Oh, Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy,And he stood six feet eight;And his arm was as round as another man's thigh,—'Tis Phadrig was great.
His hair was as black as the shadows of night,And it hung over scars got in many a fight.And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud,And his eye flashed like lightning from under a cloud,—And there wasn't a girl from thirty-five under,Sorra matter how cross, but he could come round her;But of all whom he smiled on so sweetly, but oneWas the girl of his heart, and he loved her alone.As warm as the sun, as the rock firm and sure,Was the love of the heart of young Phadrig Crohoore.He would die for a smile from his Kathleen O'Brien,For his love, like his hatred, was strong as a lion.
But one Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as wellAs he hated Crohoore—and that same I can tell.And O'Brien liked him, for they were all the same parties—The O'Hanlons, O'Briens, O'Ryans, M'Carthies;And they all went together in hating Crohoore,For many's the bating he gave them before.So O'Hanlon makes up to O'Brien, and says he:"I'll marry your daughter if you'll give her to me."
So the match was made up, and when Shrovetide came onThe company assembled—three hundred if one!The O'Hanlon's, of course, turned out strong on that day,And the pipers and fiddlers were tearing away;There was laughing, and roaring, and jigging, and flinging,And joking and blessing, and kissing and singing,And they were all merry; why not, to be sure,That O'Hanlon got inside of Phadrig Crohoore;And they all talked and laughed, the length of the table,Aiting and drinking while they were able—With the piping and fiddling, and roaring like thunder,Och! you'd think your head fairly was splitting asunder;And the priest shouted, "Silence, ye blabblers, agin,"And he took up his prayer-book and was going to begin,And they all held their funning, and jigging, and bawling,So silent, you'd notice the smallest pin falling;And the priest was beginning to read, when the doorWas flung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore.
Oh! Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy,And he stood six feet eight;His arm was as big as another man's thigh,—'Tis Phadrig was great.
As he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye,As a dark cloud moves on through the stars in the sky—None dared to oppose him, for Phadrig was great,Till he stood, all alone, just in front of the seatWhere O'Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride,Were seated together, the two side by side.He looked on Kathleen till her poor heart near broke,Then he turned to her father, O'Brien, and spoke,And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud,And his eyes flashed like lightning from under a cloud:
"I did not come here like a tame, crawling mouse;I stand like a man, in my enemy's house.In the field, on the road, Phadrig never knew fearOf his foemen, and God knows he now scorns it here.I ask but your leave, for three minutes or four,To speak to the girl whom I ne'er may see more."Then he turned to Kathleen, and his voice changed its tone,For he thought of the days when he called her his own;And said he, "Kathleen, bawn, is it true what I hear—Is this match your free choice, without threat'ning or fear?If so, say the word, and I'll turn and depart—Cheated once, but once only, by woman's false heart."Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl quite dumb;She tried hard to speak, but the words wouldn't come,For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her,Struck cold on her heart, like the night-wind in winter,And the tears in her blue eyes were trembling to flow,And her cheeks were as pale as the moonbeams on snow.Then the heart of bold Phadrig swelled high in its place,For he knew by one look in that beautiful face,That though strangers and foemen their pledged hands might sever,Her heart was still his, and his only, for ever.
Then he lifted his voice, like an eagle's hoarse call,And cried out—"She is mine yet, in spite of ye all."But up jumped O'Hanlon, and a tall chap was he,And he gazed on bold Phadrig as fierce as could be;And says he—"By my fathers, before you go out,Bold Phadrig Crohoore, you must stand for a bout."Then Phadrig made answer—"I'll do my endeavour;"And with one blow he stretched out O'Hanlon for ever!
Then he caught up his Kathleen, and rushed to the door,He leaped on his horse, and he swung her before;And they all were so bothered that not a man stirredTill the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard.Then up they all started, like bees in a swarm,And they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm;And they ran, and they jumped, and they shouted galore;But Phadrig or Kathleen they never saw more.
But those days are gone by, and his, too, are o'er,And the grass it grows over the grave of Crohoore,For he wouldn't be aisy or quiet at all;As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall,So he took a good pike—for Phadrig was great—And he died for old Ireland in the year ninety-eight.
Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day,And besought him to look at his arrow;"'Tis useless," he cried, "you must mend it, I say,'Tisn't fit to let fly at a sparrow.There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart,For it flutters quite false to my aim;'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart,And the world really jests at my name.
"I have straighten'd, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare,I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs;'Tis feather'd with ringlets my mother might wear,And the barb gleams with light from young eyes;But it falls without touching—I'll break it, I vow,For there's Hymen beginning to pout;He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low,That Zephyr might puff it right out."
Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale,Till Vulcan the weapon restored;"There, take it, young sir; try it now—if it fail,I will ask neither fee nor reward."The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made,The wounded and dead were untold;But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade,For the arrow was laden withgold.
A wily crocodileWho dwelt upon the Nile,Bethought himself one day to give a dinner."Economy," said he,"Is chief of all with me,And shall considered be—as I'm a sinner!"
With paper, pen and ink,He sat him down to think;And first of all, Sir Lion he invited;The northern wolf who dwellsIn rocky Arctic dells;The Leopard and the Lynx, by blood united.
Then Mr. Fox the shrewd—No lover he of good—And Madam Duck with sober step and stately;And Mr. Frog sereneIn garb of bottle green,Who warbled bass, and bore himself sedately.
Sir Crocodile, content,The invitations sent.The day was come—his guests were all assembled;They fancied that some guileLurked in his ample smile;Each on the other looked, and somewhat trembled.
A lengthy time they waitTheir hunger waxes great;And still the host in conversation dallies.At last the table's laid,With covered dishes spread,And out in haste the hungry party sallies.
But when—the covers raised—On empty plates they gazed,Each on the other looked with dire intention;Ma'am Duck sat last of all,And Mr. Frog was small;—She softly swallowed him, and made no mention!
This Mr. Fox perceives,And saying, "By your leaves,Some punishment is due for this transgression."He gobbled her in haste,Then much to his distaste,By Mr. Lynx was taken in possession!
The Wolf without a pause,In spite of teeth and claws,Left nothing of the Lynx to tell the story;The Leopard all irateAt his relation's fate,Made mince meat of that wolfish monster hoary.
The Lion raised his head;"Since I am king," he said,"It ill befits the king to lack his dinner!"Then on the Leopard sprang,With might of claw and fang,And made a meal upon that spotted sinner!—
Then saw in sudden fearSir Crocodile draw near,And heard him speak, with feelings of distraction;"Since all of you have dinedWell suited to your mind,You surely cannot grudgemesatisfaction!"
And sooth, a deal of guileLurked in his ample smile,As down his throat the roaring lion hasted;"Economy with me,Is chief of all," said he,"And I am truly glad to see there's nothing wasted."
"My soul is at the gate!"The sighing lover said.He wound his arms around her formAnd kissed her golden head.
"Mysoleis at the gate!"The maiden's father said.The lover rubbed the smitten part,And from the garden fled.
"A risky ride," they called it.Lor bless ye, there wasn't no risk:I knew if I gave 'er 'er head, sir,That "Painted Lady" would whiskLike a rocket through all the horses,And win in a fine old style,With "the field" all a-tailin' behind 'erIn a kind of a' Indian file.
* * * * *
You didn't know old Josh Grinley—"Old Josh o' the Whitelands Farm,"As his father had tilled afore 'im,And his afore 'im.—No harmEver touched one of the GrinleysWhen the 'Ollingtons owned the lands;But they ruined themselves through racing,And it passed into other hands.Ain't ye heard how Lord 'Ollington died, sir,On that day when "Midlothian Maid"Broke down when just winning the "Stewards'"?Every farthing he'd left was laidOn the old mare's chance; and vict'rySeemed fairly within his graspWhen she stumbled—went clean to pieces.With a cry of despair—a gasp—Lord 'Ollington staggered backwards;A red stream flowed from his mouth,And he died—with the shouts ringing round him:"Beaten by Queen o' the South!"But I'm going on anyhow,—ain't I?I began about my ride;And I'm talking now like a novelOf how Lord 'Ollington died.
