keep it now!” And dazed and alone in a dream I stand Kissing the ghost of your beautiful hand. When first I loved in the long ago, And held your hand as I told you so— Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss, And said, “I could die for a hand like this!” Little I dreamed love’s fullness yet Had I to ripen when eyes were wet, And prayers were vain in their wild demands For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. Beautiful hands! O, beautiful hands! Could you reach out of the alien lands Where you are lingering, and give me to-night Only a touch—were it ever so light— My heart were soothed, and my weary brain Would lull itself into rest again; For there is no solace the world commands Like the caress of your beautiful hands. James Whitcomb Riley.

The storm o’er the ocean flew furious and fast, And the waves rose in foam at the voice of the blast, And heavily2 labored the gale-beaten ship, Like a stout-hearted swimmer, the spray at his lip; And dark21 was the sky o’er the mariner’s path, Save when the wild lightning illumined in wrath, A young mother knelt in the cabin below, And pressing her babe to her bosom of snow, She prayed to her God,20 ’mid the hurricane wild, “O Father, have mercy, look down on my child!” It passed—the fierce whirlwind careered on its way, And the ship like an arrow25 divided the spray; Her sails glimmered white in the beams of the moon, And the wind up aloft seemed to whistle a tune—to whistle a tune. There was joy16 in the ship as she furrowed the foam, For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home. The young mother pressed her fond babe to her breast, And the husband sat cheerily down by her side, And looked with delight on the face of his bride. “Oh,16 happy,” said he, “when our roaming is o’er, We’ll dwell in our cottage that stands by the shore. Already in fancy its roof I descry, And the smoke of its hearth curling up to the sky; Its garden so green, and its vine-covered wall; The kind friends9 awaiting to welcome us all, And the children that sport by the old oaken tree.” Ah gently the ship glided over the sea! Hark!13 what was that? Hark! Hark to the shout! “Fire!”10 Then a tramp and a rout, and a tumult of voices uprose on the air;— And the mother knelt8 down, and the half-spoken prayer, That she offered to God in her agony wild, Was, “Father, have mercy, look down on my child!” She flew to her husband,1 she clung to his side, Oh there was her refuge whate’er might betide. “Fire!”10 “Fire!” It was raging above and below— And the cheeks of the sailors grew pale at the sight, And their eyes glistened wild in the glare of the light, ’Twas vain o’er the ravage the waters to drip; The pitiless flame was the lord of the ship, And the smoke in thick wreaths mounted higher and higher. “O God,20 it is fearful to perish by fire.” Alone with destruction, alone on the sea, “Great Father of mercy, our hope is in thee.” Sad at heart and resigned, yet undaunted and brave, They lowered the boat,2 a mere speck on the wave. First entered the mother, enfolding her child: It knew she caressed it, looked16 upward and smiled. Cold, cold was the night as they drifted away, And mistily dawned o’er the pathway the day— And they prayed for the light, and at noontide about, The sun16 o’er the waters shone joyously out. “Ho! a sail!7 Ho! a sail!” cried the man at the lee, “Ho! a sail!”7 and they turned their glad eyes o’er the sea. “They see us, they see us,21 the signal is waved! They bear down upon us, they bear down upon us: Huzza! we are saved.”

“Nine,” by the Cathedral clock! Chill the air with rising damps; Drearily from block to block In the gloom the bellman tramps— “Child lost! Child lost! Blue eyes, curly hair, Pink dress—child lost!” Something in the doleful strain Makes the dullest listener start; And a sympathetic pain Shoot to every feeling heart. Anxious fathers homeward haste, Musing with paternal pride Of their daughters, happy-faced, Silken-haired and sparkling-eyed. Many a tender mother sees Younglings playing round her chair, Thinking, “If ’twere one of these, How could I the anguish bear?” “Ten,” the old Cathedral sounds; Dark and gloomy are the streets; Still the bellman goes his rounds, Still his doleful cry repeats— “Oh, yes! oh, yes! Child lost! Blue eyes, Curly hair, pink dress— Child lost! Child lost!” “Can’t my little one be found? Are there any tidings, friend?” Cries the mother, “Is she drowned? Is she stolen? God forfend! Search the commons, search the parks, Search the doorway and the halls, Search the alleys, foul and dark, Search the empty market stalls. Here is gold and silver—see! Take it all and welcome, man; Only bring my child to me, Let me have my child again.” Hark! the old Cathedral bell Peals “eleven,” and it sounds To the mother like a knell; Still the bellman goes his rounds. “Child lost! Child lost! Blue eyes, curly hair, Pink dress—child lost!” Half aroused from dreams of peace, Many hear the lonesome call, Then into their beds of ease Into deeper slumber fall; But the anxious mother cries, “Oh, my darling’s curly hair! Oh, her sweetly-smiling eyes! Have you sought her everywhere? Long and agonizing dread Chills my heart and drives me wild— What if Minnie should be dead? God, in mercy, find my child!” “Twelve” by the Cathedral clock; Dimly shine the midnight lamps; Drearily from block to block, In the rain the bellman tramps. “Child lost! Child lost! Blue eyes, curly hair, Pink dress—child lost!”

