Waken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear;Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,Merrily, merrily mingle they,'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay,'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the greenwood haste away;We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;You shall see him brought to bay:'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'Louder, louder chant the lay,Waken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk;Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!
Waken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day;All the jolly chase is hereWith hawk and horse and hunting-spear;Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,Merrily, merrily mingle they,'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay,'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the greenwood haste away;We can show you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can show the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;You shall see him brought to bay:'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'
Louder, louder chant the lay,Waken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth and mirth and gleeRun a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk;Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay!
Scott
It is not what he has, nor even what he does, which directly expresses the worth of a man, but what he is.
Amiel
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order!March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.Many a banner spreadFlutters above your head,Many a crest that is famous in story;Mount and make ready then,Sons of the mountain glen,Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory!Come from the hills where your hirsels[1]are grazing,Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow;Trumpets are sounding,War-steeds are bounding,Stand to your arms, and march in good order;England shall many a dayTell of the bloody frayWhen the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order!March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.Many a banner spreadFlutters above your head,Many a crest that is famous in story;Mount and make ready then,Sons of the mountain glen,Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory!
Come from the hills where your hirsels[1]are grazing,Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow;Trumpets are sounding,War-steeds are bounding,Stand to your arms, and march in good order;England shall many a dayTell of the bloody frayWhen the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.
Scott
FOOTNOTES:[1]Cattle
[1]Cattle
[1]Cattle
The weird, long call, or the shrill, demoniacal laugh coming out of the night tells of the sleepless activity of the loon. The whip-poor-will in the adjacent shrubbery seems companionable, and there is a friendly spirit in the short, shrill tremolo of the night-hawk from the invisible sky. Even the plaint of the screech-owl has a tone of human sympathy. But the dreary cadence of the loon is the voice of the inhospitable night, repelling every thought of human association. It does not entreat, it does not warn; yet there is a fascination in its expressionless strength. Over the black water, under the lowering sky, or through the bright still moonlight, the same unfeeling tone fills the ear of night. And sometimes, when the lingering moon sheds a broad trail of light along the still waters of the lake, the graceful swimmer will glide across and disappear in the darkness, breaking the bright reflection into a multitude of chasing, quivering, trailing threads of silver. Throughout the day, where the cedars come down to meet their shadows in the dark water, he swims ceaselessly about, sitting low, with black, glossy neckgracefully curved and displaying its delicate white markings. Sometimes he stretches himself wearily, flapping his wings, and displaying his white breast and the handsome, showy markings of his sides. Though wary and aloof, and without a trace of animation in his loud, penetrating cries, he shows his kinship by the scrupulous care with which he preens his handsome feathers—even lying on his back in the water to comb out and smooth his glossy, white breast.
A hurried cry from overhead may unexpectedly reveal the presence of a pair of loons in another element, and it is always fascinating to watch their steady, strained, energetic flight above the tops of the pines, generally to curve down to some more attractive expanse in the cedar-girt lake. For the water is the loon's natural element. There is an amusing deliberateness in his graceful, silent dive. He does not make the hurried dip of his smaller cousin, the grebe, but more calmly curves both neck and body, disappearing under the surface in a graceful arch. Settling down and swimming with only head and neck exposed is an evidence of suspicion, and is generally followed by a long dive, with a belated reappearance in some remote part of the lake.
When the mother loon takes her two offspring out for a swim, it is a big event in the domestic circle. The outing is announced by prolonged and unusual repetitions of the laughing call. For half an hour the echoes of the lake are kept alive with sounds portentous of new departures in the loon world. Then a peculiar object is seen to emerge from the marshy bay and cross under the shadowy cedars toward the open water. A field-glass shows it to be the mother loon and her two offspring, the three huddled so closely together that they are almost indistinguishable. The mother is unceasing in her care and attention. She strokes the backs of the young birds with her bill, playing and fussing around and close to them, as if they could not exist without her constant attention. Now and then she leans over and lifts a broad, black, webbed foot out of the water, holding it up distended, as if to endorse the modern theory that the parent loon teaches her young to swim. They cling to each other and cling to her, as if afraid of being lost in the great expanse of water to which they have been so recently introduced.
