The harp that once through Tara's hallsThe soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara's wallsAs if that soul were fled.So sleeps the pride of former days,So glory's thrill is o'er,And hearts, that once beat high for praise,Now feel that pulse no more.No more to chiefs and ladies brightThe harp of Tara swells:The chord alone, that breaks at night,Its tale of ruin tells.Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,The only throb she givesIs when some heart indignant breaks,To show that still she lives.Thomas Moore.
At Paris it was, at the opera there;—And she looked like a queen in a book that night,With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,And the brooch on her breast so bright.Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,The souls in purgatory.The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,Non ti scordar di me?*The emperor there, in his box of state,Looked grave, as if he had just then seenThe red flag wave from the city gate,Where his eagles in bronze had been.The empress, too, had a tear in her eye,You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,For one moment, under the old blue sky,To the old glad life in Spain.Well, there in our front-row box we satTogether, my bride betrothed and I;My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,And hers on the stage hard by.And both were silent, and both were sad.Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,With that regal, indolent air she had;So confident of her charm!I have not a doubt she was thinking thenOf her former lord, good soul that he was!Who died the richest and roundest of men.The Marquis of Carabas.I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;I wish him well, for the jointure givenTo my Lady of Carabas.Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love,As I had not been thinking of aught for years,Till over my eyes there began to moveSomething that felt like tears.I thought of the dress that she wore last time,When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together,In that lost land, in that soft clime,In the crimson evening weather:Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);And her warm white neck in its golden chain;And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,And falling loose again;And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast;(Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!)And the one bird singing alone to his nest;And the one star over the tower.I thought of our little quarrels and strife,And the letter that brought me back my ring;And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,Such a very little thing!For I thought of her grave below the hill,Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over;And I thought, "Were she only living still,How I could forgive her and love her!"And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour,And of how, after all, old things are best,That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flowerWhich she used to wear in her breast.It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,It made me creep, and it made me cold;Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheetWhere a mummy is half unrolled.And I turned and looked: she was sitting there,In a dim box over the stage, and drestIn that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair,And that jasmine in her breast!I was here, and she was there;And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:—From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair,And her sumptuous, scornful mien,To my early love, with her eyes downcast,And over her primrose face the shade,(In short, from the future back to the past,)There was but a step to be made.To my early love from my future brideOne moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,I traversed the passage; and down at her sideI was sitting, a moment more.My thinking of her or the music's strain,Or something which never will be exprest,Had brought her back from the grave again,With the jasmine in her breast.She is not dead, and she is not wed!But she loves me now, and she loved me then!And the very first word that her sweet lips said,My heart grew youthful again.The marchioness there, of Carabas,She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still;And but for her—well, we'll let that pass;She may marry whomever she will.But I will marry my own first love,With her primrose face, for old things are best;And the flower in her bosom, I prize it aboveThe brooch in my lady's breast.The world is filled with folly and sin,And love must cling where it can, I say:For beauty is easy enough to win;But one isn't loved every day,And I think in the lives of most women and men,There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,If only the dead could find out whenTo come back, and be forgiven.But oh the smell of that jasmine flower!And oh, that music! and oh, the wayThat voice rang out from the donjon tower,Non ti scordar di me,Non ti scordar di me!Robert Bulwer Lytton.
I love my prairies, they are mineFrom zenith to horizon line,Clipping a world of sky and sodLike the bended arm and wrist of God.I love their grasses. The skiesAre larger, and my restless eyesFasten on more of earth and airThan seashore furnishes anywhere.I love the hazel thickets; and the breeze,The never resting prairie winds. The treesThat stand like spear points highAgainst the dark blue skyAre wonderful to me. I love the goldOf newly shaven stubble, rolledA royal carpet toward the sun, fit to beThe pathway of a deity.I love the life of pasture lands; the songs of birdsAre not more thrilling to me than the herd'sMad bellowing or the shadow strideOf mounted herdsmen at my side.I love my prairies, they are mineFrom high sun to horizon line.The mountains and the cold gray seaAre not for me, are not for me.Hamlin Garland.
