The cover image was created by the transcriber, and is in the public domain.

Ballads of Bravery.

EDITED BY
GEORGE M. BAKER.
WITH
FORTY FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.

BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS.
1877.

COPYRIGHT.
LEE AND SHEPARD.
1877. BOSTON:
ELECTROTYPED BY ALFRED MUDGE AND SON,
SCHOOL STREET.

UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE:
WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.

“Curfew must not ring To-night.”

“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its walls so tall and gloomy, walls so dark and damp and cold,— “I’ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the curfew; and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset,” and her face grew strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night.”

“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poisoned dart), “Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour. I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right: Now I’m old, I will not miss it. Girl, the curfew rings to-night!”

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow; And within her heart’s deep centre Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,— “At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood must die.” And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright; One low murmur, scarcely spoken, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door, Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft before. Not one moment paused the maiden, but, with cheek and brow aglow, Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro; Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light, Upward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

She has reached the topmost ladder; o’er her hangs the great, dark bell, And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell. See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; ’tis the hour of curfew now, And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light, As she springs, and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Out she swung,—far out. The city seemed a tiny speck below,— There ’twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro; And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell), And he thought the twilight curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell. Still the maiden, clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white, Stilled her frightened heart’s wild beating: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

It was o’er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before, Human foot had not been planted; and what she this night had done Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires, with heads of white, Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O’er the distant hills came Cromwell. Bessie saw him; and her brow, Lately white with sickening horror, glows with sudden beauty now. At his feet she told her story, showed her hands, all bruised and torn; And her sweet young face, so haggard, with a look so sad and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light. “Go! your lover lives,” cried Cromwell. “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

The Glove and the Lions.

De Lorge’s love o’erheard the king,—a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, “The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be, He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me. King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I’ll drop my glove to prove his love. Great glory will be mine!” She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked on him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild. The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face. “By Heaven!” said Francis, “rightly done!” rising from where he sat. “No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.”

A Young Hero.

A sailor lad of years fourteen Had chanced, as by the waters thrown, On four that made sad cry and moan For parents they had lost between The wreck and shore, or haply missed. Cheerly and kind their cheeks he kissed, And folded each in other’s arm. Upon a sloping mound of moss He dragged a heavy sail across, Close-pinned with bowlders, rough yet warm; And packing it with mosses tight, Kept steadfast watch the livelong night, Nor dared depart, lest e’er again Was found this treasure he had hid, Some sudden treacherous gust had slid Beneath that rugged counterpane. He knew not name or face of one. He saved them. It was nobly done.

Day dawned at last. The storm had lulled; And these were happy, sleeping yet. A few fresh hands of moss he pulled, Then traced with trembling steps the track Of many footprints deeply set; And pressing forward, early met These children’s parents hasting back, And filled their hearts with boundless joy, As with blanched lips and chattering teeth He told them of his night’s employ; Feigned, too, he was not much distressed, Although his dying heart, beneath His icy-frozen shirt and vest,

Beat faint. They went; and o’er his eyes A gathering film beclouded light; And music murmured in his brain, Such respite sang from toil and strain That all his senses, wearied quite, Were lapped to slumber, lulling pain; Whilst soothing visions seemed to rise, That brought him scenes of other times, With cherub faces, beaming bright, Of many children, and the rhymes His mother taught him on her knee, In happy days of infancy. Then gentlest forms, with rustling wings, Were wafting him a world of ease Beneath those downy canopies, Wherewith they shut out angry skies; And they with winning beckonings— Who looked so sweet and saintly wise— His buoyant spirit drew afar From creaking timbers, shivering sails, And ships that strain in autumn gales, And snow-mixed rains, and sleeting hails, And wind and waves at endless war. Oh! who will e’er forget the day, The bitter tears, the voiceless prayer, The thoughts of grief we could not say, The shallow graves within the bay, The fifteen dear ones buried there, The grown, the young, who, side by side, Without or coffin, shroud, or priest, Were laid; and him we mourned not least,— The boy that had so bravely died!

