Chapter 23

Is this all the love that he bore me, my husband, to publish my faceTo 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 tearHer 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 heartThan 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.

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 tearHer teats with sharp, innocent teeth, I would enter, far rather than here!

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 heartThan a year of caresses that may with the wine that creates them depart.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

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!

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!

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.

It will require all the dramatic power of which you are capable to recite this selection and do it full justice. Be wide-awake, quick in tone and gesture, shouting at one time, whispering at another, speaking with your whole body. The emotions of fear and horror are especially prominent.

It is two miles ahead to the foot-hills—two miles of parched turf and rocky space. To the right—the left—behind, is the rolling prairie. This broad valley strikes the Sierra Nevadas and stops as if a wall had been built across it.Ride closer! What is this on the grass? A skull here—a rib there—bones scattered about as the wild beasts left them after the horrible feast. The clean-picked skull grins and stares—every bone and scattered lock of hair has its story of a tragedy. And what besides these relics? More bones—not scattered, but lying in heaps—a vertebra with ribs attached—a fleshless skull bleaching under the summer sun. Wolves! Yes. Count the heaps of bones and you will find nearly a score. Open boats are picked up at sea with neither life nor sign to betray their secret. Skeletons are found upon the prairie, but they tell a plain story to those who halt beside them. Let us listen:Away off to the right you can see treetops. Away off to the left you can see the same sight. The skeleton is in line between the two points. He left one grove to ride to the other. To ride! Certainly; a mileaway is the skeleton of a horse or mule. The beast fell and was left there.It is months since that ride, and the trail has been obliterated. Were it otherwise, and you took it up from the spot where the skeleton horse now lies, you would find the last three or four miles made at a tremendous pace.“Step! step! step!”What is it? Darkness has gathered over mountain and prairie as the hunter jogs along over the broken ground. Overhead the countless stars look down upon him—around him is the pall of night. There was a patter of footsteps on the dry grass. He halts and peers around him, but the darkness is too deep for him to discover any cause for alarm.“Patter! patter! patter!”There it is again! It is not fifty yards from where he last halted. The steps are too light for those of an Indian.“Wolves!” whispers the hunter, as a howl suddenly breaks upon his ear.Wolves! The gaunt, grizzly wolves of the foot-hills—thin and poor and hungry and savage—the legs tireless—the mouth full of teeth which can crack the shoulder-bone of a buffalo. He can see their dark forms flitting from point to point—the patter of their feet upon the parched grass proves that he is surrounded.Now the race begins. A line of wolves spread out to the right and left, and gallops after—tongues out—eyes flashing—great flakes of foam flying back to blotch stone and grass and leave a trail to be followed by the cowardly coyotes.Men ride thus only when life is the stake. A horse puts forth such speed only when terror follows close behind and causes every nerve to tighten like a wire drawn until the scratch of a finger makes it chord with a wail of despair. The line is there—aye! it is gaining! Inch by inch it creeps up, and the red eye takes on a more savage gleam as the hunter cries out to his horse and opens fire from his revolvers. A wolf falls on the right—a second on the left. Does the wind cease blowing because it meets a forest! The fall of one man in a mad mob increases the determination of the rest.With a cry so full of the despair that wells up from the heart of the strong man when he gives up his struggle for life that the hunter almost believes a companion rides beside him, the horse staggers—recovers—plunges forward—falls to the earth. It was a glorious struggle; but he has lost.There is a confused heap of snarling, fighting, maddened beasts, and the line rushes forward again. Saddle, bridle, and blanket are in shreds—the horse a skeleton. And now the chase is after the hunter. He has half a mile the start, and as he runs the veins stand out, the muscles tighten, and he wonders at his own speed. Behind him are the gaunt bodies and the tireless legs. Closer, closer, and now he is going to face fate like a brave man should. He has halted. In an instant a circle is formed about him—a circle of red eyes, foaming mouths, and yellow fangs which are to meet in his flesh.There is an interval—a breathing spell. He looks up at the stars—out upon the night. It is his last hour, but there is no quaking—no crying out to the night to send him aid. As the wolves rest, a flash blinds their eyes—a second—a third—and a fourth, and they give before the man they had looked upon as their certain prey. But it is only for a moment. He sees them gathering for the rush, and firing his remaining bullets among them he seizes his long rifle by the barrel and braces to meet the shock. Even a savage would have admired the heroic fight he made for life. He sounds the war-cry and whirls his weapon around him, and wolf after wolf falls disabled. He feels a strange exultation over the desperate combat, and as the pack give way before his mighty blows a gleam of hope springs up in his heart.It is only for a moment; then the circle narrows. Each disabled beast is replaced by three which hunger for blood. There is a rush—a swirl—and the cry of despair is drowned in the chorus of snarls as the pack fight over the feast.The gray of morning—the sunlight of noonday—the stars of evening will look down upon grinning skull and whitening bones, and the wolf will return to crunch them again. Men will not bury them. They will look down upon them as we look, and ride away with a feeling that ’tis but another dark secret of the wonderful prairie.

