On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast arrayedEach horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neighed,To join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rushed the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heaven,Far flashed the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few, shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.
On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayedEach horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neighed,To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rushed the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heaven,Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.
Thomas Campbell
There stood in a wood, high on the bank near the open sea-shore, such a grand old oak tree! It was three hundred and sixty-five years old; but all this length of years had seemed to the tree scarcely more than so many days appear to us men and women, boys and girls.
A tree's life is not quite the same as a man's: we wake during the day, and sleep and dream during the night; but a tree wakes throughout three seasons of the year, and has no sleep till winter comes. The winter is its sleeping time—its night after the long day which we call spring, summer, and autumn.
It was just at the holy Christmas-tide that the oak tree dreamed his most beautiful dream. He seemed to hear the church-bells ringing all around, and to feel as if it were a mild, warm summer day. Fresh and green he reared his mighty crown on high, and the sunbeams played among his leaves. As in a festive procession, all that the tree had beheld in his life now passed by.
Knights and ladies, with feathers in their caps and hawks perching on their wrists, rode gaily through the wood; dogs barked, and the huntsman sounded his bugle.
Then came foreign soldiers in bright armour and gay vestments, bearing spurs and halberds, setting up their tents, and presently taking them down again. Then watch-fires blazed up and bands of wild outlaws sang, revelled, and slept under the tree's outstretched boughs; or happy lovers met in quiet moonlight and carved their initials on the grayish bark.
At one time a guitar and an Æolian harp had been hung among the old oak's boughs by merry travelling apprentices; now they hung there again, and the wind played sweetly with their strings.
And now the dream changed. A new and stronger current of life flowed through him, down to his lowest roots, up to his highest twigs, even to the very leaves. The tree felt in his roots that a warm life stirred in the earth, and that he was growing taller and taller; his trunk shot up more and more, his crown grew fuller; and still he soared and spread. He felt that his power grew, too, and he longed to advance higher and higher to the warm, bright sun.
Already he towered above the clouds, which drifted below him, now like a troop of dark-plumaged birds of passage, now like flocks of large, white swans. The stars became visible by daylight, so large and bright, each one sparkling like a mild, clear eye.
It was a blessed moment! and yet, in the height of his joy, the oak tree felt a desire and longing that all the other trees, bushes, herbs, and flowers of the wood might be lifted up with him to share in his glory and gladness. He could not be fully blessed unless he might have all, small and great, blessed with him.
The tree's crown bowed itself as though it had missed something, and looked backward. Then he felt the fragrance of honeysuckle and violets, and fancied he could hear the birds. And so it was! for now peeped forth through the clouds the green summits of the wood; the other trees below had grown and lifted themselves up likewise; bushes and herbs shot high into the air, some tearing themselves loose from their roots to mount the faster.
Like a flash of white lightning the birch, moving fastest of all, shot upward its slender stem. Even the feathery brown reeds had pierced their way through the clouds, and the birds sang and sang, and on the grass that fluttered to and fro like a streaming ribbon perched the grasshopper, while cockchafers hummed and bees buzzed. All was music and gladness.
"But the little blue flower near the water—I want that, too," said the oak; "and the bellflower, and the dear little daisy." "We are here! we are here!" chanted sweet low voices on all sides.
"But the pretty anemones, and the bed of lilies of the valley, and all the flowers that bloomed so long ago,—would that they were here!" "We are here! we are here!" was the answer, and it seemed to come from the air above, as if they had fled upward first.
"Oh, this is too great happiness!" exclaimed the oak tree; and now he felt that his own roots were loosening themselves from the earth. "This is best of all," he said. "Now no bounds shall detain me. I can soar to the heights of light and glory, and I have all my dear ones with me."
Such was the oak tree's Christmas dream. And all the while a mighty storm swept the sea and land; the ocean rolled his heavy billows on the shore, the tree cracked, and was rent and torn up by the roots at the very moment when he dreamed that he was soaring to the skies.
Next day the sea was calm again, and a large vessel that had weathered the storm hoisted all its flags for Merry Christmas. "The tree is gone—the old oak tree, our beacon! How can its place ever be supplied?" said the crew. This was the tree's funeral eulogium, while the Christmas hymn re-echoed from the wood.
Hans Christian Andersen(Adapted)
The day returns and brings us the petty round of irritating concerns and duties. Help us to play the man, help us to perform them with laughter and kind faces; let cheerfulness abound with industry. Give us to go blithely on our business all this day, bring us to our resting beds weary and content and undishonoured; and grant us in the end the gift of sleep.
