THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.'T was in the prime of summer time,An evening calm and cool,And four-and-twenty happy boysCame bounding out of school;There were some that ran, and some that leaptLike troutlets in a pool.Away they sped with gamesome mindsAnd souls untouched by sin;To a level mead they came, and thereThey drave the wickets in:Pleasantly shone the setting sunOver the town of Lynn.Like sportive deer they coursed about,And shouted as they ran.Turning to mirth all things of earthAs only boyhood can;But the usher sat remote from all,A melancholy man!His hat was off, his vest apart,To catch heaven's blessèd breeze;For a burning thought was in his brow,And his bosom ill at ease;So he leaned his head on his hands, and readThe book between his knees.Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,Nor ever glanced aside,—For the peace of his soul he read that bookIn the golden eventide;Much study had made him very lean,And pale, and leaden-eyed.At last he shut the ponderous tome;With a fast and fervent graspHe strained the dusky covers close,And fixed the brazen hasp:"O God! could I so close my mind,And clasp it with a clasp!"Then leaping on his feet upright,Some moody turns he took,—Now up the mead, then down the mead,And past a shady nook,—And, lo! he saw a little boyThat pored upon a book."My gentle lad, what is 't you read,—Romance or fairy fable?Or is it some historic page,Of kings and crowns unstable?"The young boy gave an upward glance,—"It is 'The Death of Abel.'"The usher took six hasty strides,As smit with sudden pain,—Six hasty strides beyond the place,Then slowly back again;And down he sat beside the lad,And talked with him of Cain;And, long since then, of bloody men,Whose deeds tradition saves;And lonely folk cut off unseen,And hid in sudden graves;And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn;And murders done in caves;And how the sprites of injured menShriek upward from the sod;Ay, how the ghostly hand will pointTo show the burial clod;And unknown facts of guilty actsAre seen in dreams from God.He told how murderers walk the earthBeneath the curse of Cain,—With crimson clouds before their eyes,And flames about their brain;For blood has left upon their soulsIts everlasting stain!"And well," quoth he, "I know for truthTheir pangs must be extreme—Woe, woe, unutterable woe!—Who spill life's sacred stream.For why? Methought, last night I wroughtA murder, in a dream!"One that had never done me wrong,—A feeble man and old;I led him to a lonely field,—The moon shone clear and cold:Now here, said I, this man shall die,And I will have his gold!"Two sudden blows with a raggèd stick,And one with a heavy stone,One hurried gash with a hasty knife,—And then the deed was done:There was nothing lying at my feetBut lifeless flesh and bone!"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,That could not do me ill;And yet I feared him all the moreFor lying there so still:There was a manhood in his lookThat murder could not kill!"And, lo! the universal airSeemed lit with ghastly flame,—Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyesWere looking down in blame;I took the dead man by his hand,And called upon his name."O God! it made me quake to seeSuch sense within the slain;But, when I touched the lifeless clay,The blood gushed out amain!For every clot a burning spotWas scorching in my brain!"My head was like an ardent coal,My heart as solid ice;My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,Was at the Devil's price.A dozen times I groaned,—the deadHad never groaned but twice."And now, from forth the frowning sky,From heaven's topmost height,I heard a voice,—the awful voiceOf the blood-avenging sprite:'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead,And hide it from my sight!'"And I took the dreary body up,And cast it in a stream,—The sluggish water black as ink,The depth was so extreme:—My gentle boy, remember, thisIs nothing but a dream!"Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,And vanished in the pool;Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,And washed my forehead cool,And sat among the urchins young,That evening, in the school."O Heaven! to think of their white souls,And mine so black and grim!I could not share in childish prayer,Nor join in evening hymn;Like a devil of the pit I seemed,Mid holy cherubim!"And peace went with them, one and all,And each calm pillow spread;But Guilt was my grim chamberlain,That lighted me to bed,And drew my midnight curtains roundWith fingers bloody red!"All night I lay in agony,In anguish dark and deep;My fevered eyes I dared not close,But stared aghast at Sleep;For Sin had rendered unto herThe keys of hell to keep!"All night I lay in agony,From weary chime to chime;With one besetting horrid hintThat racked me all the time,—A mighty yearning, like the firstFierce impulse unto crime,—"One stern tyrannic thought, that madeAll other thoughts its slave!Stronger and stronger every pulseDid that temptation crave,—Still urging me to go and seeThe dead man in his grave!"Heavily I rose up, as soonAs light was in the sky,And sought the black accursèd poolWith a wild, misgiving eye;And I saw the dead in the river-bed,For the faithless stream was dry."Merrily rose the lark, and shookThe dew-drop from its wing;But I never marked its morning flight,I never heard it sing,For I was stooping once againUnder the horrid thing."With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,I took him up and ran;There was no time to dig a graveBefore the day began,—In a lonesome wood with heaps of leaves,I hid the murdered man!"And all that day I read in school,But my thought was otherwhere;As soon as the midday task was done,In secret I was there,—And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,And still the corse was bare!"Then down I cast me on my face,And first began to weep,For I knew my secret then was oneThat earth refused to keep,—Or land or sea, though he should beTen thousand fathoms deep."So wills the fierce avenging sprite,Till blood for blood atones!Ay, though he's buried in a cave,And trodden down with stones,And years have rotted off his flesh,—The world shall see his bones!"O God! that horrid, horrid dreamBesets me now awake!Again—again, with dizzy brain,The human life I take;And my red right hand grows raging hot,Like Cranmer's at the stake."And still no peace for the restless clayWill wave or mold allow;The horrid thing pursues my soul,—It stands before me now!"The fearful boy looked up, and sawHuge drops upon his brow.That very night, while gentle sleepThe urchin's eyelids kissed,Two stern-faced men set out from LynnThrough the cold and heavy mist;And Eugene Aram walked between,With gyves upon his wrist.THOMAS HOOD.
