FOOTNOTE:[13]Adapted by E. P. Trueblood from "Nicholas Nickleby."
[13]Adapted by E. P. Trueblood from "Nicholas Nickleby."
[13]Adapted by E. P. Trueblood from "Nicholas Nickleby."
"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;Kiss her and leave her,—thy love is clay!"They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair;On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;Over her eyes, that gazed too much,They drew the lids with a gentle touch;With a tender touch they closed up wellThe sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;About her brows and beautiful faceThey tied her veil and her marriage lace,And drew on her feet her white silk shoes—Which were the whitest no eye could choose—And over her bosom they crossed her hands."Come away!" they said; "God understands."And there was silence, and nothing thereBut silence, and scents of eglantere,And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she."And they held their breath till they left the room,With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.But he who loved her too well to dreadThe sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,—He lit his lamp, and took the keyAnd turned it,—alone again,—he and she.He and she; but she would not speak,Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.He and she; yet she would not smile,Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.He and she; still she did not moveTo any one passionate whisper of love.Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath,Is there no voice, no language of death?"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear;What was the secret of dying, dear?"Was it the infinite wonder of allThat you ever could let life's flower fall?"Or was it a greater marvel to feelThe perfect calm o'er the agony steal?"Was the miracle greater to find how deepBeyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?"Did life roll back its records, dear,And show, as they say it does, past things clear?"And was it the innermost heart of the blissTo find out so, what a wisdom love is?"Oh, perfect dead! Oh, dead most dear,I hold the breath of my soul to hear!"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,As high as to heaven, and you do not tell."There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,To make you so placid from head to feet!"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,—"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laidHis sword on my lips to keep it unsaid."You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,"The very strangest and suddenest thingOf all the surprises that dying must bring."Ah, foolish world! Oh, most kind dead!Though he told me, who will believe it was said?Who will believe that he heard her say,With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way:"The utmost wonder is this,—I hearAnd see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;"And am your angel, who was your bride,And know that, though dead, I have never died."
"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;Kiss her and leave her,—thy love is clay!"
"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;
Kiss her and leave her,—thy love is clay!"
They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair;On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;
They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair;
On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;
Over her eyes, that gazed too much,They drew the lids with a gentle touch;
Over her eyes, that gazed too much,
They drew the lids with a gentle touch;
With a tender touch they closed up wellThe sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;
With a tender touch they closed up well
The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;
About her brows and beautiful faceThey tied her veil and her marriage lace,
About her brows and beautiful face
They tied her veil and her marriage lace,
And drew on her feet her white silk shoes—Which were the whitest no eye could choose—
And drew on her feet her white silk shoes—
Which were the whitest no eye could choose—
And over her bosom they crossed her hands."Come away!" they said; "God understands."
And over her bosom they crossed her hands.
"Come away!" they said; "God understands."
And there was silence, and nothing thereBut silence, and scents of eglantere,
And there was silence, and nothing there
But silence, and scents of eglantere,
And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she."
And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;
And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she."
And they held their breath till they left the room,With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.
And they held their breath till they left the room,
With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.
But he who loved her too well to dreadThe sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,—
But he who loved her too well to dread
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,—
He lit his lamp, and took the keyAnd turned it,—alone again,—he and she.
He lit his lamp, and took the key
And turned it,—alone again,—he and she.
He and she; but she would not speak,Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.
He and she; but she would not speak,
Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.
He and she; yet she would not smile,Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.
He and she; yet she would not smile,
Though he called her the name she loved erewhile.
He and she; still she did not moveTo any one passionate whisper of love.
He and she; still she did not move
To any one passionate whisper of love.
Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath,Is there no voice, no language of death?
Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath,
Is there no voice, no language of death?
"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?
"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,
But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?
"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear;What was the secret of dying, dear?
"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear;
What was the secret of dying, dear?
"Was it the infinite wonder of allThat you ever could let life's flower fall?
"Was it the infinite wonder of all
That you ever could let life's flower fall?
"Or was it a greater marvel to feelThe perfect calm o'er the agony steal?
"Or was it a greater marvel to feel
The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?
"Was the miracle greater to find how deepBeyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?
"Was the miracle greater to find how deep
Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?
"Did life roll back its records, dear,And show, as they say it does, past things clear?
"Did life roll back its records, dear,
And show, as they say it does, past things clear?