R. L. Stevenson
IN THE PASTUREIN THE PASTURE
IN THE PASTURE
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs, the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stoodIn brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rainCalls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs, the jay,And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stoodIn brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowersAre lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rainCalls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
Bryant
'Tis the last rose of summerLeft blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rosebud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh.I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o'er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from Love's shining circleThe gems drop away.When true hearts lie withered,And fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone!
'Tis the last rose of summerLeft blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rosebud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go, sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o'er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from Love's shining circleThe gems drop away.When true hearts lie withered,And fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone!
Moore
The Romans had suffered a terrible defeat in B.C. 251, and Regulus, a famous soldier and senator, had been captured and dragged into Carthage where the victors feasted and rejoiced through half the night, and testified their thanks to their god by offering in his fires the bravest of their captives.
Regulus himself was not, however, one of these victims. He was kept a close prisoner for two years, pining and sickening in his loneliness; while, in the meantime, the war continued, and at last a victory so decisive was gained by the Romans, that the people of Carthage were discouraged, and resolved to ask terms of peace. They thought that no one would be so readily listened to at Rome as Regulus, and they therefore sent him there with their envoys, having first made him swear that he would come back to his prison, if there should neither be peace nor an exchange of prisoners. They little knew how much more a true-hearted Roman cared for his city than for himself—for his word than for his life.
Worn and dejected, the captive warrior came to the outside of the gates of his own city and there paused, refusing to enter. "I am no longer a Roman citizen," he said; "I am but the barbarian's slave, and the Senate may not give audience to strangers within the walls."
His wife, Marcia, ran out to greet him, with his two sons, but he did not look up, and received their caresses as one beneath their notice, as a mere slave, and he continued, in spite of all entreaty, to remain outside the city, and would not even go to the little farm he had loved so well.
The Roman Senate, as he would not come in to them, came out to hold their meeting in the Campagna.
The ambassadors spoke first; then Regulus, standing up, said, as one repeating a task: "Conscript fathers, being a slave to the Carthaginians, I come on the part of my masters to treat with you concerning peace and an exchange of prisoners." He then turned to go away with the ambassadors, as a stranger might not be present at the deliberations of the Senate. His old friends pressed him to stay and give his opinion as a senator, who had twice been consul; but he refused to degrade that dignity by claiming it, slave as he was. But, at the command of his Carthaginian masters, he remained, though not taking his seat.
Then he spoke. He told the senators to persevere in the war. He said he had seen the distress of Carthage, and that a peace would be only to her advantage, not to that of Rome, and therefore he strongly advised that the war should continue. Then, as to the exchange of prisoners, the Carthaginian generals, who were in the hands of the Romans, were in full health and strength, whilst he himself was too much broken down to be fit for service again; and, indeed, he believed that his enemies had given him a slow poison, and that he could not live long. Thus he insisted that no exchange of prisoners should be made.
It was wonderful, even to Romans, to hear a man thus pleading against himself; and their chief priest came forward and declared that, as his oath had been wrested from him by force, he was not bound by it to return to his captivity. But Regulus was too noble to listen to this for a moment. "Have you resolved to dishonour me?" he said. "I am not ignorant that death and the extremest tortures are preparing for me; but what are these to the shame of an infamous action, or the wounds of a guilty mind? Slave as I am to Carthage, I have still the spirit of a Roman. I have sworn to return. It is my duty to go; let the gods take care of the rest."
The Senate decided to follow the advice of Regulus, though they bitterly regretted his sacrifice. His wife wept and entreated in vain that they would detain him—they could merely repeat their permission to him to remain; but nothing could prevail with him to break his word, and he turned back to the chains and death he expected, as calmly as if he had been returning to his home. This was in the year B.C. 249.
Charlotte M. Yonge: "Book of Golden Deeds."