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
'T was in the prime of summer time,An evening calm and cool,And four-and-twenty happy boysCame bounding out of school;There were some that ran, and some that leaptLike troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome mindsAnd souls untouched by sin;To a level mead they came, and thereThey drave the wickets in:Pleasantly shone the setting sunOver the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,And shouted as they ran.Turning to mirth all things of earthAs only boyhood can;But the usher sat remote from all,A melancholy man!
His hat was off, his vest apart,To catch heaven's blessèd breeze;For a burning thought was in his brow,And his bosom ill at ease;So he leaned his head on his hands, and readThe book between his knees.
Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,Nor ever glanced aside,—For the peace of his soul he read that bookIn the golden eventide;Much study had made him very lean,And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome;With a fast and fervent graspHe strained the dusky covers close,And fixed the brazen hasp:"O God! could I so close my mind,And clasp it with a clasp!"
Then leaping on his feet upright,Some moody turns he took,—Now up the mead, then down the mead,And past a shady nook,—And, lo! he saw a little boyThat pored upon a book.
"My gentle lad, what is 't you read,—Romance or fairy fable?Or is it some historic page,Of kings and crowns unstable?"The young boy gave an upward glance,—"It is 'The Death of Abel.'"
The usher took six hasty strides,As smit with sudden pain,—Six hasty strides beyond the place,Then slowly back again;And down he sat beside the lad,And talked with him of Cain;
And, long since then, of bloody men,Whose deeds tradition saves;And lonely folk cut off unseen,And hid in sudden graves;And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn;And murders done in caves;
And how the sprites of injured menShriek upward from the sod;Ay, how the ghostly hand will pointTo show the burial clod;And unknown facts of guilty actsAre seen in dreams from God.
He told how murderers walk the earthBeneath the curse of Cain,—With crimson clouds before their eyes,And flames about their brain;For blood has left upon their soulsIts everlasting stain!
"And well," quoth he, "I know for truthTheir pangs must be extreme—Woe, woe, unutterable woe!—Who spill life's sacred stream.For why? Methought, last night I wroughtA murder, in a dream!
"One that had never done me wrong,—A feeble man and old;I led him to a lonely field,—The moon shone clear and cold:Now here, said I, this man shall die,And I will have his gold!
"Two sudden blows with a raggèd stick,And one with a heavy stone,One hurried gash with a hasty knife,—And then the deed was done:There was nothing lying at my feetBut lifeless flesh and bone!
"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,That could not do me ill;And yet I feared him all the moreFor lying there so still:There was a manhood in his lookThat murder could not kill!
"And, lo! the universal airSeemed lit with ghastly flame,—Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyesWere looking down in blame;I took the dead man by his hand,And called upon his name.
"O God! it made me quake to seeSuch sense within the slain;But, when I touched the lifeless clay,The blood gushed out amain!For every clot a burning spotWas scorching in my brain!
"My head was like an ardent coal,My heart as solid ice;My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,Was at the Devil's price.A dozen times I groaned,—the deadHad never groaned but twice.
"And now, from forth the frowning sky,From heaven's topmost height,I heard a voice,—the awful voiceOf the blood-avenging sprite:'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead,And hide it from my sight!'
