"MydearMabel, how pale you look! It is this hot room. I am sure Lord Saint Sinnes will not mind taking you for a little turn in the garden—between the dances."
My Lord Saint Sinnes—or Billy Sinnes as he is usually called by his friends—shuffled in his high collar. It is a remarkable collar, nearly related to a cuff, and it keeps Lord Saint Innes in remembrance of his chin. If it were not that this plain young nobleman were essentially a gentleman, one might easily mistake him for a groom. Moreover, like other persons of equine tastes, he has the pleasant fancy of affecting a tight and horsey "cut" in clothes never intended for the saddle.
The girl, addressed by her somewhat overpowering mother as Mabel, takes the proffered arm with a murmured acquiescence and a quivering lip. She is paler than before.
Over his stiff collar Lord Saint Sinnes looks down at her—with something of the deep intuition which makes him the finest steeplechaser in England. Perhaps he notes the quiver of the lip, the sinews drawn tense about her throat. Such silent signals of distress are his business. Certainly he notes the little shiver of abject fear which passes through the girl's slight form as they pass out of the room together. Their departure is noted by several persons—mostlychaperons.
"He must do it to-night," murmurs the girl's mother with a complacent smile on her worldly, cruel face, "and then Mabel will soon see that—the other—was all a mistake."
Some mothers believe such worn-out theories as this—and others—are merely heartless.
Lord Saint Sinnes leads the way deliberately to the most secluded part of the garden. There are two chairs at the end of a narrow pathway. Mabel sits down hopelessly. She is a quiet-eyed little girl, with brown hair and gentle ways. Just—in a word—the sort of girl who usually engages the affections of blushing, open-air, horsey men. She has no spirit, and those who know her mother are not surprised. She is going to say yes, because she dare not say no. At least two lives are going to be wrecked at the end of the narrow path.
Lord Saint Sinnes sits down at her side and contemplates his pointed toes. Then he looks at her—his clean-shaven face very grave—with the eye of the steeplechase rider.
"Miss Maddison"—jerk of the chin and pull at collar—"you're in a ghastly fright."
Miss Maddison draws in a sudden breath, like a sob, and looks at her lacework handkerchief.
"You think I'm going to ask you to marry me?"
Still no answer. The stiff collar gleams in the light of a Chinese lantern. Lord Saint Sinnes's linen is a matter of proverb.
"But I'm not. I'm not such a cad as that."
The girl raises her head, as if she hears a far-off sound.
"I know that old worn——. I daresay I would give great satisfaction to some people if I did! But … I can't help that."
Mabel is bending forward, hiding her face. A tear falls on her silk dress with a little dull flop. Young Saint Sinnes looks at her—almost as if he were going to take her in his arms. Then he shuts his upper teeth over his lower lip, hard—just as he does when riding at the water jump.
"A fellow mayn't be much to look at," he says, gruffly, "but he can ride straight, for all that."
Mabel half turns her head, and he has the satisfaction of concluding that she has no fault to find with his riding.
"Of course," he says, abruptly, "there is s'm' other fellow?"
After a pause, Miss Maddison nods.
"Miss Maddison," says Lord Saint Sinnes, rising and jerking his knees back after the manner of horsey persons, "you can go back into that room and take your Bible oath that I never asked you to marry me."
Mabel rises also. She wants to say something, but there is a lump in her throat.
"Some people," he goes on, "will say that you bungled it, others thatI behaved abominably, but—but we know better, eh?"
He offers his arm, and they walk toward the house.
Suddenly he stops, and fidgets in his collar.
"Don't trouble about me," he says, simply. "I shan't marry anyone else—I couldn't do that—but—but I didn't suspect until to-night, y'know, that there was another man, and a chap must ride straight, you know."
"Always a hindrance, are we? You didn't think that of old;With never a han' to help a man, and only a tongue to scold?Timid as hares in danger—weak as a lamb in strife,With never a heart to bear a part in the rattle and battle of life!Just fit to see to the children and manage the home affairs,With only a head for butter and bread, a soul for tables and chairs?Where would you be to-morrow if half of the lie were true?It's well some women are weak at heart, if only for saving you.