Don't ask me to tell how I'm bred, sir;Put my "pedigree" down as "unknown,"But a good 'un to go when he's "wanted,"From whatever dam he was thrown.Old Joshua—he's been my motherAnd father all rolled into one;—It was 'im as bred and trained me;Got me "ready" and "fit" to run.It's been whispered he saved my life, sir—Picked me up one winter's night,Wrapped up in a shawl or summat,—The tale's like enough to be right.It's just what he would do,—bless 'im!Yes, I owed every atom to him:So you'll guess how I felt that mornin',When, with eyes all wet and dim,He told me the new folk would give 'imBut two weeks to pay his arrears;Then he cried like a little child, sir.When I saw the old fellow's tears,My young blood boiled madly within me;I knew how he'd struggled and fought'Gainst years of bad seasons and harvests;How nobly but vainly he'd soughtTo make both ends meet at the "Whitelands.""They never will do it!" I cry."You've lived all your life at the 'Farm,' Josh,And you'll still live on there till you die!'Tain't for me to tell stable secrets,But I know—well, just what I know:Go! say that in less than a month, Josh,You'll pay every penny you owe."
* * * * *
"A couple o' hundred" was wantedTo pull good old Joshua right;I was only a lad; but I'd "fifty"—My money went that night,Every penny on "Painted Lady"For the "Stakes" in the coming week.I should 'ave backed her afore, sir;But waited for master to speakAs to what he intended a-doing,I thought 'twas a "plant"—d'ye see?With a bit o' "rope" in the question,So I'd let "Painted Lady" be.I knew shecouldwin in a canter,As long as there wasn't no "fake."And now—well, I meant that sheshouldwin,For poor old Josh Grinley's sake.
* * * * *
The three-year old "Painted Lady"Had never been beat in her life;And I'd always 'ad the mount, sir;But rumours now 'gan to get rifeThat something was wrong with the "filly".The "bookies" thought everything "square"—For them—so they "laid quite freely"Good odds 'gainst the master's mare!When he'd gone abroad in the summerHe had given us orders to train"The Lady" for this 'ere race, sir;We'd never heard from him again.And, seeing the "bookies" a-layin',I thought they knew more than I:ButnowI thought with a chuckle,Let each look out for his eye.The morning before the race, sir,The owner turned up. With a smileI showed 'im the mare—"There she is, sir,Goin' jist in 'er same old style.We'll win in a common canter,'Painted Lady' and I, Sir Hugh,As we've always done afore, sir;As we always mean to do."
He looked at me just for a moment,A shade of care seemed to passAll over his handsome features.Then he kicked at a tuft o' grass,In a sort of a pet, then stammered,As he lifted his eyes from his shoes,"I'm sorry, my lad—very sorry,But to-morrow the mare mustlose."He turned on his heel. I stood strokingMy "Lady's" soft shining skin,Then I muttered, "I'm sorry, sir, very,But to-morrow the mare mustwin."
* * * * *
I was 'tween two stools, as they say, sir—If I disobeyed orders, Sir HughWould "sack" me as safe as a trivet,So I thought what I'd better do.I wasn't so long, for I shouted,"I've hit it! I'llwinthis 'ere race,And I'll lay fifty pounds to a sov'reignAs I don't get the 'kick' from my place."
* * * * *
The day of the race: bell's a-ringin'To clear the course for the start.I gets to an out-o'-way corner;Then, quickly as lightning, I dartMy hand 'neath my silken jacket,Pops a tiny phial to my lips,Then off to mount "Painted Lady"—Sharp into the saddle I slips.In a minute or two we were streamingDown the course at a nailing pace;But I lets the mare take it easy,For I feels as I've got the raceWell in hand. "No, nothing can touch ye:You'll win!" I cries—"Now then, my dear!"All at once I feels fairly silly;Then I comes over right down queer.I dig my knees into her girths, sir;I let the reins go—then I fallBack faint, and dizzy, and drowsy—"Painted Lady" sweeps on past them all.She can't make out what's a happenin',Flies on—maddened, scared with fright—And wins—by how far? well, don't know, sir,But the rest hadn't come in sight.I was took from the saddle, lifeless;I've heard as they thought me dead;And after I rallied—"'Twas funny!'Twas curious—very!" they said.