It was eight bells ringing,For the morning watch was done,And the gunner's lads were singing,As they polished every gun.It was eight bells ringing,And the gunner's lads were singingFor the ship she rode a-swinging,As they polished every gun.Oh! to see the linstock lighting,Téméraire! Téméraire!Oh! to hear the round shot biting,Téméraire! Téméraire!Oh! to see the linstock lighting,And to hear the round shot biting,For we're all in love with fightingOn the Fighting Téméraire.It was noontide ringing,And the battle just begun,When the ship her way was winging,As they loaded every gun.It was noontide ringingWhen the ship her way was winging,And the gunner's lads were singing,As they loaded every gun.There'll be many grim and gory,Téméraire! Téméraire!There'll be few to tell the story,Téméraire! Téméraire!There'll be many grim and gory,There'll be few to tell the story,But we'll all be one in gloryWith the Fighting Téméraire.There's a far bell ringingAt the setting of the sun,And a phantom voice is singingOf the great days done.There's a far bell ringing,And a phantom voice is singingOf renown for ever clingingTo the great days done.Now the sunset breezes shiver,Téméraire! Téméraire!And she's fading down the river,Téméraire! Téméraire!Now the sunset breezes shiver,And she's fading down the river,But in England's song for everShe's the Fighting Téméraire.
It was eight bells ringing,For the morning watch was done,And the gunner's lads were singing,As they polished every gun.It was eight bells ringing,And the gunner's lads were singingFor the ship she rode a-swinging,As they polished every gun.
Oh! to see the linstock lighting,Téméraire! Téméraire!Oh! to hear the round shot biting,Téméraire! Téméraire!Oh! to see the linstock lighting,And to hear the round shot biting,For we're all in love with fightingOn the Fighting Téméraire.
It was noontide ringing,And the battle just begun,When the ship her way was winging,As they loaded every gun.It was noontide ringingWhen the ship her way was winging,And the gunner's lads were singing,As they loaded every gun.
There'll be many grim and gory,Téméraire! Téméraire!There'll be few to tell the story,Téméraire! Téméraire!There'll be many grim and gory,There'll be few to tell the story,But we'll all be one in gloryWith the Fighting Téméraire.
There's a far bell ringingAt the setting of the sun,And a phantom voice is singingOf the great days done.There's a far bell ringing,And a phantom voice is singingOf renown for ever clingingTo the great days done.
Now the sunset breezes shiver,Téméraire! Téméraire!And she's fading down the river,Téméraire! Téméraire!Now the sunset breezes shiver,And she's fading down the river,But in England's song for everShe's the Fighting Téméraire.
Henry Newbolt
"I beseech your worship, Sir Knight-errant," quoth Sancho to his master, "be sure you don't forget what you promised me about the island; for I dare say I shall make shift to govern it, let it be never so big."
"You must know, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that it has been the constant practice of knights-errant in former ages to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered."
As they were thus discoursing, they discovered some thirty or forty windmills that are in that plain; and as soon as the knight had spied them, "Fortune," cried he, "directs our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished: look yonder, friend Sancho, there are at least thirty outrageous giants, whom I intend to encounter; and having deprived them of life, we will begin to enrich ourselves with their spoils; for they are lawful prize; and the extirpation of that cursed brood will be an acceptable service to Heaven."
"What giants?" quoth Sancho Panza.
"Those whom thou seest yonder," answered Don Quixote, "with their long extended arms; some of that detested race have arms of so immense a size, that sometimes they reach two leagues in length."
"Pray look better, sir," quoth Sancho; "those things yonder are no giants, but windmills, and the arms you fancy, are their sails, which being whirled about by the wind, make the mill go."
"'Tis a sign," cried Don Quixote, "thou art but little acquainted with adventures! I tell thee, they are giants; and therefore if thou art afraid, go aside and say thy prayers, for I am resolved to engage in a dreadful unequal combat against them all." This said, he clapped spurs to his horse Rozinante, without giving ear to his squire Sancho, who bawled out to him, and assured him that they were windmills, and no giants. But he was so fully possessed with a strong conceit of the contrary, that he did not so much as hear his squire's outcry, nor was he sensible of what they were, although he was already very near them; far from that: "Stand, cowards," cried he, as loud as he could; "stand your ground, ignoble creatures, and fly not basely from a single knight, who dares encounter you all!"
At the same time, the wind rising, the mill-sails began to move, which when Don Quixote spied, "Base miscreants," cried he, "though you move more arms than the giant Briareus, you shall pay for your arrogance."
He most devoutly recommended himself to his Lady Dulcinea, imploring her assistance in this perilous adventure; and, so covering himself with his shield, and couching his lance, he rushed with Rozinante's utmost speed upon the first windmill he could come at, and running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about with such swiftness, that the rapidity of the motion presently broke the lance into shivers, and hurled away both knight and horse along with it, till down he fell, rolling a good way off in the field.
