(January 16, 1809.)
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corse to the rampant we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,And smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his headAnd we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on,In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our weary task was done,When the clock struck the hour for retiring,And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We Carved not a line and we raised not a stone.But left him alone inhisglory.
(October 21, 1805.)
Ay, ay, good neighbours, I have seenHim! sure as God's my life;One of his chosen crew I've been,Haven't I, old good wife?God bless your dear eyes! didn't you vowTo marry me any weather,If I came back with limbs enowTo keep my soul together?
Brave as a lion was our NelAnd gentle as a lamb:It warms my blood once more to tellThe tale—gray as I am—It makes the old life in me climb,It sets my soul aswim;I live twice over every timeThat I can talk of him.
You should have seen him as he trodThe deck, our joy, and pride;You should have seen him, like a godOf storm, his war-horse ride!You should have seen him as he stoodFighting for our good land,With all the iron of soul and bloodTurned to a sword in hand.
Our best beloved of all the braveThat ever for freedom fought;And all his wonders of the waveFor Fatherland were wrought!He was the manner of man to showHow victories may be won;So swift you scarcely saw the blow;You looked—the deed was done.
He sailed his ships for work; he boreHis sword for battle-wear;His creed was "Best man to the fore";And he was always there.Up any peak of peril whereThere was but room for one;The only thing he did not dareWas any death to shun.
The Nelson touch his men he taught,And his great stride to keep;His faithful fellows round him foughtTen thousand heroes deep.With a red pride of life, and hotFor him, their blood ran free;They "minded not the showers of shotNo more than peas," said he.
Napoleon saw our Sea-king thwartHis landing on our Isle;He gnashed his teeth, he gnawed his heartAt Nelson of the Nile,Who set his fleet in flames, to lightThe Lion to his prey,And lead Destruction through the nightUpon his dreadful way.
Around the world he drove his game,And ran his glorious race;Nor rested till he hunted themFrom off the ocean's face;Like that old wardog who, till death,Clung to the vessel's sideTill hands were lopped, then with his teethHe held on till he died.
Ay, he could do the deeds that setOld fighters' hearts afire;The edge of every spirit whet,And every arm inspire.Yet I have seen upon his faceThe tears that, as they roll,Show what a light of saintly graceMay clothe a sailor's soul.
And when our darling went to meetTrafalgar's judgment day,The people knelt down in the streetTo bless him on his way.He felt the country of his loveWatching him from afar;It saw him through the battle move;His heaven was in that star.
Magnificently glorious sightIt was in that great dawn!Like one vast sapphire flashing light,The sea, just breathing shone.Their ships, fresh-painted, stood up tallAnd stately; ours were grimAnd weatherworn, but one and allIn rare good fighting trim.
Our spirits were all flying light,And into battle sped,Straining for it on wings of might,With feet of springy tread;The light of battle on each face,Its lust in every eye;Our sailor blood at swiftest paceTo catch the victory nigh.
His proudly wasted face, wave worn,Was loftily serene;I saw the brave bright spirit burnThere, all too plainly seen;As though the sword this time was drawnForever from the sheath;And when its work to-day was done,All would be dark in death.
His eye shone like a lamp of nightSet in the porch of power;The deed unborn was burning brightWithin him at that hour!His purpose, welded to white heat,Cried like some visible fate,"To-day we must not merelybeat,We mustannihilate."
He smiled to see the Frenchman showHis reckoning for retreat,With Cadiz port on his lee bow,And held him then half beat.They flew no colours till we drewThem out to strike with there!OldVictoryfor a prize or twoHad flags enough to spare.
Mast-high the famous signal ran;Breathless we caught each word:"England expects that every manWill do his duty." Lord,You should have seen our faces! heardUs cheering, row on row;Like men before some furnace stirredTo a fiery fearful glow!
'Twas Collingwood our lee line led,And cut their centre through."See how he goes in!" Nelson said,As his first broadside flew,And near four hundred foemen fall.Up went another cheer."Ah! what would Nelson give," said Coll,"But to be with us here!"
We grimly kept our vanward path;Over us hummed their shot;But, silently, we reined our wrath,Held on and answered not,Till we could grip them face to face,And pound them for our own,Or hug them in a war-embrace,Till we or both went down.