Ride closer! What is this on the grass? A skull here—a rib there—bones scattered about as the wild beasts left them after the horrible feast. The clean-picked skull grins and stares—every bone and scattered lock of hair has its story of a tragedy. And what besides these relics? More bones—not scattered, but lying in heaps—a vertebra with ribs attached—a fleshless skull bleaching under the summer sun. Wolves! Yes. Count the heaps of bones and you will find nearly a score. Open boats are picked up at sea with neither life nor sign to betray their secret. Skeletons are found upon the prairie, but they tell a plain story to those who halt beside them. Let us listen:

Away off to the right you can see treetops. Away off to the left you can see the same sight. The skeleton is in line between the two points. He left one grove to ride to the other. To ride! Certainly; a mileaway is the skeleton of a horse or mule. The beast fell and was left there.

It is months since that ride, and the trail has been obliterated. Were it otherwise, and you took it up from the spot where the skeleton horse now lies, you would find the last three or four miles made at a tremendous pace.

“Step! step! step!”

What is it? Darkness has gathered over mountain and prairie as the hunter jogs along over the broken ground. Overhead the countless stars look down upon him—around him is the pall of night. There was a patter of footsteps on the dry grass. He halts and peers around him, but the darkness is too deep for him to discover any cause for alarm.

“Patter! patter! patter!”

There it is again! It is not fifty yards from where he last halted. The steps are too light for those of an Indian.

“Wolves!” whispers the hunter, as a howl suddenly breaks upon his ear.

Wolves! The gaunt, grizzly wolves of the foot-hills—thin and poor and hungry and savage—the legs tireless—the mouth full of teeth which can crack the shoulder-bone of a buffalo. He can see their dark forms flitting from point to point—the patter of their feet upon the parched grass proves that he is surrounded.

Now the race begins. A line of wolves spread out to the right and left, and gallops after—tongues out—eyes flashing—great flakes of foam flying back to blotch stone and grass and leave a trail to be followed by the cowardly coyotes.

Men ride thus only when life is the stake. A horse puts forth such speed only when terror follows close behind and causes every nerve to tighten like a wire drawn until the scratch of a finger makes it chord with a wail of despair. The line is there—aye! it is gaining! Inch by inch it creeps up, and the red eye takes on a more savage gleam as the hunter cries out to his horse and opens fire from his revolvers. A wolf falls on the right—a second on the left. Does the wind cease blowing because it meets a forest! The fall of one man in a mad mob increases the determination of the rest.

With a cry so full of the despair that wells up from the heart of the strong man when he gives up his struggle for life that the hunter almost believes a companion rides beside him, the horse staggers—recovers—plunges forward—falls to the earth. It was a glorious struggle; but he has lost.

There is a confused heap of snarling, fighting, maddened beasts, and the line rushes forward again. Saddle, bridle, and blanket are in shreds—the horse a skeleton. And now the chase is after the hunter. He has half a mile the start, and as he runs the veins stand out, the muscles tighten, and he wonders at his own speed. Behind him are the gaunt bodies and the tireless legs. Closer, closer, and now he is going to face fate like a brave man should. He has halted. In an instant a circle is formed about him—a circle of red eyes, foaming mouths, and yellow fangs which are to meet in his flesh.