A short distance away the father swims about in lordly indifference, diving occasionally andregaling himself on the unsuspecting fish. A boat comes out from the shore, rowed by an industrious guide, with an angler, picturesquely protected by mosquito net, sitting in the stern. The mother loon pushes and urges her indolent pair in the direction of safety. How slow they must seem as she hurries and encourages them! The trio moves at a snail's pace compared with her ordinary speed, but the young ones show no inclination to dive out of harm's way. Their clinging, crowding tendency serves but to incommode and obstruct her. And where is the male protector? Alas for the romance of chivalry! When the boat comes near, he deliberately dives, and, after the usual protracted wait, reappears in another part of the lake, away from the danger that alarms and threatens the defenceless trio. But the mother remains and urges the encumbering young things to speed. They do make some headway, though slowly, toward the marshy bay from which they recently emerged with so much loud, wild laughter. The indifference of the fisherman and the guide does not reassure them, and they never cease their entangled struggle till lost to sight in the winding lagoon.
S. T. Wood
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice.O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,Or but a wandering Voice?While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off, and near.Though babbling only to the Vale,Of sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;The same whom in my school-boy daysI listened to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still longed for, never seen.And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.O blessèd Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial faery place,That is fit home for Thee!
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice.O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale,Of sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy daysI listened to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.
O blessèd Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial faery place,That is fit home for Thee!
Wordsworth
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the leadIn summer luxury—he has never doneWith his delights; for when tired out with funHe rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost,The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the leadIn summer luxury—he has never doneWith his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost,The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
Keats
And now let us turn our glance to this great Northwest, whither my wandering steps are about to lead me. Fully nine hundred miles as bird would fly, and one thousand two hundred as horse can travel, west of Red River, an immense range of mountains eternally capped with snow rises in rugged masses from a vast stream-scarred plain. They who first beheld these grand guardians of the central prairies named them the Montagnes des Rochers (Rocky Mountains),—a fitting title for such vast accumulations of rugged magnificence. From the glaciers and ice-valleys of this great range of mountains, innumerable streams descend intothe plains. For a time they wander, as if heedless of direction, through groves and glades and green-spreading declivities; then, assuming greater fixity of purpose, they gather up many a wandering rill and start eastward upon a long journey. At length the many detached streams resolve themselves into two great water systems. Through hundreds of miles these two rivers pursue their parallel courses, now approaching, now opening out from each other. Suddenly the southern river bends towards the north, and, at a point some six hundred miles from the mountains, pours its volume of water into the northern channel. Then the united river rolls, in vast, majestic curves, steadily towards the north-east, turns once more towards the south, opens out into a great reed-covered marsh, sweeps on into a large cedar-lined lake, and finally, rolling over a rocky ledge, casts its waters into the northern end of the great Lake Winnipeg, fully one thousand three hundred miles from the glacier cradle where it took its birth. This river, which has along it every diversity of hill and vale, meadow-land and forest, treeless plain and fertile hillside, is called by the wild tribes who dwell along its glorious shores, the Saskatchewan or "rapid-flowingriver." But this Saskatchewan is not the only river which drains the great central region between Red River and the Rocky Mountains. The Assiniboine or "stony river" drains the rolling prairie-lands five hundred miles west from Red River; and many a smaller stream, and rushing, bubbling brook, carries into its devious channel the waters of that vast country which lies between the American boundary line and the pine woods of the Lower Saskatchewan.