* * * * *
The matter was all hushed up, sir;Sir Hugh dussn't show 'is hands.I'm head "boss" now in the stables.Josh stayed—and died—down at the 'Lands.
Marriage iz a fair transaction on the face ov it.
But thare iz quite too often put up jobs in it.
It iz an old institushun, older than the pyramids, and az phull ov hyrogliphicks that noboddy kan parse.
History holds its tounge who the pair waz who fust put on the silken harness, and promised tew work kind in it, thru thick and thin, up hill and down, and on the level, rain or shine, survive or perish, sink or swim, drown or flote.
But whoever they waz they must hav made a good thing out ov it, or so menny ov their posterity would not hav harnessed up since and drov out.
Thare iz a grate moral grip in marriage; it iz the mortar that holds the soshull bricks together.
But there ain't but darn few pholks who put their money in matrimony who could set down and giv a good written opinyun whi on arth they cum to did it.
This iz a grate proof that it iz one ov them natral kind ov acksidents that must happen, jist az birds fly out ov the nest, when they hav feathers enuff, without being able tew tell why.
Sum marry for buty, and never diskover their mistake; this iz lucky.
Sum marry for money, and—don't see it.
Sum marry for pedigree, and feel big for six months, and then very sensibly cum tew the conclusion that pedigree ain't no better than skimmilk.
Sum marry ter pleze their relashons, and are surprised tew learn that their relashuns don't care a cuss for them afterwards.
Sum marry bekause they hav bin highsted sum where else; this iz a cross match, a bay and a sorrel; pride may make it endurable.
Sum marry for love without a cent in the pocket, nor a friend in the world, nor a drop ov pedigree. This looks desperate,but it iz the strength ov the game.
If marrying for love ain't a suckcess, then matrimony iz a ded beet.
Sum marry bekauze they think wimmin will be skarse next year, and liv tew wonder how the crop holds out.
Sum marry tew get rid of themselfs, and diskover that the game waz one that two could play at, and neither win.
Sum marry the seckond time to git even, and find it a gambling game, the more they put down, the less they take up.
Sum marry tew be happy, and not finding it, wonder whare all the happiness on earth goes to when it dies.
Sum marry, they kan't tell whi, and liv, they kan't tell how.
Almoste every boddy gits married, and it iz a good joke.
Sum marry in haste, and then set down and think it careful over.
Sum think it over careful fust, and then set down and marry.
Both ways are right, if they hit the mark.
Sum marry rakes tew convert them. This iz a little risky, and takes a smart missionary to do it.
Sum marry coquetts. This iz like buying a poor farm, heavily mortgaged, and working the ballance ov yure days tew clear oph the mortgages.
"Oh! wizard, to thine aid I fly,With weary feet, and bosom aching;And if thou spurn my prayer, I die;For oh! my heart! my heart! is breaking:Oh! tell me where my Gerald's gone—My loved, my beautiful, my own;And, though in farthest lands he be;To my true lover's side I'll flee."
"Daughter," the aged wizard said,"For what cause hath thy Gerald parted?I cannot lend my mystic aid,Except to lovers, faithful hearted;My magic wand would lose its might—I could not read my spells aright—All skill would from my soul depart,If I should aid the false in heart."
"Oh! father, my fond heart was true,"Cried Ellen, "to my Gerald ever;No change its stream of love e'er knew,Save that it deepened like yon river:True, as the rose to summer sun,That droops, when its loved lord is gone,And sheds its bloom, from day to day,And fades, and pines, and dies away.
"Betrothed, with my dear sire's consent,Each morn beheld my Gerald coming;Each day, in converse sweet, was spent;And, ere he went, dark eve was glooming:But one day, as he crossed the plain,I saw a cloud descend, like rain,And bear him, in its skirts, away—Oh! hour of grief, oh! woeful day!
"They sought my Gerald many a day,'Mid winter's snow, and summer's blossom;At length, his memory passed away,From all, except his Ellen's bosom.But there his love still glows and grows,Unchanged by time, unchecked by woes;And, led by it, I've made my way,To seek thy aid, in dark Iveagh."