How calm he was! when first he feltThe sharp edge of that fight.Cabined with God alone he knelt;The prayer still lay in lightUpon his face, that used to shineIn battle—flash with life,As though the glorious blood ran wine,Dancing with that wild strife.
"Fight for us, Thou Almighty one!Give victory once again!And if I fall, Thy will be done.Amen, Amen, Amen!"With such a voice he bade good-bye;The mournfullest old smile wore:"Farewell! God bless you, Blackwood, IShall never see you more."
And four hours after, he had doneWith winds and troubled foam:The Reaper was borne dead uponOur load of Harvest home—Not till he knew the Old Flag flewAlone on all the deep;Then said he, "Hardy, is that you?Kiss me." And fell asleep.
Well, 'twas his chosen death belowThe deck in triumph trod;'Tis well. A sailor's soul should goFrom his good ship to God.He would have chosen death aboard,From all the crowns of rest;And burial with the Patriot swordUpon the Victor's breast.
"Not a great sinner." No, dear heart,God grant in our death pain,We may have played as well our part,And feel as free from stain.We see the spots on such a star,Because it burned so bright;But on the other side they areAll lost in greater light.
And so he went upon his way,A higher deck to walk,Or sit in some eternal dayAnd of the old time talkWith sailors old, who, on that coast,Welcome the homeward bound,Where many a gallant soul we've lostAnd Franklin will be found.
Where amidst London's roar and moilThat cross of peace upstands,Like Martyr with his heavenward smile,And flame-lit, lifted hands,There lies the dark and moulder'd dust;But that magnanimousAnd manly Seaman's soul, I trust,Lives on in some of us.
(October 11, 1797.)
We were lying calm and peaceful as an infant lies asleep,Rocked in the mighty cradle of the ever-restless deep,Or like a lion resting ere he rises to the fray,With eyes half closed in slumber and half open for the prey.We had waited long, and restless was the spirit of the fleet,For the long-expected conquest and the long-delayed defeat,When, uprose the mists of morning, as a curtain rolls away,For the high heroic action of some old chivalric play.And athwart the sea to starboard waved the colours high and freeOf the famous fighting squadron that usurped the loyal sea.
Quick the signal came for action, quick replied we with a cheer,For the friends at home behind us, and the foes before so near;Three times three the cheering sounded, and 'mid deafening hurrahsWe sprang into position—five hundred lusty tars.And the cannons joined our shouting with a burly, booming cheerThat aroused the hero's action, and awoke the coward's fear;And the lightning and the thunder gleamed and pealed athwart thescene,Till the noontide mist was greater than the morning mist had been,And the foeman and the stranger and the brother and the friendWere mingled in one seething mass the battle's end to end.
With broken spars and splintered bulks the decks were strewn anon,While the rigging, torn and tangled, hung the shattered yards upon;Like a cataract of fire outpoured the steady cannonade,Till the strongest almost wavered and the bravest were dismayed.Like an endless swarm of locusts sprang they up our vessel's side,And scaled her burning bulwarks or fell backward in the tide,'Twas a fearful day of carnage, such as none had known before,In the fiercest naval battles of those gallant days of yore.
We had battled all the morning, 'mid the never-ceasing hailOf grape and spark and splinter, of cable shred, and sail;We had thrice received their onslaught, which we thrice had drivenback,And were waiting, calm and ready, for the last forlorn attack;When a shout of exultation from out their ranks arose,A frenzied shout of triumph o'er their yet unconquered foes;For the stainless flag of England, that has braved a thousand years,Had been shot clean from the masthead; and they gave three heartycheers,"A prize! a prize!" they shouted, from end to end the host,Till a broadside gave them answer, and for ever stilled their boast.
Then a fearful struggle followed, as, to desperation spurred,They sought in deed the triumph so falsely claimed in word.'Twas the purpose of a moment, and the bravest of our tarsPlunged headlong in the boiling surf, amid the broken spars;He snatched the shot-torn colours, and wound them round his arm,Then climbed upon the deck again, and there stood safe and calm;He paused but for a moment—it was no time to stay—Then he leaped into the rigging that had yet survived the fray;Higher yet he climbed and higher, till he gained a dizzy height,Then turned and paused a moment to look down upon the fight.