So much for the rivers; and now for the land through which they flow. How shall we picture it? how shall we tell the story of that great, boundless, solitary waste of verdure? The old, old maps, which the navigators of the sixteenth century formed from the discoveries of Cabot and Cartier, of Verrazanno and Hudson, played strange pranks with the geography of the New World. The coast-line, with the estuaries of large rivers, was tolerably accurate; but the centre of America was represented as a vast inland sea, whose shores stretched far into the Polar North—a sea through which lay the much-coveted passage to the long-sought treasures of the old realms of Cathay. Well, the geographers of that period erred only in the description of ocean which they placed in the centre of thecontinent; for an ocean there is—an ocean through which men seek the treasures of Cathay even in our own times. But the ocean is one of grass, and the shores are the crests of mountain ranges and the dark pine forests of sub-Arctic regions. The great ocean itself does not present such infinite variety as does this prairie-ocean of which we speak:—in winter, a dazzling surface of purest snow; in early summer, a vast expanse of grass and pale pink roses; in autumn, too often a wild sea of raging fire! No ocean of water in the world can vie with its gorgeous sunsets; no solitude can equal the loneliness of a night-shadowed prairie: one feels the stillness, and hears the silence: the wail of the prowling wolf makes the voice of solitude audible; the stars look down through infinite silence upon a silence almost as intense. This ocean has no past;—time has been nought to it, and men have come and gone, leaving behind them no track, no vestige of their presence. Some French writer, speaking of these prairies, has said that the sense of this utter negation of life, this complete absence of history, has struck him with a loneliness, oppressive and sometimes terrible in its intensity. Perhaps so, but, for my part, the prairieshad nothing terrible in their aspect, nothing oppressive in their loneliness. One saw here the world, as it had taken shape and form from the hands of the Creator. Nor did the scene look less beautiful because nature alone tilled the earth, and the unaided sun brought forth the flowers.
October had reached its latest week; the wild geese and swans had taken their long flight to the south, and their wailing cry no more descended through the darkness; ice had settled upon the quiet pools and was settling upon the quick-running streams; the horizon glowed at night with the red light of moving prairie fires. It was the close of the Indian Summer, and Winter was coming quickly down, from his far northern home.
Major W. F. Butler: "The Great Lone Land."
PIONEERSPIONEERS
When Britain first, at Heaven's command,Arose from out the azure main,This was the charter of the land,And guardian angels sung this strain:Rule, Britannia, rule the waves!Britons never will be slaves!The nations, not so blest as thee,Must in their turns to tyrants fall,While thou shalt flourish great and free—The dread and envy of them all.Still more majestic shalt thou rise,More dreadful from each foreign stroke;As the loud blast that tears the skiesServes but to root thy native oak.Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;All their attempts to bend thee downWill but arouse thy generous flame,But work their woe and thy renown.To thee belongs the rural reign;Thy cities shall with commerce shine;All thine shall be the subject main,And every shore it circles thine.The Muses, still with Freedom found,Shall to thy happy coast repair;Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned,And manly hearts to guard the fair:—Rule, Britannia, rule the waves!Britons never will be slaves!
When Britain first, at Heaven's command,Arose from out the azure main,This was the charter of the land,And guardian angels sung this strain:Rule, Britannia, rule the waves!Britons never will be slaves!
The nations, not so blest as thee,Must in their turns to tyrants fall,While thou shalt flourish great and free—The dread and envy of them all.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,More dreadful from each foreign stroke;As the loud blast that tears the skiesServes but to root thy native oak.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;All their attempts to bend thee downWill but arouse thy generous flame,But work their woe and thy renown.
To thee belongs the rural reign;Thy cities shall with commerce shine;All thine shall be the subject main,And every shore it circles thine.
The Muses, still with Freedom found,Shall to thy happy coast repair;Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned,And manly hearts to guard the fair:—Rule, Britannia, rule the waves!Britons never will be slaves!
James Thomson
My son, forget not my law;But let thine heart keep my commandments:For length of days, and years of life,And peace, shall they add to thee.Let not mercy and truth forsake thee:Bind them about thy neck;Write them upon the table of thine heart:So shalt thou find favour,And good repute in the sight of God and man.Trust in the LORD with all thine heart,And lean not upon thine own understanding:In all thy ways acknowledge him,And he shall direct thy paths.Be not wise in thine own eyes;Fear the LORD, and depart from evil:Honour the LORD with thy substance,And with the first-fruits of all thine increase:So shall thy barns be filled with plenty,And thy vats shall overflow with new wine.
My son, forget not my law;But let thine heart keep my commandments:For length of days, and years of life,And peace, shall they add to thee.Let not mercy and truth forsake thee:Bind them about thy neck;Write them upon the table of thine heart:So shalt thou find favour,And good repute in the sight of God and man.
Trust in the LORD with all thine heart,And lean not upon thine own understanding:In all thy ways acknowledge him,And he shall direct thy paths.Be not wise in thine own eyes;Fear the LORD, and depart from evil:Honour the LORD with thy substance,And with the first-fruits of all thine increase:So shall thy barns be filled with plenty,And thy vats shall overflow with new wine.