"We haven't much time to be merry who marry a struggling man,Making and mending and saving and spending, and doing the best wecan.Skimming and scamming and plotting and planning, and making the donefor do,Grinding the mill with the old grist still and turning the old intonew;Picking and paring and shaving and sharing, and when not enough forus all,Giving up tea that whatever may be the 'bacca sha'n't go to the wall;With never a rest from the riot and zest, the hustle and bustle andnoiseOf the boys who all try to be men like you, and the girls who all tryto be boys.
"You know the tale of the eagle that carried the child awayTo its eyrie high in the mountain sky, grim and rugged and gray;Of the sailor who climbed to save it, who, ere he had half-way spedUp the mountain wild,metmother and child returning as from thedeadThere's many a bearded giant had never have grown a span,If in peril's power in childhood's hour he'd had to wait for a man.And who is the one among you but is living and hale to-day,Because he was tied to a woman's side in the old home far away?
"You have heard the tale of the lifeboat, and the women of MumblesHead,Who, when the men stood shivering by, or out from the danger fled,Tore their shawls into striplets and knotted them end to end,And then went down to the gates of death for father and brother andfriend.Deeper and deeper into the sea, ready of heart and head,Hauling them home through the blinding foam, and raising them fromthe dead.There's many of you to-morrow who, but for a woman's hand,Would be drifting about with the shore lights out and never a chanceto land.
"You've read of the noble woman in the midst of a Border frayWho held her own in a castle lone, for her lord who was far away.For the children who gather'd round her and the home that she lovedso well,And the deathless fame of a woman's name whom nothing but love couldquell.Who, when the men would have yielded, with her own sweet lily hand,Led them straight from the postern gate, and drove the foe from theland.There's many a little homestead that is cosy and sung to-day,Because of a woman who stood in the door and kept the wolves at bay.
"Only a hindrance are we? then we'll be a hindrance still.We hinder the devil and all his works, and I reckon he takes it ill.We do the work that is nearest, and that is the surest plan,But if ever you want a hero, and you cannot wait for a man,You need not tell us the chances, you've only the need to show,And there's many a woman in all the world who is willing and readyto go,For trust in trial, for work in woe, for comfort and care in sorrow,The wives of the world are its strength to-day, the daughters it'shope to-morrow."
(Founded on an old Legend.)
At the little town of Norton, in a famous western shire,There dwelt a sightless maiden with her venerated sire.To him she was the legacy her mother had bequeathed;To her he was the very sun that warmed the air she breathed.
Old Alec was a carter, and he moved from town to town,Taking parcels from the "The Wheatsheaf" to "The Mitre" or "TheCrown;"And on festival occasions would the sightless maiden rideTo the old cathedral city by the honest carter's side.
Ere he tended to his duty at the market or the fairHe would seek the lofty Gothic pile, and leave the maiden there,That the choir's joyous singing and the organ's solemn strainMight beguile her simple fancy till he journeyed home again.
On the fair autumnal evening of a bright September dayShe had heard the choir singing, she had heard the canons pray;And the good old dean was preaching with simple words and wiseOf Him who gave the maiden life and touched the poor man's eyes.
And her tears fell fast and thickly as the good old preacher saidThat even now He cures the blind and raises up the dead;And he aptly went on speaking of the blinding death of sin,And urged them to be seeking for life and light within.
'Mid the mighty organ's pealing in the voluntary rare,Through the fine oak-panelled ceiling went the maiden's brokenprayerThat she might but for a moment be allowed to have her sight,To see old Alec's honest face that tranquil autumn night.
That He of old who sweetly upon Bartimeus smiledWould gaze in like compassion on an English peasant child:That He who once in pity stood beside the maiden's bed,Would take her hand within His own and raise her from the dead.
The maiden's small petition, and the choir's grander praise,Reached the shining gates of heaven, 'mid the sun's declining rays,And the King who heard the praises, turned to listen to the prayer,With a smile that shone more brightly than the richest jewel there.
And before the organ ended, ay, before the prayer was done,An angel guard came flying through "the kingdom of the sun,"From the land of lofty praises to which God's elect aspireTo the old cathedral city of that famous western shire.