There is an interval—a breathing spell. He looks up at the stars—out upon the night. It is his last hour, but there is no quaking—no crying out to the night to send him aid. As the wolves rest, a flash blinds their eyes—a second—a third—and a fourth, and they give before the man they had looked upon as their certain prey. But it is only for a moment. He sees them gathering for the rush, and firing his remaining bullets among them he seizes his long rifle by the barrel and braces to meet the shock. Even a savage would have admired the heroic fight he made for life. He sounds the war-cry and whirls his weapon around him, and wolf after wolf falls disabled. He feels a strange exultation over the desperate combat, and as the pack give way before his mighty blows a gleam of hope springs up in his heart.

It is only for a moment; then the circle narrows. Each disabled beast is replaced by three which hunger for blood. There is a rush—a swirl—and the cry of despair is drowned in the chorus of snarls as the pack fight over the feast.

The gray of morning—the sunlight of noonday—the stars of evening will look down upon grinning skull and whitening bones, and the wolf will return to crunch them again. Men will not bury them. They will look down upon them as we look, and ride away with a feeling that ’tis but another dark secret of the wonderful prairie.

The figures in the text of this piece indicate the gestures to be made, as shown in Typical Gestures, at the beginning of Part II. of this volume.

I saw her in the festive halls, in scenes of pride and16glee,’Mongst many beautiful and fair, but none so fair as she;Hers was the most attractive2form 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, who6is so blessed as she?A creature she all light and life, all beauty and all glee;Sure,5sweet content blooms on her cheek and on her brow a pearl,And she was1young and innocent, the Lady of the Earl.But as I looked more carefully, I saw that radiant smileWas but assumed in mockery, the unthinking to beguile.Thus have I seen a summer rose in all its beauty bloom,When it has24shed 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 woe20and memory to hide;But when she raised her head she looked so13lovely, so serene,To gaze in her proud eyes you’d think a tear had seldom been.The humblest maid in rural life can5boast a happier fateThan she, the beautiful and good, in all her rank and state;For she was sacrificed,20alas! to cold and selfish prideWhen her young lips had breathed the vow to be a soldier’s bride.Of late I viewed her move along,2the idol of the crowd;A few short months elapsed, and then,12I kissed her in her shroud!And o’er her splendid monument I saw the hatchment wave,But there was one proud heart5which 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.”

I saw her in the festive halls, in scenes of pride and16glee,

’Mongst many beautiful and fair, but none so fair as she;

Hers was the most attractive2form 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.

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, who6is so blessed as she?A creature she all light and life, all beauty and all glee;Sure,5sweet content blooms on her cheek and on her brow a pearl,And she was1young and innocent, the Lady of the Earl.

I looked upon her and I said, who6is so blessed as she?

A creature she all light and life, all beauty and all glee;

Sure,5sweet content blooms on her cheek and on her brow a pearl,

And she was1young and innocent, the Lady of the Earl.

But as I looked more carefully, I saw that radiant smileWas but assumed in mockery, the unthinking to beguile.Thus have I seen a summer rose in all its beauty bloom,When it has24shed its sweetness o’er a cold and lonely tomb.

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 has24shed 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 woe20and memory to hide;But when she raised her head she looked so13lovely, so serene,To gaze in her proud eyes you’d think a tear had seldom been.

She struck the harp, and when they praised her skill she turned aside,

A rebel tear of conscious woe20and memory to hide;

But when she raised her head she looked so13lovely, so serene,

To gaze in her proud eyes you’d think a tear had seldom been.

The humblest maid in rural life can5boast a happier fateThan she, the beautiful and good, in all her rank and state;For she was sacrificed,20alas! to cold and selfish prideWhen her young lips had breathed the vow to be a soldier’s bride.

The humblest maid in rural life can5boast a happier fate

Than she, the beautiful and good, in all her rank and state;

For she was sacrificed,20alas! 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,2the idol of the crowd;A few short months elapsed, and then,12I kissed her in her shroud!And o’er her splendid monument I saw the hatchment wave,But there was one proud heart5which did more honor to her grave.

Of late I viewed her move along,2the idol of the crowd;

A few short months elapsed, and then,12I kissed her in her shroud!

And o’er her splendid monument I saw the hatchment wave,

But there was one proud heart5which 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.”

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 songSoftly 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.”

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.”

“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.”

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 songSoftly 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?

“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.”

“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.”

With distinct enunciation give the dialect in this piece, and assume the character of a countryman who is telling this story. Guard against being vulgar or too commonplace.

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 strainThet 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.