Proverbs, III.
The spacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal sky,And spangled heavens, a shining frame,Their great Original proclaim.Th' unwearied Sun from day to dayDoes his Creator's power display;And publishes to every landThe work of an Almighty hand.Soon as the evening shades prevail,The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;And nightly to the listening EarthRepeats the story of her birth:Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.What though in solemn silence allMove round the dark terrestrial ball;What though no real voice nor soundAmid their radiant orbs be found?In Reason's ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice;Forever singing as they shine,"The Hand that made us is divine."
The spacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal sky,And spangled heavens, a shining frame,Their great Original proclaim.Th' unwearied Sun from day to dayDoes his Creator's power display;And publishes to every landThe work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;And nightly to the listening EarthRepeats the story of her birth:Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence allMove round the dark terrestrial ball;What though no real voice nor soundAmid their radiant orbs be found?In Reason's ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice;Forever singing as they shine,"The Hand that made us is divine."
Addison
—What is so rare as a day in June?Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,And over it softly her warm ear lays:Whether we look, or whether we listen,We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;Every clod feels a stir of might,An instinct within it that reaches and towers,And groping blindly above it for light,Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;The flush of life may well be seenThrilling back over hills and valleys;The cowslip startles in meadows green,The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,And there's never a leaf nor a blade too meanTo be some happy creature's palace;The little bird sits at his door in the sun,Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,And lets his illumined being o'errunWith the deluge of summer it receives;His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?Now is the high-tide of the year,And whatever of life hath ebbed awayComes flooding back with a ripply cheer,Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,We are happy now because God wills it;No matter how barren the past may have been,'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;We sit in the warm shade and feel right wellHow the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowingThat skies are clear and grass is growing;The breeze comes whispering in our ear,That dandelions are blossoming near,That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,That the river is bluer than the sky,That the robin is plastering his house hard by;And if the breeze kept the good news back,For other couriers we should not lack;We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing.—And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,Warmed with the new wine of the year,Tells all in his lusty crowing!
—What is so rare as a day in June?Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,And over it softly her warm ear lays:Whether we look, or whether we listen,We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;Every clod feels a stir of might,An instinct within it that reaches and towers,And groping blindly above it for light,Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;The flush of life may well be seenThrilling back over hills and valleys;The cowslip startles in meadows green,The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,And there's never a leaf nor a blade too meanTo be some happy creature's palace;The little bird sits at his door in the sun,Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,And lets his illumined being o'errunWith the deluge of summer it receives;His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?Now is the high-tide of the year,And whatever of life hath ebbed awayComes flooding back with a ripply cheer,Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,We are happy now because God wills it;No matter how barren the past may have been,'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;We sit in the warm shade and feel right wellHow the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowingThat skies are clear and grass is growing;The breeze comes whispering in our ear,That dandelions are blossoming near,That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,That the river is bluer than the sky,That the robin is plastering his house hard by;And if the breeze kept the good news back,For other couriers we should not lack;We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing.—And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,Warmed with the new wine of the year,Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Lowell
All the troubles and calamities I had undergone could not cure me of my inclination to make new voyages. I therefore bought goods, departed with them for the best seaport, and there, that I might not be obliged to depend upon a captain, but have a ship at my own command, I remained till one was built on purpose at my own charge. When the ship was ready, I went on board with my goods: but not having enough to load her, I agreed to take with me several merchants of different nations, with their merchandise.
We sailed with the first fair wind, and after a long navigation the first place we touched at was a desert island, where we found an egg of a roc, equal in size to that I saw on a former voyage, fifty paces round, and shining as a great white dome when seen even from afar. There was a young roc in it, just ready to be hatched, and its bill had begun to appear.
The merchants whom I had taken on board, and who landed with me, broke the egg with hatchets, and having made a hole in it, pulledout the young roc piecemeal and roasted it. I had earnestly entreated them not to meddle with the egg, but they would not listen to me.
Scarcely had they finished their repast, when there appeared in the air, at a considerable distance from us, two great clouds. The captain whom I had hired to navigate my ship, knowing by experience what they meant, said they were the male and female roc that belonged to the young one, and pressed us to re-embark with all speed, to prevent the misfortune which he saw would otherwise befall us. We hastened on board and set sail with all possible expedition. In the meantime, the two rocs approached with a frightful noise, which they redoubled when they saw the egg broken and their young one gone. They flew back in the direction they had come, and disappeared for some time, while we made all the sail we could to endeavour to prevent that which unhappily befell us.