"And I took the dreary body up,And cast it in a stream,—The sluggish water black as ink,The depth was so extreme:—My gentle boy, remember, thisIs nothing but a dream!
"Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,And vanished in the pool;Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,And washed my forehead cool,And sat among the urchins young,That evening, in the school.
"O Heaven! to think of their white souls,And mine so black and grim!I could not share in childish prayer,Nor join in evening hymn;Like a devil of the pit I seemed,Mid holy cherubim!
"And peace went with them, one and all,And each calm pillow spread;But Guilt was my grim chamberlain,That lighted me to bed,And drew my midnight curtains roundWith fingers bloody red!
"All night I lay in agony,In anguish dark and deep;My fevered eyes I dared not close,But stared aghast at Sleep;For Sin had rendered unto herThe keys of hell to keep!
"All night I lay in agony,From weary chime to chime;With one besetting horrid hintThat racked me all the time,—A mighty yearning, like the firstFierce impulse unto crime,—
"One stern tyrannic thought, that madeAll other thoughts its slave!Stronger and stronger every pulseDid that temptation crave,—Still urging me to go and seeThe dead man in his grave!
"Heavily I rose up, as soonAs light was in the sky,And sought the black accursèd poolWith a wild, misgiving eye;And I saw the dead in the river-bed,For the faithless stream was dry.
"Merrily rose the lark, and shookThe dew-drop from its wing;But I never marked its morning flight,I never heard it sing,For I was stooping once againUnder the horrid thing.
"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,I took him up and ran;There was no time to dig a graveBefore the day began,—In a lonesome wood with heaps of leaves,I hid the murdered man!
"And all that day I read in school,But my thought was otherwhere;As soon as the midday task was done,In secret I was there,—And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,And still the corse was bare!
"Then down I cast me on my face,And first began to weep,For I knew my secret then was oneThat earth refused to keep,—Or land or sea, though he should beTen thousand fathoms deep.
"So wills the fierce avenging sprite,Till blood for blood atones!Ay, though he's buried in a cave,And trodden down with stones,And years have rotted off his flesh,—The world shall see his bones!
"O God! that horrid, horrid dreamBesets me now awake!Again—again, with dizzy brain,The human life I take;And my red right hand grows raging hot,Like Cranmer's at the stake.
"And still no peace for the restless clayWill wave or mold allow;The horrid thing pursues my soul,—It stands before me now!"The fearful boy looked up, and sawHuge drops upon his brow.
That very night, while gentle sleepThe urchin's eyelids kissed,Two stern-faced men set out from LynnThrough the cold and heavy mist;And Eugene Aram walked between,With gyves upon his wrist.
THOMAS HOOD.
IN THE ENGINE-SHED.Through air made heavy with vapors murk,O'er slack and cinders in heaps and holes,The engine-driver came to his work,Burly and bluff as a bag of coals;With a thick gold chain where he bulged the most,And a beard like a brush, and a face like a toast,And a hat half-eaten by fire and frost;And a diamond pin in the folded dirtOf the shawl that served him for collar and shirt.Whenever he harnessed his steed of mettle:—The shovel-fed monster that could not tire,With limbs of steel and entrails of fire;Above us it sang like a tea-time kettle.He came to his salamander toilsIn what seemed a devil's cast-off suit,All charred, and discolored with rain and oils,And smeared and sooted from muffler to boot.Some wiping—it struck him—his paws might sufferWith a wisp of thread he found on the buffer(The improvement effected was not very great);Then he spat, and passed his pipe to his mate.And his whole face laughed with an honest mirth,As any extant on this grimy earth,Welcoming me to his murky region;And had you known him, I tell you this—Though your bright hair shiver and sink at its roots,O piano-fingering fellow-collegian—You would have returned no cold salutesTo the cheery greeting of old Chris,But locked your hand in the vise of his.For at night when the sleet-storm shatters and scatters,And clangs on the pane like a pile of fetters,He flies through it all with the world's love-letters:The master of mighty leviathan motions,That make for him storm when the nights are fair,And cook him with fire and carve him with air,While we sleep soft on the carriage cushions,And he looks sharp for the signals, blear-eyed.Often had Chris over England rolled me;You shall hear a story he told me—A dream of his rugged watch unwearied.THE STORY.We were driving the down express;Will at the steam, and I at the coal;Over the valleys and villages,Over the marshes and coppices,Over the river, deep and broad;Through the mountain, under the road,Flying along,Tearing along.Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong,Fifty tons she was, whole and sole!I had been promoted to the express:I warrant I was proud and gay.It was the evening that ended May,And the sky was a glory of tenderness.We were thundering down to a midland town,—It doesn't matter about the name,For we didn't stop there, or anywhereFor a dozen miles on either side.Well, as I say, just there you slide,With your steam shut off and your brakes in hand,Down the steepest and longest grade in the land,At a pace that, I promise you, is grand.We were just there with the express,When I caught sight of a girl's white dressOn the bank ahead; and as we passed—You have no notion how fast—She sank back scared from our baleful blast.We were going—a mile and a quarter a minute—With vans and carriages—down the incline!But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it;I looked in her eyes, and she looked in mineAs the train went by, like a shot from a mortar:A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke.And it was a minute before I woke,When she lay behind us—a mile and a quarter.And the years went on, and the expressLeaped in her black resistlessness,Evening by evening, England through.—Will—God rest him!—was found—a mashOf bleeding rags, in a fearful smashHe made of Christmas train at Crewe.It chanced I was ill the night of the mess,Or I shouldn't now be here alive;But thereafter, the five o'clock out express,Evening by evening, I used to drive.And often I saw her: that lady, I mean,That I spoke of before. She often stoodAtop of the bank;—it was pretty high,Say, twenty feet, and backed by a wood.—She would pick daisies out of the greenTo fling down at us as we went by.We had grown to be friends, too, she and I.Though I was a stalwart, grimy chap,And she a lady! I'd wave my capEvening by evening, when I'd spyThat she was there, in the summer air,Watching the sun sink out of the sky.Oh, I didn't see her every night:Bless you! no; just now and then,And not at all for a twelvemonth quite.Then, one evening, I saw her again,Alone, as ever—but wild and pale—Climbing down on the line, on the very rail,While a light as of hell from our wild wheels broke,Tearing down the slope with their devilish clamorsAnd deafening din, as of giant hammersThat smote in a whirlwind of dust and smokeAll the instant or so that we sped to meet her.Never, O never, had she seemed sweeter!—I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke,Down that awful incline; and signalled the guardTo put on his brakes at once, andHARD!—Though we couldn't have stopped. We tattered the railInto splinters and sparks, but without avail.We couldn't stop; and she wouldn't stir,Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretchHer arms to us:—and the desperate wretchI pitied, comprehending her.So the brakes let off, and the steam full again,Sprang down on the lady the terrible train.—She never flinched. We beat her down,And ran on through the lighted length of the townBefore we could stop to see what was done.Yes, I've run over more than one!Full a dozen, I should say; but noneThat I pitied as I pitied her.If I could have stopped—with all the spurOf the train's weight on, and cannily—But it never would do with a lad like meAnd she a lady,—or had been.—Sir?—We won't say any more of her;The world is hard. But I'm her friend,Right through—down to the world's end.It is a curl of her sunny hairSet in this locket that I wear;I picked it off the big wheel there.—Time's up, Jack—Stand clear, sir. Yes,We're going out with the express.WILLIAM WILKINS.
IN THE ENGINE-SHED.
Through air made heavy with vapors murk,O'er slack and cinders in heaps and holes,The engine-driver came to his work,Burly and bluff as a bag of coals;With a thick gold chain where he bulged the most,And a beard like a brush, and a face like a toast,And a hat half-eaten by fire and frost;And a diamond pin in the folded dirtOf the shawl that served him for collar and shirt.Whenever he harnessed his steed of mettle:—The shovel-fed monster that could not tire,With limbs of steel and entrails of fire;Above us it sang like a tea-time kettle.
He came to his salamander toilsIn what seemed a devil's cast-off suit,All charred, and discolored with rain and oils,And smeared and sooted from muffler to boot.Some wiping—it struck him—his paws might sufferWith a wisp of thread he found on the buffer(The improvement effected was not very great);Then he spat, and passed his pipe to his mate.
And his whole face laughed with an honest mirth,As any extant on this grimy earth,Welcoming me to his murky region;And had you known him, I tell you this—Though your bright hair shiver and sink at its roots,O piano-fingering fellow-collegian—You would have returned no cold salutesTo the cheery greeting of old Chris,But locked your hand in the vise of his.
For at night when the sleet-storm shatters and scatters,And clangs on the pane like a pile of fetters,He flies through it all with the world's love-letters:The master of mighty leviathan motions,That make for him storm when the nights are fair,And cook him with fire and carve him with air,While we sleep soft on the carriage cushions,And he looks sharp for the signals, blear-eyed.Often had Chris over England rolled me;You shall hear a story he told me—A dream of his rugged watch unwearied.
THE STORY.
