GEORGE M. VICKERS.

Along the valley’s narrow gorge The morning mist outspread, While rifle-pit and breast-work strong Frowned grimly overhead. The sluggish stream that only served To slake the thirst of kine, Was soon to see a drearier sight With men drawn up in line. Along the crest a flash of fire Breaks red against the sky, Along the hillside’s narrow slope Comes back the quick reply. Ferraro dashes up in haste, His countenance aflame, “The Fifty-first must storm the bridge,” ’Twas thus the order came. “Fix bayonets!” over Hartranft’s face A strange smile sent its beam; The red blood flushed, his dusky cheek— His dark eyes all agleam. Sturgis and Cook in vain essayed, And others yet may try, But now the gallant Fifty-first Must storm the bridge or die. Bright flashed the sword their leader drew— “Charge!” Like a simoon’s blast, The Fifty-first, mid shot and shell, Dashed on—the bridge is passed; The beaten foe in wild retreat Is flying o’er the bridge, Huzza! huzza! The Fifty-first Has stormed Antietam’s bridge! Oh, men of Pennsylvania, Along your bloody route Lies many a comrade, dull of ear, Who may not have heard you shout; But o’er your country’s wide domain A pæan grand shall burst; A nation’s accolade be thine— O gallant Fifty-first!

There, now! I’ve read your letter through Three times; I’ll read it once again If you say so; it rests with you.[2] What? loan you paper, ink and pen? Why, man you’re weaker than a child. To-morrow I will gladly write Whate’er you wish. Be reconciled,[3] Compose yourself and rest to-night. You think we nuns are good to tend The sick, to count our beads, and pray, But that we do not comprehend How worldly people dread delay In getting word from those they love: Why, sir, you know not what you say— Ah! this dark robe too well doth prove The sorrow of that by-gone[4] day— No, no; I fully understand What you would say. There’s no offence; Naught to forgive. There take[5] my hand. We now are friends. In confidence The story of a broken life, Before the doctor comes, I’ll tell: Of how I shunned[6] the cold world’s strife And sought a quiet convent cell. Far back[7] in life I loved a man, A gen’rous, noble heart and true: And he loved me as only can, As only gallant natures do. Our days passed by so quietly, Love’s dream so rosy-hued had grown That seasons glided by[8] ere we Would note that e’en a month had flown. Thus ran my girlhood and his youth, Till came the naming of the happy day— Our wedding day—that would in truth Have made us man and wife for aye, When, like a blow from one we love, There came an unexpected woe; In vain ’gainst[9] fate we madly strove; Each cherished hope lay scattered[10] low. A crime had been committed in The village where lived he and I; And ’mid the first wild, senseless din That marked the people’s hue and cry, Suspicion on him[11] fell, and so, To ’scape the frenzied, ‘vengeful mob, He, innocent, resolved to go Away[12]—and I to stay and sob. Then, bending low, said he, “This thing Will only for a season last, A moment full relief may bring; At most our grief will soon be past; But, darling, should it not be so, Write” (he whispered a fictitious name), “And I will by your letter know That in your eyes I bear no shame.” The rain fell from a dark’ning sky,[13] The apple blossoms scattered[14] lay, The chill wind moaned, and night drew nigh, As with a sigh he turned away[15]— I watched[16] his form till lost in gloom, And, save the dripping of the rain,[17] There fell a stillness[18] of the tomb— A lull that seemed to daze my brain.[19] The morning after that sad night The guilty one was found; and I, With woman’s haste, sat down to write, And wrote in joyous ecstasy; The letter mailed, each moment seemed An age; but days and weeks passed by— With visions dread my fancy teemed— But came he not, nor made reply. One day, when hope had almost fled, The post-man thrust it in my hand: “This is from Washington,”[20] he said, “Dead-letter office, understand?” With throbbing heart I broke the seal, My face grew whiter than a sheet, The dreadful blunder made me reel And drop[21] the letter at my feet. Instead of the fictitious name He gave, it bore his own, Which knowing not, he could not claim— To him my lines were never known— In loneliness he died: and here I nurse the sick; but I have done— And, sir[22] no longer have a fear To trust me, though I’m but a nun. You’ve heard a portion of my tale Before? From whom? Oh, tell[23] me quick! From my lost love? You both set sail In the same ship? My heart[24] grows sick— What? Still alive?[25] Oh, God be praised! Oh, joy![26] Oh, joy! And I will write? Now that my dead to life is raised— Will I? Yes, now—this very night. —Geo. M. Vickers.