And the maiden's prayer was answered; she gazed with eager sightAt the tesselated pavement, at the window's painted light;And her heart beat fast and wildly as she realized the scene,With the choir's slow procession, and the old white-headed dean.
Till she saw old Alec waiting, and arose for his embrace,While a radiant light was stealing o'er her pallid upturned face,But her spirit soaring higher flew beyond the realms of night,For God Himself had turned for her all darkness into light.
Her arms across her breast she laid;She was more fair than words can say:Bare-footed came the beggar maidBefore the king Cophetua.In robe and crown the king stept down,To meet and greet her on her way;"It is no wonder," said the lords,"She is more beautiful than day."
As shines the moon in clouded skies,She in her poor attire was seen:One praised her ankles, one her eyes,One her dark hair and lovesome mien.So sweet a face, such angel grace,In all that land had never been:Cophetua sware a royal oath:"This beggar maid shall be my queen!"
From fair Damascus, as the day grew late,Passed Kafur homeward through St. Thomas' gateBetwixt the pleasure-gardens where he heardVie with the lute the twilight-wakened bird.But song touched not his heavy heart, nor yetThe lovely lines of gold and violet,A guerdon left by the departing sunTo grace the brow of Anti-Lebanon.Upon his soul a crushing burden weighed,And to his eyes the swiftly-gathering shadeSeemed but the presage of his doom to be,—Death, and the triumph of his enemy.
"One slain by slander" cried he, with a laugh,"Thus should the poets frame my epitaph,Above whose mouldering dust it will be said,'Blessed be Allah that the hound is dead!'"Out rang a rhythmic revel as he spakeFrom joyous bulbuls in the poplar brake,Hailing the night's first blossom in the sky.And now, with failing foot, he drew anighThe orchard-garden where his home was hidPomegranate shade and jasmine bloom amid.
Despair mocked at him from the latticed gateWhere Love and Happiness had lain in waitWith tender greetings, and the lights withinGleamed on the grave of Bliss that once had been.Fair Hope who daily poured into his earHer rainbow promises gave way to FearWho smote him blindly, leaving him to moanWith bitter tears before the gateway prone.
Soft seemed the wind in sympathy to grieve,When lo! a sudden hand touched Kafur's sleeve,And then a voice cried, echoing his name,"Behold the proofs to put thy foe to shame!'"Up sprang the prostrate man, and while he stoodGripping the proffered scrip in marvelhood,He who had brought deliverance slipped from sight;Thus Joy made instant day of Kafur's night.
"Allah is just," he said…. Then burning ireWith vengeance visions filled his brain like fire;And to his bosom, anguish-torn but late,Delirious with delight he hugged his hate."Revenge!" cried he; "why wait until the morn?This night mine enemy shall know my scorn."The stars looked down in wo'nder overheadAs backward Kafur toward Damascus sped.
The wind, that erst had joined him in his grief,Now whispered strangely to the walnut leaf;Into the bird's song pleading notes had crept,The happy fountains in the gardens wept,And e'en the river, with its restless roll,Seemed calling "pity" unto Kafur's soul.
"Allah" he cried, "O chasten thou my heart;Move me to mercy, and a nobler part!"Slow strode he on, the while a new-born graceSoftened the rigid outlines of his face,Nor paused he till he struck, as ne'er before,A ringing summons on his foeman's door.
His mantle half across his features thrown,He won the spacious inner court unknown,Where, on a deep divan, lay stretched his foe,Sipping his sherbet cool with Hermon snow;Who, when he looked on Kafur, hurled his hateUpon him, wrathful and infuriate,Bidding him swift begone, and think to feelA judge's sentence and a jailer's steel.
"Hark ye!" cried Kafur, at this burst of rageHolding aloft a rolled parchment page;"Prayers and not threats were more to thy behoof;Thine is the danger, see! I hold the proof.Should I seek out the Caliph in his bowerTo-morrow when the mid-muezzin hourHas passed, and lay before his eyes this scrip,Silence would seal forevermore thy lip.