Spin us a yarn of the sea, old man, About some captain bold, Who steered his ship and made her slip When the sea and the thunder rolled; Some tale that will stir the blood, you know, Like the pirate tales of old. “It was the old ‘tramp’ Malabar, With coal for Singapore; ‘The captain stood upon the bridge’ And loud the wind did roar, And far upon the starboard bow We saw the stormy shore. “The night came down as black as pitch; More loud the wind did blow; The waves made wreck around the deck And washed us to and fro; But half the crew, though wild it blew, Were sleeping down below. “‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’ And I was at the wheel; The waves were piling all around, Which made the old ‘tank’ reel, When—smash! there came an awful crash That shook the ribs of steel. “‘We’ve struck a wreck!’ ‘Stand by the pumps!’ Her plates were gaping wide; And out her blood streamed in the flood, The wreck had bruised her side; Her coal poured out—her inky blood— And stained the foaming tide. “‘The captain stood upon the bridge,’ The firemen down below; He saw and knew what he could do, While they but heard the blow. The bravest man is he that stands Against an unseen foe. “‘All hands on deck!’ was now the cry, ‘For we are sinking fast; Our boats were stove by that last wave— This night will be our last; There’s not a plank on board the tank, She’s steel, from keel to mast.’ “‘The captain stood upon the bridge;’ All hands were now on deck; The waves went down, the sun came up, We saw the drifting wreck, And there, upon the starboard bow, The land—a distant speck. “‘Who’ll go below and fire her up?” The captain loud did roar. ‘We’re dumping coal with every roll, But, see! the storm is o’er; And I will stand upon the bridge, And guide her to the shore.’ “‘I’ll go for one,’ said old ‘Tramp Jim,’ ‘And shovel in the coal. I’ll go,’ said Jim, all black and grim, ‘Though death be down that hole; I’ve heard a man who dies for men Is sure to save his soul. “‘So turn the steam into that mill, And let it spin around, And I will feed the old thing coal Till you be hard aground; I’ll go alone, there’s none to moan, If old ‘Tramp Jim’ be drowned!’ “He went below and fired her up, The steam began to roar; ‘The captain stood upon the bridge’ And steered her for the shore; The ship was sinking by the bow, Her race was nearly o’er. “The water rose around poor Jim, Down in the fire-room there. ‘I’ll shovel in the coal,’ he gasped, ‘’Till the water wets me hair— The Lord must take me as I am, I have no time for prayer.’ “‘The captain stood upon the bridge.’ (Oh, hang that phrase, I say! ‘The firemen bravely stood below,’ Suits more this time of day,) Old Jim kept shovelling in the coal, Though it was time to pray. “And every soul was saved, my lads, Why do I speak it low? The Lord took Jim, all black and grim, And made him white as snow. Some say, ‘the captain on the bridge,’ But I say, ‘Jim below!’” W. B. Collison.

’Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there That well nigh filled Joe’s barroom on the corner of the square, And as songs and witty stories came through the open door; A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor. “Where did it come from?” some one said; “The wind has blown it in.” “What does it want?” another cried, “Some whiskey, beer or gin?” “Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach’s equal to the work, I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s as filthy as a Turk.” This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace, In fact, he smiled as if he thought he’d struck the proper place; “Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd; To be in such good company would make a deacon proud. “Give me a drink! That’s what I want, I’m out of funds, you know, When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow; What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou; I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you. “There, thanks, that braced me nicely, God bless you, one and all, Next time I pass this good saloon I’ll make another call; Give you a song? No, I can’t do that, my singing days are past, My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out and my lungs are going fast. “Say, give me another whiskey and I’ll tell you what I’ll do— I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too; That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think, But I was, some four or five years back, say, give us another drink. “Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame— Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame; Five fingers—there, that’s the scheme—and corking whiskey, too, Well, boys, here’s luck, and landlord, my best regards to you. “You’ve treated me pretty kindly and I’d like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now; As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health, And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth. “I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood. But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good; I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise; For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes. “I made a picture, perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the Chase of Fame; It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name; And then, I met a woman—now comes the funny part— With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart. “Why don’t you laugh? ’Tis funny that the vagabond you see Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me; But ’twas so, and for a month or two her smile was freely given; And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to heaven. “Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give, With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live, With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, ’twas she, for there never was another half so fair. “I was working on a portrait one afternoon in May, Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine who lived across the way, And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise, Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes. “It didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown; My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone; And ere a year of misery had passed above my head, The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead. “That’s why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile, I thought you’d be amused and laughing all the while; Why, what’s the matter, friend? There’s a teardrop in your eye, Come, laugh like me, ’tis only babes and women that should cry. “Say, boys, if you’ll give me another whiskey, I’ll be glad, And I’ll draw right here, the picture of the face that drove me mad; Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the base-ball score— And you shall see the lovely Madeline upon the bar-room floor.” Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man, Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head, With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture—dead. H. Antoine D’Arcy.

Han’som, stranger? Yes, she’s purty an’ ez peart ez she can be. Clever? Wy! she ain’t no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me. What’s her name? ’Tis kind o’ common, yit I ain’t ashamed to tell, She’s ole “Fiddler” Filkin’s daughter, an’ her dad he calls her “Nell.” I wuz drivin’ on the “Central” jist about a year ago On the run from Winnemucca up to Reno in Washoe. There’s no end o’ skeery places. ’Taint a road fur one who dreams, With its curves an’ awful tres’les over rocks an’ mountain streams. ’Twuz an afternoon in August, we hed got behind an hour An’ wuz tearin’ up the mountain like a summer thunder-shower, Round the bends an’ by the hedges ’bout ez fast ez we could go, With the mountain-peaks above us an’ the river down below. Ez we come nigh to a tres’le ’cros’t a holler, deep an’ wild, Suddenly I saw a baby, ’twuz the stationkeeper’s child, Toddlin’ right along the timbers with a bold and fearless tread Right afore the locomotive, not a hundred rods ahead. I jist jumped an’ grabbed the throttle an’ I fa’rly held my breath, Fur I felt I couldn’t stop her till the child wuz crushed to death, When a woman sprang afore me like a sudden streak o’ light, Caught the boy and twixt the timbers in a second sank from sight. I jist whis’l’d all the brakes on. An’ we worked with might an’ main Till the fire flew from the drivers, but we couldn’t stop the train, An’ it rumbled on above her. How she screamed ez we rolled by An’ the river roared below us—I shall hear her till I die! Then we stop’t; the sun was shinin’; I ran back along the ridge An’ I found her—dead? No! livin’! She wuz hangin’ to the bridge Wher she drop’t down thro’ the cross-ties with one arm about a sill An’ the other round the baby, who wuz yellin’ fur to kill! So we saved ’em. She wuz gritty. She’s ez peart ez she kin be— Now we’re married; she’s no chicken, but she’s good enough fur me, An’ ef eny ask who owns her, wy! I ain’t ashamed to tell— She’s my wife. Ther’ ain’t none better than ole Filkin’s daughter “Nell.” Eugene J. Hall.

He was jes’ a plain, ever’-day, all-round kind of a jour., Consumpted lookin’—but la! The jokeyest, wittyest, story-tellin’, song-singin’, laughin’est, jolliest Feller you ever saw! Worked at jes’ coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk, And his feelin’s, too! Lordy! ef he was on’y back on his bench again to-day, a carryin’ on Like he ust to do! Any shop-mate’ll tell you they never was on top o’dirt A better feller’n Jim! You want a favor, and couldn’t git it anywheres else— You could git it o’ him! Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess! Give ever’ nickel he’s worth— And, ef you’d a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his, He’d a-give you the earth! Allus a-reachin’ out, Jim was and a-helpin’ some Poor feller onto his feet— He’d a-never a-keered how hungry he was his se’f. So’s the feller got somepin to eat! Didn’t make no difference at all to him how he was dressed, He used to say to me: “You tog out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time, And he’ll git along!” says he. Jim didn’t have, nor never could git ahead, so overly much O’ this world’s goods at a time— ’Fore now I’ve saw him, more’n onc’t lend a dollar and ha’f to Turn ’round and borry a dime! Mebby laugh and joke about hisse’f fer awhile—then jerk his coat, And kind o’ square his chin, Tie his apern, and squat hisse’f on his old shoe bench And go peggin’ agin. Patientest feller, too, I reckon, at every jes’ naturally Coughed hisse’f to death! Long enough after his voice was lost he’d laugh and say, He could git ever’thing but his breath— “You fellers,” he’d sort o’ twinkle his eyes and say, “Is pilin’ onto me A mighty big debt for that air little weak-chested ghost o’ mine to pack Through all eternity!” Now there was a man ’at jes’ ’peared like to me, ’At ortn’t a-never died! “But death hain’t a-showin’ no favors,” the old boss said, “On’y to Jim,” and cried: And Wigger, ’at put up the best sewed work in the shop, Er the whole blamed neighborhood, He says, “When God made Jim, I bet you He didn’t do anything else that day, But jes’ set around and feel good.” James Whitcomb Riley.