Fierce blows the gale and cold, Loudly the windows[27] rattle; Why, the stars seemed never half so bright. Hark![28] ’Twas a bell that tolled— There, again! must I battle Through another dreadful winter night? Better by far to die. Who[29] in this mighty city Wastes a thought on such a wretched life? Who heeds my weary sigh? Who sheds a tear in pity? All alone I wage[30] the bitter strife. Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31] Gay sound the reckless voices; And how tempting warm the red grate glows! No![32] rather perish here— Ah, no—my soul rejoices,[33] For I triumph spite of all my woes. Now, that I’ve made my vow, Who[34] comes to help me keep it? Are the saints that preach asleep or dead? Ripe is the harvest now, Yet comes there none to reap it. Not a cent![35] no home; no crust of bread. Fie,[36] upon hearts so cold! Not one will deign to aid me; And my own sex turn[37] me off with scorn; Sneer at me; call me bold; Taunt me, and then upbraid me— O, my God,[38] how can I wait till morn? Mother, is that you[39] there? Surely,[40] I must be dreaming— Do not leave me, mother;[41] take me home! Oh, how keen[42] bites the air! Yonder[43] the dawn is gleaming. It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44] come! Sleepy, indeed, am I— Wait till I kneel[45] down, mother— Now[46] I lay me down to sleep—keep off—[47] Help! help! help! I shall die— Give me some air—I smother! I am saved![48] Now let the cold world scoff. * * * * * Fierce blows the gale and cold, Loudly the windows[49] rattle, And the stars are paling[50] out with fright: Oh, ’tis a tale oft told: Done is the hard-fought battle— And a weary soul has said good-night. —Geo. M. Vickers.

Yes, the ranks are growing smaller With the coming of each May, And the beards and locks once raven Now are mingled thick with gray; Soon the hands that strew the flowers Will be folded still and cold, And our story of devotion Will forever have been told. Years and years have passed by, comrades, Though it seems but yesterday Since the Blue-garbed Northern legions Marched to meet the Southern Gray— But a day since Massachusetts Bade her soldier boys good-bye— But a day since Alabama Heard her brave sons’ farewell cry. Those are days we all remember, In our hearts we hold them yet; And the kiss we got at parting, Who can ever that forget? And it may have been a mother, A fond father, or a wife, Or a maid whose love was dearer To the soldier’s heart than life. Then the silent midnight marches, And the fierce-fought battle’s roar, And the sailor’s lonely watches, Gone, please God, forevermore: Though these ne’er can be forgotten While the dew our graves shall wet, Yet the color of our jackets Let each gallant heart forget; For the ranks are growing smaller, And though decked in blue or gray, Soon both armies will be sleeping In their shelter-tents of clay. But the loud reverberation Of the last salute shall be Oft re-echoed through the ages As the tocsin of the free! For we both but did our duty, In the Great Jehovah’s plan, And the world has learned a lesson That all men may read who can; And when gathered for the muster On the last and dreadful day, May that God extend His mercy Sweet, alike to Blue and Gray. —Geo. M. Vickers.

The swarthy forms steal one by one Like shadows past the guard; Now soft they creep, now leap, now run, From tyrants base and hard; But hark! what sound is that which comes Across the sandy plain? The sentry’s cry, the roll of drums! Alas! their flight is vain. Behold! a thousand torches flash Like meteors into view! While swift the Pagans onward dash The bold dragoons pursue! See! now the captives reach a stream, A rushing torrent wild; They cannot pass—[Throws book on floor.]

The swarthy forms steal[51] one by one Like shadows past the guard—

Now soft they creep,[56] now leap,[57] now run[58] From tyrants base and hard—

But hark![59] what sound is that which comes Across the sandy plain?

The sentry’s cry, the roll of drums, Alas! their flight is vain[62]—

The sentry’s cry—

—the roll of drums.

Alas! their flight is vain—

Behold![64] a thousand torches flash Like meteors into view! While swift the Pagans onward[65] dash The bold dragoons[66] pursue!

See![67] the captives pass a stream, A rushing torrent[68] wild, They cannot pass—

“Come, Rosy, come!” I heard the voice and, looked Out on the road that passed my window wide, And saw a woman and a fair-haired child That knelt and picked the daisies at the side. The child ran quickly with its gathered prize, And, laughing, held it high above its head; A light glowed bright within the woman’s eyes, And in that light a mother’s love I read. She took the little hand, and both passed on; The prattle of the child I still could hear, Mixed with the woman’s fond, caressing tone, That came in loving words upon my ear. “Come, Rosy, come!” Years, many years had gone, But yet had left the recollection of that scene— The woman and the fair-haired child that knelt And picked the daisies on the roadside green. I looked. The old familiar road was there— A woman, wan and stooping, stood there too; And beckoned slowly, and with vacant stare That fixed itself back where the daisies grew. “Come, Rosy, come!” I saw no fair-haired child Run from the daisies with its gathered prize; “Come, Rosy, come!” I heard no merry laugh To light the love-glow in the mother’s eyes. “Come, Rosy, come!” She turned, and down the road The plaintive voice grew fainter on my ear; Caressing tones—not mixed with prattle now, But full of loving words—I still could hear. I, wondering, asked a gossip at my door; He told the story—all there was to tell: A little mound the village churchyard bore; And this, he said, is only Crazy Nell. —Joseph Whitton.