They soon returned, and we observed that each of them carried between its talons, stones, or rather rocks, of a monstrous size. When they came directly over my ship they hovered, and one of them let fall a stone, but by the dexterity of the steersman it missed us, and, falling into the sea, divided the water so that we couldalmost see the bottom. The other roc, to our misfortune, threw his massy burden so exactly into the middle of the ship as to split it into a thousand pieces. The mariners and passengers were all crushed to death, or sunk. I myself was of the number of the latter, but, as I came up again, I fortunately caught hold of a piece of the wreck, and swimming, sometimes with one hand and sometimes with the other, but always holding fast my board, the wind and tide favouring me, I came to an island whose shore was very steep. I overcame that difficulty, however, and got ashore.
I sat down upon the grass to recover myself from my fatigue, after which I went into the island to explore it. It seemed to be a delicious garden. I found trees everywhere, some of them bearing green, and others ripe fruits; and there were streams of fresh, pure water running in pleasant meanders. I ate of the fruits, which I found excellent; and drank of the water, which was very light and good.
When I was a little advanced into the island I saw an old man, who appeared very weak and infirm. He was sitting on the bank of a stream, and at first I took him to be one who had been shipwrecked like myself. I went towards himand saluted him, but he only slightly bowed his head. I asked him why he sat so still; but instead of answering me, he made a sign for me to take him upon my back and carry him over the brook, signifying that it was to gather fruit.
I believed him really to stand in need of my assistance, took him upon my back, and having carried him over, bade him get down, and for that end stooped, that he might get off with ease; but instead of doing so (which I laugh at every time I think of it), the old man who appeared to me quite decrepit, threw his legs nimbly about my neck. He sat astride upon my shoulders, and held my throat so tight that I thought he would have strangled me, the apprehension of which made me swoon and fall down.
Notwithstanding my fainting, the ill-natured old fellow kept fast about my neck. When I had recovered my breath, he thrust one of his feet against my stomach, and struck me so rudely on the side with the other, that he forced me to rise up against my will. Having arisen, he made me carry him under the trees, and forced me now and then to stop, to gather and eat fruit such as we found. He never left me all day, and when I lay down to rest at night, helaid himself down with me, holding always fast about my neck. Every morning he pushed me to make me awake, and afterwards obliged me to get up and walk, and pressed me with his feet. You may judge then, what trouble I was in to be loaded with such a burden of which I could not get rid.
One day I found in my way several dry calabashes that had fallen from a tree. I took a large one, and after cleaning it, pressed into it some juice of grapes, which abounded in the island. Having filled the calabash, I put it by in a convenient place; and going thither again some days after, I tasted it and found the wine so good that it soon made me forget my sorrow, gave me new vigour, and so exhilarated my spirits, that I began to sing and dance as I walked along.
The old man, perceiving the effect which this liquor had upon me, and that I carried him with more ease than before, made me a sign to give him some of it. I handed him the calabash, and the liquor pleasing his palate, he drank it all off. There being a considerable quantity of it, and the fumes getting into his head, he began to sing and dance upon my shoulders, and to loosen his legs from about me by degrees.Finding that he did not press me as before, I threw him upon the ground, where he lay without motion; then I took up a great stone and crushed his head.
I was extremely glad to be thus freed for ever from this troublesome fellow. I now walked towards the beach, where I met the crew of a ship that had cast anchor, to take water. They were surprised to see me, but more so at the particulars of my adventures. "You fell," said they, "into the hands of the old man of the sea, and are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious tricks. He never quitted those he had once made himself master of till he had destroyed them, and he has made this island notorious by the number of men he has slain."
After having informed me of these things, they carried me with them to the ship; the captain received me with great kindness when they told him what had befallen me. He put out again to sea, and after some days' sail, we arrived at the harbour of a great city, the houses of which were built with hewn stone.