"Ay! quail and cringe and crook the supple knee,And beg thy life of me, thine enemy,Whom thou, a moment since, didst doom to death.I will not breathe suspicion's lightest breathAgainst thy vaunted fame: and even thoughBefore all men thou'st sworn thyself my foe,And pledged thyself wrongly to wreak on meThy utmost power of mortal injury,In spite of this, should I be first to dieAnd win the bowers of the blest on high,Beside the golden gate of ParadiseThee will I wait with ever-watchful eyes,Ready to plead forgiveness for thy sin,If thou shouldst come, and shouldst not enter in.
"Should Allah hear my plea, how sweet! how sweet!For then would Kafur's vengeance be complete."
Around its shining edge three sat them down,Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring."I wish," spake one, "the gems of Izza's crown,For then would I be Izza and a King!"
Another, "I the royal robe he wears,To hear men say, 'Behold, a King walks here!'"And cried the third, "Now by his long gray hairsI'd have his throne! Then should men cringe and fear!"
They quaffed the blessed draught and went their wayTo where the city's gilded turrets shone;Then from the shadowed palms, where rested they,Stepped one, with bowed gray head, and passed alone.
His arms upon his breast, his eyes down bent,Against the fading light a shadow straight;Across the yellow sand, musing, he wentWhere in the sunset gleamed the city's gate.
Lo, the next morrow a command did bringTo three who tarried in that city's wall,Which bade them hasten straightway to the King,Izza, the Great, and straightway went they all,
With questioning and wonder in each mind.Majestic on his gleaming throne was he,Izza the Just, the kingliest of his kind!His eagle gaze upon the strangers three
Bent, to the first he spake, "Something doth tellMe that to-day my jewelled crown should lieUpon thy brow, that it be proven wellHow any man may be a king thereby."
And to the second, "Still the same hath toldThat thou shalt don this robe of royalty,And"—to the third—"that thou this sceptre holdTo show a king to such a man as I!"
And straightway it was done. Then Izza spakeUnto the guards and said, "Go! Bring thee nowFrom out the city wall a child to makeIts first obeisance to the King. Speed thou!"
In Izza's name, Izza, the great and good,Went this strange word 'mid stir and trumpet's ring,And straightway came along and wondering stoodA child within the presence of the King.
The King? Her dark eyes, flashing, fearless gazedTo where 'mid pomp and splendor three there sate.One, 'neath a glittering crown, shrunk sore amazed;One cringed upon the carven throne of state,
The third, wrapped with a royal robe, hung lowHis head in awkward shame, and could not seeBeyond the blazoned hem, that was to showHow any man thus garbed a king might be!
Wondering, paused the child, then turned to whereOne stood apart, his arms across his breast;No crown upon the silver of his hair,Black-gowned and still, of stately mien possessed;
No 'broidered robe nor gemmed device to tellWhose was that brow, majestic with its mind;But lo, one look, and straight she prostrate fellBefore great Izza, kingliest of his kind!
* * * * *
Around the shining Well, at close of day,Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring,Three stopped to quaff a draught and paused to say"Life to great Izza! Long may he be King!"
A famous king would build a church,A temple vast and grand;And that the praise might be his own,He gave a strict commandThat none should add the smallest giftTo aid the work he planned.
And when the mighty dome was done,Within the noble frame,Upon a tablet broad and fair,In letters all aflameWith burnished gold, the people readThe royal builder's name.
Now when the king, elate with pride,That night had sought his bed,He dreamed he saw an angel come(A halo round his head),Erase the royal name and writeAnother in its stead.
What could it be? Three times that nightThat wondrous vision came;Three times he saw that angel handErase the royal name,And write a woman's in its steadIn letters all aflame.
Whose could it be? He gave commandTo all about his throneTo seek the owner of the nameThat on the tablet shone;And so it was, the courtiers foundA widow poor and lone.
The king, enraged at what he heard,Cried, "Bring the culprit here!"And to the woman trembling sore,He said, "'Tis very clearThat thou hast broken my command:Now let the truth appear!"
"Your majesty," the widow said,"I can't deny the truth;I love the Lord—my Lord and yours—And so in simple sooth,I broke your Majesty's command(I crave your royal ruth).