We were driving the down express;Will at the steam, and I at the coal;Over the valleys and villages,Over the marshes and coppices,Over the river, deep and broad;Through the mountain, under the road,Flying along,Tearing along.Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong,Fifty tons she was, whole and sole!
I had been promoted to the express:I warrant I was proud and gay.It was the evening that ended May,And the sky was a glory of tenderness.We were thundering down to a midland town,—It doesn't matter about the name,For we didn't stop there, or anywhereFor a dozen miles on either side.Well, as I say, just there you slide,With your steam shut off and your brakes in hand,Down the steepest and longest grade in the land,At a pace that, I promise you, is grand.We were just there with the express,When I caught sight of a girl's white dressOn the bank ahead; and as we passed—You have no notion how fast—She sank back scared from our baleful blast.
We were going—a mile and a quarter a minute—With vans and carriages—down the incline!But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it;I looked in her eyes, and she looked in mineAs the train went by, like a shot from a mortar:A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke.And it was a minute before I woke,When she lay behind us—a mile and a quarter.
And the years went on, and the expressLeaped in her black resistlessness,Evening by evening, England through.—Will—God rest him!—was found—a mashOf bleeding rags, in a fearful smashHe made of Christmas train at Crewe.It chanced I was ill the night of the mess,Or I shouldn't now be here alive;But thereafter, the five o'clock out express,Evening by evening, I used to drive.
And often I saw her: that lady, I mean,That I spoke of before. She often stoodAtop of the bank;—it was pretty high,Say, twenty feet, and backed by a wood.—She would pick daisies out of the greenTo fling down at us as we went by.We had grown to be friends, too, she and I.Though I was a stalwart, grimy chap,And she a lady! I'd wave my capEvening by evening, when I'd spyThat she was there, in the summer air,Watching the sun sink out of the sky.
Oh, I didn't see her every night:Bless you! no; just now and then,And not at all for a twelvemonth quite.Then, one evening, I saw her again,Alone, as ever—but wild and pale—Climbing down on the line, on the very rail,While a light as of hell from our wild wheels broke,Tearing down the slope with their devilish clamorsAnd deafening din, as of giant hammersThat smote in a whirlwind of dust and smokeAll the instant or so that we sped to meet her.Never, O never, had she seemed sweeter!—I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke,Down that awful incline; and signalled the guardTo put on his brakes at once, andHARD!—Though we couldn't have stopped. We tattered the railInto splinters and sparks, but without avail.We couldn't stop; and she wouldn't stir,Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretchHer arms to us:—and the desperate wretchI pitied, comprehending her.So the brakes let off, and the steam full again,Sprang down on the lady the terrible train.—She never flinched. We beat her down,And ran on through the lighted length of the townBefore we could stop to see what was done.
Yes, I've run over more than one!Full a dozen, I should say; but noneThat I pitied as I pitied her.If I could have stopped—with all the spurOf the train's weight on, and cannily—But it never would do with a lad like meAnd she a lady,—or had been.—Sir?—We won't say any more of her;The world is hard. But I'm her friend,Right through—down to the world's end.It is a curl of her sunny hairSet in this locket that I wear;I picked it off the big wheel there.—Time's up, Jack—Stand clear, sir. Yes,We're going out with the express.
WILLIAM WILKINS.
REVELRY OF THE DYING.
REVELRY OF THE DYING.
[Supposed to be written in India, while the plague was raging, and playing havoc among the British residents and troops stationed there.]
We meet 'neath the sounding rafter,And the walls around are bare;As they shout to our peals of laughter,It seems that the dead are there.But stand to your glasses, steady!We drink to our comrades' eyes;Quaff a cup to the dead already—And hurrah for the next that dies!Not here are the goblets glowing,Not here is the vintage sweet;'T is cold, as our hearts are growing,And dark as the doom we meet.But stand to your glasses, steady!And soon shall our pulses rise;A cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,Not a tear for the friends that sink;We'll fall, midst the wine-cup's sparkles,As mute as the wine we drink.So stand to your glasses, steady!'T is this that the respite buys;One cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!Time was when we frowned at others;We thought we were wiser then;Ha! ha! let those think of their mothers,Who hope to see them again.No! stand to your glasses, steady!The thoughtless are here the wise;A cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!There's many a hand that's shaking,There's many a cheek that's sunk;But soon, though our hearts are breaking,They'll burn with the wine we've drunk.So stand to your glasses, steady!'T is here the revival lies;A cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!There's a mist on the glass congealing,'T is the hurricane's fiery breath;And thus does the warmth of feelingTurn ice in the grasp of Death.Ho! stand to your glasses, steady!For a moment the vapor flies;A cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!Who dreads to the dust returning?Who shrinks from the sable shore,Where the high and haughty yearningOf the soul shall sting no more!Ho! stand to your glasses, steady!The world is a world of lies;A cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!Cut off from the land that bore us,Betrayed by the land we find,Where the brightest have gone before us,And the dullest remain behind—Stand, stand to your glasses, steady!'T is all we have left to prize;A cup to the dead already—And hurrah for the next that dies!BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING.