One of the merchants who had taken me into his friendship invited me to go along with him and carried me to a place appointed for theaccommodation of foreign merchants. He gave me a large bag, and having recommended me to some people of the town, who used to gather cocoa-nuts, desired them to take me with them. "Go," said he, "follow them, and act as you see them do; but do not part from them, otherwise you may endanger your life." Having thus spoken, he gave me provisions for the journey, and I went with them.
We came to a thick forest of cocoa trees, very lofty, with trunks so smooth that it was not possible to climb to the branches that bore the fruit. When we entered the forest, we saw a great number of apes of several sizes, who fled as soon as they perceived us and climbed up to the tops of the trees with surprising swiftness.
The merchants gathered stones and threw them at the apes in the trees. I did the same, and the apes, out of revenge, threw cocoa-nuts at us so fast, and with such gestures, as sufficiently testified their anger and resentment. We gathered up the cocoa-nuts, and from time to time threw stones to provoke the apes; so that by this stratagem we filled our bags with cocoa-nuts, which it had been impossible otherwise to have done. I thus gradually collectedas many cocoa-nuts as produced me a considerable sum.
We sailed towards the islands, where pepper grows in great plenty. From thence we went to the isle of Comari, where the best species of wood of aloes grows. I exchanged my cocoa in those islands for pepper and wood of aloes, and went with other merchants a-pearl-fishing. I hired divers, who brought me up some that were very large and pure. I embarked in a vessel that happily arrived at Bussorah; from thence I returned to Bagdat, where I made vast sums of my pepper, wood of aloes, and pearls. I gave the tenth of my gains in alms, as I had done upon my return from my other voyages, and endeavoured to dissipate my fatigues by amusements of different kinds.
"The Arabian Nights Entertainments."
All are needed by each one;Nothing is fair or good alone.I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,Singing at dawn on the alder bough;I brought him home, in his nest, at even;He sings the song, but it cheers not now,For I did not bring home the river and sky;—He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye.
All are needed by each one;Nothing is fair or good alone.I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,Singing at dawn on the alder bough;I brought him home, in his nest, at even;He sings the song, but it cheers not now,For I did not bring home the river and sky;—He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye.
Emerson
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;Man marks the earth with ruin,—his controlStops with the shore; upon the watery plainThe wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remainA shadow of man's ravage, save his own,When for a moment, like a drop of rain,He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan—Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields,Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost ariseAnd shake him from thee; the vile strength he wieldsFor earth's destruction, thou dost all despise,Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray,And howling to his gods, where haply liesHis petty hope in some near port or bay,And dashest him again to earth; there let him lay.The armaments which thunderstrike the wallsOf rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,And monarchs tremble in their capitals;The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs makeTheir clay creator the vain title takeOf lord of thee, and arbiter of war:These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,They melt into thy yeast of waves, which marAlike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?Thy waters washed them power while they were free,And many a tyrant since; their shores obeyThe stranger, slave, or savage; their decayHas dried up realms to deserts: not so, thou;Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play.Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow;Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's formGlasses itself in tempests; in all time,Calm or convulsed—in breeze or gale or storm,Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime,Dark-heaving, boundless, endless and sublime—The image of eternity—the throneOf the Invisible; even from out thy slimeThe monsters of the deep are made; each zoneObeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joyOf youthful sports was on thy breast to beBorne, like thy bubbles onward: from a boyI wantoned with thy breakers; they to meWere a delight; and, if the freshening seaMade them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear;For I was as it were a child of theeAnd trusted to thy billows far and near,And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;Man marks the earth with ruin,—his controlStops with the shore; upon the watery plainThe wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remainA shadow of man's ravage, save his own,When for a moment, like a drop of rain,He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan—Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields,Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost ariseAnd shake him from thee; the vile strength he wieldsFor earth's destruction, thou dost all despise,Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray,And howling to his gods, where haply liesHis petty hope in some near port or bay,And dashest him again to earth; there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the wallsOf rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,And monarchs tremble in their capitals;The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs makeTheir clay creator the vain title takeOf lord of thee, and arbiter of war:These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,They melt into thy yeast of waves, which marAlike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?Thy waters washed them power while they were free,And many a tyrant since; their shores obeyThe stranger, slave, or savage; their decayHas dried up realms to deserts: not so, thou;Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play.Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow;Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's formGlasses itself in tempests; in all time,Calm or convulsed—in breeze or gale or storm,Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime,Dark-heaving, boundless, endless and sublime—The image of eternity—the throneOf the Invisible; even from out thy slimeThe monsters of the deep are made; each zoneObeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joyOf youthful sports was on thy breast to beBorne, like thy bubbles onward: from a boyI wantoned with thy breakers; they to meWere a delight; and, if the freshening seaMade them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear;For I was as it were a child of theeAnd trusted to thy billows far and near,And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.