You see where the cliffs frown yonder in a line of dingy red?— That wild, fierce crag, the highest, is known as Sir Rupert’s Head: It’s five hundred feet and over from the brow to the sea below, And it won its name in the winter, a hundred years ago. There wasn’t a squire in Devon so famous as Rupert Leigh; He was lord of the broad, rich acres, good-looking and fancy free. He came of a race of giants, stood six feet two in his socks, And once, for a drunken wager, with his fist he had felled an ox. Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name; he was last of a lawless line Who had gone to the deuce full gallop, through women and cards and wine. He wasn’t so bad as they were—he was more of a hunting squire, And he freed the name a little from some of the ancient mire. His wasn’t an easy country, but he’d take it every inch, And ride as straight as an arrow where the boldest well might flinch. When a lad he had climbed yon headland, climbed it from base to crest, For a short-frocked hussy who wanted the eggs from a seagull’s nest. One winter he went to London—he then was about forty-three; His steward had told the parson he’d lawyers in town to see. ’Twas dull in the place without him, for his mansion was Liberty Hall; There was always a warm, wet welcome for neighbors who chose to call. He was gone for a twelvemonth nearly, writing to no old friends, But a Devonshire man in London news to the parson sends. Sir Rupert had married a madam, a play-acting, mincing wench, Who painted and patched and powdered, and was finiking, fine and French. She was no more French than I am, but this was about the time, That French was the title given to nigh every kind of crime. She sang in a minor play-house—in opera, so they say— And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous work by Gay. He was always an easy target for a wench’s rolling eye, So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters by-and-by, He was wax in the hussy’s fingers, and she moulded with practiced skill, Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of her slightest will. They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague and Rome— Then the news went abroad Sir Rupert was bringing his lady home. The people about here liked him, and no warmth did their welcome lack, But they looked askance at my lady, and she gave them their glances back. They hated her then directly, they chafed at her cold disdain, And they gossiped her story over in language a bit too plain. They called her a “stuck-up stroller,” and somehow the scandal grew, Till my lady as “Polly Peachum” the whole of the country knew. Sir Rupert was broken-hearted when he heard of the mocking tone, And he quarreled with all his comrades until he was left alone— Alone at the Hall with “Polly,” for the gentry had cut her dead, But his heart was as true as ever to the woman he had stooped to wed. To him she was just an angel who had come from the holy skies That his heart might bask forever in the light of her lustrous eyes. No wine, no cards, and no hunting: he kept at my lady’s side— ’Twas a great big boy with a sweetheart, not a man with a year-won bride. She pined in the lonely mansion: she wanted society-life— She wanted to play my lady as well as Sir Rupert’s wife. Sir Rupert must ask a party—not of bumpkins, but folks from the town; He had plenty of friends in London; would he not ask them down? They came, and the sound of laughter rang through the Hall once more, And my lady was proud and happy, but her husband’s heart was sore; He had learned from an idle whisper—a whisper not meant for him— A secret that sapped his life-blood and the strength of each stalwart limb. He reeled when he heard the whisper and guessed at the ghastly truth: ’Twas the tale of a play-woman and a curled and scented youth, A dandy of six-and-twenty, the son of an old, old chum— He was one of the guests invited, and one of the first to come. Sir Rupert had been in London a guest of his father’s, too, And this young fop, he remembered, had led him his wife to woo; He had raved of this Polly Peachum, and dragged him to hear her sing; He said at the time he knew her—’twas a planned and plotted thing! And now she was always with him, they chatted and laughed away; She was cold and dull with Sir Rupert,—with him she was kind and gay. She was weary of playing my lady, and of being Sir Rupert’s wife— She pined for the tinsel glories of the old Bohemian life. She hated the dull decorum, she hated the legal tie— Her cage was a cage, though gilded. Then the tempter whispered “Fly!” One night their chairs were empty, and slowly the news leaked out: Two horses were gone from the stable—’twas a settled thing, no doubt. Sir Rupert was white with horror, but he turned to the gaping crew And cried, “It’s a lie, I tell you!—who dares to say its true?” Then seizing his holster pistols, he mounted his fleetest mare And made straight for the Red Cliff roadway—he guessed they had gone by there, For that was the way to London, from Exmouth the pair would post, And the road they were bound to travel was the road by the rugged coast. If you look you will see it passes right over the headland’s brow— Only a century distant it wasn’t as good as now. He dug his spurs in the hunter, and it flew up the fearful steep, ’Twas a wild, fierce night in winter, and the snow lay thick and deep; But the moon through the clouds had broken, and right on the Head he spied A horse that had slipped and fallen, and the rider by its side; And over them bent a figure, but whose he could scarcely see, Then he uttered a cry to Heaven that his wife unharmed might be; And lashing his steed to fury it flew through the slippery snow, While the wild waves roared a warning five hundred feet below. A slip, and both horse and rider would roll to a hideous fate, But Sir Rupert, with set white features, rode to the headland straight. They heard him now, and the woman rose from her knees and moaned, And the man gave a sudden shudder and opened his eyes and groaned. Sir Rupert reined up so fiercely that the mare on the precipice reared, And the woman sprang back with horror, in the jaws of the death she feared. For a moment she seemed to totter, and then with a piercing cry Went over that awful headland that seems to touch the sky. For a second no sound was uttered, only the billows roared, While up from its nest a sea-gull, startled and shrieking, soared; Then, shouting for help, Sir Rupert clutched at the snow-clad turf, And glanced with a look of horror down at the boiling surf. And as he lay there peering, right at the farthest edge, Something his eyes detected—a heap on a narrow ledge; It was thirty feet between them, but he knew ’twas his wretched wife, And he vowed, though his own paid forfeit, he would save her guilty life. He could see there were tiny juttings where his foot might find a hold, And the man he had quite forgotten was worth his weight in gold. The booby was bruised and shaken, and fancied that he should die, But Sir Rupert bade him help him, or he’d shoot him by-and-by Then the white-faced coward whimpered and lifted his jeweled hands, And Sir Rupert set him tearing his mantle in narrow bands. Then the strips were twined together and tied to a rough stone seat, And over went brave Sir Rupert, clinging with hands and feet. The waves in their winter fury shrieked for a human life, But down and down crept Rupert till he swung by his senseless wife, Stooping, he clasped her firmly, one hand on the doubtful rope, Pressed his lips on her marble forehead, and whispered her, “Darling—hope!” Then breathing a prayer to Heaven to save them both that night, He toiled with his heavy burden up the face of the frowning height. A fall of the soft red sandstone, a slip of his bleeding hand, And their bodies had lain together, crushed on the cruel strand. Safe! safe at last on the summit! safe on the firm hard road! There where the moonbeams glittered, he glanced at his senseless load. Her face was bruised and battered, and the warm blood welled and gushed; And he saw that his wife was injured, and her tender bones were crushed. No trace of the lady’s gallant; he’d limped to a horse and flown: Sir Rupert and “Polly Peachum” were there on the heights alone. He leaped on the gallant hunter; took his wife in his brawny arms, And galloped across the country to one of his tenants’ farms. For six long months my lady hovered ’twixt death and life— ’Twas a surgeon who came from London that saved Sir Rupert’s wife— And when she was out of danger it was known she was marked and maimed, A battered, misshapen cripple, distorted and scarred and lamed. But Sir Rupert clung closer to her; they traveled from place to place, And he never winced or shuddered at the sight of her injured face. It was he who carried the cripple, who nursed her with tenderest care: And never in knightly story such gallant had lady fair. For many a year she lingered—’twas up at the Hall she died, And here in the village churchyard they’re sleeping side by side. She died in his arms confessing the worth of his noble love, And in less than a year he sought her in the mansions of God above. There stands the great bluff headland—there swells the sea below— And the story I’ve told you happened nigh a hundred years ago, Yet there isn’t a soul that visits those towering crags of red But thinks of the love and daring that hallowed “Sir Rupert’s Head.” George R. Sims.