We meet 'neath the sounding rafter,And the walls around are bare;As they shout to our peals of laughter,It seems that the dead are there.But stand to your glasses, steady!We drink to our comrades' eyes;Quaff a cup to the dead already—And hurrah for the next that dies!
Not here are the goblets glowing,Not here is the vintage sweet;'T is cold, as our hearts are growing,And dark as the doom we meet.But stand to your glasses, steady!And soon shall our pulses rise;A cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!
Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,Not a tear for the friends that sink;We'll fall, midst the wine-cup's sparkles,As mute as the wine we drink.So stand to your glasses, steady!'T is this that the respite buys;One cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!
Time was when we frowned at others;We thought we were wiser then;Ha! ha! let those think of their mothers,Who hope to see them again.No! stand to your glasses, steady!The thoughtless are here the wise;A cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!
There's many a hand that's shaking,There's many a cheek that's sunk;But soon, though our hearts are breaking,They'll burn with the wine we've drunk.So stand to your glasses, steady!'T is here the revival lies;A cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!
There's a mist on the glass congealing,'T is the hurricane's fiery breath;And thus does the warmth of feelingTurn ice in the grasp of Death.Ho! stand to your glasses, steady!For a moment the vapor flies;A cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!
Who dreads to the dust returning?Who shrinks from the sable shore,Where the high and haughty yearningOf the soul shall sting no more!Ho! stand to your glasses, steady!The world is a world of lies;A cup to the dead already—Hurrah for the next that dies!
Cut off from the land that bore us,Betrayed by the land we find,Where the brightest have gone before us,And the dullest remain behind—Stand, stand to your glasses, steady!'T is all we have left to prize;A cup to the dead already—And hurrah for the next that dies!
BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING.
THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL.ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept;All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept.O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night!O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light!One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke;But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day,And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay.Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer,For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.But the foeman held possession of that hard-won battle-plain,In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain.Once again the night dropped round them,—night so holy and so calmThat the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep;Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep.For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face,And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of graceTo the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose,Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told:How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled.Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars,While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low,Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow?Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look roundAs they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,Came two little maidens,—sisters, with a light and hasty tread,And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stoodWhere the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude.They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store,And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shameChanged the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need,And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed.But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er,And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out,And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the sun.Gently then those little maidens—they were children of our foes—Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undisturbed repose.ANONYMOUS.
THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL.
ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept;All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept.
O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night!O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light!
One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke;But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.
Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day,And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay.
Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer,For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.
But the foeman held possession of that hard-won battle-plain,In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain.
Once again the night dropped round them,—night so holy and so calmThat the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm.
On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.
Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep;Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep.
For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face,And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace
To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose,Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.
And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told:How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled.
Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars,While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.
Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low,Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow?
Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look roundAs they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,
Came two little maidens,—sisters, with a light and hasty tread,And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.
And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stoodWhere the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude.
They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store,And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.
Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.
And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shameChanged the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.
For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need,And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed.
But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er,And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.
Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out,And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.
But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the sun.
Gently then those little maidens—they were children of our foes—Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undisturbed repose.
ANONYMOUS.
RAMON.REFUGIO MINE,NORTHERN MEXICODrunk and senseless in his place,Prone and sprawling on his face,More like brute than any manAlive or dead,—By his great pump out of gear,Lay the peon engineer,Waking only just to hear,Overhead,Angry tones that called his name,Oaths and cries of bitter blame,—Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and fled!"To the man who'll bring to me,"Cried Intendant Harry Lee,—Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—"Bring the sot alive or dead,I will give to him," he said,"Fifteen hundred pesos down,Just to set the rascal's crownUnderneath this heel of mine:Since but deathDeserves the man whose deed,Be it vice or want of heed,Stops the pumps that give us breath,—Stops the pumps that suck the deathFrom the poisoned lower level of the mine!"No one answered, for a cryFrom the shaft rose up on high;And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below,Came the miners each, the bolderMounting on the weaker's shoulder,Grappling, clinging to their hold orLetting go,As the weaker gasped and fellFrom the ladder to the well,—To the poisoned pit of hellDown below!"To the man who sets them free,"Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,—Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—"Brings them out and sets them free,I will give that man," said he,"Twice that sum, who with a ropeFace to face with death shall cope:Let him come who dares to hope!""Hold your peace!" some one replied,Standing by the foreman's side;"There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!"Then they held their breath with awe,Pulling on the rope, and sawFainting figures reappear,On the black ropes swinging clear,Fastened by some skilful hand from below;Till a score the level gained,And but one alone remained,—He the hero and the last,He whose skilful hand made fastThe long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!Haggard, gasping, down dropped heAt the feet of Harry Lee,—Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine;"I have come," he gasped, "to claimBoth rewards, Señior,—my nameIs Ramon!I'm the drunken engineer,—I'm the coward, Señior—" HereHe fell over, by that signDead as stone!BRET HARTE.