"And was it the innermost heart of the blissTo find out so, what a wisdom love is?
"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss
To find out so, what a wisdom love is?
"Oh, perfect dead! Oh, dead most dear,I hold the breath of my soul to hear!
"Oh, perfect dead! Oh, dead most dear,
I hold the breath of my soul to hear!
"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.
"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,
As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.
"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,To make you so placid from head to feet!
"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,
To make you so placid from head to feet!
"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,—
"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,
And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,—
"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laidHis sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.
"I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.
"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,
"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,
Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,
"The very strangest and suddenest thingOf all the surprises that dying must bring."
"The very strangest and suddenest thing
Of all the surprises that dying must bring."
Ah, foolish world! Oh, most kind dead!Though he told me, who will believe it was said?
Ah, foolish world! Oh, most kind dead!
Though he told me, who will believe it was said?
Who will believe that he heard her say,With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way:
Who will believe that he heard her say,
With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way:
"The utmost wonder is this,—I hearAnd see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;
"The utmost wonder is this,—I hear
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;
"And am your angel, who was your bride,And know that, though dead, I have never died."
"And am your angel, who was your bride,
And know that, though dead, I have never died."
Jist after the war, in the year '98,As soon as the Boys wor all scattered and bate,'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got,To hang him by trial—barrin' such as was shot.An' the bravest an' hardiest Boy iv them allWas Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall.An' it's he was the Boy that was hard to be caught,An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought;An' it's many the one can remember right wellThe quare things he did: an' it's oft I heerd tellHow he frightened the magistrates in Chirbally,An' 'scaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley;How he leathered the yeoman, himself agin four,An' stretched the two strongest on ould Golteemore.But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best;Afther many a brave action of power and pride,An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side,An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,In the darkness of night he was taken at last.Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,For the door of the prison must close on you soon.Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still.Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake,And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake!An' twelve sojers brought him to Maryborough jail,An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail.Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone,The terrible day iv the thrial kem on,There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,An' sojers on guard, an' Dragoons sword-in-hand;An' the courthouse so full that the people were bothered,An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered;An' counsellors almost gev over for dead,An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead;An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' bigWith his gown on his back, and an illegant wig;An' silence was called, an' the minute 'twas saidThe court was as still as the heart of the dead,An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock,An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,An' he looked at the bars so firm and so strong,An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,A chance to escape, nor a word to defend;An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone,As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,An' Jim didn't understand it nor mind it a taste,An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says,"Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?"An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread,An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said:"My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetimeI thought any treason, or did any crimeThat should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blowBefore God and the world I would answer you, No!But if you would ask me, as I think it like,If in the Rebellion I carried a pike,An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,I answer you, Yes; and I tell you again,Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that thenIn her cause I was willin' my veins should run dhry,An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap!In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standin' by,Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:"O judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word!The crather is young, have mercy, my lord;He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';You don't know him, my lord—O, don't give him to ruin!He's the kindliest crathur, the tindherest-hearted;Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted!Judge mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,An' God will forgive you—O, don't say the word!"That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken,When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken;An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break;But at last, by the strength of his high-mountin' pride,He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide;"An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart,For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;And God knows it's better than wand'ring in fearOn the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast,From labor and sorrow, forever shall rest.Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,Don't make me seem broken, in this my last hour;For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"Then toward the Judge Shamus bent down his head,An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said.The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;But why are the men standin' idle so late?An' why do the crowds gather fast in the strate?What come they to talk of? what come they to see?An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?O Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast,May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die!—At last they threw open the big prison-gate,An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state,An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it,Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin',A wild, wailin' sound kem on by degrees,Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on;An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground,An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round.Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill;An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,For the grip of the life-strangling cord to prepare;An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.But the good priest did more, for his hands he unbound,An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground;Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabers;He's not down! he's alive! now stand to him, neighbors!Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,—By the heavens, he's free!—than thunder more loud,By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken—One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin,An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,But if you want hangin', it's yourselves you must hang.
Jist after the war, in the year '98,As soon as the Boys wor all scattered and bate,'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got,To hang him by trial—barrin' such as was shot.An' the bravest an' hardiest Boy iv them allWas Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall.
Jist after the war, in the year '98,
As soon as the Boys wor all scattered and bate,
'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got,
To hang him by trial—barrin' such as was shot.
An' the bravest an' hardiest Boy iv them all
Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall.
