Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there;
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She called her eagle bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.
[Illustration: Joseph Rodman Drake.]
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high!
When speaks the signal trumpet tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on
(Ere yet the life blood, warm and wet,
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet),
Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn
To where thy sky-born glories burn,
And as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from thy glance.
And when the cannon mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,
And gory sabers rise and fall,
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall,
Then shall thy meteor glances glow,
And cowering foes shall sink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the seas! on ocean's wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home,
By angel hands to valor given,
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe, but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us!
--_Joseph Rodman Drake._
THE LAST FIGHT IN THE COLISEUM, A.D. 404.
[Illustration: Charlotte M. Yonge.]
The grandest and most renowned of all ancient amphitheaters is the
Coliseum at Rome. It was built by Vespasian and his son Titus, the
conquerors of Jerusalem, in a valley in the midst of the seven hills
of Rome. The captive Jews were forced to labor at it; and the
materials--granite outside, and a softer stone within--are so solid,
and so admirably put together, that still, at the end of eighteen
centuries, it has scarcely even become a ruin, but remains one of the
greatest wonders of Rome. Five acres of ground were inclosed within
the oval of its outer wall, which outside rises perpendicularly in
tiers of arches one above another. Within, the galleries of seats
projected forwards, each tier coming out far beyond the one above it;
so that between the lowest and the outer wall there was room for a
great variety of chambers, passages, and vaults around the central
space, called the arena.
Altogether, when full, this huge building held no fewer than 87,000
spectators! It had no roof; but when there was rain, or if the sun was
too hot, the sailors in the porticoes unfurled awnings that ran along
upon ropes, and formed a covering of silk and gold tissue over the
whole. Purple was the favorite color for this veil, because, when the
sun shone through it, it cast such beautiful rosy tints on the snowy
arena and the white purple-edged togas of the Roman citizens.
When the emperor had seated himself and given the signal, the sports
began. Sometimes a rope dancing elephant would begin the
entertainment, by mounting even to the summit of the building and
descending by a cord. Or a lion came forth with a jeweled crown on his
head, a diamond necklace round his neck, his mane plaited with gold,
and his claws gilded, and played a hundred pretty gentle antics with a
little hare that danced fearlessly within his grasp.
Sometimes water was let into the arena, a ship sailed in, and falling
to pieces in the midst, sent a crowd of strange animals swimming in
all directions. Sometimes the ground opened, and trees came growing up
through it, bearing golden fruit. Or the beautiful old tale of Orpheus
was acted: these trees would follow the harp and song of a musician;
but--to make the whole part complete--it was no mere play, but in real
earnest, that the Orpheus of the piece fell a prey to live bears.
For the Coliseum had not been built for such harmless spectacles as
those first described. The fierce Romans wanted to be excited and to
feel themselves strongly stirred; and, presently, the doors of the pits
and dens around the arena were thrown open, and absolutely savage beasts
were let loose upon one another--rhinoceroses and tigers, bulls and
lions, leopards and wild boars--while the people watched with ferocious
curiosity to see the various kinds of attack and defense, their ears at
the same time being delighted, instead of horror-struck, by the roars
and howls of the noble creatures whose courage was thus misused.
[Illustration: The Coliseum at the Present Day.]
Wild beasts tearing each other to pieces might, one would think,
satisfy any taste for horror; but the spectators needed even nobler
game to be set before their favorite monsters:--men were brought
forward to confront them. Some of these were, at first, in full armor,
and fought hard, generally with success. Or hunters came, almost
unarmed, and gained the victory by swiftness and dexterity, throwing a
piece of cloth over a lion's head, or disconcerting him by putting
their fist down his throat. But it was not only skill, but death, that
the Romans loved to see; and condemned criminals and deserters were
reserved to feast the lions, and to entertain the populace with their
various kinds of death. Among those condemned was many a Christian
martyr, who witnessed a good confession before the savage-eyed
multitude around the arena, and "met the lion's gory mane" with a calm
resolution and a hopeful joy that the lookers-on could not understand.
To see a Christian die, with upward gaze, and hymns of joy on his
tongue, was the most strange and unaccountable sight the Coliseum
could offer; and it was therefore the choicest, and reserved for the
last of the spectacles in which the brute creation had a part.
The carcasses were dragged off with hooks, the bloodstained sand was
covered with a fresh green layer, perfume was wafted in stronger
clouds, and a procession come forward--tall, well-made men, in the
prime of their strength. Some carried a sword and a lasso, others a
trident and a net; some were in light armor, others in the full, heavy
equipment of a soldier; some on horseback, some in chariots, some on
foot. They marched in, and made their obeisance to the emperor; and
with one voice their greeting sounded through the building: "Hail,
Cæsar; those about to die salute thee!" They were the gladiators--the
swordsmen trained to fight to the death to amuse the populace.
[Illustration:
From the Painting by J. L. Gerome. Engraved by Henry Wolf.
The Last Prayer--Christian Martyrs in the Coliseum.
]
Fights of all sorts took place,--the light-armed soldier and the
netsman--the lasso and the javelin--the two heavy-armed warriors,--all
combinations of single combat, and sometimes a general mêlée. When a
gladiator wounded his adversary, he shouted to the spectators, "He has
it!" and looked up to know whether he should kill or spare. When the
people held up their thumbs, the conquered was left to recover, if he
could; if they turned them down, he was to die; and if he showed any
reluctance to present his throat for the deathblow, there was a
scornful shout, "Receive the steel!"
"I see before me the gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand; his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony;
And his drooped head sinks gradually low;
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him--he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won."