"And since I had no money, Sire,Why, I could only prayThat God would bless your Majesty;'And when along the wayThe horses drew the stones, I gaveTo one a wisp of hay!"
"Ah! now I see," the king exclaimed,"Self-glory was my aim:The woman gave for love of God,And not for worldly fame—'Tis my command the tablet bearThe pious widow's name!"
So often is the proud deed doneBy men like this at Duty's call;So many are the honours wonFor us, we cannot wear them all!
They make the heroic common-place,And dying thus the natural way;And yet, our world-wide English raceFeels nobler, for that death, To-day!
It stirs us with a sense of wingsThat strive to lift the earthiest soul;It brings the thoughts that fathom thingsTo anchor fast where billows roll.
Love was so new, and life so sweet,But at the call he left the wine,And sprang full-statured to his feet,Responsive to the touch divine.
"Nay, dear, I cannot see you die.For me, I have my work to doUp here. Down to the boat. Good-bye,God bless you. I shall see it through."
We read, until the vision dimsAnd drowns; but, ere the pang be past,A tide of triumph overbrimsAnd breaks with light from heaven at last.
Through all the blackness of that nightA glory streams from out the gloom;His steadfast spirit lifts the lightThat shines till Night is overcome.
The sea will do its worst, and lifeBe sobbed out in a bubbling breath;But firmly in the coward strifeThere stands a man who has conquered Death!
A soul that masters wind and wave,And towers above a sinking deck;A bridge across the gaping grave;A rainbow rising o'er the wreck.
Others he saved; he saved the nameUnsullied that he gave his wife:And dying with so pure an aim,He had no need to save his life!
Lord! how they shame the life we live,These sailors of our sea-girt isle,Who cheerily take what Thou mayst give,And go down with a heavenward smile!
The men who sow their lives to yieldA glorious crop in lives to be:Who turn to England's harvest-fieldThe unfruitful furrows of the sea.
With such a breed of men so brave,The Old Land has not had her day;But long her strength, with crested wave,Shall ride the Seas, the proud old way.
There sat one day in quiet,By an alehouse on the Rhine,Four hale and hearty fellows,And drank the precious wine.
The landlord's daughter filled their cupsAround the rustic board;Then sat they all so calm and still,And spake not one rude word.
But when the maid departed,A Swabian raised his hand,And cried, all hot and flushed with wine,"Long live the Swabian land!
"The greatest kingdom upon earthCannot with that compare;With all the stout and hardy menAnd the nut-brown maidens there."
"Ha!" cried a Saxon, laughing,—And dashed his beard with wine;"I had rather live in Lapland,Than that Swabian land of thine!
"The goodliest land on all this earthIt is the Saxon land!There have I as many maidensAs fingers on this hand!"
"Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!"A bold Bohemian cries;"If there's a heaven upon this earth,In Bohemia it lies:
"There the tailor blows the flute,And the cobbler blows the horn,And the miner blows the bugle,Over mountain gorge and bourn!"
* * * * *
And then the landlord's daughterUp to heaven raised her hand,And said, "Ye may no more contend—There lies the happiest land."
September 24th, 1857.
Pipes of the misty moorlands,Voice of the glens and hills;The droning of the torrents,The treble of the rills!Not the braes of broom and heather,Nor the mountains dark with rain,Nor maiden bower, nor border towerHave heard your sweetest strain!
Dear to the lowland reaper,And plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe Scottish pipes are dear;—Sweet sounds the ancient pibrochO'er mountain, loch, and glade;But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played.
Day by day the Indian tigerLouder yelled and nearer crept;Round and round the jungle serpentNear and nearer circles swept."Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—Pray to-day!" the soldier said;"To-morrow, death's between usAnd the wrong and shame we dread."
Oh! they listened, looked, and waited,Till their hope became despair;And the sobs of low bewailingFilled the pauses of their prayer.Then up spake a Scottish maiden,With her ear unto the ground:"Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it?The pipes o' Havelock sound!"
Hushed the wounded man his groaning;Hushed the wife her little ones;Alone they heard the drum-rollAnd the roar of Sepoy guns.But to sounds of home and childhoodThe Highland ear was true;As her mother's cradle crooningThe mountain pipes she knew.