An' it's he was the Boy that was hard to be caught,An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought;An' it's many the one can remember right wellThe quare things he did: an' it's oft I heerd tellHow he frightened the magistrates in Chirbally,An' 'scaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley;How he leathered the yeoman, himself agin four,An' stretched the two strongest on ould Golteemore.But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best;Afther many a brave action of power and pride,An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side,An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,In the darkness of night he was taken at last.
An' it's he was the Boy that was hard to be caught,
An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought;
An' it's many the one can remember right well
The quare things he did: an' it's oft I heerd tell
How he frightened the magistrates in Chirbally,
An' 'scaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley;
How he leathered the yeoman, himself agin four,
An' stretched the two strongest on ould Golteemore.
But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,
An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best;
Afther many a brave action of power and pride,
An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side,
An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
In the darkness of night he was taken at last.
Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,For the door of the prison must close on you soon.Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still.Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake,And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake!An' twelve sojers brought him to Maryborough jail,An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail.
Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
For the door of the prison must close on you soon.
Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,
An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still.
Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake,
And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake!
An' twelve sojers brought him to Maryborough jail,
An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail.
Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone,The terrible day iv the thrial kem on,There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,An' sojers on guard, an' Dragoons sword-in-hand;An' the courthouse so full that the people were bothered,An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered;An' counsellors almost gev over for dead,An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead;An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' bigWith his gown on his back, and an illegant wig;An' silence was called, an' the minute 'twas saidThe court was as still as the heart of the dead,An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock,An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,An' he looked at the bars so firm and so strong,An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,A chance to escape, nor a word to defend;An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone,As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,An' Jim didn't understand it nor mind it a taste,An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says,"Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?"An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread,An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said:"My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetimeI thought any treason, or did any crimeThat should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blowBefore God and the world I would answer you, No!But if you would ask me, as I think it like,If in the Rebellion I carried a pike,An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,I answer you, Yes; and I tell you again,Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that thenIn her cause I was willin' my veins should run dhry,An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."
Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone,
The terrible day iv the thrial kem on,
There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,
An' sojers on guard, an' Dragoons sword-in-hand;
An' the courthouse so full that the people were bothered,
An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered;
An' counsellors almost gev over for dead,
An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead;
An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big
With his gown on his back, and an illegant wig;
An' silence was called, an' the minute 'twas said
The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock,
An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.
For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
An' he looked at the bars so firm and so strong,
An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,
A chance to escape, nor a word to defend;
An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;
And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,
An' Jim didn't understand it nor mind it a taste,
An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says,
"Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?"
An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread,
An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said:
"My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetime
I thought any treason, or did any crime
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow
Before God and the world I would answer you, No!
But if you would ask me, as I think it like,
If in the Rebellion I carried a pike,
An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,
An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,
I answer you, Yes; and I tell you again,
Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then
In her cause I was willin' my veins should run dhry,
An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."
Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap!In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standin' by,Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:"O judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word!The crather is young, have mercy, my lord;He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';You don't know him, my lord—O, don't give him to ruin!He's the kindliest crathur, the tindherest-hearted;Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted!Judge mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,An' God will forgive you—O, don't say the word!"
Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;
By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap!
In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standin' by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:
"O judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word!
The crather is young, have mercy, my lord;
He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';
You don't know him, my lord—O, don't give him to ruin!
He's the kindliest crathur, the tindherest-hearted;
Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted!
Judge mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
An' God will forgive you—O, don't say the word!"
That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken,When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken;An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break;But at last, by the strength of his high-mountin' pride,He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide;"An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart,For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;And God knows it's better than wand'ring in fearOn the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast,From labor and sorrow, forever shall rest.Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,Don't make me seem broken, in this my last hour;For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"
That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken,
When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,
The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;
An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,
But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break;
But at last, by the strength of his high-mountin' pride,
He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide;
"An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart,
For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;
And God knows it's better than wand'ring in fear
On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast,
From labor and sorrow, forever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
Don't make me seem broken, in this my last hour;
For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,
No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"
Then toward the Judge Shamus bent down his head,An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said.The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;But why are the men standin' idle so late?An' why do the crowds gather fast in the strate?What come they to talk of? what come they to see?An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?O Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast,May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die!—
Then toward the Judge Shamus bent down his head,
An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said.