Is this all the love that he bore me, my husband, to publish my face To the nobles of Media and Persia, whose hearts are besotted and base? Did he think me a slave, me, Vashti, the Beautiful, me, Queen of queens, To summon me thus for a show to the midst of his bacchanal scenes? I stand like an image of brass, I, Vashti, in sight of such men! No, sooner, a thousand times sooner, the mouth of the lioness’ den, When she’s fiercest with hunger and love for the hungry young lions that tear Her teats with sharp, innocent teeth, I would enter, far rather than here! Did he love me, or is he, too, though the King, but a brute like the rest! I have seen him in wine, and I fancied ’twas then that he loved me the best; Though I think I would rather have one sweet, passionate word from the heart Than a year of caresses that may with the wine that creates them depart. But ever before, in his wine, toward me he showed honor and grace; He was King, I was Queen, and those nobles, he made them remember their place. But now all is changed; I am vile, they are honored, they push me aside, A butt for Memucan and Shethar and Meres, gone mad in their pride! Shall I faint, shall I pine, shall I sicken and die for the loss of his love? Not I; I am queen of myself, though the stars fall from heaven above. The stars! ha! the torment is there, for my light is put out by a star, That has dazzled the eyes of the King and his court and his captains of war. He was lonely, they say, and he looked, as he sat like a ghost at his wine, On the couch by his side, where, of yore his Beautiful used to recline. But the King is a slave to his pride, to his oath and the laws of the Medes, And he cannot call Vashti again though his poor heart is wounded and bleeds. So they sought through the land for a wife, while the King thought of me all the while— I can see him, this moment, with eyes that are lost for the loss of a smile, Gazing dreamily on while each maiden is temptingly passed in review, While the love in his heart is awake with the thought of a face that he knew! Then she came when his heart was grown weary with loving the dream of the past! She is fair—I could curse her for that, if I thought that this passion would last! But e’en if it last, all the love is for me, and, through good and through ill, The King shall remember his Vashti, shall think of his Beautiful still. Oh! the day is a weary burden, the night is a restless strife,— I am sick to the very heart of my soul, with this life—this death in life! Oh! that the glorious, changeless sun would draw me up in his might, And quench my dreariness in the flood of his everlasting light! What is it? Oft as I lie awake and my pillow is wet with tears, There comes—it came to me just now—a flash, then disappears; A flash of thought that makes this life a re-enacted scene, That makes me dream what was, will be, and what is now, has been. And I, when age on age has rolled, shall sit on the royal throne, And the King shall love his Vashti, his Beautiful, his own, And for the joy of what has been and what again will be, I’ll try to bear this awful weight of lonely misery! The star! Queen Esther! blazing light that burns into my soul! The star! the star! Oh! flickering light of life beyond control! O King! remember Vashti, thy Beautiful, thy own, Who loved thee and shall love thee still, when Esther’s light has flown! John Reade.