Like the march of soundless musicThrough the vision of the seer,—More of feeling than of hearing,Of the heart than of the ear,—She knew the droning pibrochShe knew the Campbell's call:"Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,—The grandest o' them all."
Oh! they listened, dumb and breathless,And they caught the sound at last;Faint and far beyond the GoomteeRose and fell the piper's blast!Then a burst of wild thanksgivingMingled woman's voice and man's;"God be praised!—the march of Havelock!The piping of the clans!"
Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,Stinging all the air to life.But when the far-off dust cloudTo plaided legions grew,Full tenderly and blithsomelyThe pipes of rescue blew!
Round the silver domes of Lucknow,Moslem mosque and pagan shrine,Breathed the air to Britons dearest,The air of Auld Lang Syne;O'er the cruel roll of war-drumsRose that sweet and homelike strain;And the tartan clove the turban,As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.
Dear to the corn-land reaper,And plaided mountaineer,—To the cottage and the castleThe piper's song is dear;Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibrochO'er mountain, glen, and glade,But the sweetest of all musicThe pipes at Lucknow played!
Of Nelson and the North,Sing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;By each gun the lighted brand,In a bold determined hand,And the prince of all the landLed them on.—
Like leviathans afloat,Lay their bulwarks on the brine;While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime:As they drifted on their path,There was silence deep as death;And the boldest held his breathFor a time.—
But the might of England flush'dTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rush'dO'er the deadly space between."Hearts of Oak!" our captains cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.
Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back;—Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased—and all is wail,As they strike the shatter'd sail;Or, in conflagration pale,Light the gloom.—
Out spoke the victor then,As he hail'd them o'er the wave;"Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save:—So peace instead of death let us bring:But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our king."—
Then Denmark bless'd our chief,That he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As Death withdrew his shades from the day.While the sun look'd smiling brightO'er a wild and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.
Now joy, old England, raise!For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities' blaze,While the wine-cup shines in light;And yet amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleep,Full many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain's prideOnce so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that died,—With the gallant good Riou,Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!While the hollow mournful rolls,And the mermaid's song condoles,Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave!
They dragged our heroes from the graves,In which their honoured dust was lying;They dragged them forth—base, coward slavesAnd hung their bones on gibbets flying.Ireton, our dauntless Ironside,And Bradshaw, faithful judge, and fearless,And Cromwell, Britain's chosen guide,In fight in faith, and council, peerless.The bravest of our glorious brave!The tyrant's terror in his grave.
In felon chains, they hung the dead—The noble dead, in glory lying:Before whose living face they fled,Like chaff before the tempest flying.They fled before them, foot and horse,In craven flight their safety seeking;And now they gloat around each corse,In coward scoff their hatred wreaking.Oh! God, that men could own, as kings,Such paltry, dastard, soulless things.
Their dust is scattered o'er the landThey loved, and freed, and crowned with glory;Their great names bear the felon's brand;'Mongst murderers is placed their story.But idly their grave-spoilers thought,Disgrace, which fled in life before them,By craven judges could be brought,To spread in death, its shadow o'er them.For chain, nor judge, nor dastard king,Can make disgrace around them cling.
Their dry bones rattle in the wind,That sweeps the land they died in freeing;But the brave heroes rest enshrined,In cenotaphs of God's decreeing:Embalmed in every noble breast,Inscribed on each brave heart their story,All honoured shall the heroes rest,Their country's boast—their race's glory.On every tongue shall be their name;In every land shall live their fame.
But fouler than the noisome dust,That reeks your rotting bones encasing,Shall be your fame, ye sons of lust,And sloth, and every vice debasing!Insulters of the glorious dead,While honour in our land is dwelling,Above your tombs shall Britons tread,And cry, while scorn each breast is swelling—"HERE LIE THE DASTARD, CAITIFF SLAVES,WHO DRAGGED OUR HEROES FROM THEIR GRAVES."
Ye spirits of our fathers,The hardy, bold, and free,Who chased o'er Cressy's gory fieldA fourfold enemy!From us who love your sylvan game,To you the song shall flow,To the fame of your nameWho so bravely bent the bow.