The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;
But why are the men standin' idle so late?
An' why do the crowds gather fast in the strate?
What come they to talk of? what come they to see?
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?
O Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast,
May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;
Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,
When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die!—
At last they threw open the big prison-gate,An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state,An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it,Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin',A wild, wailin' sound kem on by degrees,Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on;An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground,An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round.
At last they threw open the big prison-gate,
An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state,
An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it,
Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.
An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,
Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin',
A wild, wailin' sound kem on by degrees,
Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,
An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on;
An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,
A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.
Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,
An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;
An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground,
An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round.
Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill;An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,For the grip of the life-strangling cord to prepare;An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.But the good priest did more, for his hands he unbound,An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground;Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabers;He's not down! he's alive! now stand to him, neighbors!Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,—By the heavens, he's free!—than thunder more loud,By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken—One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin,An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,But if you want hangin', it's yourselves you must hang.
Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,
Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill;
An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,
For the grip of the life-strangling cord to prepare;
An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.
But the good priest did more, for his hands he unbound,
An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground;
Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabers;
He's not down! he's alive! now stand to him, neighbors!
Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,—
By the heavens, he's free!—than thunder more loud,
By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken—
One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.
The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,
An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;
To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin,
An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin', it's yourselves you must hang.
If all the ships I have at sea—Should come a-sailing home to me,Ah well! the harbor could not holdSo many ships as there would be,If all my ships came home to me.If half my ships now out at seaShould come a-sailing home to me,Ah well! I should have wealth as greatAs any king that sits in state,So rich the treasure there would beIn half my ships now out at sea.If but one ship I have at seaShould come a-sailing home to me,Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown,For if the others all went down,Still rich and glad and proud I'd be,If that one ship came home to me.If that one ship went down at sea,And all the others came to me,Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,Of riches, glory, honor, gold,The poorest soul on earth I'd be,If that one ship came not to me.Oh, skies, be calm, oh, winds, blow free!Blow all my ships safe home to me!But if thou sendest some awrack,To never more come sailing back,Send any—all that skim the sea,But send my love ship back to me.
If all the ships I have at sea—Should come a-sailing home to me,Ah well! the harbor could not holdSo many ships as there would be,If all my ships came home to me.
If all the ships I have at sea—
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah well! the harbor could not hold
So many ships as there would be,
If all my ships came home to me.
If half my ships now out at seaShould come a-sailing home to me,Ah well! I should have wealth as greatAs any king that sits in state,So rich the treasure there would beIn half my ships now out at sea.
If half my ships now out at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah well! I should have wealth as great
As any king that sits in state,
So rich the treasure there would be
In half my ships now out at sea.
If but one ship I have at seaShould come a-sailing home to me,Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown,For if the others all went down,Still rich and glad and proud I'd be,If that one ship came home to me.
If but one ship I have at sea
Should come a-sailing home to me,
Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown,
For if the others all went down,
Still rich and glad and proud I'd be,
If that one ship came home to me.
If that one ship went down at sea,And all the others came to me,Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,Of riches, glory, honor, gold,The poorest soul on earth I'd be,If that one ship came not to me.
If that one ship went down at sea,
And all the others came to me,
Weighed down with gems and wealth untold,
Of riches, glory, honor, gold,
The poorest soul on earth I'd be,
If that one ship came not to me.
Oh, skies, be calm, oh, winds, blow free!Blow all my ships safe home to me!But if thou sendest some awrack,To never more come sailing back,Send any—all that skim the sea,But send my love ship back to me.
Oh, skies, be calm, oh, winds, blow free!
Blow all my ships safe home to me!
But if thou sendest some awrack,
To never more come sailing back,
Send any—all that skim the sea,
But send my love ship back to me.
FOOTNOTE:[14]By permission of the author.
[14]By permission of the author.
[14]By permission of the author.
"I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift,—no, not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little minute, at his post; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was! I know he only fell asleep one little second;—he was so young,and not strong, that boy of mine! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen! and now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty! Twenty-four hours, the telegram said,—only twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie now?"
"We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, soothingly.
"Yes, yes; let us hope; God is very merciful!"
"'I should be ashamed, father!' Bennie said, 'when I am a man, to think I never used this great right arm,'—and he held it out so proudly before me,—'for my country, when it needed it! Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow!'
"'Go then, go, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you!' God has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan!" and the farmer repeated these last words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them.