I saw her in the festive halls, in scenes of pride and16 glee, ’Mongst many beautiful and fair, but none so fair as she; Hers was the most attractive2 form that mingled in the scene, And all who saw her said she moved a goddess and a queen. The diamond blazed in her dark hair and bound her polished brow, And precious gems were clasped around her swan-like neck of snow; And Indian looms had lent their stores to form her sumptuous dress, And art with nature joined to grace her passing loveliness. I looked upon her and I said, who6 is so blessed as she? A creature she all light and life, all beauty and all glee; Sure,5 sweet content blooms on her cheek and on her brow a pearl, And she was1 young and innocent, the Lady of the Earl. But as I looked more carefully, I saw that radiant smile Was but assumed in mockery, the unthinking to beguile. Thus have I seen a summer rose in all its beauty bloom, When it has24 shed its sweetness o’er a cold and lonely tomb. She struck the harp, and when they praised her skill she turned aside, A rebel tear of conscious woe20 and memory to hide; But when she raised her head she looked so13 lovely, so serene, To gaze in her proud eyes you’d think a tear had seldom been. The humblest maid in rural life can5 boast a happier fate Than she, the beautiful and good, in all her rank and state; For she was sacrificed,20 alas! to cold and selfish pride When her young lips had breathed the vow to be a soldier’s bride. Of late I viewed her move along,2 the idol of the crowd; A few short months elapsed, and then,12 I kissed her in her shroud! And o’er her splendid monument I saw the hatchment wave, But there was one proud heart5 which did more honor to her grave. A warrior dropped his plumed head upon her place of rest, And with his feverish lips the name of Ephilinda pressed; Then breathed a prayer, and checked the groan of parting pain, And as he left the tomb he said,11 “Yet we shall meet again.”

Filled with weariness and pain, Scarcely strong enough to pray, In this twilight hour I sit, Sit and sing my doubts away. O’er my broken purposes, Ere the coming shadows roll, Let me build a bridge of song: “Jesus, lover of my soul.” “Let me to Thy bosom fly!” How the words my thoughts repeat: To Thy bosom, Lord, I come, Though unfit to kiss Thy feet. Once I gathered sheaves for Thee, Dreaming I could hold them fast: Now I can but faintly sing, “Oh! receive my soul at last.” I am weary of my fears, Like a child when night comes on: In the shadow, Lord, I sing, “Leave, oh, leave me not alone.” Through the tears I still must shed, Through the evil yet to be, Though I falter while I sing, “Still support and comfort me.” “All my trust on Thee is stayed;” Does the rhythm of the song Softly falling on my heart, Make its pulses firm and strong? Or is this Thy perfect peace, Now descending while I sing, That my soul may sleep to-night “’Neath the shadow of Thy wing? “Thou of life the fountain art;” If I slumber on Thy breast, If I sing myself to sleep, Sleep and death alike are rest. Not impatiently I sing, Though I lift my hands and cry “Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly.”

The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an’ of silk, An’ satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol’ brindle’s milk; Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an’ stove-pipe hats were there, An’ dudes ’ith trouserloons so tight they couldn’t kneel down in prayer. The elder in his poolpit high said, as he slowly riz: “Our organist is kep’ to hum, laid up ’ith roomatiz, An’ as we hev no substitoot, as brother Moore ain’t here, Will some ’un in the congregation be so kind ’s to volunteer?” An’ then a red-nosed, blear-eyed tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, Give an interductory hiccup, an’ then swaggered up the aisle. Then thro’ that holy atmosphere there crep’ a sense er sin, An’ thro’ thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol’ gin. Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: “This man perfanes the house er God! W’y, this is sacrilege!” The tramp didn’ hear a word he said, but slouched ’ith stumblin’ feet, An’ stalked an’ swaggered up the steps, an’ gained the organ seat. He then went pawin’ thro’ the keys, an’ soon there rose a strain Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an’ ’lectrify the brain; An’ then he slapped down on the thing ’ith hands an’ head an’ knees, He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys. The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin’ high an’ dry, It swelled into the rafters, an’ bulged out into the sky; The ol’ church shook and staggered, an’ seemed to reel an’ sway, An’ the elder shouted “Glory!” an’ I yelled out “Hooray!” An’ then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears, Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched ’em down ’ith tears; An’ we dreamed uv ol’ time kitchens, ’ith Tabby on the mat, Tu home an’ luv an’ baby days, an’ mother, an’ all that! An’ then he struck a streak uv hope—a song from souls forgiven— Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an’ stormed the gates uv heaven; The morning stars together sung—no soul wuz left alone— We felt the universe wuz safe, an’ God was on His throne! An’ then a wail of deep despair an’ darkness come again, An’ long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, An’ then—the tramp, he swaggered down an’ reeled out into the night! But we knew he’d tol’ his story, tho’ he never spoke a word, An’ it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; He hed tol’ his own life history, an’ no eye was dry thet day, W’en the elder rose an’ simply said: “My brethren, let us pray.” S. W. Foss.