Sancho Panza ran as fast as his ass could drive to help his master, whom he found lying, and not able to stir, such a blow had he and Rozinante received. "Mercy o' me!" cried Sancho, "did not I give your worship fair warning? Did not I tell you they were windmills, and that nobody could think otherwise, unless he had also windmills in his head!"
"Peace, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote: "there is nothing so subject to the inconstancy of fortune as war. I am verily persuaded that cursed necromancer, Freston, who carried away my study and my books, has transformed these giants into windmills to deprive me of the honour of the victory; such is his inveterate malice against me; but in the end, all his pernicious wiles and stratagems shall prove ineffectual against the prevailing edge of my sword."
"Amen, say I," replied Sancho.
And so heaving him up again upon his legs, once more the knight mounted poor Rozinante, that was half shoulder-slipped with his fall.
This adventure was the subject of their discourse, as they made the best of their way towards the pass of Lapice, for Don Quixote took that road, believing he could not miss of adventure in one so mightily frequented. However, the loss of his lance was no small affliction to him; and as he was making his complaint about it to his squire, "I have read," said he, "friend Sancho, that a certain Spanish knight, having broken his sword in the heat of an engagement, pulled up by the roots a huge oak tree, or at least tore down a massy branch, and did such wonderful execution, crushing and grinding so many Moors with it that day, that he won himself and his posterity the surname of The Pounder, or Bruiser. I tell thee this, because I intend to tear up the next oak or holm tree we meet; with the trunk whereof I hope to perform such wondrous deeds that thou wilt esteem thyself particularly happy in having had the honour to behold them, and been the ocular witness of achievements which posterity will scarce be able to believe."
"Heaven grant you may," cried Sancho; "I believe it all, because your worship says it. But, an't please you, sit a little more upright in your saddle; you ride sideling methinks; but that, I suppose, proceeds from your being bruised by the fall."
"It does so," replied Don Quixote; "and if I do not complain of the pain, it is because a knight-errant must never complain of his wounds."
"Then I have no more to say," quoth Sancho; "and yet Heaven knows my heart, I should be glad to hear your worship groan a little now and then when something ails you: for my part, I shall not fail to bemoan myself when I suffer the smallest pain, unless, indeed, it can be proved that the rule of not complaining extends to the squires as well as knights."
Don Quixote could not forbear smiling at the simplicity of his squire; and told him he gave him leave to complain not only when he pleased, but as much as he pleased, whether he had any cause or no; for he had never yet read anything to the contrary in any books of chivalry.
Cervantes: "The Adventures of Don Quixote."
Little Ellie sits alone'Mid the beeches of a meadow,By a stream-side on the grass,And the trees are showering downDoubles of their leaves in shadow,On her shining hair and face.She has thrown her bonnet by,And her feet she has been dippingIn the shallow water's flow.Now she holds them nakedlyIn her hands, all sleek and dripping,While she rocketh to and fro.Little Ellie sits alone,And the smile she softly uses,Fills the silence like a speech,While she thinks what shall be done,—And the sweetest pleasure choosesFor her future within reach.Little Ellie in her smileChooses ... "I will have a lover,Riding on a steed of steeds!He shall love me without guile,And tohimI will discoverThe swan's nest among the reeds."And the steed shall be red-roan,And the lover shall be noble,With an eye that takes the breath.And the lute he plays upon,Shall strike ladies into trouble,As his sword strikes men to death."And the steed it shall be shodAll in silver, housed in azure;And the mane shall swim the wind;And the hoofs along the sodShall flash onward and keep measure,Till the shepherds look behind."But my lover will not prizeAll the glory that he rides in,When he gazes in my face.He will say: 'O Love, thine eyesBuild the shrine my soul abides in,And I kneel here for thy grace.'"Then, ay, then—he shall kneel low,With the red-roan steed anear himWhich shall seem to understand—Till I answer: 'Rise and go!'For the world must love and fear himWhom I gift with heart and hand."Then he will arise so pale,I shall feel my own lips trembleWith ayesI must not say,Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,'I will utter, and dissemble—'Light to-morrow with to-day.'"Then he'll ride among the hillsTo the wide world past the river,There to put away all wrong;To make straight distorted wills,And to empty the broad quiverWhich the wicked bear along."Three times shall a young foot-pageSwim the stream and climb the mountainAnd kneel down beside my feet—'Lo, my master sends this gage,Lady, for thy pity's counting!What wilt thou exchange for it?'"And the first time, I will sendA white rosebud for a guerdon,—And the second time, a glove;But the third time—I may bendFrom my pride, and answer: 'Pardon,If he comes to take my love.'"Then the young foot-page will run—Then my lover will ride faster,Till he kneeleth at my knee:'I am a duke's eldest son!Thousand serfs do call me master,—But, O Love, I love butthee!'"He will kiss me on the mouthThen, and lead me as a loverThrough the crowds that praise his deeds:And, when soul-tied by one troth,UntohimI will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds."Little Ellie, with her smileNot yet ended, rose up gaily,Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,And went homeward, round a mile,Just to see, as she did daily,What more eggs were with the two.Pushing through the elm tree copse,Winding up the stream, light-hearted,Where the osier pathway leads—Past the boughs she stoops—and stops.Lo, the wild swan had deserted,—And a rat had gnawed the reeds.Ellie went home sad and slow.If she found the lover ever,With his red-roan steed of steeds,Sooth I know not! but I knowShe could never show him—never,That swan's nest among the reeds.