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?”

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.

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.

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 strainThet 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.

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!”

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 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 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!

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.”

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 bodyComin’ 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 meWhen 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 meWhen comin’ thro’ the rye.Amang the train there is a swain,I dearly love mysel’,But what’s his name, or where’s his hameI dinna choose to tell.Ev’ry lassie has her laddie,Nane they say ha’e I,Yet all the lads they smile at meWhen comin’ thro’ the rye.Robert Burns.

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 meWhen 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 hameI dinna choose to tell.Ev’ry lassie has her laddie,Nane they say ha’e I,Yet all the lads they smile at meWhen 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 sworeTo 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 drumsAs 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 spokeThose oracles that slumbering France to life and action woke:The majesty yet haunts her looks, that late so dreadful beamedIn 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.

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!

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!

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!

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 drumsAs 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.

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 spokeThose oracles that slumbering France to life and action woke:The majesty yet haunts her looks, that late so dreadful beamedIn 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!

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.

’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.

This selection is narrative, yet it is narrative intensely dramatic. Imagine the feelings of a parent who sees the “youngest of his babes” torn away from his embrace by a vulture and carried away in mid-air. Let your tones, attitudes and gestures all be strong. Picture the flight of a mountain eagle with uplifted arm, and depict with an expression of agony the grief of the parent.

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 sightI 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.

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:—

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.

“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.

“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 sightI missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care,But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.

“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!

“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.

“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.

“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!

“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.”

“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.

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 trueTo a fellow who died in an old coat of blue,With its buttons all brass—who is waiting aboveFor the woman who loved him with old-fashioned love.Tom Hall.

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.

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 trueTo a fellow who died in an old coat of blue,With its buttons all brass—who is waiting aboveFor the woman who loved him with old-fashioned love.

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.

After the disastrous defeat of the Americans on Long Island, Washington desired information respecting the British position and movements. Captain Nathan Hale, but twenty-one years old, volunteered to procure the information. He was taken and hanged as a spy the day after his capture, September 22, 1776. His patriotic devotion, and the brutal treatment he received at the hands of his captors, have suggested the following. Put your whole soul into this piece, especially Hale’s last speech. It rises to the sublime.