If a body meet a body Comin’ thro’ the rye, If a body kiss a body, Need a body cry? Ev’ry lassie has her laddie, Nane they say ha’e I, Yet all the lads they smile at me When comin’ thro’ the rye. If a body meet a body, Comin’ frae the town; If a body meet a body, Need a body frown? Ev’ry lassie has her laddie, Nane they say ha’e I, Yet all the lads they smile at me When comin’ thro’ the rye. Amang the train there is a swain, I dearly love mysel’, But what’s his name, or where’s his hame I dinna choose to tell. Ev’ry lassie has her laddie, Nane they say ha’e I, Yet all the lads they smile at me When comin’ thro’ the rye. Robert Burns.

Twas in the days of chivalry, when steel-clad warriors swore To bear their ladies’ favors amidst the battle’s roar, To right the wrongs of injured maids, the lance in rest to lay, And nobly fall in honor’s cause or triumph in the fray. But not to-day a lance is couched, no waving plume is there, No war-horse sniffs the trumpet’s breath, no banner woos the air; No crowding chiefs the tilt-yard throng to quench the thirst of fame, Though chiefs are met, intent to leave their names eternal shame! A still and solemn silence reigned, deep darkness veiled the skies, And Nature, shuddering, shook to see the impious sacrifice! Full in the centre of the lists a dreadful pile is reared, Awaiting one whose noble soul death’s terrors never feared, Gaul’s young Minerva, who had led her countrymen to fame, And foremost in the battle rent that conquered country’s chain; Who, when the sun of fame had set that on its armies shone, Its broken ranks in order set, inspired and led them on; The low-born maid that, clad in steel, restored a fallen king, Who taught the vanquished o’er their foes triumphal songs to sing; Whose banner in the battle’s front the badge of conquest streamed, And built again a tottering throne, a forfeit crown redeemed! But when her glorious deeds were done, Fate sent a darker day, The blaze of brightness faded in murkiest clouds away; And France stood looking idly on, nor dared to strike a blow, Her guardian angel’s life to save, but gave it to the foe! Ungrateful France her saviour’s fate beheld with careless smile, While Superstition, hiding hate and vengeance, fired the pile! What holy horror of her crime is looked by yonder priest, Like that grim bird that hovers nigh, and scents the funeral feast! Is this the maiden’s triumph, won in battle’s dreadful scenes, Whose banner so triumphant flew before thy walls, Orleans! Hark to the trumpet’s solemn sound! Low roll the muffled drums As slowly through the silent throng the sad procession comes; Wrapp’d in the garments of the grave, the corselet laid aside, Still with Bellona’s step she treads, through all her woes descried. As beautiful her features now as when inspired she spoke Those oracles that slumbering France to life and action woke: The majesty yet haunts her looks, that late so dreadful beamed In war, when o’er her burnished arms the long rich tresses streamed, She gazes on the ghastly pile, tho’ pale as marble stone; ’Twas not with fear, for from her lips escaped no sigh nor groan; But she, her country’s saviour, thus to render up her breath— That was a pang far worse than all the bitterness of death! ’Twas done; the blazing pile is fired, the flames have wrapped her round; The owlet shrieked, and circling flew with dull, foreboding sound; Fate shuddered at the ghastly sight, and smiled a ghostly smile; And fame and honor spread their wings above the funeral pile. But, phœnix-like, her spirit rose from out the burning flame, More beautiful and bright by far than in her days of fame. Peace to her spirit! Let us give her memory to renown, Nor on her faults or failings dwell, but draw the curtain down. Clare S. McKinley.

I’ve been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o’er, They spake of those who disappeared, and ne’er were heard of more. And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear, A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear: The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous. But, wiping all those tears away he told his story thus:— “It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells; But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock. “One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne’er may hear again. “I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care, But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air. “Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father’s eye! His infant made a vulture’s prey, with terror to descry! And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave, That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save! “My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free, At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed: Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed. “The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew, A mote upon the sun’s broad face he seemed unto my view: But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight; ’Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite. “All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne’er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached, He saw an infant’s fleshless bones the elements had bleached! “I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away; I knew they were my infant’s bones thus hastening to decay; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred, The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head.” That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers passing by, Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh. And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

There’s an old-fashioned girl in an old-fashioned street, Dressed in old-fashioned clothes from her head to her feet, And she spends all her time in the old-fashioned way, Of caring for poor people’s children all day. She never has been to cotillion or ball, And she knows not the styles of the spring or the fall. Two hundred a year will suffice for her needs, And an old-fashioned Bible is all that she reads. And she has an old-fashioned heart that is true To a fellow who died in an old coat of blue, With its buttons all brass—who is waiting above For the woman who loved him with old-fashioned love. Tom Hall.