The Beggar Maid.

As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen; One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been; Cophetua sware a royal oath,— “This beggar maid shall be my queen.”

Bunker Hill.

Quickly they rallied, re-enforced, ’Mid louder roar of ships’ artillery, And bursting bombs and whistling musketry, And shouts and groans anear, afar, All the new din of dreadful war. Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed The blood of those stout farmers, aiming For freedom, manhood’s birthright claiming. Onward once more they came. Another sheet of deathful flame! Another and another still! They broke, they fled, Again they sped Down the green, bloody hill.

Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage, Stormed with commanders’ rage. Into each emptied barge They crowd fresh men for a new charge Up that great hill. Again their gallant blood we spill. That volley was the last: Our powder failed. On three sides fast The foe pressed in, nor quailed A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks They fought, and gave death-dealing knocks, Till Prescott ordered the retreat. Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet From Bunker Hill and Breed, Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read, Led off the remnant of those heroes true, The foe too weakened to pursue. The ground they gained; but we The victory.

The tidings of that chosen band Flowed in a wave of power Over the shaken, anxious land, To men, to man, a sudden dower. History took a fresh, higher start From that stanch, beaming hour; And when the speeding messenger, that bare The news that strengthened every heart, Met near the Delaware The leader, who had just been named, Who was to be so famed, The steadfast, earnest Washington, With hands uplifted, cries, His great soul flashing to his eyes, “Our liberties are safe! The cause is won!” A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then His steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men.

Fastening the Buckle.

A moment more, and then we’ll skim Like a driving cloud o’er hill and plain; The vision of horseman will slowly dim, And pursuer seek the pursued in vain. Ha! stirrup is strong and girth is tight! One bound to the saddle, and off we go. I count their spears as they glisten bright In the ruddy beams of the sunset glow.

’Tis life or death; but we’re fresh and strong, And buckle and girth are fastened tight. The race is hard and the way is long, But we’ll win as twilight fades into night. Hurrah for rider and horse to-day, For buckle and saddle fastened tight! We’ll win! we’re gaining! They drop away! Our haven of rest is full in sight.

Hervé Riel.

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leaped on board. “Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?” laughed they. “Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve and eighty guns, Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where ’tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now ’tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!”

Then was called a council straight; Brief and bitter the debate: “Here’s the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that’s left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!” (Ended Damfreville his speech.) “Not a minute more to wait! Let the captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate.”

“Give the word!” But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these, A captain? A lieutenant? A mate,—first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete, But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tourville for the fleet,— A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel, the Croisickese.

And “What mockery or malice have we here?” cries Hervé Riel. “Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell ’Twixt the offing here and Greve, where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying’s for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there’s a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this Formidable clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them most and least by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor, past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, Keel so much as grate the ground,— Why, I’ve nothing but my life; here’s my head!” cries Hervé Riel.

Not a minute more to wait. “Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief. “Captains, give the sailor place!” He is admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God’s grace. See the noble fellow’s face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock. Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last; And just as Hervé Riel halloos, “Anchor!”—sure as fate, Up the English come, too late.

So the storm subsides to calm; They see the green trees wave On the heights o’erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. “Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! ’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!” How hope succeeds despair on each captain’s countenance! Out burst all with one accord, “This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France’s king, Thank the man that did the thing!” What a shout, and all one word, “Hervé Riel!” As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, “My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard: Praise is deeper than the lips. You have saved the king his ships, You must name your own reward. Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate’er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart’s content, and have, or my name’s not Damfreville.” Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: “Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty’s done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run? Since ’tis ask and have I may, Since the others go ashore,— Come, a good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!” That he asked, and that he got,—nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost; Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack In memory of the man but for whom had gone to rack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris; rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank, You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

The Battle of Lexington.

At break of day again we hear The ringing words of Paul Revere, And beat of drum and bugle near, And shots that shake the throne Of tyranny, across the sea, And wake the sons of Liberty To strike for freedom and be free:— Our king is God alone!