Whistled wild the shots around him, as a curling, smoky wreathFormed a cloudy shroud to hide him from the enemy beneath.Beat his heart with proud elation as he firmly fixed his stand,And again the colours floated as he held them in his hand.Then a pistol deftly wielded, 'mid the battle's ceaseless blast,Fastened there the colours firmly, as he nailed them to that mast;Then as if to yield him glory—the smoke-clouds cleared away—And we sent him up the loudest cheer that reach'd his ear that day,With new-born zeal and courage, dashing fiercely to the fight,To crown the day of battle with the triumph of the night.
'Tis a story oft repeated, 'tis a triumph often won,How a thousand hearts are strengthened by the bravery of oneThere was never dauntless courage of the loyal and the trueThat did not inspirit others unto deeds of daring too;There was never bright example, be the struggle what it might,That did not inflame the ardour of the others in the fight.Up, then, ye who would be heroes, and, before the strife is past,For the sake of those about you, "nail the colours to the mast!"
For the flag is ever flying, and it floats above the free,On island and on continent, and up and down the sea;And the conflict ever rages—there are many foes to fight—There are many ills to conquer, there are many wrongs to right,For the glory of the moment, for the triumph by-and-bye;For the love of truth and duty, up and dare, and do or die,And though fire and shot and whirlwind join to tear the standarddown,Up and nail it to the masthead, as we did at Camperdown.
Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise,I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,When that great Fleet Invincible against her bore, in vain,The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain.
It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day,There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay;The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle,At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile.At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace;And the tallPinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase.Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall;The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall;Many a light fishing-bark put out, to pry along the coast;And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a post.
With his white hair, unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes,Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums:The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear and ample space,For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace:And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells,As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells.Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown,And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down!So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field,Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle shield:So glared he when, at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to bay,And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay.Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight! ho! scatter flowers, fairmaids!Ho! gunners! fire a loud salute! ho! gallants! draw your blades!Thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye breezes, waft her wide!Our glorioussemper eadem!the banner of our pride!
The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold—The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold:Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea;Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be.From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay,That time of slumber was as bright, and busy as the day;For swift to east, and swift to west, the ghastly war-flame spread—High on St. Michael's Mount it shone—it shone on Beachy Head:Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire,Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire.The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves,The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless caves;O'er Longleat's towers, or Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew,And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge—the rangers of Beaulieu.Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town;And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down.
The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night,And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood-red light:The bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence broke,And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke;At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires;At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires;From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear,And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer:And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaringstreet:
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din,As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in;And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike errandwent;And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires of Kent:Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright couriersforth;High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started for the north;And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still;All night from tower to tower they sprang, they sprang from hill tohill;Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales;Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales;Till, twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height;Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, the Wrekin's crest of light;Till, broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane,And tower and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless plain;Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of Trent;Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.
"Your charge against Mr. Barker, the artist here," said the magistrate, "is assault and battery, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"And your name is——"
"Potts! I am art critic of theWeekly Spy."
"State your case."
"I called at Mr. Barker's studio upon his invitation to see his great picture, just finished, of 'George Washington cutting down the cherry-tree with his hatchet.' Mr. Barker was expecting to sell it to Congress for fifty thousand dollars. He asked me what I thought of it, and after I had pointed out his mistake in making the handle of the hatchet twice as thick as the tree, and in turning the head of the hatchet around, so that George was cutting the tree down with the hammer end, I asked him why he foreshortened George's leg so as to make it look as if his left foot was upon the mountain on the other side of the river."
"Did Mr. Barker take it kindly?" asked the justice.
"Well, he looked a little glum—that's all. And then when I asked him why he put a guinea-pig up in the tree, and why he painted the guinea-pig with horns, he said it was not a guinea-pig but a cow; and that it was not in the tree, but in the background. Then I said that, if I had been painting George Washington, I should not have given him the complexion of a salmon-brick, I should not have given him two thumbs on each hand, and I should have tried not to slue his right eye around so that he could see around the back of his head to his left ear. And Barker said, 'Oh, wouldn't you?' Sarcastic, your honour. And I said, 'No, I wouldn't'; and I wouldn't have painted oak-leaves on a cherry-tree; and I wouldn't have left the spectator in doubt as to whether the figure off by the woods was a factory chimney, or a steamboat, or George Washington's father taking a smoke."