He traced a circle with his wand,Around the spot, where they were standing;He held a volume in his hand,All writ, with spells of power commanding:He read a spell—then looked—in vain,Southward, across the lake of Lene;Then to the east, and western side;But, when he northward looked, he cried—
"I see! I see your Gerald now!In Carrigcleena's fairy dwelling;Deep sorrow sits upon his brow,Though Cleena tales of love is telling—Cleena, most gentle, and most fair,Of all the daughters of the air;The fairy queen, whose smiles of light,Preserves from sorrow and from blight.
"Her love has borne him from thy arms,And keeps him in those fairy regions,Where Cleena blooms in matchless charms,Attended by her fairy legions.Yet kind and merciful's the queen;And if thy woe by her were seen,And all thy constancy were known,Brave Gerald yet might be thine own."
"Oh! father," the pale maiden cried,"Hath he forgotten quite his Ellen?Thinks he no more of Shannon's side,Where love so long had made his dwelling?""Alas! fair maid, I cannot tellThe thoughts that in the bosom dwell;For ah! all vain is magic art,To read the secrets of the heart."
To Carrigcleena Ellen wends,With aching breast, and footsteps weary;Low on her knees the maiden bends,Before that rocky hill of fairy;Pale as the moonbeam is her cheek;With trembling fear she scarce can speak;In agony her hands she clasps;And thus her love-taught prayer she gasps.
"Oh! Cleena, queen of fairy charms,Have mercy on my love-lorn maiden;Restore my Gerald to my arms—Behold! behold! how sorrow ladenAnd faint, and way-worn, here I kneel;And, with clasped hands, to thee appeal:Give to my heart, oh! Cleena give,The being in whose love I live!
"Break not my heart, whose truth you see,Oh! break it not by now refusing;For Gerald's all the world to me,Whilst thou hast all the world for choosing:Oh! Cleena, fairest of the fair,Grant now a love-lorn maiden's prayer;Or, if to yield him you deny,Let me behold him once, and die."
Her prayer of love thus Ellen poured,With streaming eyes and bosom heaving;And, at each faint heart-wringing word,Her soul seemed its fair prison leaving:The linnet, on the hawthorn tree,Stood hushed by her deep misery;And the soft summer evening galeSeemed echoing the maiden's wail.
And now the solid rocks divide,A glorious fairy hall disclosing;There Cleena stands, and by her side,In slumber, Gerald seems reposing:She wakes him from his fairy trance;And, hand in hand, they both advance;And, now, the queen of fairy charmsGives Gerald to his Ellen's arms.
"Be happy," lovely Cleena cried,"Oh! lovers true, and fair, and peerless;All vain is magic, to divideSuch hearts, so constant, and so fearless.Be happy, as you have been true,For Cleena's blessing rests on you;And joy, and wealth, and power, shall give,As long as upon earth you live."
Alas, that knight of noble birthShould ever fall from fitting worth!Alas, that guilty treacheryShould stain the blood of Fontanlee!
The king hath lent a listening ear,And blacker grew his face to hear:"By Cross," he cried, "if thou speak right,The Fontanlee is a traitor knight!"
Outstepped Sir Robert of Fontanlee,A young knight and a fair to see;Outstepped Sir Stephen of Fontanlee.Sir Robert's second brother was he;Outstepped Sir John of Fontanlee,He was the youngest of the three.
There are three gloves on the oaken boards,And three white hands on their hilted swords:"On horse or foot, by day or night,We stand to do our father right."
The Baron Tranmere hath bent his knee,And gathered him up the gages three:"Ye are young knights, and loyal, I wis,And ye know not how false your father is.
"Put on, put on your armour bright;And God in heaven help the right!""God help the right!" the sons replied;And straightway on their armour did.
The Baron Tranmere hath mounted his horse,And ridden him down the battle-course;The young Sir Robert lifted his eyes,Looked fairly up in the open skies:
"If my father was true in deed and in word,Fight, O God, with my righteous sword;If my father was false in deed or in word,Let me lie at length on the battle-sward!"
The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse,And ridden him down the battle-course;Sir Robert's visor is crushed and marred,And he lies his length on the battle-sward.
Sir Stephen's was an angry blade—I scarce may speak the words he said:"Though Heaven itself were false," cried he,"True is my father of Fontanlee!