“Load well with powder and with ball, Stand firmly, like a living wall; But fire not till the foe shall call A shot from every one,” Said Parker to his gallant men. Then Pitcairn dashed across the plain, Discharged an angry threat, and then The world heard Lexington!

Militia and brave minute-men Stood side by side upon the plain, Unsheltered in the storm of rain, Of fire, and leaden sleet; But through the gray smoke and the flame, Star crowned, a white-winged angel came, To bear aloft the souls of flame From war’s red winding-sheet!

Hancock and Adams glory won With yeomen whose best work was done At Concord and at Lexington, When first they struck the blow. Long may their children’s children bear Upon wide shoulders, fit to wear, The mantles that fell through the air One hundred years ago!

The Brave at Home.

The wife who girds her husband’s sword, ’Mid little ones who weep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word, What though her heart be rent asunder, Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear The bolts of death around him rattle, Hath shed as sacred blood as e’er Was poured upon a field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief, While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e’er the sod Received on Freedom’s field of honor!

Kane: died February 16, 1857.

Not many months ago we greeted him, Crowned with the icy honors of the North. Across the land his hard-won fame went forth, And Maine’s deep woods were shaken limb by limb; His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim, Burst from decorous quiet as he came; Hot Southern lips, with eloquence aflame, Sounded his triumph; Texas, wild and grim, Proffered its horny hand; the large-lunged West, From out his giant breast, Yelled its frank welcome; and from main to main, Jubilant to the sky, Thundered the mighty cry, Honor to Kane!

He needs no tears, who lived a noble life! We will not weep for him who died so well, But we will gather round the hearth and tell The story of his strife. Such homage suits him well,— Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.

What tale of peril and self-sacrifice, Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice, With hunger howling o’er the wastes of snow; Night lengthening into months; the ravenous floe Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear Crunches his prey. The insufficient share Of loathsome food; The lethargy of famine; the despair Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued; Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind Glimmered the fading embers of a mind!

That awful hour, when through the prostrate band Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew; The whispers of rebellion, faint and few At first, but deepening ever till they grew Into black thoughts of murder: such the throng Of horrors bound the hero. High the song Should be that hymns the noble part he played! Sinking himself, yet ministering aid To all around him. By a mighty will Living defiant of the wants that kill, Because his death would seal his comrades’ fate; Cheering, with ceaseless and inventive skill, Those Polar waters, dark and desolate. Equal to every trial, every fate, He stands, until spring, tardy with relief, Unlocks the icy gate, And the pale prisoners thread the world once more, To the steep cliffs of Greenland’s pastoral shore, Bearing their dying chief.

Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold From royal hands, who wooed the knightly state. The knell of old formalities is tolled, And the world’s knights are now self-consecrate. No grander episode doth chivalry hold In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain, Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold, By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane!

The Life-Boat.

Launch the life-boat! On the shore The startled people stand, And watch the signal lights that shine on high, And through the pitchy darkness seek to spy The struggling ship, or to their comrades try To lend a helping hand.

Launch the life-boat! Now the moon Sheds forth her silvery light, And shows the boat is off; one long, loud cheer Breaks from the eager crowd assembled here; The dip of oars comes to the listening ear, Upon the silent night.

Speed the life-boat and her crew, Speed them on their watery way! As joy and hope they bring to hearts cast down, And waiting ’neath the storm-clouds’ dismal frown, While wind and wave their trembling voices drown, Waiting another day.

The Red Jacket.

In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease, Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas; In happy homes, where warmth and comfort meet The weary traveller with their smiles to greet; In lonely dwellings, where the needy swarm Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm,— Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light, “Thank God for home this bitter, bitter night!”

But hark! above the beating of the storm Peals on the startled ear the fire-alarm! Yon gloomy heaven’s aflame with sudden light; And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright. From tranquil slumber springs, at duty’s call, The ready friend no danger can appall; Fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave, He hurries forth to battle and to save.