'Twas merry then in England(Our ancient records tell),With Robin Hood and Little JohnWho dwelt by down and dell;And yet we love the bold outlawWho braved a tyrant foe,Whose cheer was the deer,And his only friend the bow.
'Twas merry then in EnglandIn autumn's dewy morn,When echo started from her hillTo hear the bugle-horn.And beauty, mirth, and warrior worthIn garb of green did goThe shade to invadeWith the arrow and the bow.
Ye spirits of our fathers!Extend to us your care,Among your children yet are foundThe valiant and the fair,'Tis merry yet in Old England,Full well her archers know,And shame on their nameWho despise the British bow!
From Blois to Senlis, wave by wave, rolled on the Norman flood,And Frank on Frank went drifting down the weltering tide of blood;There was not left in all the land a castle wall to fire,And not a wife but wailed a lord, a child but mourned a sire.To Charles the king, the mitred monks, the mailèd barons flew,While, shaking earth, behind them strode, the thunder march of Rou.
"O king," then cried those barons bold, "in vain are mace and mail,We fall before the Norman axe, as corn before the flail.""And vainly," cry the pious monks, "by Mary's shrine we kneel,For prayers, like arrows glance aside, against the Norman steel."The barons groaned, the shavelings wept, while near and nearer drew,As death-birds round their scented feast, the raven flags of Rou.
Then said King Charles, "Where thousands fail, what king can standalone?The strength of kings is in the men that gather round the throne.When war dismays my barons bold, 'tis time for war to cease;When Heaven forsakes my pious monks the will of Heaven is peace.Go forth, my monks, with mass and rood the Norman camp unto,And to the fold, with shepherd crook, entice this grisly Rou.
"I'll give him all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure,And Gille, my child, shall be his bride, to bind him fast and sure;Let him but kiss the Christian cross, and sheathe the heathen sword,And hold the lands I cannot keep, a fief from Charles his lord."Forth went the pastors of the Church, the Shepherd's work to do,And wrap the golden fleece around the tiger loins of Rou.
Psalm-chanting came the shaven monks, within the camp of dread;Amidst his warriors, Norman Rou stood taller by a head.Out spoke the Frank archbishop then, a priest devout and sage,"When peace and plenty wait thy word, what need of war and rage?Why waste a land as fair as aught beneath the arch of blue,Which might be thine to sow and reap?—Thus saith the king to Rou:
"'I'll give thee all the ocean coast, from Michael Mount to Eure,And Gille, my fairest child, as bride, to bind thee fast and sure;If thou but kneel to Christ our God, and sheathe thy paynim sword,And hold thy land, the Church's son, a fief from Charles thy lord.'"The Norman on his warriors looked—to counsel they withdrew;The Saints took pity on the Franks, and moved the soul of Rou.
So back he strode, and thus he spoke, to that archbishop meek,"I take the land thy king bestows, from Eure to Michael-peak,I take the maid, or foul or fair, a bargain with the coast,And for thy creed,—a sea-king's gods are those that give the most.So hie thee back, and tell thy chief to make his proffer true,And he shall find a docile son, and ye a saint in Rou."
So o'er the border stream of Epte came Rou the Norman, where,Begirt with barons, sat the king, enthroned at green St. Clair;He placed his hand in Charles's hand,—loud shouted all the throng,But tears were in King Charles's eyes—the grip of Rou was strong."Now kiss the foot," the bishop said, "that homage still is due;"Then dark the frown and stern the smile of that grim convert Rou.
He takes the foot, as if the foot to slavish lips to bring;The Normans scowl; he tilts the throne and backward falls the king.Loud laugh the joyous Norman men.—pale stare the Franks aghast;And Rou lifts up his head as from the wind springs up the mast:"I said I would adore a God, but not a mortal too;The foot that fled before a foe let cowards kiss!" said Rou.
A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers—There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native land;Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine,For I was born at Bingen—at Bingen on the Rhine!
"Tell my Brothers and Companions, when they meet and crowd aroundTo hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground.That we fought the battle bravely—and, when the day was done,Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,—The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars!But some were young,—and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,—And one there came from Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
"Tell my Mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage:For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,I let them take whate'er they would—but kept my father's sword;And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,On the cottage-wall at Bingen,—calm Bingen on the Rhine!