Christianity, however, worked its way upwards, and at last was
professed by the emperor on his throne. Persecution came to an end,
and no more martyrs fed the beasts in the Coliseum. The Christian
emperors endeavored to prevent any more shows where cruelty and death
formed the chief interest, and no truly religious person could endure
the spectacle; but custom and love of excitement prevailed even
against the emperor. They went on for fully a hundred years after Rome
had, in name, become a Christian city.
Meantime the enemies of Rome were coming nearer and nearer. Alaric, the
great chief of the Goths, led his forces into Italy, and threatened the
city itself. Honorius, the emperor, was a cowardly, almost idiotic boy;
but his brave general, Stilicho, assembled his forces, met the Goths,
and gave them a complete defeat, on Easter day of the year 403. He
pursued them to the mountains, and for that time saved Rome.
In the joy of victory, the Roman Senate invited the conqueror and his
ward Honorius to enter the city in triumph, at the opening of the new
year, with the white steeds, purple robes, and vermilion cheeks with
which, of old, victorious generals were welcomed at Rome. The churches
were visited instead of the Temple of Jupiter, and there was no murder
of the captives; but Roman bloodthirstiness was not yet allayed, and,
after the procession had been completed, the Coliseum shows commenced,
innocently at first, with races on foot, on horseback, and in chariots;
then followed a grand hunt of beasts turned loose in the arena; and next
a sword dance. But after the sword dance came the arraying of swordsmen,
with no blunted weapons, but with sharp spears and swords--a gladiator
combat in full earnest. The people, enchanted, applauded with shouts of
ecstasy this gratification of their savage tastes.
Suddenly, however, there was an interruption. A rude, roughly robed
man, bareheaded and barefooted, had sprung into the arena, and, waving
back the gladiators, began to call aloud upon the people to cease from
the shedding of innocent blood, and not to requite God's mercy, in
turning away the sword of the enemy, by encouraging murder. Shouts,
howls, cries, broke in upon his words; this was no place for
preachings,--the old customs of Rome should be observed,--"Back, old
man!"--"On, gladiators!"
The gladiators thrust aside the meddler, and rushed to the attack. He
still stood between, holding them apart, striving in vain to be heard.
"Sedition! sedition!"--"Down with him!"--was the cry; and the prefect
in authority himself added his voice. The gladiators, enraged at
interference with their vocation, cut him down. Stones, or whatever
came to hand, rained upon him from the furious people, and he perished
in the midst of the arena! He lay dead; and then the people began to
reflect upon what had been done.
His dress showed that he was one of the hermits who had vowed themselves
to a life of prayer and self-denial, and who were greatly reverenced,
even by the most thoughtless. The few who had previously seen him, told
that he had come from the wilds of Asia on a pilgrimage, to visit the
shrines and keep his Christmas at Rome. They knew that he was a holy
man--no more. But his spirit had been stirred by the sight of thousands
flocking to see men slaughter one another, and in his simple-hearted
zeal he had resolved to stop the cruelty, or die.
He had died, but not in vain. His work was done. The shock of such a
death before their eyes turned the hearts of the people; they saw the
wickedness and cruelty to which they had blindly surrendered
themselves; and since the day when the hermit died in the Coliseum,
there has never been another fight of gladiators. The custom was
utterly abolished; and one habitual crime at least was wiped from the
earth by the self-devotion of one humble, obscure, and nameless man.
--_From "A Book of Golden Deeds," by Charlotte Yonge._
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR.
The reader has already become somewhat acquainted with the marvelous
history of King Arthur, and has read about the poems and romances by
which the memory of his life and exploits have been preserved. He has
also read the mythical account of the King's last hours on earth as
recorded in the quaint old romance written by Sir Thomas Malory. Here
he may read another rendering of the same story, written in grand and
beautiful poetic form by Alfred Tennyson. In the "Idylls of the King,"
Lord Tennyson has given us a complete history of Arthur and of the
brave knights and fair ladies who lived at his court. These poems are
among the noblest ever written in our language. Turn now to the last
story in "School Reading by Grades--Fifth Year," and compare each
passage in that brief narrative with its corresponding passage in the
following poem.
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,
Had fall'n in Lyonesse about their lord,
King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,--
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more; but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I can not last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword--and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In after time, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere;
Watch what thou seëst and lightly bring me word."
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept,
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.
There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz lights, and jacinth work
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
There in the many-knotted waterflags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag."
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
Thy fëalty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now I charge thee, quickly go again,
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud:
"And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to after time, but empty breath
And rumors of a doubt? but were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'
So might some old man speak in the after time
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honor and much fame were lost."
So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,--
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds."
To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands."
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword,
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the Northern Sea.
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?"
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look'd again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times and drew him under in the mere."
And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."
So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words;
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking as he walk'd,
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him, like a goad.
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
His feet on jets of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels--
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.
Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold--and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge."
So to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept....
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight....
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world,
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds."
And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfills himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself; what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friends?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst--if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)--
To the island-valley of Avilion
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.
--_From "The Idylls of the King," by Alfred Tennyson._
FOR STUDY AND REFERENCE.
PRINCIPLES OF GOOD READING.
To become a good reader, patient and long-continued practice is
necessary. We learn to read by much reading and never by the study of
formal rules. Nevertheless, a knowledge of the following general
principles and definitions may be of some value in assisting the
learner to acquire correct habits in the practice of oral reading.
PRONUNCIATION.
Under this term are included Articulation, Syllabication, and Accent.