"Like the apple of His eye, Mr. Owen, doubt it not!"
Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one had noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. "It is from him," was all she said.
It was like a message from the dead! Mr. Owen took the letter, but could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child.
The minister opened it, and read as follows:
"Dear Father:—When this reaches you, I shall be in eternity. At first, it seemed awful to me; but I have thought about it so much now, that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me; but that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on the battle-field, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be fightinggloriously; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it,—to die for neglect of duty! O father, I wonder the very thought does not kill me! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you all about it; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I cannot now.
"You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother I would look after her boy; and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march. Toward night we went in on double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, everybody else was tired too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I did not know it until—well, until it was too late."
"God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post."
"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve,—given to me by circumstances,—'time to write to you,' our good Colonel says. Forgive him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could; and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my stead.
"I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, father! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me: it is very hard to bear! Good-by, father! God seems near and dear to me; not at all as if He wished me to perish forever, but as if He felt sorry for His poor,sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with Him and my Saviour in a better—better life."
A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he said solemnly,—"Amen."
"To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home from pasture, and precious little Blossom standing on the back stoop, waiting for me—but I shall never, never come! God bless you all! Forgive your poor Bennie."
Late that night the door of the "back stoop" opened softly, and a little figure glided out, and down the footpath that led to the road by the mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to the right nor to the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding her hands as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train; and the conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern he held in his hand. A few questions and ready answers told him all; and no father could have cared more tenderly for his only child than he for our little Blossom.
She was on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell her father where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennie's letter with her; no good, kind heart, like the President's, could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom reached the Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House.
The President had but just seated himself to his morning's task, of overlooking and signing important papers, when, without one word of announcement, the door softly opened, and Blossom, with downcast eyes, and folded hands, stood before him.
"Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tones, "what do you want so bright and early in the morning?"
"Bennie's life, please, sir," faltered Blossom.
"Bennie? Who is Bennie?"
"My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post."
"Oh, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. "I remember! It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for his culpable negligence."
"So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely; "but poor Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it was Jemmie's night, not his; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never thought about himself, that he was tired, too."
"What is this you say, child? Come here; I do not understand," and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justification of an offense.
Blossom went to him; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. How tall he seemed, and he was President of the United States, too! A dim thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blossom's mind; but she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read.
He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines, and rang his bell.
Blossom heard this order given: "Send this dispatch at once."
The President then turned to the girl and said: "Go home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or—wait until to-morrow; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death; he shall go with you."
"God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard and registered the request?
Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House with his little sister. He was called into the President's private room, and a strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said: "The soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the act so uncomplainingly, deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and Blossom took their way to the Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot to welcome them back; and as Farmer Owen's hand grasped that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say fervently, "The Lord be praised!"
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;Dream of battled fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more;Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,Morn of toil, nor night of waking.Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,While our slumbrous spells assail ye,Dream not, with the rising sun,Bugles here shall sound reveillé;Sleep! the deer is in his den;Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;Sleep! nor dream in yonder glenHow thy gallant steed lay dying.Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;Think not of the rising sun,For at dawning to assail yeHere no bugles sound reveillé.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;Dream of battled fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more;Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,While our slumbrous spells assail ye,Dream not, with the rising sun,Bugles here shall sound reveillé;Sleep! the deer is in his den;Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;Sleep! nor dream in yonder glenHow thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé;
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;Think not of the rising sun,For at dawning to assail yeHere no bugles sound reveillé.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye
Here no bugles sound reveillé.
FOOTNOTE:[15]From "Lady of the Lake."
[15]From "Lady of the Lake."
[15]From "Lady of the Lake."
My short and happy day is done;The long and lonely night comes onAnd at my door the pale horse standsTo carry me to distant lands.His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof,Sounds dreadful as a gathering storm;And I must leave this sheltering roofAnd joys of life so soft and warm.Tender and warm the joys of life—Good friends, the faithful and the true;My rosy children and my wife,>So sweet to kiss, so fair to view.So sweet to kiss, so fair to view,The night comes on, the lights burn blue;And at my door the pale horse standsTo bear me forth to unknown lands.
My short and happy day is done;The long and lonely night comes onAnd at my door the pale horse standsTo carry me to distant lands.
My short and happy day is done;
The long and lonely night comes on
And at my door the pale horse stands
To carry me to distant lands.