“I’m mad, I’m mad, I know I’m mad, Enough to drive one mad, Stark, raving, howling, crazy mad, It is to lose one’s child.”

“Mary haf got a leetle lambs already, Dose wool vas vite like shnow, Und efery times dot Mary did vend oud, Dot lambs vent oud vid Mary.”

“Is this a dagger which I see before me, its handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee, I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. What light is this which surrounds me and seems to set fire to my brain? What whistle that, yelling so shrilly? Ah! I know now, ’tis the train.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s Plutonian shore; Leave no black plume as a token of that he thy soul has spoken, Leave my loneliness unbroken.”

Toby Simpson, a dealer most worthy and just, Slowly wended his way through the rattle and dust Of the city. He mused on the cholera scare, On his relative chance as a wheat or a tare In the prophesied raid. Then he mumbled a prayer, And each mud hole he eyed seemed a villainous snare, While his conscience said, solemnly, “Simpson, beware!” On the strength of a limited balance in cash He had planned for himself and his family a dash To the mountains, the seaside, it mattered not where; To delay any longer was more than he dare; Some relief must be had from the terrible flare Of the midsummer sun, which would surely impair The good health of Dame Simpson, now cross as a bear. ’Twas quite late in July and old Sol was aglow, All the people had gone who had money to go From the city to seek a few sniffs of fresh air, And forgot for a season their burdens of care; Then no wonder Dame Simpson was heard to declare That the Joneses looked up with an insolent stare, As she stood at her window exposed to the glare. But her husband that ev’ning when rising from tea, With his hands full of tickets and heart full of glee, Quite as proud as a lion could be in its lair, Shouted out: “To the Capes, yes, to-morrow, prepare, I’ve engaged jolly quarters and paid all the fare!” To which mother and daughters, with mock debonair, Chorused forth: “Why, dear papa, we’ve nothing to wear!” With a look most bewildered he clutched at a tray, For his mercantile courage was oozing away, And his features were grim ’neath his carroty hair; Twenty bills he had paid for goods costly and rare For those females! and now could not possibly spare An additional stamp. Unaccustomed to swear, It was startling to hear him say: “Darned if it’s fair!” In an eight by ten office, half sweltered with heat, Sat T. Simpson, the jobber. He gazed at his feet Which reposed on a desk, just in front of his chair, While his face was dejected and full of despair; And he owed not a cent; his accounts were all square— No, not that, but the problem of Nothing to Wear Was just why the poor fellow sat pondering there. George M. Vickers.

Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven; He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven! A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh! a girl was no good!” So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl—only seven! At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. The pear-trees looked on in their white, and blue-birds flashed about, And they, too, were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven? I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven—eleven! So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered; And under and over the branches those little birds twittered, While hanging head downward they scolded because I was seven. A pity—a very great pity. One should be eleven. But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet, And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. Then I knew, for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold. Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; And then some one else—oh! how softly!—came after, came after With laughter—with laughter came after. And no one was near us to utter that sweet, mocking call, That soon very tired sank low with a mystical fall. But this was the country—perhaps it was close under heaven; Oh! nothing so likely; the voice might have come from it even. I knew about heaven. But this was the country, of this Light, blossom, and piping, and flashing of wings, not at all. Not at all. No. But one little bird was an easy forgiver: She peeped, she drew near as I moved from her domicile small, Then flashed down her hole like a dart—like a dart from the quiver. And I waded atween the long grasses, and felt it was bliss. —So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall— A little low wall—and looked over, and there was the river, The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river, Clear shining and slow, she had far, far to go from her snow; But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow, And she murmured, methought, with a speech very soft—very low. “The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river, “To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river—the river. I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky, The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. But at last—in a day or two namely—Eleven and I Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of bee That had learned how to laugh; could it laugh in one’s ear and then fly, And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”—he whispered it low— “Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see. And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he; But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. Yet I that had money—a shilling, a whole silver shilling— We might cross if I thought I could spend it.” “Oh! yes, I was willing”— And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry When they called for the ferry; but, oh! she was very—was very Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried, “Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry—the ferry!” By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide—she replied, And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry, “You man of the ferry, You man of—you man of the ferry!” “Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling; Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast. Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassed All measure her doubling—so close, then so far away falling, Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware, And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there), Nor behold her wild eyes, and her mystical countenance fair. We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead; In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead; By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow, deep-nested, in brown; Not Echo, fair Echo, for Echo, sweet Echo, was flown. So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. The church was among them, gray moss over roof, over wall. Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green, grassy mound And looked in at the window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round Might have come in to hide there. But, no; every oak-carven seat Was empty. We saw the great Bible—old, old, very old. And the parson’s great prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle, and then waver and play On the low chancel step and the railing; and Oliver said, “Look, Katie! look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown; And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small Seven: “Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?” All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven; “You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never Last on till you’re tall.” And in whispers—because it was old And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told, Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk. Neither heard nor beheld, but about us—in whispers we spoke. Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand, While bleating of flocks and birds’ piping made sweeter the land. And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry, “O Katie!” O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on then!” “For see, The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”—“by the tree.” “By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry; “Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”—“the ferry.” “You man of the ferry—” “You man of—you man of—the ferry.” Ay, here—it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white To that little low church? and will Oliver meet me anon? Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over—passed on? Will the grave parson bless us? Hark! hark! in the dim failing light I hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry, Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!” “And, Katie.” “And, Katie.” “Art out with the glow-worms to-night, My Katie?” “My Katie!” For gladness I break into laughter And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years; Again, some one else—oh, how softly!—with laughter comes after, Comes after—with laughter comes after. —Jean Ingelow.