From yonder dwelling fiercely shooting out, Devouring all they coil themselves about, The flaming furies, mounting high and higher, Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe, In vain attempts their power to overthrow; With mocking glee they revel with their prey, Defying human skill to check their way.

And see! far up above the flames’ hot breath, Something that’s human waits a horrid death: A little child, with waving golden hair, Stands like a phantom ’mid the horrid glare, Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed, While sobs of terror shake her tender breast. And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, A mother screams, “O God! my child, my child!”

Up goes a ladder! Through the startled throng A hardy fireman swiftly moves along, Mounts sure and fast along the slender way, Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path, Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath; But up, still up he goes! The goal is won, His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone,—

Gone to his death. The wily flames surround, And burn and beat his ladder to the ground; In flaming columns move with quickened beat, To rear a massive wall ’gainst his retreat. Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure, Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore: Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live, Crowned with all honors nobleness can give.

Nay, not so fast! subdue these gloomy fears! Behold! he quickly on the roof appears, Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm. Up with your ladders! Quick! ’tis but a chance! Behold how fast the roaring flames advance! Quick! quick! brave spirits to his rescue fly! Up! up! by heavens, this hero must not die!

Silence! he comes along the burning road, Bearing with tender care his living load. Aha! he totters! Heaven in mercy save The good, true heart that can so nobly brave! He’s up again, and now he’s coming fast! One moment, and the fiery ordeal’s past, And now he’s safe! Bold flames, ye fought in vain! A happy mother clasps her child again.

“O, Heaven bless you!” ’Tis an earnest prayer Which grateful thousands with that mother share. Heaven bless the brave who on the war-clad field Stand fast, stand firm, the nation’s trusty shield! Heaven bless the brave who on the mighty sea Fearless uphold the standard of the free! And Heaven’s choicest blessing for the brave Who fearless move our lives and homes to save!

Othello’s Story of his Life.

All these to hear, Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence, Whichever as she could with haste despatch, She’d come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse. Which, I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof, by parcels, she had something heard, But not distinctly.

I did consent; And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. She swore in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange; ’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful; She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man.

She thanked me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. On this hint I spake; She loved me for the dangers I had passed; And I loved her that she did pity them: This is the only witchcraft which I’ve used.

The Blacksmith of Ragenbach.

When a cry rung through the welkin, And appeared upon the scene A panting dog, with crest erect, Foaming mouth, and savage mien. “He is mad!” was shrieked in chorus. In dismay they all fell back,— All except one towering figure,— ’Twas the smith of Ragenbach.

God had given this man his image; Nature stamped him as complete. Now it was incumbent on him To perform a greater feat Than Horatius at the bridge, When he stood on Tiber’s bank; For behind him were his townsfolk, Who, appalled with terror, shrank

From the most appalling danger,— That which makes the bravest quail,— While they all were grouped together, Shaking limbs and visage pale. For a moment cowered the beast, Snapping to the left and right, While the blacksmith stood before him In the power of his might.

“One must die to save the many, Let it then my duty be: I’ve the power. Fear not, neighbors! From this peril you’ll be free.” As the lightning from the storm-cloud Leaps to earth with sudden crash, So upon the rabid monster Did this man and hero dash.

In the death-grip then they struggled, Man and dog, with scarce a sound, Till from out the fearful conflict Rose the man from off the ground, Gashed and gory from the struggle; But the beast lay stiff and dead. There he stood, while people gathered, And rained blessings on his head.

“Friends,” he said, “from one great peril, With God’s help, I’ve set you free, But my task is not yet ended, There is danger now in me. Yet secure from harm you shall be, None need fear before I die. That my sufferings may be shortened, Ask of Him who rules on high.”

Then unto his forge he straightway Walked erect, with rapid step, While the people followed after, Some with shouts, while others wept; And with nerve as steady as when He had plied his trade for gain, He selected, without faltering, From his store, the heaviest chain.

To his anvil first he bound it, Next his limb he shackled fast, Then he said unto his townsfolk, “All your danger now is past. Place within my reach, I pray you, Food and water for a time, Until God shall ease my sufferings By his gracious will divine.”