"Which was it?" asked the magistrate.
"I don't know. Nobody will ever know. So Barker asked me what I'd advise him to do. And I told him I thought his best chance was to abandon the Washington idea, and to fix the thing up somehow to represent 'The Boy who stood on the Burning Deck.' I told him he might paint the grass red to represent the flames, and daub over the tree so's it would look like the mast, and pull George's foot to this side of the river so's it would rest somewhere on the burning deck, and maybe he might reconstruct the factory chimney, or whatever it was, and make it the captain, while he could arrange the guinea-pig to do for the captain's dog."
"Did he agree?"
"He said the idea didn't strike him. So then I suggested that he might turn it into Columbus discovering America. Let George stand for Columbus, and the tree be turned into a native, and the hatchet made to answer for a flag, while the mountain in the background would answer for the rolling billows of the ocean. He said he'd be hanged if it should. So I mentioned that it might perhaps pass for the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. Put George in black for the headsman, bend over the tree and put a frock on it for Mary, let the hatchet stand, and work in the guinea-pig and the factory chimney as mourners. Just as I had got the words out of my mouth, Barker knocked me clean through the picture. My head tore out Washington's near leg, and my right foot carried away about four miles of the river. We had it over and over on the floor for a while, and finally Barker whipped. I am going to take the law of him in the interests of justice and high art."
So Barker was bound over, and Mr. Potts went down to the office of theSpyto write up his criticism.
"Mr. Brown, you don't want to buy a first-rate wooden leg, do you? I've got one that I've been wearing for two or three years, and I want to sell it. I'm hard up for money; and although I'm attached to that leg, I'm willing to part with it, so's I kin get the necessaries of life. Legs are all well enough; they are handy to have around the house, and all that; but a man must attend to his stomach, if he has to walk about on the small of his back. Now, I'm going to make you an offer. That leg is Fairchild's patent; steel-springs, india-rubber joints, elastic toes and everything, and it's in better order now than it was when I bought it. It'd be a comfort to any man. It's the most luxurious leg I ever came across. If bliss ever kin be reached by a man this side of the tomb, it belongs to the person that gets that leg on and feels the consciousness creeping over his soul that it is his. Consequently, I say that when I offer it to you I'm doing a personal favour; and I think I see you jump at the chance, and want to clinch the bargain before I mention—you'll hardly believe it, I know—that I'll actually knock that leg down to you at four hundred dollars. Four hundred, did I say? I meant six hundred; but let it stand. I never back out when I make an offer; but it's just throwing that leg away—it is, indeed."
"But I don't want an artificial leg," said Brown.
"The beautiful thing about the limb," said the stranger, pulling up his trousers and displaying the article, "is that it is reliable. You kin depend on it. It's always there. Some legs that I have seen were treacherous—most always some of the springs bursting out, or the joints working backwards, or the toes turning down and ketching in things. Regular frauds. But it's almost pathetic the way this leg goes on year in and year out, like an old faithful friend, never knowing an ache or a pain, no rheumatism, nor any such foolishness as that, but always good-natured and ready to go out of its way to oblige you. A. man feels like a man when he gets such a thing under him. Talk about your kings and emperors and millionaires, and all that sort of nonsense! Which of 'em's got a leg like that? Which of 'em kin unscrew his knee-pan, and look at the gum thingamajigs in his calf? Which of 'em kin leave his leg downstairs in the entry on the hat-rack, and go to bed with only one cold foot? Why, it's enough to make one of them monarchs sick to think of such a convenience. But they can't help it. There's only one man kin buy that leg, and that's you. I want you to have it so bad that I'll deed it to you for fifty dollars down. Awful, isn't it. Just throwing it away: but take it, take it, if it does make my heart bleed to see it go out of the family."
"Really, I have no use for such a thing," said Mr. Brown.