This is a wild, lone valley, and the road that threads it through Is the loneliest road I know of, and I’ve traveled not a few; Those hills on the left[72] so barren, and yon[73] towering, rocky ridge, Look down on a sluggish river that is spanned by a moss-grown bridge— And nigh to the bridge like a sentry, a tall, gray chimney stands, ’Mid the wreck that time has buried ’neath the tangled weeds and sands. In this valley three ruins moulder that were once three happy homes, And where once fond voices mingled, now the sly fox fearless roams; Then these locks[74] were thick and glossy, that are now so sparse and gray; Then I’d clamber these rocks as willing by night as I would by day— But, if a royal scepter, if the world[75] were promised mine To cross again this valley, I would shudder and decline. Roderick Lee was a miller, and as grist was hard to find Down in his old New Hampshire,[76] he had little or naught to grind; So, with his young wife blooming and his brown-eyed daughter Nell, Together with two young farmers, he came to this[77] place to dwell: And many’s the mile of prairie, and many’s the forest drear, That lay ’twixt the far-off Merrimack[78] and the stream[79] that ripples here. Yet with a heart as buoyant and as brave as it was true, Young Lee, ’mid the cheers at parting, bade his native town adieu; Then came the weeks of toiling, aye, months, ere the scorching plain Was crossed, and his eyes were greeted by the distant mountain chain; But the white-topped, dusty wagons at last made their final stand, And he knelt to breathe thanksgiving with his little pilgrim band. Stay! even now in fancy, I can see their forms once more, I can see their peaceful faces and the look of hope they wore— Poor Kate and Nell and Edith, young Harry, Mag and Joe— ’Neath that oak[80] I see them kneeling, tho’ ’tis thirty years ago! And long ere the hazy autumn had mellowed another year, Our huts were built in the clearing, and our corn hung ripe in the ear. Joe was a model husband, as fair Edith, his wife, well knew, And Mag and her raw-boned Harry, lived as loving couples do; But, as their homes were childless, very natural-like it fell That these kind and worthy people thought the world of little Nell. Many a time they kept her whole days ’gainst her mother’s will, First in the hut by the river[81], then in the hut by the hill[82]. Once in the chill November, when the slender moon[83] hung low, And the barren hill tops yonder[84] were clad in a gauze of snow; Kate with a gleam of mischief in her bright and twinkling eye, Started across the river[85] to the hut of Joe, hard by; And Roderick sat by the window, watching her out of sight, Dreamily watching the shadows of that chill November night. Ere it had seemed a moment she again stood by his chair; She had called at their neighbor’s cabin, but Nellie had not been there. Roderick slowly rising took his rifle from the rack, For the road was wild and lonely and led through a forest tract; Over the ruts and boulders, chatting, they strode[86] along Till the voice of raw-boned Harry was heard in a merry song. “Singing for Nell’s amusement,” said the wife, as she hurried on; “Pity,” she added, musing, “that they have no child of their own.” Soon with a hearty greeting they were met at the cabin door, “And where is your little daughter?” asked Mag, as she scanned them o’er. “Question your good man, Harry[87], for I’ll venture that he can tell,” Said Kate, then smiling added, “we must stop lending little Nell.” Mag, with a playful gesture drew the bed-room screen[88] aside, “See!” she exclaimed, “she’s not here; now I hope you are satisfied.” “Come, Maggie, come, don’t trifle, for the hour is growing late; I know that the child is hiding; would you have us longer wait?” Thus queried Kate, half pleading, when a look akin to fear Stole over the face of Harry as he said, “she is not here!”[89] “Not here! O God[90] protect her!” with a gasp young Roderick cried, And his pale wife like a statue, mute with fright, stood at his side. ’Twas but a single moment, yet it seemed like an age to wait Ere Mag and Kate with their husbands filed out[91] through the open gate; Dark[92] was the night as a dungeon, for the moon had sunk away[93], And the far-off cries of a panther[94] filled each breast with dread dismay. On[95] through the gloomy forest like a band of ghosts they sped, Silently, save when the mother sobbed, or a twig snapped ’neath their tread; “Hark[96]!” whispered tall, gaunt Harry, and they stood with heads[97] bent low, While faint on the air of midnight came shrieks[98] of pain and woe. “Hello! hello[99]!” cried Harry; but they heard no voice reply— “Heavens! what means that crimson, that glow[100] on the fleecy sky? See how it spreads[101] and deepens! Look! our cabins are ablaze!” Then Roderick paused in terror at the sight that met his gaze. Light grew the wood about[102] them; their shadows fell before, For behind[103] them on the hillside leaped the flames from Harry’s door: “On[104] for your lives!” screamed Harry, “on for little Nell!” Then, like an answering challenge, rose the distant Indians’ yell. Bang! bang! “That’s Joe replying; he’ll fight ’em game and well,” Were the words that Harry uttered; “God[105] spare my darling Nell!” This from the pallid mother; and the settlers fairly flew O’er the matted brush and boulders till the clearing came in view. Oh, such a sight[106] of ruin! oh, such a ghastly scene! Stark, dead,[107] lay Joe and Edith on the charred and trampled green. Crouching down ’mid the bushes they watched the painted fiends, Watched with the strange, grim calmness that despair so often lends; “My child! my child!” then springing from the group like astartled deer, Kate rushed[108] o’er the red-lit clearing ere one could interfere— The hideous, screeching cut-throats had captured little Nell; But, when they saw her mother, they stood bound, as by a spell. “Spare![109] oh, spare my darling! Here, pierce me,[110] strike me dead![111] Give back my child, my Nellie!” the frantic woman said; Then on her panting bosom her daughter’s head she laid, Then both sank[112] down in silence, looked up and mutely prayed; That was the fatal signal, for on, like a sweeping hell[113] They came with knife and hatchet, with rifle-shot and yell. Bravely they fought, yet vainly, that fated settler band, Clubbing their empty rifles, meeting them hand to hand; Roderick reeled and staggered, then fell[114] ’neath a crushing blow, And a whoop of fiendish malice told the triumph of the foe; Then like a flash they vanished[115] and Roderick bleeding lay, Hearing their yells grow fainter, till at last they died away. Gray dawned the wintry morning on that awful scene of death, And five cold brows of marble were kissed[116] by its chilling breath— God in his wisdom took them—save Nellie, who ne’er was found; And all of them sleep in this valley, each ’neath a grassy mound. Poor little Nell may be living, but if living she’s dead to me; Yes, the tale is indeed a true one—and my name?—is Roderick Lee. —Geo. M. Vickers.