’Twas in the year that gave the nation birth;A time when men esteemed the common goodAs greater weal than private gain. A battle fierceAnd obstinate had laid a thousand patriots low,And filled the people’s hearts with gloom.Pursued like hunted deer,The crippled army fled; and, yet, amidDisaster and defeat, the Nation’s chosen chiefResolved his losses to retrieve. But notWith armies disciplined and trained by yearsOf martial service, could he, this Fabian chief,Now hope to check the hosts of Howe’s victorious legions—These had he not.In stratagem the shrewder generalOfttimes o’ercomes his strong antagonist.To Washington a knowledge of the plans,Position, strength of England’s force,Must compensate for lack of numbers.He casts about for one who’d take his lifeIn hand. Lo! he stands before the chief. In face,A boy—in form, a man on whom the eye could restIn search of God’s perfected handiwork.In culture, grace and speech, reflecting allA mother’s love could lavish on an only son.The chieftain’s keen discerning eyeAppraised the youth at his full worth, and sawIn him those blending qualities that makeThe hero and the sage. He fain would saveFor nobler deeds a man whose presence markedA spirit born to lead.“Young man,” he said with kindly air,“Your country and commander feel grateful thatSuch talents are offered in this darkening hour.Have you in reaching this resolve considered wellYour fitness, courage, strength—the act, the risk,You undertake?”The young man said: “The hour demands a duty rare—Perhaps a sacrifice. If God and training inThe schools have given me capacitiesThis duty to perform, the danger of the enterpriseShould not deter me from the actWhose issue makes our country free. In timesLike these a Nation’s life sometimes uponA single life depends. If mine be deemedA fitting sacrifice, God grant a quickDeliverance”“Enough, go then, at once,” the greatCommander said. “May Heaven’s guardian angels giveYou safe return. Adieu.”Disguised with care, the hopeful captain crossedThe bay, and moved through British campWithout discovery by troops or refugees.The enemy’s full strength, in men, in stores,Munitions, guns—all military accoutrementsWere noted with exact precision; whileWith graphic sketch, each trench and parapet,Casemated battery, magazine and every pointStrategic, was drawn with artist’s skill.The task complete, the spy with heartElate, now sought an exit through the lines.Well might he feel a soldier’s pride. An hour henceA waiting steed would bear him to his friends.His plans he’d lay before his honored chief;His single hand might turn the tide of war,His country yet be free.“Halt!” a British musket leveled atHis head dimmed all the visions of his soul.A dash—an aimless shot; the spy bore downUpon the picket with a blow that elseHad freed him from his clutch, but for a scoreOf troopers stationed near. In vain the struggle fierceAnd desperate—in vain demands to be released.A tory relative, for safety quartered inThe British camp, would prove his truckling loyaltyWith kinsman’s blood, a word—a look—A motion of the head, and he who’d daredSo much in freedom’s name was free no more.Before Lord Howe the captive youthWas led. “Base dog!” the haughty general said,“Ignoble son of loyal sires! you’ve played the spyQuite well I ween. The cunning skill wherewithYou wrought these plans and charts might well adornAn honest man; but in a rebel’s hands they’re vileAnd mischievous. If ought may palliateA traitor’s act, attempted in his sovereign’s camp,I bid you speak ere I pronounce your sentence.”With tone and mien that hushedThe buzzing noise of idle lackeys in the hall,The patriot thus replied: “You know my name—My rank;—my treach’rous kinsman madeMy purpose plain. I’ve nothing further of myselfTo tell beyond the charge of traitor to deny.The brand of spy I do accept without reproach;But never since I’ve known the base ingratitudeOf king to loyal subjects of his realmHas British rule been aught to me than barbarousDespotism which God and man abhor, and noneBut dastards fear to overthrow.For tyrant loyalty your lordship representsI never breathed a loyal breath; and heWho calls me traitor seeks a pretext for a crimeHis trembling soul might well condemn.”“I’ll hear no more such prating cant,”Said Howe, “your crime’s enough to hang a dozen men.Before to-morrow’s sun goes down you’ll swing’Twixt earth and heaven, that your countrymenMay know a British camp is dangerous groundFor prowling spies. Away!”Securely bound upon a cart, amidA speechless crowd, he stands beneath a strongProjecting limb, to which a rope with noose attached,Portends a tragic scene. He casts his eyesUpon the surging multitude. Clearly nowHis tones ring out as victors shout in triumph:“Men, I do not die in vain,My humble death upon this tree will light anewThe Torch of liberty. A hundred hands to oneBefore will strike for country, home and God,And fill our ranks with men of faith in HisEternal plan to make this people free.A million prayers go up this day to freeThe land from blighting curse of tyrant’s rule.Oppression’s wrongs have reached Jehovah’s throne;The God of vengeance smites the foe! This land,—This glorious land,—is free—is free!“My friends, farewell! In dying thusI feel but one regret; it is the one poor lifeI have to give in Freedom’s cause.”I. H. Brown.

’Twas in the year that gave the nation birth;

A time when men esteemed the common good

As greater weal than private gain. A battle fierce

And obstinate had laid a thousand patriots low,

And filled the people’s hearts with gloom.

Pursued like hunted deer,The crippled army fled; and, yet, amidDisaster and defeat, the Nation’s chosen chiefResolved his losses to retrieve. But notWith armies disciplined and trained by yearsOf martial service, could he, this Fabian chief,Now hope to check the hosts of Howe’s victorious legions—These had he not.

Pursued like hunted deer,

The crippled army fled; and, yet, amid

Disaster and defeat, the Nation’s chosen chief

Resolved his losses to retrieve. But not

With armies disciplined and trained by years

Of martial service, could he, this Fabian chief,

Now hope to check the hosts of Howe’s victorious legions—

These had he not.

In stratagem the shrewder generalOfttimes o’ercomes his strong antagonist.To Washington a knowledge of the plans,Position, strength of England’s force,Must compensate for lack of numbers.

In stratagem the shrewder general

Ofttimes o’ercomes his strong antagonist.

To Washington a knowledge of the plans,

Position, strength of England’s force,

Must compensate for lack of numbers.

He casts about for one who’d take his lifeIn hand. Lo! he stands before the chief. In face,A boy—in form, a man on whom the eye could restIn search of God’s perfected handiwork.In culture, grace and speech, reflecting allA mother’s love could lavish on an only son.