"You can't think," urged the stranger, "what a benediction a leg like this is in a family. When you don't want to walk with it, it comes into play for the children to ride horsey on; or you kin take it off and stir the fire with it in a way that would depress the spirits of a man with a real leg. It makes the most efficient potato-masher ever you saw. Work it from the second joint, and let the knee swing loose; you kin tack carpets perfectly splendid with the heel; and when a cat sees it coming at him from the winder, he just adjourns,sine die, and goes down off the fence screaming. Now, you're probably afeared of dogs. When you see one approaching, you always change your base. I don't blame you; I used to be that way before I lost my home-made leg. But you fix yourself with this artificial extremity, and then what do you care for dogs? If a million of 'em come at you, what's the odds? You merely stand still and smile, and throw out your spare leg, and let 'em chaw, let 'em fool with that as much as they've a mind to, and howl and carry on, for you don't care. An' that's the reason why I say that when I reflect on how imposing you'd be as the owner of such a leg, I feel like saying, that if you insist on offering only a dollar and a half for it, why, take it; it's yours. I'm not the kinder man to stand on trifles. I'll take it off and wrap it up in paper for you; shall I?"
"I'm sorry," said Brown, "but the fact is, I have no use for it. I've got two good legs already. If I ever lose one, why, maybe, then I'll——"
"I don't think you exactly catch my idea on the subject," said the stranger. "Now, any man kin have a meat-and-muscle leg; they're as common as dirt. It's disgusting how monotonous people are about such things. But I take you for a man who wants to be original. You have style about you. You go it alone, as it were. Now, if I had your peculiarities, do you know what I'd do? I'd get a leg snatched off some way, so's I could walk around on this one. Or, it you hate to go to the expense of amputation, why not get your pantaloons altered, and mount this beautiful work of art just as you stand? A centipede, a mere ridicklous insect, has half a bushel of legs, and why can't a man, the grandest creature on earth, own three? You go around this community on three legs, and your fortune's made. People will go wild over you as the three-legged grocer; the nation will glory in you; Europe will hear of you; you will be heard of from pole to pole. It'll build up your business. People'll flock from everywheres to see you, and you'll make your sugar and cheese and things fairly hum. Look at it as an advertisement! Look at it any way you please, and there's money in it—there's glory, there's immortality. Now, look at it that way; and if it strikes you, I tell you what I'll do: I'll actually swap that imperishable leg off to you for two pounds of water-crackers and a tin cupful of Jamaica rum. Is it a go?"
Then Brown weighed out the crackers, gave him a drink of rum, and told him if he would take them as a present and quit he would confer a favour. And he did. After emptying the crackers in his pockets, and smacking his lips over the rum, he went to the door, and as he opened it said,—
"Good-bye. But if you ever really do want a leg, Old Reliable is ready for you; it's yours. I consider that you've got a mortgage on it, and you kin foreclose at any time. I dedicate this leg to you. My will shall mention it; and if you don't need it when I die, I'm going to have it put in the savings bank to draw interest until you check it out."
The King was sick. His cheek was red,And his eye was clear and bright;He ate and drank with a kingly zest,And peacefully snored at night.
But he said he was sick, and a king should know,And doctors came by the score,They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,And sent to the schools for more.
At last two famous doctors came,And one was as poor as a rat,—He had passed his life in studious toil,And never found time to grow fat.
The other had never looked in a book;His patients gave him no trouble:If they recovered they paid him well;If they died their heirs paid double.
Together they looked at the royal tongue,As the King on his couch reclined;In succession they thumped his august chest,But no trace of disease could find.
The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut.""Hang him up," roared the King in a gale—In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;The other leech grew a shade pale;
But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,And thus his prescription ran—The King will be well if he sleeps one nightIn the Shirt of a Happy Man.
* * * * *
Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode,And fast their horses ran,And many they saw, and to many they spoke,But they found no Happy Man….
They saw two men by the roadside sit,And both bemoaned their lot;For one had buried his wife, he said,And the other one had not.
At last they came to a village gate,A beggar lay whistling there!He whistled and sang, and laughed and rolledOn the grass in the soft June air.
The weary courtiers paused and lookedAt the scamp so blithe and gay;And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend!You seem to be happy to-day."
"O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed,And his voice rang free and glad;"An idle man has so much to doThat he never has time to be sad."
"This is our man," the courier said;"Our luck has led us aright.I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,For the loan of your shirt to-night."
The merry blackguard lay back on the grass,And laughed till his face was black;"I would do it," said he, and he roared with the fun,"But I haven't a shirt to my back."
* * * * *
Each day to the King the reports came inOf his unsuccessful spies,And the sad panorama of human woesPassed daily under his eyes.
And he grew ashamed of his useless life,And his maladies hatched in gloom;He opened his windows and let the airOf the free heaven into his room.