Yes! I have served that[117] noble chief throughout his proud career, And heard the bullets whistle past in lands both far and near— Amidst Italian flowers,[118] below the dark pines of the north,[119] Where’er the Emperor willed[120] to pour his clouds of battle forth. ’Twas then a splendid sight to see, though terrible, I ween, How his vast spirit filled[121] and moved the wheels of the machine; Wide sounding leagues[122] of sentient steel, and fires that lived to kill,[123] Were but the echo of his voice, the body of his will. But now my heart is darkened with the shadows[124] that rise and fall Between the sunlight and the ground to sadden and appall: The woeful things both seen and done we heeded little then, But they return, like ghosts, to shake the sleep of aged men. The German and the Englishman were each an open foe, And open hatred hurled[125] us back from Russia’s blinding snow; Intenser far, in blood-red light, like fires unquenched, remain The dreadful deeds wrung forth by war from the brooding soul of Spain. I saw a village[126] in the hills, as silent[127] as a dream, Naught stirring but the summer sound[128] of a merry mountain stream; The evening star[129] just smiled from heaven with its quiet silver eye, And the chestnut woods[130] were still and calm beneath the deepening sky. But in that place, self-sacrificed, nor man nor beast we found, Nor fig-tree on the sun-touched slope, nor corn upon the ground; Each roofless hut[131] was black with smoke, wrenched up each trailing vine, Each path was foul[132] with mangled meat and floods of wasted wine. We had been marching, travel-worn, a long and burning way, And when such welcoming we met, after that toilsome day, The pulses in our maddened breasts were human hearts no more, But, like the spirit of a wolf, hot on the scent of gore. We lighted on one dying man, they slew him where he lay; His wife, close-clinging, from the corpse they tore[133] and wrenched away; They thundered in her widowed ears, with frowns and curses grim, “Food, woman—food and wine, or else we tear[134] thee limb from limb.” The woman shaking off his blood, rose,[135] raven-haired and tall, And our stern glances quailed before one sterner far than all. “Both food and wine,”[136] she said, “I have; I meant them for the dead,[137] But ye are living still, and so let them be yours instead.” The food was brought, the wine was brought out of a secret place,[138] But each one paused aghast, and looked into his neighbor’s face; Her haughty step and settled brow, and chill indifferent mien, Suited so strangely with the gloom and grimness of the scene. She glided here,[139] she glided there,[140] before our wondering eyes, Nor anger showed, nor shame, nor fear, nor sorrow, nor surprise; At every step, from soul to soul a nameless horror ran, And made us pale and silent as that[141] silent murdered man. She sat, and calmly soothed her child into a slumber sweet; Calmly the bright blood on the floor crawled[142] red around our feet. On placid fruits and bread lay soft the shadows of the wine, And we like marble statues glared—a chill, unmoving line. All white, all cold; and moments thus flew by without a breath, A company of living things where all was still—but death;[143] My hair rose up from roots of ice as there unnerved I stood And watched[144] the only thing that stirred—the rippling of the blood. That woman’s voice was heard at length, it broke the solemn spell, And human fear, displacing awe, upon our spirits fell— “Ho![145] slayers of the sinewless! Ho! tramplers of the weak! What! shrink ye from the ghastly meats[146] and life-bought wine ye seek? Feed, and begone![147] I wish to weep—I bring you out my store[148]— Devour[149] it—waste[150] it all—and then—pass[151] and be seen no more. Poison! Is that your craven fear?” She snatched the goblet[152] up And raised it to her queen-like head, as if to drain the cup. But our fierce leader grasped her wrist—“No, woman! No!” he said, “A mother’s heart of love is deep—give it your child[153] instead.” She only smiled a bitter smile—“Frenchmen, I do not shrink— As pledge of my fidelity, behold[154] the infant drink!” He fixed on hers his broad black eye, scanning her inmost soul; But her chill fingers trembled not as she returned the bowl. And we with lightsome hardihood, dismissing idle care, Sat down[155] to eat and drink and laugh over our dainty fare. The laugh was loud around the board, the jesting wild and light; But I was fevered with the march, and drank no wine that night; I just had filled a single cup, when through my very brain[156] Stung, sharper than a serpent’s tooth, an infant’s cry of pain. Through all that heat of revelry, through all that boisterous cheer, To every heart its feeble moan pierced, like a frozen spear. “Aye,” shrieked the woman, darting up, “I pray you trust again A widow’s hospitality in our unyielding[157] Spain. Helpless and hopeless, by the light of God[158] Himself I swore To treat you[159] as you treated him[160]—that[161] body on the floor. Yon secret place[162] I filled, to feel, that if ye did not spare, The treasure of a dread revenge was ready hidden there. A mother’s love is deep, no doubt; ye did not phrase it ill, But in your hunger ye forgot, that hate is deeper still. The Spanish woman speaks for Spain;[163] for her butchered love,[164] the wife, To tell you that an hour is all my vintage leaves of life. I cannot paint the many forms of wild despair put on, Nor count the crowded brave who sleep beneath[165] a single stone; I can but tell you how, before that horrid hour went by, I saw the murderess beneath the self-avengers die. But though upon her wrenched limbs they leaped like beasts of prey, And with fierce hands, like madmen, tore[166] the quivering life away— Triumphant hate and joyous scorn, without a trace of pain, Burned to the last, like sullen stars, in that haughty eye of Spain. And often now it breaks my rest, the tumult vague and wild, Drifting, like storm-tossed clouds,[167] around the mother and her child— While she,[168] distinct in raiment white, stands silently the while, And sheds through torn and bleeding hair the same unchanging smile. —Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.