He casts about for one who’d take his life

In hand. Lo! he stands before the chief. In face,

A boy—in form, a man on whom the eye could rest

In search of God’s perfected handiwork.

In culture, grace and speech, reflecting all

A mother’s love could lavish on an only son.

The chieftain’s keen discerning eyeAppraised the youth at his full worth, and sawIn him those blending qualities that makeThe hero and the sage. He fain would saveFor nobler deeds a man whose presence markedA spirit born to lead.

The chieftain’s keen discerning eye

Appraised the youth at his full worth, and saw

In him those blending qualities that make

The hero and the sage. He fain would save

For nobler deeds a man whose presence marked

A spirit born to lead.

“Young man,” he said with kindly air,“Your country and commander feel grateful thatSuch talents are offered in this darkening hour.Have you in reaching this resolve considered wellYour fitness, courage, strength—the act, the risk,You undertake?”The young man said: “The hour demands a duty rare—Perhaps a sacrifice. If God and training inThe schools have given me capacitiesThis duty to perform, the danger of the enterpriseShould not deter me from the actWhose issue makes our country free. In timesLike these a Nation’s life sometimes uponA single life depends. If mine be deemedA fitting sacrifice, God grant a quickDeliverance”

“Young man,” he said with kindly air,

“Your country and commander feel grateful that

Such talents are offered in this darkening hour.

Have you in reaching this resolve considered well

Your fitness, courage, strength—the act, the risk,

You undertake?”

The young man said: “The hour demands a duty rare—

Perhaps a sacrifice. If God and training in

The schools have given me capacities

This duty to perform, the danger of the enterprise

Should not deter me from the act

Whose issue makes our country free. In times

Like these a Nation’s life sometimes upon

A single life depends. If mine be deemed

A fitting sacrifice, God grant a quick

Deliverance”

“Enough, go then, at once,” the greatCommander said. “May Heaven’s guardian angels giveYou safe return. Adieu.”

“Enough, go then, at once,” the great

Commander said. “May Heaven’s guardian angels give

You safe return. Adieu.”

Disguised with care, the hopeful captain crossedThe bay, and moved through British campWithout discovery by troops or refugees.The enemy’s full strength, in men, in stores,Munitions, guns—all military accoutrementsWere noted with exact precision; whileWith graphic sketch, each trench and parapet,Casemated battery, magazine and every pointStrategic, was drawn with artist’s skill.

Disguised with care, the hopeful captain crossed

The bay, and moved through British camp

Without discovery by troops or refugees.

The enemy’s full strength, in men, in stores,

Munitions, guns—all military accoutrements

Were noted with exact precision; while

With graphic sketch, each trench and parapet,

Casemated battery, magazine and every point

Strategic, was drawn with artist’s skill.

The task complete, the spy with heartElate, now sought an exit through the lines.Well might he feel a soldier’s pride. An hour henceA waiting steed would bear him to his friends.His plans he’d lay before his honored chief;His single hand might turn the tide of war,His country yet be free.

The task complete, the spy with heart

Elate, now sought an exit through the lines.

Well might he feel a soldier’s pride. An hour hence

A waiting steed would bear him to his friends.

His plans he’d lay before his honored chief;

His single hand might turn the tide of war,

His country yet be free.

“Halt!” a British musket leveled atHis head dimmed all the visions of his soul.A dash—an aimless shot; the spy bore downUpon the picket with a blow that elseHad freed him from his clutch, but for a scoreOf troopers stationed near. In vain the struggle fierceAnd desperate—in vain demands to be released.A tory relative, for safety quartered inThe British camp, would prove his truckling loyaltyWith kinsman’s blood, a word—a look—A motion of the head, and he who’d daredSo much in freedom’s name was free no more.

“Halt!” a British musket leveled at

His head dimmed all the visions of his soul.

A dash—an aimless shot; the spy bore down

Upon the picket with a blow that else

Had freed him from his clutch, but for a score

Of troopers stationed near. In vain the struggle fierce

And desperate—in vain demands to be released.

A tory relative, for safety quartered in

The British camp, would prove his truckling loyalty

With kinsman’s blood, a word—a look—

A motion of the head, and he who’d dared

So much in freedom’s name was free no more.