"And, brother, as Heaven goes with the wrong,If this lying baron should lay me along,Strike another blow for our good renown.""Doubt me not," said the young knight John.
The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse,And ridden him down the battle-course;In bold Sir Stephen's best life-bloodHis spear's point is wet to the wood.
The young knight John hath bent his knee,And speaks his soul right solemnly:"Whatever seemeth good to Thee,The same, O Lord, attend on me.
"What though my brothers lie along,My father's faith is firm and strong:Perchance thy deeply-hid intentDoth need some nobler instrument.
"Let faithless hearts give heed to fear,I will not falter in my prayer:If ever guilty treacheryDid stain the blood of Fontanlee,—
"As such an 'if' doth stain my lips,Though truth lie hidden in eclipse,—Let yonder lance-head pierce my breast,And my soul seek its endless rest."
Never a whit did young John yieldWhen the lance ran through his painted shield;Never a whit debased his crest,When the lance ran into his tender breast.
"What is this? what is this, thou young Sir John,That runs so fast from thine armour down?""Oh, this is my heart's blood, I feel,And it wets me through from the waist to the heel."
Sights of sadness many a oneA man may meet beneath the sun;But a sadder sight did never man seeThan lies in the Hall of Fontanlee.
There are three corses manly and fair,Each in its armour, and each on its bier;There are three squires weeping and wan,Every one with his head on his hand,
Every one with his hand on his knee,At the foot of his master silentlySitting, and weeping bitterlyFor the broken honour of Fontanlee.
Who is this at their sides that stands?"Lift, O squires, your heads from your hands;Tell me who these dead men beThat lie in the Hall of the Fontanlee."
"This is Sir Robert of Fontanlee,A young knight and a fair to see;This is Sir Stephen of Fontanlee,Sir Robert's second brother was he;This is Sir John of Fontanlee,He was the youngest of the three.
"For their father's truth did theyFreely give their lives away,And till he doth home return,Sadly here we sit and mourn."
These sad words they having said,Every one down sank his head;Till in accents strangely spoken,At their sides was silence broken.
"I do bring you news from far,False was the Fontanlee in war!—Unbend your bright swords from my breast,I that do speak do know it best."Wide he flung his mantle free;Lo, it was the Fontanlee!
Then the squires like stricken menSank into their seats again,And their cheeks in wet tears steepingFresh and faster fell a weeping.
He with footsteps soft and slowRound to his sons' heads did go;Sadly he looked on every one,And stooped and kissed the youngest, John.
Then his weary head down bending,"Heart," said he, "too much offending,Break, and let me only beBlotted out of memory."
Thrice with crimson cheek he stood,And thrice he swallowed the salt blood;Then outpoured the torrent red;And the false Fontanlee lay dead.
Saint Laura, in her sleep of death,Preserves beneath the tomb—'Tis willed where what is willed must be—In incorruptibility,Her beauty and her bloom.
So pure her maiden life had been,So free from earthly stain,'Twas fixed in fate by Heaven's own QueenThat till the earth's last closing sceneShe should unchanged remain.
Within a deep sarcophagusOf alabaster sheen,With sculptured lid of roses white,She slumbered in unbroken night,By mortal eyes unseen.
Above her marble couch was rearedA monumental shrine,Where cloistered sisters gathering round,Made night and morn the aisle resoundWith choristry divine.
The abbess died; and in her prideHer parting mandate saidThey should her final rest provide,The alabaster couch beside,Where slept the sainted dead.
The abbess came of princely race;The nuns might not gainsay;And sadly passed the timid band,To execute the high commandThey dared not disobey.
The monument was opened then;It gave to general sightThe alabaster couch alone;But all its lucid substance shoneWith preternatural light.
They laid the corpse within the shrine;They closed its doors again;But nameless terror seemed to fall,Throughout the livelong night, on allWho formed the funeral train.
Lo! on the morrow morn, still closedThe monument was found;But in its robes funereal drest,The corse they had consigned to restLay on the stony ground.
Fear and amazement seized on all;They called on Mary's aid;And in the tomb, unclosed again,With choral hymn and funeral train,The corse again was laid.
But with the incorruptibleCorruption might not rest;The lonely chapel's stone-paved floorReceived the ejected corse once more,In robes funereal drest.