Home they brought her warrior dead:She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry:All her maidens, watching, said,"She must weep or she will die."Then they praised him, soft and low,Call'd him worthy to be loved,Truest friend and noblest foe;Yet she neither spoke nor moved.Stole a maiden from her place,Lightly to the warrior stept,Took the face-cloth from the face;Yet she neither moved nor wept.Rose a nurse of ninety years,Set his child upon her knee—Like summer tempest came her tears—"Sweet my child, I live for thee."Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Sweet is the voice that callsFrom babbling waterfallsIn meadows where the downy seeds are flying;And soft the breezes blow,And eddying come and goIn faded gardens where the rose is dying.Among the stubbled cornThe blithe quail pipes at morn,The merry partridge drums in hidden places,And glittering insects gleamAbove the reedy stream,Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.At eve, cool shadows fallAcross the garden wall,And on the clustered grapes to purple turning;And pearly vapors lieAlong the eastern sky,Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning.Ah, soon on field and hillThe wind shall whistle chill,And patriarch swallows call their flocks together,To fly from frost and snow,And seek for lands where blowThe fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.The cricket chirps all day,"O fairest summer, stay!"The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning;The wild fowl fly afarAbove the foamy bar,And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.Now comes a fragrant breezeThrough the dark cedar-treesAnd round about my temples fondly lingers,In gentle playfulness,Like to the soft caressBestowed in happier days by loving fingers.Yet, though a sense of griefComes with the falling leaf,And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant,In all my autumn dreamsA future summer gleams,Passing the fairest glories of the present!George Arnold.
Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been castTo the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed.I loved all its rooms from the pantry to hall,But the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all.Its chairs and its tables no brighter could beAnd all its surroundings were sacred to me,From the nail in the ceiling to the latch on the door,And I loved every crack in that old kitchen floor.I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wideAnd the old-fashioned oven that stood by its sideOut of which each Thanksgiving came puddings and piesAnd they fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes.And then old St. Nicholas slyly and stillCame down every Christmas our stockings to fill.But the dearest of memories laid up in storeIs my mother a-sweeping that old kitchen floor.To-night those old musings come back at their willBut the wheel and its music forever are still.The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away,And the fingers that turned it are mold'ring in clay.The hearthstone so sacred is just as 'twas thenAnd the voices of children ring out there again.The sun at the window looks in as of yore,But it sees other feet on that old kitchen floor.
The night was dark when Sam set outTo court old Jones's daughter;He kinder felt as if he must,And kinder hadn't oughter.His heart against his waistcoat throbbed,His feelings had a tussle,Which nearly conquered him despiteSix feet of bone and muscle.The candle in the window shoneWith a most doleful glimmer,And Sam he felt his courage ooze,And through his fingers simmer.Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a fool,Take courage, shaking doubter,Go on, and pop the question right,For you can't live without her."But still, as he drew near the house,His knees got in a tremble,The beating of his heart ne'er beatHis efforts to dissemble.Says he: "Now, Sam, don't be a goose,And let the female wimminKnock all your thoughts a-skelter so,And set your heart a-swimmin'."So Sam, he kinder raised the latch,His courage also raising,And in a moment he sat inside,Cid Jones's crops a-praising.He tried awhile to talk the farmIn words half dull, half witty,Not knowing that old Jones well knewHis only thought was—Kitty.At last the old folks went to bed—The Joneses were but human;Old Jones was something of a man,And Mrs. Jones—a woman.And Kitty she the pitcher took,And started for the cellar;It wasn't often that she hadSo promising a feller.And somehow when she came upstairs,And Sam had drank his cider,There seemed a difference in the chairs,And Sam was close beside her;His stalwart arm dropped round her waist,Her head dropped on his shoulder,And Sam—well, he had changed his tuneAnd grown a trifle bolder.But this, if you live long enough,You surely will discover,There's nothing in this world of oursExcept the loved and lover.The morning sky was growing grayAs Sam the farm was leaving,His face was surely not the faceOf one half grieved, or grieving.And Kitty she walked smiling back,With blushing face, and slowly;There's something in the humblest loveThat makes it pure and holy.And did he marry her, you ask?She stands there with the ladleA-skimming of the morning's milk—That's Sam who rocks the cradle.