Little Ellie sits alone'Mid the beeches of a meadow,By a stream-side on the grass,And the trees are showering downDoubles of their leaves in shadow,On her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by,And her feet she has been dippingIn the shallow water's flow.Now she holds them nakedlyIn her hands, all sleek and dripping,While she rocketh to and fro.
Little Ellie sits alone,And the smile she softly uses,Fills the silence like a speech,While she thinks what shall be done,—And the sweetest pleasure choosesFor her future within reach.
Little Ellie in her smileChooses ... "I will have a lover,Riding on a steed of steeds!He shall love me without guile,And tohimI will discoverThe swan's nest among the reeds.
"And the steed shall be red-roan,And the lover shall be noble,With an eye that takes the breath.And the lute he plays upon,Shall strike ladies into trouble,As his sword strikes men to death.
"And the steed it shall be shodAll in silver, housed in azure;And the mane shall swim the wind;And the hoofs along the sodShall flash onward and keep measure,Till the shepherds look behind.
"But my lover will not prizeAll the glory that he rides in,When he gazes in my face.He will say: 'O Love, thine eyesBuild the shrine my soul abides in,And I kneel here for thy grace.'
"Then, ay, then—he shall kneel low,With the red-roan steed anear himWhich shall seem to understand—Till I answer: 'Rise and go!'For the world must love and fear himWhom I gift with heart and hand.
"Then he will arise so pale,I shall feel my own lips trembleWith ayesI must not say,Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,'I will utter, and dissemble—'Light to-morrow with to-day.'
"Then he'll ride among the hillsTo the wide world past the river,There to put away all wrong;To make straight distorted wills,And to empty the broad quiverWhich the wicked bear along.
"Three times shall a young foot-pageSwim the stream and climb the mountainAnd kneel down beside my feet—'Lo, my master sends this gage,Lady, for thy pity's counting!What wilt thou exchange for it?'
"And the first time, I will sendA white rosebud for a guerdon,—And the second time, a glove;But the third time—I may bendFrom my pride, and answer: 'Pardon,If he comes to take my love.'
"Then the young foot-page will run—Then my lover will ride faster,Till he kneeleth at my knee:'I am a duke's eldest son!Thousand serfs do call me master,—But, O Love, I love butthee!'
"He will kiss me on the mouthThen, and lead me as a loverThrough the crowds that praise his deeds:And, when soul-tied by one troth,UntohimI will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds."
Little Ellie, with her smileNot yet ended, rose up gaily,Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,And went homeward, round a mile,Just to see, as she did daily,What more eggs were with the two.
Pushing through the elm tree copse,Winding up the stream, light-hearted,Where the osier pathway leads—Past the boughs she stoops—and stops.Lo, the wild swan had deserted,—And a rat had gnawed the reeds.
Ellie went home sad and slow.If she found the lover ever,With his red-roan steed of steeds,Sooth I know not! but I knowShe could never show him—never,That swan's nest among the reeds.
E. B. Browning
DEEP SEA FISHERSDEEP SEA FISHERS
DEEP SEA FISHERS
It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called upon Beethoven; for I wished him to take a walk, and afterwards sup with me. In passing through a dark, narrow street, he suddenly paused. "Hush!" he said, "what sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F. Hark! how well it is played!"