Long he suffered, but at last Came a summons from on high, Then his soul, with angel escort, Sought its home beyond the sky; And the people of that village, Those whom he had died to save, Still with grateful hearts assemble, And with flowers bedeck his grave.

Marmion and Douglas.

Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And—“This to me!” he said;— “An ’twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared To cleave the Douglas’ head! And first, I tell thee, haughty peer, He who does England’s message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate! And Douglas, more, I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou ’rt defied! And if thou saidst I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!” On the earl’s cheek the flush of rage O’ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth, “And dar’st thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go? No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms! What, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall.” Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need!— And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung; The ponderous grate behind him rung: To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume.

The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake’s level brim; And when Lord Marmion reached his band, He halts, and turns with clinched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers. “Horse! horse!” the Douglas cried, “and chase!” But soon he reigned his fury’s pace: “A royal messenger he came, Though most unworthy of the name.

St. Mary mend my fiery mood! Old age ne’er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. ’Tis pity of him, too,” he cried; “Bold can he speak and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried.” With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle walls.

The Loss of the Hornet.

Strike top-gallants! mind your helm! jump aloft! ’Twas such a night as this, my lads, a rakish bark was drowned, When demons foul, that whisper seamen oft, Scooped a tomb amid the flashing surge that never shall be found. Square the yards! a double reef! Hark the blast! O, fiercely has it fallen on the war-ship of the brave, When its tempest fury stretched the stately mast All along her foamy sides, as they shouted on the wave, “Bear a hand!”

Call the watch! call the watch! “Ho! the larboard watch, ahoy!” Have you heard How a vessel, gay and taut, on the mountains of the sea, Went below, with all her warlike crew on board, They who battled for the happy, boys, and perished for the free? Clew, clew up, fore and aft! keep away! How the vulture bird of death, in its black and viewless form, Hovered sure o’er the clamors of his prey, While through all their dripping shrouds yelled the spirit of the storm! Bear a hand!

Now out reefs! brace the yards! lively there! O, no more to homeward breeze shall her swelling bosom spread, But love’s expectant eye bid despair Set her raven watch eternal o’er the wreck in ocean’s bed. Board your tacks! cheerly, boys! But for them, Their last evening gun is fired, their gales are overblown; O’er their smoking deck no starry flag shall stream; They’ll sail no more, they’ll fight no more, for their gallant ship’s gone down. Bear a hand!

Man the Life-boat.

O, speed the life-boat! Speed the life-boat! O God, their efforts crown! She dashes on; the ship is gone, Full forty fathoms down. And see, the crew are struggling now Amidst the tempest roar. They’re in the boat, they’re all afloat,— Hurrah! they’ve gained the shore. Bless the life-boat! Bless the life-boat! O God, thou’lt hear our prayer! Bless the life-boat! Bless the life-boat! No longer we’ll despair.

Sir Galahad.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden’s hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair through faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne Through dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o’er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight, to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel’s hand, This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touched, are turned to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky, And through the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: “O just and faithful knight of God, Ride on! the prize is near.” So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All armed I ride, whate’er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.

King Canute and his Nobles.

“Go back, ye waves, you blustering rogues,” quoth he; “Touch not your lord and master, Sea; For by my power almighty, if you do—” Then, staring vengeance, out he held a stick, Vowing to drive old Ocean to Old Nick, Should he even wet the latchet of his shoe.

The sea retired,—the monarch fierce rushed on, And looked as if he’d drive him from the land; But Sea, not caring to be put upon, Made for a moment a bold stand.

Not only made a stand did Mr. Ocean, But to his waves he made a motion, And bid them give the king a hearty trimming. The order seemed a deal the waves to tickle, For soon they put his Majesty in pickle, And set his royalties, like geese, a swimming.