"Tell my Sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,For her brother was a soldier, too,—and not afraid to die.And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name,To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),For the honour of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the Rhine!
"There's another—not a Sister,—in the happy days gone by,You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye:Too innocent for coquetry; too fond for idle scorning;—Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviestmourning!Tell her, the last night of my life—(for, ere this moon be risen,My body will be out of pain—my soul be out of prison),I dreamed I stood withher, and saw the yellow sunlight shineOn the vine-clad hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along—I heard, or seemed to hear,The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear!And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk,Down many a path belov'd of yore, and well-remembered walk;And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine…But we'll meet no more at Bingen,—loved Bingen on the Rhine!"
His voice grew faint and hoarser,—his grasp was childish weak,—His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed and ceased to speak:His comrade bent to lift him, … but the spark of life had fled!The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead!And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked downOn the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown;Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,As it shone on distant Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
The Captain stood on the carronade—first lieutenant, says he,Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me;I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons—because I'm bred to the sea;That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we.
Odds blood, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea,I've fought 'gainst every odds—but I've gained the victory.
That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don't takeshe,'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capturewe;I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun,If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son.
Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea,I've fought 'gainst every odds—and I've gained the victory.
We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enoughI little thought, he said, that your men were of such stuff;The Captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made to he;I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I wish to be.
Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea,I've fought 'gainst every odds—and I've gained the victory.
Our Captain sent for all of us; my merry men said he,I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be:You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun;If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged eachmother's son.
Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm at sea,I'll fight 'gainst every odds—and I'll gain the victory.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,A merry old soul was he!He would call for his pipe, he would call for his glass,He would call for his fiddlers three;With loving care and reason rare,He ruled his subjects true—Who used to sing, "Long live the King!"And He—"the people too!"
Old King Cole was a musical soul,A musical soul was he!He used to boast what pleased him mostWas nothing but fiddle-de-dee!But his pipe and his glass he loved—alas!As much as his fiddlers three,And by time he was done with the other and the one,He was pretty well done, was he!
Old King Cole was a kingly soul,A kingly soul was he!He governed well, the records tell,The brave, the fair, the free;He used to say, by night and day,"I rule by right divine!My subjects free belong to me,And all that's theirs is mine!"
Old King Cole was a worthy soul,A worthy soul was he!From motives pure he tried to cureAll greed and vanity;So if he found—the country roundA slave to gold inclined,He would take it away, and bid him prayFor a more contented mind.
Old King Cole was a good old soul,A good old soul was he!And social life from civil strifeHe guarded royally,For when he caught the knaves who foughtO'er houses, land, or store,He would take it himself, whether kind or pelf,That they shouldn't fall out any more.
Old King Cole was a thoughtful soul,A thoughtful soul was he!And he said it may be, if they all agree,They may all disagree with me.I must organise routs and tournament bouts,And open a Senate, said he;Play the outs on the ins and the ins on the outs,And the party that wins wins me.
So Old King Cole, constitutional soul,(Constitutional soul was he)!With royal nous, a parliament houseHe built for his people free.And they talked all day and they talked all night,And they'd die, but they wouldn't agreeUntil black was white, and wrong was right,And he said, "It works to a T."
Old King Cole was a gay old soul,A gay old soul was he!If he chanced to meet a maiden sweet,He'd be sure to say "kitchi kitchi kee;"And then if her papa, her auntie or mamma,Should suddenly appear upon the scene,He would put the matter straight with an office in the stateIf they'd promise not to go and tell the queen.
Old Queen Cole was a dear old soul,A dear old soul was she!Her hair was as red as a rose—'tis said—Her eyes were as green as a pea;At beck and call for rout and ball,She won the world's huzzahs.At fêtes and plays and matineesReceptions and bazaars.
When Old King Cole, with his pipe and bowl,At a smoking concert presided,His queen would be at a five-o'clock tea,At the palace where she resided;And so they governed, ruled, and reigned,O'er subjects great and small,And never was heard a seditious wordIn castle, cot, or hall.