It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened. The player went on; but, in the midst of the finale, there was a sudden break; then the voice of sobbing: "I cannot play any more. It is too beautiful; it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh! what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!"
"Ah! my sister," said her companion; "why create regrets when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent."
"You are right, and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use."
Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.
"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"
"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is feeling—genius—understanding! I will play to her, and she will understand it."
And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door. It opened and we entered.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes, and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned piano, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her face.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician."
The girl blushed, and the young man looked grave and somewhat annoyed.
"I—I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You wish to hear—that is, you would like—that is—shall I play for you?"
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comical and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment.
"Thank you!" said the shoemaker; "but our piano is so wretched, and we have no music."
"No music!" echoed my friend; "how, then, does the young lady—" he paused and coloured; for, as he looked in the girl's face, he saw that she was blind. "I—I entreat your pardon," he stammered. "I had not perceived before. Then you play by ear? But when do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?"
"We lived at Bruhl for two years, and while there I used to hear a lady practising near us. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her."
She seemed so shy that Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly before the piano and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He seemed to be inspired; and, from the instant that his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tones of the instrument seemed to grow sweeter and more equal.
The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the piano, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical sounds.
Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, the moon rays falling strongest upon the piano and the player. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in deep thought. He remained thus for some time. At length the young shoemaker arose and approached him eagerly.
"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone. "Who and what are you?"
"Listen!" said Beethoven, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata in F. A cry of recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming: "Then you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.
He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties.
"Play to us once more—only once more!"
He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window, and lighted up his glorious, rugged head and massive figure.
"I will improvise a Sonata to the Moonlight!" said he, looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument, like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time—a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of spirits upon the lawn. Then came a swift agitato finale—a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight, and uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all in emotion and wonder.
"Farewell to you!" said Beethoven, pushing back his chair, and turning towards the door—"farewell to you!"
"You will come again?" asked they in one breath.
He paused and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl.
"Yes, yes," he said hurriedly, "I will come again, and give the young lady some lessons! Farewell! I will come again!"
Their looks followed us in silence more eloquent than words till we were out of sight.
"Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, "that I may write out that Sonata while I can yet remember it."
We did so, and he sat over it till long past day dawn. And this was the origin of the Moonlight Sonata with which we are all so fondly acquainted.
Unknown
Black beneath as the night,With wings of a morning glow,From his sooty throat three syllables float,Ravishing, liquid, low;And 'tis oh, for the joy of June,And the bliss that ne'er can fleeFrom that exquisite call, with its sweet, sweet fall—O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee!Long ago as a child,From the bough of a blossoming quince,That melody came to thrill my frame,And whenever I've caught it since,The spring-soft blue of the skyAnd the spring-bright bloom of the treeAre a part of the strain—ah, hear it again!—O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee!And the night is tenderly black,The morning eagerly bright,For that old, old spring is blossomingIn the soul and in the sight.The red-winged blackbird bringsMy lost youth back to me,When I hear in the swale, from a gray fence rail,O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee!
Black beneath as the night,With wings of a morning glow,From his sooty throat three syllables float,Ravishing, liquid, low;And 'tis oh, for the joy of June,And the bliss that ne'er can fleeFrom that exquisite call, with its sweet, sweet fall—O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee!
Long ago as a child,From the bough of a blossoming quince,That melody came to thrill my frame,And whenever I've caught it since,The spring-soft blue of the skyAnd the spring-bright bloom of the treeAre a part of the strain—ah, hear it again!—O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee!
And the night is tenderly black,The morning eagerly bright,For that old, old spring is blossomingIn the soul and in the sight.The red-winged blackbird bringsMy lost youth back to me,When I hear in the swale, from a gray fence rail,O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee!
Ethelwyn Wetherald
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!Thou messenger of spring!Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,And woods thy welcome sing.What time the daisy decks the green,Thy certain voice we hear.Hast thou a star to guide thy path,Or mark the rolling year?Delightful visitant! with theeI hail the time of flowers,And hear the sound of music sweetFrom birds among the bowers.The school-boy, wandering through the woodTo pull the primrose gay,Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,And imitates thy lay.What time the pea puts on the bloom,Thou fliest thy vocal vale,An annual guest in other lands,Another spring to hail.Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,No winter in thy year!Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!We'd make, with joyful wing,Our annual visit o'er the globe,Companions of the Spring.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!Thou messenger of spring!Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,Thy certain voice we hear.Hast thou a star to guide thy path,Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant! with theeI hail the time of flowers,And hear the sound of music sweetFrom birds among the bowers.