'Tis a cold, bleak night! with angry roarThe north winds beat and clamor at the door;The drifted snow lies heaped along the street,Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet;The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lendBut o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend;Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown,Dance their weird revels fitfully alone.In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease,Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas;In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meetThe weary traveler with their smiles to greet;In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarmRound starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light—"Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night!"But hark! above the beating of the stormPeals on the startled ear the fire alarm.Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light,And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright;From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call,The ready friend no danger can appall;Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave,He hurries forth to battle and to save.From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out,Devouring all they coil themselves about,The flaming furies, mounting high and higher,Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire.Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foeIn vain attempts their power to overthrow;With mocking glee they revel with their prey,Defying human skill to check their way.And see! far up above the flame's hot breath,Something that's human waits a horrid death;A little child, with waving golden hair,Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare,—Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed,While sobs of terror shake her tender breast.And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild,A mother screams, "O God! my child! my child!"Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throngA hardy fireman swiftly moves along;Mounts sure and fast along the slender way,Fearing no danger, dreading but delay.The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path,Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath;But up, still up he goes! the goal is won!His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone!Gone to his death. The wily flames surroundAnd burn and beat his ladder to the ground,In flaming columns move with quickened beatTo rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat.Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure,Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore;Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live,Crowned with all honors nobleness can give.Nay, not so fast; subdue these gloomy fears;Behold! he quickly on the roof appears,Bearing the tender child, his jacket warmFlung round her shrinking form to guard from harm,Up with your ladders! Quick! 'tis but a chance!Behold, how fast the roaring flames advance!Quick! quick! brave spirits, to his rescue fly;Up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die!Silence! he comes along the burning road,Bearing, with tender care, his living load;Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy saveThe good, true heart that can so nobly brave!He's up again! and now he's coming fast—One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed—And now he's safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain.A happy mother clasps her child again.George M. Baker.
'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanseOne bright midsummer day,The gallant steamer Ocean QueenSwept proudly on her way.Bright faces clustered on the deck,Or, leaning o'er the side,Watched carelessly the feathery foamThat flecked the rippling tide.Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,That smiling bends serene,Could dream that danger, awful, vast,Impended o'er the scene;Could dream that ere an hour had spedThat frame of sturdy oakWould sink beneath the lake's blue waves,Blackened with fire and smoke?A seaman sought the captain's side,A moment whispered low;The captain's swarthy face grew pale;He hurried down below.Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,And clear his orders came,No human efforts could availTo quench th' insidious flame.The bad news quickly reached the deck,It sped from lip to lip,And ghastly faces everywhereLooked from the doomed ship."Is there no hope, no chance of life?"A hundred lips implore;"But one," the captain made reply,"To run the ship on shore."A sailor, whose heroic soulThat hour should yet reveal,By name John Maynard, eastern-born,Stood calmly at the wheel."Head her southeast!" the captain shouts,Above the smothered roar,"Head her southeast without delay!Make for the nearest shore!"No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,Or clouds his dauntless eye,As, in a sailor's measured tone,His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight,Crowd forward wild with fear,While at the stern the dreaded flamesAbove the deck appear.John Maynard watched the nearing flames,But still with steady handHe grasped the wheel, and steadfastlyHe steered the ship to land."John Maynard, can you still hold out?"He heard the captain cry;A voice from out the stifling smokeFaintly responds, "Ay! ay!"But half a mile! a hundred handsStretch eagerly to shore.But half a mile! That distance spedPeril shall all be o'er.But half a mile! Yet stay, the flamesNo longer slowly creep,But gather round that helmsman bold,With fierce, impetuous sweep."John Maynard!" with an anxious voiceThe captain cries once more,"Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,And we shall reach the shore."Through flame and smoke that dauntless heartResponded firmly still,Unawed, though face to face with death,"With God's good help I will!"The flames approach with giant strides,They scorch his hand and brow;One arm, disabled, seeks his side,Ah! he is conquered now.But no, his teeth are firmly set,He crushes down his pain,His knee upon the stanchion pressed,He guides the ship again.One moment yet! one moment yet!Brave heart, thy task is o'er,The pebbles grate beneath the keel,The steamer touches shore.Three hundred grateful voices riseIn praise to God that HeHath saved them from the fearful fire,And from the engulfing sea.But where is he, that helmsman bold?The captain saw him reel,His nerveless hands released their task,He sank beside the wheel.The wave received his lifeless corse,Blackened with smoke and fire.God rest him! Never hero hadA nobler funeral pyre!Horatio Alger, Jr.