So was it found when morning beamed;In solemn suppliant strainThe nuns implored all saints in heaven,That rest might to the corse be given,Which they entombed again.
On the third night a watch was keptBy many a friar and nun;Trembling, all knelt in fervent prayer,Till on the dreary midnight airRolled the deep bell-toll "One!"
The saint within the opening tombLike marble statue stood;All fell to earth in deep dismay;And through their ranks she passed away,In calm unchanging mood.
No answering sound her footsteps raisedAlong the stony floor;Silent as death, severe as fate,She glided through the chapel gate,And none beheld her more.
The alabaster couch was gone;The tomb was void and bare;For the last time, with hasty rite,Even 'mid the terror of the night,They laid the abbess there.
'Tis said the abbess rests not wellIn that sepulchral pile;But yearly, when the night comes roundAs dies of "one" the bell's deep soundShe flits along the aisle.
But whither passed the virgin saint?To slumber far away,Destined by Mary to endure,Unaltered in her semblance pure,Until the judgment day!
The saviour, and not the slayer, he is the braver man.So far my text—but the story? Thus, then, it runs; from SpokaneRolled out the overland mail train, late by an hour. In the cabDavid Shaw, at your service, dressed in his blouse of drab.Grimed by the smoke and the cinders. "Feed her well, Jim," he said;(Jim was his fireman.) "Make up time!" On and on they sped;
Dust from the wheels up-flying; smoke rolling out behind;The long train thundering, swaying; the roar of the cloven wind;Shaw, with his hand on the lever, looking out straight ahead.How she did rock, old Six-forty! How like a storm they sped.
Leavenworth—thirty minutes gained in the thrilling race.Now for the hills—keener look-out, or a letting down of the pace.Hardly a pound of the steam less! David Shaw straightened back,Hand like steel on the lever, face like flint to the track.
God!—look there! Down the mountain, right ahead of the train,Acres of sand and forest sliding down to the plain!What to do? Why, jump, Dave! Take the chance, while you can.The train is doomed—save your own life! Think of the children, man!
Well, what did he, this hero, face to face with grim death?Grasped the throttle—reversed it—shrieked "Down brakes!" in abreath.Stood to his post, without flinching, clear-headed, open-eyed,Till the train stood still with a shudder, and he—went down with theslide!
Saved?—yes, saved! Ninety people snatched from an awful grave.One life under the sand, there. All that he had, he gave,Man to the last inch! Hero?—noblest of heroes, yea;Worthy the shaft and the tablet, worthy the song and the bay!
I am my brother's keeper,And I the duty own;For no man liveth to himselfOr to himself alone;And we must bear togetherA common weal and woe,In all we are, in all we have,In all we feel and know.
I am my brother's keeper,In all that I can be,Of high and pure example,Of true integrity;A guide to go before him,In darkness and in light;A very cloud of snow by day,A cloud of fire by night.
I am my brother's keeper,In all that I can say,To help him on his journeyTo cheer him by the way;To succour him in weakness,To solace him in woe;To strengthen him in conflict,And fit him for the foe.
I am my brother's keeper,In all that I can doTo save him from temptation,To help him to be true;To stay him if he stumble,To lift him if he fall;To stand beside him though his sinHas severed him from all.
I am my brother's keeper,In sickness and in health;In triumph and in failure,In poverty and wealth;His champion in danger,His advocate in blame,The herald of his honour,The hider of his shame.
And though he prove unworthy,He is my brother still,And I must render right for wrongAnd give him good for ill;My standard must not alterFor folly, fault, or whim,And to be true unto myselfI must be true to him.
And all men are my brothersWherever they may be,And he is most my proper careWho most has need of me;Who most may need my counsel,My influence, my pelf,And most of all who needsmystrengthTo save him frommyself.
For all I have of powerBeyond what he can wield,Is not a weapon of offenceBut a protecting shield,WhichImust hold before himTo save him from his foe,E'en thoughIbe the enemyThat longs to strike the blow.
I am my brother's keeper,And must be to the end—A neighbour to the neighbourless,And to the friendless, friend;His weakness lays it on me,My strength involves it too,And common love for common lifeWill bear the burden through.