His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof,Sounds dreadful as a gathering storm;And I must leave this sheltering roofAnd joys of life so soft and warm.
His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof,
Sounds dreadful as a gathering storm;
And I must leave this sheltering roof
And joys of life so soft and warm.
Tender and warm the joys of life—Good friends, the faithful and the true;My rosy children and my wife,>So sweet to kiss, so fair to view.
Tender and warm the joys of life—
Good friends, the faithful and the true;
My rosy children and my wife,
>So sweet to kiss, so fair to view.
So sweet to kiss, so fair to view,The night comes on, the lights burn blue;And at my door the pale horse standsTo bear me forth to unknown lands.
So sweet to kiss, so fair to view,
The night comes on, the lights burn blue;
And at my door the pale horse stands
To bear me forth to unknown lands.
FOOTNOTE:[16]By permission of Mrs. Hay.
[16]By permission of Mrs. Hay.
[16]By permission of Mrs. Hay.
The great old-fashioned clock struck twelve, but as yet not one of the boys had stirred. All were listening too intently to what Carl von Weber was saying to notice the time. Around one of the grand pianos a group of boys was gathered. Perched on the top of it was a bright, merry-looking boy of fourteen. By his side sat a pale, delicate little fellow, with a pair of soft, dark eyes, which were fixed in eager attention upon Carl's face. Below, and leaning carelessly upon the piano, was Raoul von Falkenstein, a dark, handsome boy of fifteen.
"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, scornfully, after Carl had finished. "Is that all? just for a few paltry thalers and a beggarly violin, to work myself to death? No! I don't think I shall trouble myself about it."
"Oh, Raoul!" cried Franz, the little fellow who sat by Carl, "you forget that it is to be the most beautiful violin in Germany, and to be given to us by the Empress herself. And the two hundred thalers—just think of that!" and Franz's dark eyes grew bright to think what he could do with them.
"Really," returned Raoul, insolently, "you don't mean to say that you are going to try! Why, the last time you played you broke down entirely!"
The color mounted into Franz's face, and the tears came into his eyes; and Carl cried out, angrily:
"For shame! you know very well that it was only fright that made Franz fail.
"Don't mind him," he said, putting his arm around his friend's neck, "he is only hateful, as he always is. Let us go and see who is to be chosen for the concert. Come, Franz!"
"No, Carl," said his friend, quietly; "I would rather stay here. You go and find out, and then come and tell me."
The Empress once a year gave a prize to the school, but thisyear it was to be finer than usual, and her Majesty had sent to Herr Bach and requested him to choose five of his best boys, each of whom was to compose a piece of his own. No one was to see it until the end of three weeks, when they were to play it at a grand concert, which the imperial family were to attend with the whole court. Franz was very anxious to be chosen, for he wanted the prize very much. He thought how pleased the mother would be, and he thought how hard she worked to give her little boy a musical education, and how many comforts the thalers would buy. Oh, he would work hard for it. The dear mother would be so surprised. And he fell into a brown study, from which he was awakened by feeling a pair of strong arms around him, and being frantically whirled around the room, while a voice shouted in his ear:
"We've got it! We're chosen—you, Gottfried, Johann, old hateful Raoul, and I!"
The boys worked very hard, for there was only a short time given them. Franz put his whole soul into his composition, and made himself almost sick over it. Raoul went about declaring, in his usual contemptuous manner, that he did not intend to kill himself over it, but secretly he worked with great industry.
One lovely moonlight night, as he sat by his window composing, for the moon was so bright he could see very well, he impatiently flung his pen down and muttered, "There is no use; I can never do it; this will never do!" and began angrily to tear up one of the music sheets, when suddenly he stopped and raised his head and listened intently. Such a lovely melody, so soft and clear, rising and falling in the sweetest cadences, now growing louder and louder in a wild, passionate crescendo, and then dying slowly away!
For a moment, the boy remained silent; then, suddenly springing to his feet, he cried:
"It is Franz! I know it, for no one but he could write anything so beautiful. But it shall be mine, for it is the piece that will gain the prize! Ah, Franz, I play before you, and what I play shall be—"
He stopped, and the moonlight streaming in at the window glanced across the room, and revealed a look of half triumph, half shame on his dark, haughty face. Why had he stopped? Perhaps his guardian angel stood behind him, warning him against what he was about to do. For a moment, a fierce struggle seemed to take possession of the boy, between his good and his evil spirit. But, alas! the evil conquered, and, sitting down, he wrote off what he had heard, aided by his wonderful memory; and, after an hour, he threw down the piece, finished. Then, with an exulting smile, he cried, "The prize is mine!" and, throwing himself on the bed, he fell into a troubled sleep.