RAMON.REFUGIO MINE,NORTHERN MEXICO
Drunk and senseless in his place,Prone and sprawling on his face,More like brute than any manAlive or dead,—By his great pump out of gear,Lay the peon engineer,Waking only just to hear,Overhead,Angry tones that called his name,Oaths and cries of bitter blame,—Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and fled!
"To the man who'll bring to me,"Cried Intendant Harry Lee,—Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—"Bring the sot alive or dead,I will give to him," he said,"Fifteen hundred pesos down,Just to set the rascal's crownUnderneath this heel of mine:Since but deathDeserves the man whose deed,Be it vice or want of heed,Stops the pumps that give us breath,—Stops the pumps that suck the deathFrom the poisoned lower level of the mine!"
No one answered, for a cryFrom the shaft rose up on high;And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below,Came the miners each, the bolderMounting on the weaker's shoulder,Grappling, clinging to their hold orLetting go,As the weaker gasped and fellFrom the ladder to the well,—To the poisoned pit of hellDown below!
"To the man who sets them free,"Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,—Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—"Brings them out and sets them free,I will give that man," said he,"Twice that sum, who with a ropeFace to face with death shall cope:Let him come who dares to hope!""Hold your peace!" some one replied,Standing by the foreman's side;"There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!"
Then they held their breath with awe,Pulling on the rope, and sawFainting figures reappear,On the black ropes swinging clear,Fastened by some skilful hand from below;Till a score the level gained,And but one alone remained,—He the hero and the last,He whose skilful hand made fastThe long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!
Haggard, gasping, down dropped heAt the feet of Harry Lee,—Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine;"I have come," he gasped, "to claimBoth rewards, Señior,—my nameIs Ramon!I'm the drunken engineer,—I'm the coward, Señior—" HereHe fell over, by that signDead as stone!
BRET HARTE.
AT THE CEDARS.You had two girls—Baptiste—One is Virginie—Hold hard—Baptiste!Listen to me.The whole drive was jammed,In that bend at the Cedars;The rapids were dammedWith the logs tight rammedAnd crammed; you might knowThe devil had clinched them below.We worked three days—not a budge!"She's as tight as a wedgeOn the ledge,"Says our foreman:"Mon Dieu! boys, look here,We must get this thing clear."He cursed at the men,And we went for it then;With our cant-dogs arow,We just gave he-yo-ho,When she gave a big shoveFrom above.The gang yelled, and toreFor the shore;The logs gave a grind,Like a wolf's jaws behind,And as quick as a flash,With a shove and a crash,They were down in a mash.But I and ten more,All but Isaàc Dufour,Were ashore.He leaped on a log in the front of the rush,And shot out from the bindWhile the jam roared behind;As he floated alongHe balanced his poleAnd tossed us a song.But, just as we cheered,Up darted a log from the bottom,Leaped thirty feet fair and square,And came down on his own.He went up like a blockWith the shock;And when he was there,In the air,Kissed his handTo the land.When he droppedMy heart stopped,For the first log had caught himAnd crushed him;When he rose in his placeThere was blood on his face.There were some girls, Baptiste,Picking berries on the hillside,Where the river curls, Baptiste,You know,—on the still side.One was down by the water,She saw IsaàcFall back.She did not scream, Baptiste,She launched her canoe;It did seem, Baptiste,That she wanted to die too,For before you could thinkThe birch cracked like a shellIn the rush of hell,And I saw them both sink—Baptiste!He had two girls,One is Virginie;What God calls the otherIs not known to me.DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT.
AT THE CEDARS.
You had two girls—Baptiste—One is Virginie—Hold hard—Baptiste!Listen to me.