Before Lord Howe the captive youthWas led. “Base dog!” the haughty general said,“Ignoble son of loyal sires! you’ve played the spyQuite well I ween. The cunning skill wherewithYou wrought these plans and charts might well adornAn honest man; but in a rebel’s hands they’re vileAnd mischievous. If ought may palliateA traitor’s act, attempted in his sovereign’s camp,I bid you speak ere I pronounce your sentence.”

Before Lord Howe the captive youth

Was led. “Base dog!” the haughty general said,

“Ignoble son of loyal sires! you’ve played the spy

Quite well I ween. The cunning skill wherewith

You wrought these plans and charts might well adorn

An honest man; but in a rebel’s hands they’re vile

And mischievous. If ought may palliate

A traitor’s act, attempted in his sovereign’s camp,

I bid you speak ere I pronounce your sentence.”

With tone and mien that hushedThe buzzing noise of idle lackeys in the hall,The patriot thus replied: “You know my name—My rank;—my treach’rous kinsman madeMy purpose plain. I’ve nothing further of myselfTo tell beyond the charge of traitor to deny.The brand of spy I do accept without reproach;But never since I’ve known the base ingratitudeOf king to loyal subjects of his realmHas British rule been aught to me than barbarousDespotism which God and man abhor, and noneBut dastards fear to overthrow.For tyrant loyalty your lordship representsI never breathed a loyal breath; and heWho calls me traitor seeks a pretext for a crimeHis trembling soul might well condemn.”

With tone and mien that hushed

The buzzing noise of idle lackeys in the hall,

The patriot thus replied: “You know my name—

My rank;—my treach’rous kinsman made

My purpose plain. I’ve nothing further of myself

To tell beyond the charge of traitor to deny.

The brand of spy I do accept without reproach;

But never since I’ve known the base ingratitude

Of king to loyal subjects of his realm

Has British rule been aught to me than barbarous

Despotism which God and man abhor, and none

But dastards fear to overthrow.

For tyrant loyalty your lordship represents

I never breathed a loyal breath; and he

Who calls me traitor seeks a pretext for a crime

His trembling soul might well condemn.”

“I’ll hear no more such prating cant,”Said Howe, “your crime’s enough to hang a dozen men.Before to-morrow’s sun goes down you’ll swing’Twixt earth and heaven, that your countrymenMay know a British camp is dangerous groundFor prowling spies. Away!”

“I’ll hear no more such prating cant,”

Said Howe, “your crime’s enough to hang a dozen men.

Before to-morrow’s sun goes down you’ll swing

’Twixt earth and heaven, that your countrymen

May know a British camp is dangerous ground

For prowling spies. Away!”

Securely bound upon a cart, amidA speechless crowd, he stands beneath a strongProjecting limb, to which a rope with noose attached,Portends a tragic scene. He casts his eyesUpon the surging multitude. Clearly nowHis tones ring out as victors shout in triumph:

Securely bound upon a cart, amid

A speechless crowd, he stands beneath a strong

Projecting limb, to which a rope with noose attached,

Portends a tragic scene. He casts his eyes

Upon the surging multitude. Clearly now

His tones ring out as victors shout in triumph:

“Men, I do not die in vain,My humble death upon this tree will light anewThe Torch of liberty. A hundred hands to oneBefore will strike for country, home and God,And fill our ranks with men of faith in HisEternal plan to make this people free.A million prayers go up this day to freeThe land from blighting curse of tyrant’s rule.Oppression’s wrongs have reached Jehovah’s throne;The God of vengeance smites the foe! This land,—This glorious land,—is free—is free!

“Men, I do not die in vain,

My humble death upon this tree will light anew

The Torch of liberty. A hundred hands to one

Before will strike for country, home and God,

And fill our ranks with men of faith in His

Eternal plan to make this people free.

A million prayers go up this day to free

The land from blighting curse of tyrant’s rule.

Oppression’s wrongs have reached Jehovah’s throne;

The God of vengeance smites the foe! This land,—

This glorious land,—is free—is free!

“My friends, farewell! In dying thusI feel but one regret; it is the one poor lifeI have to give in Freedom’s cause.”

“My friends, farewell! In dying thus

I feel but one regret; it is the one poor life

I have to give in Freedom’s cause.”

I. H. Brown.

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