The time had come at last for the great concert, and the boys were so excited they could hardly keep still; even Franz, whose cheeks glowed with a brilliant hectic flush, and whose eyes were strangely bright. The hall was crowded. The imperial family was there, together with the whole court.
The concert began with an overture from the orchestra. Then came Fraulein, the prima donna of the Imperial Opera, and then the boys. Carl came first, and played a brilliant, sparkling little piece, and was loudly applauded; next Gottfried and Johann, and then Raoul. When he stepped out upon the platform, his handsome face and fine form seemed to make an impression on the audience, for they remained perfectly silent. Raoul commenced. At first Franz paid no attention to him, then suddenly he started. The melody flowed on; louder and louder, clearer and clearer it rose. Franz stood motionless, listening in strained, fixed attention, until at last, overcome with grief and astonishment, he sank upon the floor and cried out piteously, with tears streaming down his face:
"Oh, Raoul! Raoul! how could you, could you do it—my own little piece that I loved so much? Oh, mother! mother!"—and,burying his head in his arms, he sobbed in an agony of grief.
He heard the burst of applause that greeted his piece—not Raoul's; he heard it all, but moved not until he heard Carl say:
"Come, Franz! it's time to go. They are all waiting for you; but I am afraid that Raoul has won the prize."
What should he do, he wondered? And then he thought perhaps the kind Father in heaven would help him. So, breathing a little prayer in his heart, he walked calmly forth upon the platform.
At first, he trembled so that he could hardly begin; then a sudden inspiration seemed to come to him—a quick light swept across his face. He raised the violin to his shoulder and began.
The audience at first paid no attention; but presently all became quiet, and they leaned forward in breathless attention. What a wonderful song it was!—for it was a song. The violin seemed almost to speak, and so softly and sweetly and with such exquisite pathos were the notes drawn forth that the eyes of many were filled with tears. For it was pouring out all little Franz's griefs and sorrows; it was telling how the little heart was almost broken by the treachery of the friend; it was telling how hard he had worked to win, for the dear mother's sake; and it was telling, and the notes grew sweeter as it told, how the good God had not forsaken him. The boy seemed almost inspired; his eyes were raised to heaven, and his face glowed with a rapt delight, as he improvised his beautiful song. Not a sound was heard; it seemed as if all were turned to stone, so intense was the silence. His heart seemed to grow lighter of its burden, and the song burst into a wild, sweet carol, that rang rich and clear through the hall; and then it changed and grew so soft it could hardly be heard, and at last it died away.
For a moment the vast audience seemed spell-bound; then, all rising with one uncontrollable impulse, and breaking into atempest of applause that rocked the building to its very foundations, they rained down bouquets on his head.
But the boy stood with a far-off look in his large and beautiful eyes, and then, giving a little sigh, fell heavily to the floor.
When he returned to consciousness, he heard a voice say, "Poor child!" It seemed like Herr Bach's; and then he heard Carl say, in a sobbing voice, "Franz! dear Franz!" Why did they pity him, he wondered; and then it all came back to him—the prize, the violin, and Raoul.
"Where is the violin?" he murmured.
"It will be here in a moment," some one said.
Then he saw the pale, remorseful face of Raoul, who said: "Dear little Franz, forgive me!"
The boy raised his hand and pointed to heaven, and said, softly: "Dear Raoul, I forgive you!"—and then all the pain and bitterness in his heart against Raoul died out.
The sweet face of the Empress, made lovely by its look of tender pity, bent over him, and she kissed him and murmured, "Poor little one!" Then she placed the beautiful violin in his arms, and the thalers in his hands.
And so, with the famed violin and bright thalers clasped close on his breast, the life-light died out of his eyes, and little Franz fell asleep.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise,My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen,Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills!Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills,There daily I wander as noon rises high,My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below!Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;There oft as mild evening sweeps over the lea,The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,And winds by my cot where my Mary resides;How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise,My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise,
My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen,Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills!Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills,There daily I wander as noon rises high,My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills!
Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills,
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below!Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;There oft as mild evening sweeps over the lea,The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below!