All hands aloft, with one tremendous roar, Sound did they make him wish himself on shore; His head and ears they most handsomely doused,— Just like a porpoise, with one general shout, The waves so tumbled the poor king about. No anabaptist e’er was half so soused.

At length to land he crawled, a half-drowned thing, Indeed, more like a crab than like a king, And found his courtiers making rueful faces; But what said Canute to the lords and gentry, Who hailed him from the water, on his entry, All trembling for their lives or places?

“My lords and gentlemen, by your advice, I’ve had with Mr. Sea a pretty bustle; My treatment from my foe, not overnice, Just made a jest for every shrimp and mussel.

“A pretty trick for one of my dominion! My lords, I thank you for your great opinion. You’ll tell me, p’r’aps, I’ve only lost one game And bid me try another,—for the rubber. Permit me to inform you all, with shame, That you’re a set of knaves and I’m a lubber.”

Outward Bound.

The Brides of Venice.

Before the church, That venerable pile on the sea-brink, Another train they met,—no strangers to them,— Brothers to some, and to the rest still dearer, Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume, And, as he walked, with modest dignity Folding his scarlet mantle, his tabarro. They join, they enter in, and up the aisle Led by the full-voiced choir, in bright procession, Range round the altar. In his vestments there The patriarch stands; and while the anthem flows, Who can look on unmoved? Mothers in secret Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters; Sons in the thought of making them their own; And they, arrayed in youth and innocence, Their beauty heightened by their hopes and fears. At length the rite is ending. All fall down In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together; And stretching out his hands, the holy man Proceeds to give the general benediction, When hark! a din of voices from without, And shrieks and groans and outcries, as in battle; And lo! the door is burst, the curtain rent, And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep, Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbarigo And his six brothers in their coats of steel, Are standing on the threshold! Statue-like, Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude, Each with his sabre up, in act to strike; Then, as at once recovering from the spell, Rush forward to the altar, and as soon Are gone again, amid no clash of arms, Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. Where are they now? Ploughing the distant waves, Their sails all set, and they upon the deck Standing triumphant. To the east they go, Steering for Istria, their accursed barks (Well are they known, the galliot and the galley) Freighted with all that gives to life its value The richest argosies were poor to them! Now might you see the matrons running wild Along the beach; the men half armed and arming; One with a shield, one with a casque and spear; One with an axe, hewing the mooring-chain Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, But on that day was drifting. In an hour Half Venice was afloat. But long before,— Frantic with grief, and scorning all control,— The youths were gone in a light brigantine, Lying at anchor near the arsenal; Each having sworn, and by the holy rood, To slay or to be slain. And from the tower The watchman gives the signal. In the east A ship is seen, and making for the port; Her flag St. Mark’s. And now she turns the point, Over the waters like a sea-bird flying. Ha! ’tis the same, ’tis theirs! From stern to prow Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, restoring All that was lost! Coasting, with narrow search. Friuli, like a tiger in his spring, They had surprised the corsairs where they lay, Sharing the spoil in blind security, And casting lots; had slain them one and all,— All to the last,—and flung them far and wide Into the sea, their proper element. Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet Breathing a little, in his look retained The fierceness of his soul.

Thus were the brides Lost and recovered. And what now remained But to give thanks? Twelve breastplates and twelve crowns, Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offerings Of the young victors to their patron saint, Vowed on the field of battle, were erelong Laid at his feet; and to preserve forever The memory of a day so full of change, From joy to grief, from grief to joy again, Through many an age, as oft as it came round, ’Twas held religiously with all observance. The Doge resigned his crimson for pure ermine; And through the city in a stately barge Of gold were borne, with songs and symphonies, Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were In bridal white with bridal ornaments, Each in her glittering veil; and on the deck As on a burnished throne, they glided by. No window or balcony but adorned With hangings of rich texture; not a roof But covered with beholders, and the air Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars Moving in concert with the harmony, Through the Rialto to the ducal palace; And at a banquet there, served with due honor, Sat, representing in the eyes of all— Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears— Their lovely ancestors, the “Brides of Venice.”

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and water o’er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!