The whole drive was jammed,In that bend at the Cedars;The rapids were dammedWith the logs tight rammedAnd crammed; you might knowThe devil had clinched them below.
We worked three days—not a budge!"She's as tight as a wedgeOn the ledge,"Says our foreman:
"Mon Dieu! boys, look here,We must get this thing clear."He cursed at the men,And we went for it then;With our cant-dogs arow,We just gave he-yo-ho,When she gave a big shoveFrom above.
The gang yelled, and toreFor the shore;The logs gave a grind,Like a wolf's jaws behind,And as quick as a flash,With a shove and a crash,They were down in a mash.But I and ten more,All but Isaàc Dufour,Were ashore.
He leaped on a log in the front of the rush,And shot out from the bindWhile the jam roared behind;As he floated alongHe balanced his poleAnd tossed us a song.But, just as we cheered,Up darted a log from the bottom,Leaped thirty feet fair and square,And came down on his own.
He went up like a blockWith the shock;And when he was there,In the air,Kissed his handTo the land.When he droppedMy heart stopped,For the first log had caught himAnd crushed him;When he rose in his placeThere was blood on his face.
There were some girls, Baptiste,Picking berries on the hillside,Where the river curls, Baptiste,You know,—on the still side.One was down by the water,She saw IsaàcFall back.
She did not scream, Baptiste,She launched her canoe;It did seem, Baptiste,That she wanted to die too,For before you could thinkThe birch cracked like a shellIn the rush of hell,And I saw them both sink—
Baptiste!He had two girls,One is Virginie;What God calls the otherIs not known to me.
DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT.
THE SANDS O' DEE."O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands o' Dee!"The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,And all alone went she.The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o'er and o'er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see;The blinding mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she."O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,—A tress o' golden hair,O' drownèd maiden's hair,—Above the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,Among the stakes on Dee."They rowed her in across the rolling foam,—The cruel, crawling foam,The cruel, hungry foam,—To her grave beside the sea;But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands o' Dee.CHARLES KINGSLEY.
THE SANDS O' DEE.
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,Across the sands o' Dee!"The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,And all alone went she.
The creeping tide came up along the sand,And o'er and o'er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see;The blinding mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.
"O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,—A tress o' golden hair,O' drownèd maiden's hair,—Above the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,Among the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,—The cruel, crawling foam,The cruel, hungry foam,—To her grave beside the sea;But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands o' Dee.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED; 1782.Toll for the brave,—The brave that are no more!All sunk beneath the wave,Fast by their native shore.Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heel,And laid her on her side.A land-breeze shook the shrouds,And she was overset;Down went the Royal George,With all her crew complete.Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought,His work of glory done.It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock;She sprang no fatal leak;She ran upon no rock.His sword was in its sheath,His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float again,Full charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main.But Kempenfelt is gone;His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.WILLIAM COWPER.
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED; 1782.
Toll for the brave,—The brave that are no more!All sunk beneath the wave,Fast by their native shore.
Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heel,And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds,And she was overset;Down went the Royal George,With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought,His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock;She sprang no fatal leak;She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath,His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float again,Full charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone;His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.
WILLIAM COWPER.
THE THREE FISHERS.Three fishers went sailing out into the west,—Out into the west as the sun went down;Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work, and women must weep;And there's little to earn, and many to keep,Though the harbor bar be moaning.Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;But men must work, and women must weep,Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are watching and wringing their hands.For those who will never come back to the town;For men must work, and women must weep,—And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,—And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.CHARLES KINGSLEY.
THE THREE FISHERS.
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,—Out into the west as the sun went down;Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work, and women must weep;And there's little to earn, and many to keep,Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;But men must work, and women must weep,Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are watching and wringing their hands.For those who will never come back to the town;For men must work, and women must weep,—And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,—And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
CASABIANCA.
CASABIANCA.
[Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.]
The boy stood on the burning deck,Whence all but him had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreckShone round him o'er the dead.Yet beautiful and bright he stood,As born to rule the storm;A creature of heroic blood,A proud though childlike form.
The boy stood on the burning deck,Whence all but him had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreckShone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,As born to rule the storm;A creature of heroic blood,A proud though childlike form.
THE BATTLE OF THE NILE
THE BATTLE OF THE NILE"There came a burst of thunder-sound;The boy—Oh! where was he?Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea."Felicia Hemans.From an engraving after the painting byGeorge Arnald, A. R. A.
THE BATTLE OF THE NILE"There came a burst of thunder-sound;The boy—Oh! where was he?Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea."Felicia Hemans.From an engraving after the painting byGeorge Arnald, A. R. A.