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild evening sweeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,And winds by my cot where my Mary resides;How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by my cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Theme.
"Violet's blue—Diddle, diddle!Lavender's green.When I am King—Diddle, diddle!You shall be Queen.""Mother Goose Melodies."You shall have crown—Diddle, diddle!Jewels and gold,Damasks and lace—Diddle, diddle!Centuries old.Pages behind—Diddle, diddle!Heralds before,And all the state—Diddle, diddle!Queens had of yore.But when you're queen—Diddle, diddle!And I am king,Will your eyes shine—Diddle, diddle!Will my lips sing,As they do now—Diddle, diddle!When we are still,Poor country-folk—Diddle, diddle!Plain Jack and Jill?Can our hearts beat—Diddle, diddle!Our love unfold,Prisoned in pomp—Diddle, diddle!Girdled with gold?Love thrives alone—Diddle, diddle!In open air;Where pageants are—Diddle, diddle!Love is not there.When skies are blue—Diddle, diddle!And fields are green,I will be king—Diddle, diddle!You shall be queen.Queen of Day-dreams—Diddle, diddle!King of No-lands,With full-filled hearts—Diddle, diddle!And empty hands.Let others king—Diddle, diddle!And queen, who will:We're better so—Diddle, diddle!Plain Jack and Jill.
"Violet's blue—Diddle, diddle!Lavender's green.When I am King—Diddle, diddle!You shall be Queen.""Mother Goose Melodies."
"Violet's blue—Diddle, diddle!
Lavender's green.
When I am King—Diddle, diddle!
You shall be Queen."
"Mother Goose Melodies."
You shall have crown—Diddle, diddle!Jewels and gold,Damasks and lace—Diddle, diddle!Centuries old.
You shall have crown—Diddle, diddle!
Jewels and gold,
Damasks and lace—Diddle, diddle!
Centuries old.
Pages behind—Diddle, diddle!Heralds before,And all the state—Diddle, diddle!Queens had of yore.
Pages behind—Diddle, diddle!
Heralds before,
And all the state—Diddle, diddle!
Queens had of yore.
But when you're queen—Diddle, diddle!And I am king,Will your eyes shine—Diddle, diddle!Will my lips sing,
But when you're queen—Diddle, diddle!
And I am king,
Will your eyes shine—Diddle, diddle!
Will my lips sing,
As they do now—Diddle, diddle!When we are still,Poor country-folk—Diddle, diddle!Plain Jack and Jill?
As they do now—Diddle, diddle!
When we are still,
Poor country-folk—Diddle, diddle!
Plain Jack and Jill?
Can our hearts beat—Diddle, diddle!Our love unfold,Prisoned in pomp—Diddle, diddle!Girdled with gold?
Can our hearts beat—Diddle, diddle!
Our love unfold,
Prisoned in pomp—Diddle, diddle!
Girdled with gold?
Love thrives alone—Diddle, diddle!In open air;Where pageants are—Diddle, diddle!Love is not there.
Love thrives alone—Diddle, diddle!
In open air;
Where pageants are—Diddle, diddle!
Love is not there.
When skies are blue—Diddle, diddle!And fields are green,I will be king—Diddle, diddle!You shall be queen.
When skies are blue—Diddle, diddle!
And fields are green,
I will be king—Diddle, diddle!
You shall be queen.
Queen of Day-dreams—Diddle, diddle!King of No-lands,With full-filled hearts—Diddle, diddle!And empty hands.
Queen of Day-dreams—Diddle, diddle!
King of No-lands,
With full-filled hearts—Diddle, diddle!
And empty hands.
Let others king—Diddle, diddle!And queen, who will:We're better so—Diddle, diddle!Plain Jack and Jill.
Let others king—Diddle, diddle!
And queen, who will:
We're better so—Diddle, diddle!
Plain Jack and Jill.
FOOTNOTE:[17]From "Under a Fool's Cap," published by Kegan Paul, French & Co., London.
[17]From "Under a Fool's Cap," published by Kegan Paul, French & Co., London.
[17]From "Under a Fool's Cap," published by Kegan Paul, French & Co., London.
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?There is a power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast—The desert and illimitable air—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart:He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast—The desert and illimitable air—Lone wandering, but not lost.
There is a power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast—
The desert and illimitable air—
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart:
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart:
He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.