Byron: "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."
Britain's myriad voices call"Sons be welded each and all,Into one imperial whole,One with Britain, heart and soul!One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne!"Britons, hold your own!
Britain's myriad voices call"Sons be welded each and all,Into one imperial whole,One with Britain, heart and soul!One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne!"Britons, hold your own!
Tennyson
HOMEWARD BOUNDHOMEWARD BOUND
In the year 1763, a celebrated chief of the Ottawas, called Pontiac, succeeded in forming a confederacy of the Ottawas, Hurons, Chippewas, and some other tribes, with the avowed object of expelling the British from the lake regions of the country. With the craftiness peculiar to the Indian race, an ingenious stratagem was devised, by means of which it was hoped that the allies would easily gain possession of the forts.
For this purpose a grand Lacrosse match was organized at each post, and the officers of the garrison invited to become participators in the game.
Pontiac and his attendant chiefs had, while the warriors and braves were engaged in the game of Lacrosse on the common, sought an audience of the governor of the fort. He received them in the mess-room, apparently not suspecting any artifice on their part.
"The pale warrior, the friend of the Ottawa chief, is not here," said the governor, as he glanced his eye along the semi-circle of Indians."How is this? Is his voice still sick, that he cannot come? or has the great chief of the Ottawas forgotten to tell him?"
"The voice of the pale warrior is still sick, and he cannot speak," replied the Indian. "The Ottawa chief is very sorry; for the tongue of his friend, the pale-face, is full of wisdom."
Scarcely had the last words escaped his lips when a wild, shrill cry from without the fort rang on the ears of the assembled council, and caused a momentary commotion among the officers. It arose from a single voice, and that voice could not be mistaken by any who had heard it once before. A second or two, during which the officers and chiefs kept their eyes intently fixed on one another, passed anxiously away; and then nearer to the gate, apparently on the very drawbridge itself, was pealed forth the wild and deafening yell of a legion of fiendish voices. At that sound, the Ottawa and the other chiefs sprang to their feet, and their own fierce cry responded to that yet vibrating on the ears of all. Already were their gleaming tomahawks brandished wildly over their heads, and Pontiac had even bounded a pace forward to reach the governor with the deadly weapon, when, at the sudden stamping of the foot of thelatter upon the floor, the scarlet cloth in the rear was thrown aside, and twenty soldiers, their eyes glancing along the barrels of their levelled muskets, met the startled gaze of the astonished Indians.
An instant was enough to satisfy the keen chief of the true state of the case. The calm, composed mien of the officers, not one of whom had even attempted to quit his seat amid the din by which his ears were so alarmingly assailed,—the triumphant, yet dignified, and even severe expression of the governor's countenance; and, above all, the unexpected presence of the prepared soldiery,—all these at once assured him of the discovery of his treachery, and the danger that awaited him. The necessity for an immediate attempt to join his warriors without was now obvious to the Ottawa; and scarcely had he conceived the idea before he sought to execute it. In a single spring he gained the door of the mess-room, and, followed eagerly and tumultuously by the other chiefs, to whose departure no opposition was offered, in the next moment stood on the steps of the piazza that ran along the front of the building whence he had issued. The surprise of the Indians on reaching this point was now toopowerful to be dissembled; and incapable either of advancing or receding, they remained gazing on the scene before them with an air of mingled stupefaction, rage, and alarm. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed since they had proudly strode through the naked area of the fort, and yet even in that short space of time its appearance had been entirely changed. Not a part was there now of the surrounding buildings that was not replete with human life and hostile preparation. Through every window of the officers' low rooms was to be seen the dark and frowning muzzle of a field-piece bearing upon the gateway, and behind these were artillerymen holding their lighted matches, supported again by files of bayonets that glittered in their rear. In the block-houses the same formidable array of field-pieces and muskets was visible; while from the four angles of the square as many heavy guns, that had been artfully masked at the entrance of the chiefs, seemed ready to sweep away everything that should come before them. The guard-room near the gate presented the same hostile front. The doors of this, as well as of the other buildings, had been firmly secured within; and from every window affording cover to the troops gleamed a line of bayonets, risingabove the threatening field-pieces, pointed, at a distance of little more than twelve feet, directly upon the gateway. In addition to his musket, each man of the guard held a hand grenade, provided with a short fuse that could be ignited in a moment from the matches of the gunners, with immediate effect. The soldiers in the block-houses were similarly provided.