Go search the annals of the human race, Go hear the legends that the heathen tell, And learn that hist’ry, sacred or profane, Records no hero like the mighty Grant. Columbia proudly claims him as her own And rears her monuments with love and pride; But millions scattered o’er the face of earth, And millions yet unborn, will share that claim: Who serves mankind is deemed the friend of man, And nations nationalize him in their hearts. Since that first famous Battle of the Kings, Of which we read in holy writ, no sword E’er leaped from scabbard in a juster war Than that which made our country free indeed, Which, until then, was only free in name. The bond of unity that Washington To us bequeathed, Grant’s loyal arm maintained; Emancipation of the dusky race By Lincoln’s heaven-inspired pen, by Grant’s Unsullied sword was made complete! How well He proved the potency of equal rights, And how he dignified Democracy The monarchs of the world have told, thrice told, In homage, hospitality and love. No land is free where dwells a slave: to-day In all our land there dwells no slave, and we Are free, forever free! “Let us have peace.” Clasp hands across the ashes of the dead. No, no; Grant is not dead, he cannot die; The body is the worn-out coat of mail, That with his sword and shield the warrior casts Aside when life’s campaign is o’er, and home, Eternal home, is reached. He is not dead Whose power still exists; and Grant will live A life of immortality while yet Our starry banner floats for liberty, Which, thanks to God, will be forevermore. —Geo. M. Vickers.

Two girls sat in a gay saloon, nor mingled with the crowd; The younger’s face was pale, and sad, the elder’s stern and proud. “O Gertrude,” said the younger girl, “thou art a sad coquette; Ah, many hearts have felt thy power, and thou art flirting yet. There’s one who fills a foreign grave, who loved thee all too well, Who breathed thy name forgivingly, as in the fray he fell; And yet his fate was better far than that of poor Martelle, Who lonely clanks his heavy chains—a madman—in his cell.” “O Gertrude,” in a softer tone, “give up thy selfish arts, Or hopeless love will be thy doom for blighting loving hearts.” Thus far had Maud unchecked reproved when Gertrude coldly said: “I care not for the living dupes, why blame me for the dead? Thy lover, sure, is naught to me, so quell thy jealous fears; When seeking game I ever strive to strike among my peers.” “Tis not my lover,” Maud replied, while blushes bathed her brow, “But brother Paul I fain would save—for him I’m pleading now. Of kin, he’s all I have on earth—so noble, brave and pure— Too good, alas, to sacrifice—defeat he’d ne’er endure.” But Gertrude rose and took the hand that claimed her for the dance, While Maud stole to the balcony—did Paul stand there by chance? It seemed not so—anon there came a lass surpassing fair; Some hurried words, a merry laugh—they seek the gaslight’s glare. Soon Paul claims Gertrude for the waltz; she yields and softly sighs, Then off they whirl while glances dart from scores of jealous eyes. * * * * * The full round moon now rides on high; the fragrant air is cool, The fountain’s spray, like flashing gems, darts in the limpid pool. A rustic seat girts round an oak, and Paul leads Gertrude there, She by his side, he takes her hand, so small, so soft and fair. In accents low he thus began: “O Gertrude, till to-night True happiness I never knew, and may it ne’er take flight. Say, may I tell my tale, and hope to gain a smile from thee? Approving words to ease a heart that is no longer free? I’m lonely now, for sister Maud is soon to be a bride; Then wonder not because I seek a refuge at thy side.” She murmured half inaudibly: “Dear Paul, I long to hear; Thou’lt get a smile for ev’ry smile, a tear for ev’ry tear.” “Enough, kind Gertrude, listen then: for years I’ve roamed afar; I’ve sailed beneath the Southern Cross, I’ve lost the Northern Star; But now I once more breathe the air of home, I’ll never stray; I only need a loving wife—why tremble, Gertrude, say? But soon I’ll tell thee all I may; say, wilt thou share my joy? God willing, this night, two weeks hence, I marry Kate LeRoy.” Poor Gertrude heard no more that eve, nor saw she Paul again; The rose-tints faded from her cheeks; at last she loved—in vain. * * * * * Her wasted form the church-yard holds; Ah! never this forget: A woman’s love is woman’s life, e’en tho’ a gay coquette. —Geo. M. Vickers.