And out he went in the world, and toiledIn his own appointed way;And the people blessed him, the land was glad,And the King was well and gay.
Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives,Because he don't live, you see:Leastways, he's got out of the habitOf livin' like you and me.Whar have you been for the last three yearsThat you haven't heard folks tellHow Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks,The night of thePrairie Bell?
He weren't no saint—them engineersIs all pretty much alike—One wife in Natchez-under-the-HillAnd another one here, in Pike.A keerless man in his talk was Jim,And an awkward man in a row—But he never funked, and he never lied,I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had—To treat his engine well;Never be passed on the river;To mind the Pilot's bell;And if thePrairie Belltook fire—A thousand times he swore,He'd hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississip,And her day come at last—TheMovastarwas a better boat,But theBelleshewouldn'tbe passed.And so come tearin' along that night—The oldest craft on the line,With a nigger squat on her safety valve,And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire burst out as she clared the bar,And burnt a hole in the night,And quick as a flash she turned, and madeFor the wilier-bank on the right.There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled outOver all the infernal, roar,"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last galoot's ashore."
Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boatJim Bludso's voice was heard,And they all had trust in his cussedness,And knowed he would keep his word.And sure's you're born, they all got offAfore the smokestacks fell,—And Bludso's ghost went up aloneIn the smoke of thePrairie Belle.
He weren't no saint—but at jedgmentI'd run my chance with Jim,'Longside of some pious gentlemenThat wouldn't shook hands with him.He'd seen his duty, a dead-sure thing—And went for it thar and then;And Christ ain't a going to fee too hardOn a man that died for men.
Men! whose boast it is that yeCome of fathers brave and free,If there breathe on earth a slave,Are ye truly free and brave?If ye do not feel the chain,When it works a brother's pain,Are ye not base slaves indeed,—Slaves unworthy to be freed?
Women! who shall one day bearSons to breathe New England air,If ye hear, without a blush,Deeds to make the roused blood rushLike red lava through your veins,For your sisters now in chains,—Answer! are ye fit to beMothers of the brave and free?
Is true Freedom but to breakFetters for our own dear sake,And, with leathern hearts forgetThat we owe mankind a debt?No! true freedom is to shareAll the chains our brothers wear,And, with heart and hand, to beEarnest to make others free!
They are slaves who fear to speakFor the fallen and the weak;They are slaves who will not chooseHatred, scoffing, and abuse,Rather than in silence shrinkFrom the truth they needs must think;They are slaves who dare not beIn the right with two or three.
God makes sech nights, all white an' stillFur'z you can look or listen,Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,All silence an' all glisten.
Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown,An' peeked in thru' the winder;An' there sot Huldy all alone,'Ith no one nigh to hender.
A fireplace filled the room's one side,With half a cord o' wood in;There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)To bake ye to a puddin'.
The wa'nut logs shot sparkles outTowards the pootiest, bless her!An' leetle flames danced all aboutThe chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,Ah' in amongst em rustedThe ole queen's-arm that gran'ther YoungFetched back from Concord busted.
The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin',An' she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin'.
'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to lookOn sech a blessed cretur;A dogrose blushin' to a brookAin't modester nor sweeter.
He was six foot o' man, A1,Clean grit an' human natur';None couldn't quicker pitch a ton,Nor dror a furrer straighter.
He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells—All is, he wouldn't love 'em.
But 'long o' her his veins 'ould runAll crinkly like curled maple;The side she breshed felt full o' sunEz a south slope in Ap'il.
She thought no v'ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir:My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.
An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin'-bunnetFelt somehow thru' its crown a pairO' blue eyes sot upon it.
That night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!She seemed to've gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heerd a foot, an' knowed it tu,A-rasping on the scraper;All ways at once her feelin's flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' loitered on the mat,Some doubtfle o' the sekle;His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,But her'n went pity Zekle.
An yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furder,An' on her apples kep' to work,Parin' away like murder.
"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?""Wal—no—I come dasignin'—""To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'esAgin to-morrer's i'nin."
To say why gals act so or so,Or don't, 'ould be presumin';Mebbe to meanyesan' saynoComes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t'other,An' on which one he felt the wustHe couldn't ha' told ye nuther.