The school-boy, wandering through the woodTo pull the primrose gay,Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom,Thou fliest thy vocal vale,An annual guest in other lands,Another spring to hail.
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,No winter in thy year!
Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!We'd make, with joyful wing,Our annual visit o'er the globe,Companions of the Spring.
John Logan
A great many years ago, when nearly the whole of Canada was covered with water, and the Northern Ocean, which washed the highest crests of the Alleghanies, made an island of the Laurentian Hills, and wrote its name on the Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior, there lived somewhere near Toronto, in the Province of Ontario, a little animal called a Polyp. He was a curious creature, very small, not unlike a flower in appearance, a plant-animal.
One day, the sun shone down into the water and set this little fellow free from the egg in which he was confined. For a time he floated about near the bottom of the ocean, but at last settled down on a bit of shell, and fastened himself to it. Then he made an opening in his upper side, formed for himself a mouth and stomach, thrust out a whole row of feelers, and began catching whatever morsels of food came in his way. He had a great many strange ways, but the strangest of all was his gathering little bits of limestone from the water and building them up round him, as a person does who builds a well.
But this little Favosite, for that was his name, became lonesome on the bottom of that old ocean; so one night, when he was fast asleep and dreaming as only a coral animal can dream, there sprouted out of his side another little Favosite, who very soon began to wall himself up as his parent had done. From these, other little Favosites were formed, till at last there were so many of them, and they were so crowded together, that, to economize the limestone they built with, they had to make their cells six-sided, like those of a honey-comb: on this account they are called Favosites.
The colony thrived for a long time, and accumulated quite a stock of limestone. But at last a change came: there was a great rush of muddy water from the land, and all the Favosites died, leaving only a stony skeleton to prove that industrious Polyps had ever existed there.
This skeleton remained undisturbed for ages, until the earth began to rise inch by inch out of the water. Then our Favosites' home rose above the deep, and with it came all that was left of its old acquaintances the Trilobites, who were the ancestors of our crabs and lobsters.
TrilobiteTrilobite
Trilobite
Then the first fishes made their appearance, great fierce-looking fellows like the gar pike of our lakes, but larger, and armed with scales as hard as the armour of a crocodile. Next came the sharks, as savage and voracious as they now are, with teeth like knives. But the time of these old fishes and of many more animals came and went, and still the home of the Favosites lay in the ground.
Then came the long, hot, damp epoch, when thick mists hung over the earth, and great ferns and rushes, as stout as an oak and as tall as a steeple, grew in Nova Scotia, in Pennsylvania, and in other parts of America where coal is now found. Huge reptiles, with enormous jaws and teeth like cross-cut saws, and smaller ones with wings like bats, next appeared and added to the strangeness of the scene.
But the reptiles died; the ferns and the rush-trees fell into their native swamps, and were covered up and packed away under great layers of clay and sand brought down by the rivers, till at last they were turned into coal, forming for us, what someone has called, beds of petrified sunshine. But all this while the skeleton of the Favosites lay undisturbed.
Then the mists cleared away as gradually as they had come, the sun shone out, the grass grew, and strange four-footed animals came and fed upon it. Among these were odd-looking little horses no bigger than foxes; great hairy monsters larger than elephants, with tremendous tusks; hogs with snouts nearly as long as their bodies; and other strange creatures that no man has ever seen alive. But still the house of the Favosites remained where it was.
Next came the great winter, and it continued to snow till the mountains were hidden. Then the snow was packed into ice, and Canada became one solid glacier. This ice age continued for many thousands of years.
At last the ice began to melt, and the glacier came slowly down the slopes, tearing up rocks, little and big, and crushing and grinding and carrying away everything in its course. It ploughed its way across Ontario, and the skeleton of our Favosites was rooted out from the quiet place where it had lain so long, and was caught up in a crevice of the ice. The glacier slid along, melting all the while, and covering the land with clay, pebbles, and boulders. At last it stopped, and as it gradually melted away, all the rocks and stones and dirt it had carried with it thus far, were deposited into one great heap, and the home of the Favosites along with them.
Ages afterwards a farmer, near Toronto, when ploughing a field, picked up a curious bit of "petrified honey-comb," and gave it to a geologist to hear what he would say about it. And now you have read what he said.
D. B.