Piller fights is fun, I tell you;There isn't anything I'd rather doThan get a big piller and hold it tight,Stand up in bed and then just fight.Us boys allers have our piller fightsAnd the best night of all is Pa's lodge night.Soon as ever he goes, we say "Good night,"Then go right upstairs for a piller fight.Sometimes maybe Ma comes to the stairsAnd hollers up, "Boys, have you said your prayers?"And then George will holler "Yes, Mamma," for he always has;Good deal of preacher about George, Pa says.Ma says "Pleasant dreams," and shuts the door;If she's a-listenin' both of us snore,But as soon as ever she goes we light a lightAnd pitch right into our piller fight.We play that the bed is Bunker HillAnd George is Americans, so he stands still.But I am the British, so I must hitAs hard as ever I can to make him git.We played Buena Vista one night—Tell you, that was an awful hard fight!Held up our pillers like they was a flag,An' hollered, "Little more grape-juice, Captain Bragg!"That was the night that George hit the nail—You just ought to have seen those feathers sail!I was covered as white as flour,Me and him picked them up for 'most an hour;Next day when our ma saw that there messShe was pretty mad, you better guess;And she told our pa, and he just said,"Come right on out to this here shed."Tell you, he whipped us till we were soreAnd made us both promise to do it no more.That was a long time ago, and now lodge nightsOr when Pa's away we have piller fights,But in Buena Vista George is boundTo see there aren't any nails anywhere 'round.Piller fights is fun, I tell you;There isn't anything I'd rather doThan get a big piller and hold it tight,Stand up in bed, and then just fight.D.A. Ellsworth.
You bad leetle boy, not moche you careHow busy you're kipin' your poor gran'pereTryin' to stop you ev'ry dayChasin' de hen aroun' de hay.W'y don't you geev' dem a chance to lay!Leetle Bateese!Off on de fiel' you foller de plough,Den we'en you're tire, you scare de cow,Sickin' de dog till dey jamp de wallSo de milk ain't good for not'ing at all,An' you're only five an' a half this fall—Leetle Bateese!Too sleepy for sayin' de prayer tonight?Never min', I s'pose it'll be all right;Say dem to-morrow—ah! dere he go!Fas' asleep in a minute or so—An' he'll stay lak dat till the rooster crow—Leetle Bateese.Den wake up right away, toute suite,Lookin' for somethin' more to eat,Makin' me t'ink of dem long-lag crane,Soon as they swaller, dey start again;I wonder your stomach don't get no pain,Leetle Bateese.But see heem now lyin' dere in bed,Look at de arm onderneat' hees head;If he grow lak dat till he's twenty year,I bet he'll be stronger than Louis CyrAnd beat de voyageurs leevin' here—Leetle Bateese.Jus' feel de muscle along hees back,—Won't geev' heem moche bodder for carry packOn de long portage, any size canoe;Dere's not many t'ings dat boy won't do,For he's got double-joint on hees body too—Leetle Bateese.But leetle Bateese! please don't forgetWe rader you're stayin' de small boy yet.So chase de chicken and mak' dem scare,An' do w'at you lak wit' your ole gran'pere,For w'en you're beeg feller he won't be dere—Leetle Bateese!W.H. Drummond.