Says he, "I'd better call agin;"Says she, "Think likely, Mister;"Thet last word prick'd him like a pin,An'—wal, he up an' kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin' o' smily roun' the lips,An' teary roun' the lashes.
For she was jes' the quiet kindWhose naturs never vary,Like streams that keep a summer mindSnow-hid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun' her heart felt gluedToo tight for all expressin',Tell mother see how metters stood,An' gin 'em both her blessin'.
Then her red come back like the tideDown to the Bay o' Fundy;An' all I know is they was criedIn meetin' come nex' Sunday.
The Rich Man's Son inherits lands,And piles of brick, and stone, and gold;And he inherits soft white handsAnd tender flesh that fears the cold—Nor dares to wear a garment old:A heritage, it seems to me,One scarce could wish to hold in fee.The Rich Man's Son inherits cares:The bank may break—the factory burn;A breath may burst his bubble shares;And soft white hands could hardly earnA living that would serve his turn.The Rich Man's Son inherits wants:His stomach craves for dainty fare;With sated heart, he hears the pantsOf toiling hinds, with brown arms bare—And wearies in his easy-chair.
What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit?Stout muscles, and a sinewy heart,A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;King of two hands, he does his partIn every useful toil and art:A heritage, it seems to me,A king might wish to hold in fee.What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit?Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things;A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,Content that from employment springs,A heart that in his labour sings!What doth the Poor Man's Son inherit?A patience learnt of being poor;Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it:A fellow-feeling that is sureTo make the Outcast bless his door.
Oh! Rich Man's Son, there is a toilThat with all others level stands;Large charity doth never soil,But only whiten soft white hands—This is the best crop from thy lands.A heritage, it seems to me,Worth being rich to hold in fee.
* * * * *
Oh! Poor Man's Son, scorn not thy state;There is worse weariness than thine,In merely being rich and great;Toil only gives the soul to shine,And-makes rest fragrant and benign!Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,Are equal in the earth at last;Both children of the same great God!Prove title to your heirship vastBy record of a well-spent past.A heritage, it seems to me,Well worth a life to hold in fee.
It was the time when lilies blow,And clouds are highest up in air,Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doeTo give his cousin, Lady Clare.
I trow they did not part in scorn;Lovers long betroth'd were theyThey two will wed the morrow morn;God's blessing on the day!
"He does not love me for my birth,Nor for my lands so broad and fair;He loves me for my own true worth,And that is well," said Lady Clare.
In there came old Alice the nurse,Said, "Who was this that went from thee?""It was my cousin," said Lady Clare;"To-morrow he weds with me."
"O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse,"That all comes round so just and fair:Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,And you are not the Lady Clare."
"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse,"Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?""As God's above," said Alice the nurse,"I speak the truth: you are my child.
"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;I speak the truth as I live by bread!I buried her like my own sweet child,And put my child in her stead."
"Falsely, falsely have ye done,O mother," she said, "if this be true,To keep the best man under the sunSo many years from his due."
"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,"But keep the secret for your life,And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,When you are man and wife."
"If I'm a beggar born," she said,"I will speak out, for I dare not lie.Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,And fling the diamond necklace by."
"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,"But keep the secret all ye can."She said "Not so: but I will knowIf there be any faith in man."
"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse,"The man will cleave unto his right.""And he shall have it," the lady replied,"Tho' I should die to-night."
"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!Alas! my child, I sinn'd for thee.""O mother, mother, mother," she said,"So strange it seems to me.
"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,My mother dear, if this be so,And lay your hand upon my head,And bless me, mother, ere I go."
She clad herself in a russet gown,She was no longer Lady Clare:She went by dale, and she went by down,With a single rose in her hair.
The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had broughtLeapt up from where she lay,Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,And follow'd her all the way.
Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower."O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!Why come you drest like a village maid,That are the flower of the earth?"
"If I come drest like a village maid,I am but as my fortunes are:I am a beggar born," she said,"And not the Lady Clare."
"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,"For I am yours in word and in deed.Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,"Your riddle is hard to read."
O and proudly stood she up!Her heart within her did not fail:She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes,And told him all her nurse's tale.
He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn:He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood."If you are not the heiress born,And I," said he, "the next in blood—
"If you are not the heiress born,And I," said he, "the lawful heir,We two will wed to-morrow morn,And you shall still be Lady Clare."
Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.