Almost magical as was the change thus suddenly effected in the appearance of the garrison, it was not the most interesting feature in the exciting scene. Choking up the gateway, in which they were completely wedged, and crowding the drawbridge, a dense mass of "husky" Indians were to be seen casting their fierce glances around, yet paralyzed in their movements by the unlooked-for display of resisting force, threatening instant annihilation to those who should attempt either to advance or recede. Never, perhaps, were astonishment and disappointment more forcibly depicted on the human countenance, than they were now exhibited by these men, who had already in imagination secured to themselves an easy conquest. They were the warriors who had so recently been engaged in the manly yet innocent exercise of the ball; but, instead of the harmlesshurdle, each now carried a short gun in one hand and a gleaming tomahawk in the other.
After the first general yelling heard in the council-room, not a sound was uttered. Their burst of rage and triumph had evidently been checked by the unexpected manner of their reception; and they now stood on the spot on which the further advance of each had been arrested, so silent and motionless, that, but for the rolling of their dark eyes, as they keenly measured the insurmountable barriers that were opposed to their progress, they might almost have been taken for a wild group of statuary. Conspicuous at the head of these was he who wore the blanket; a tall warrior on whom rested the startled eye of every officer and soldier who was so situated as to behold him. His face was painted black as death; and as he stood under the arch of the gateway, with his white turbaned head towering far above those of his companions, this formidable and mysterious enemy might have been likened to the spirit of darkness presiding over his terrible legions.
In order to account for the extraordinary appearance of the Indians, armed in every way for death, at a moment when neither gun nor tomahawk was apparently within miles of theirreach, it was necessary to revert to the first entrance of the chiefs into the fort. The fall of Pontiac had been the effect of design; and the yell pealed forth by him, on recovering his feet, as if in taunting reply to the laugh of his comrades, was in reality a signal intended for the guidance of the Indians without. These now following up their game with increasing spirit, at once changed the direction of their line, bringing the ball nearer to the fort. In their eagerness to effect this object, they had overlooked the gradual secession of the unarmed troops, spectators of their sport from the ramparts, until scarcely more than twenty stragglers were left. As they neared the gate, the squaws broke up their several groups, and, forming a line on either hand of the road leading to the drawbridge, appeared to separate solely with a view not to impede the players. For an instant a dense group collected around the ball, which had been drawn to within a hundred yards of the gate, and fifty hurdles were crossed in their endeavour to secure it, when the warrior, who formed the solitary exception to the multitude, in his blanket covering, and who had been lingering in the extreme rear of the party, came rapidly up to the spot where the well-affectedstruggle was maintained. At his approach the hurdles of the other players were withdrawn, when, at a single blow from his powerful arm, the ball was seen flying in an oblique direction and was for a moment lost altogether to the view. When it again met the eye, it was descending into the very centre of the fort.
With the fleetness of thought now commenced a race which had ostensibly for its object the recovery of the lost ball, and in which he who had driven it with resistless force outstripped them all. Their course lay between the two lines of squaws; and scarcely had the head of the bounding Indians reached the opposite extremity of those lines, when the women suddenly threw back their blankets, and disclosed each a short gun and tomahawk. To throw away their hurdles and seize upon these, was the work of an instant. Already, in imagination, was the fort their own; and, such, was the peculiar exaltation of the black and turbaned warrior when he felt the planks of the drawbridge bending beneath his feet, all the ferocious joy of his soul was pealed forth in the terrible cry which, rapidly succeeded by that of the other Indians, had resounded so fearfully through the council-room.
What their disappointment was, when, on gaining the interior, they found the garrison prepared for their reception, has already been shown.
Major Richardson