Silence eternal, and peace profound,
In whose great heart's deep recesses
Breaks no tempest, and comes no sound;
Face to face with the deathlike stillness,
Here, if at all, man's soul might quail:
Nay! 'tis the love of that great peace leads us
Thither, where solace will never fail!
Sing me the pride of her stately rivers,
Cleaving their way to the far-off sea;
Glory of strength in their deep-mouth'd music--
Glory of mirth in their tameless glee.
Hark! 'tis the roar of the tumbling rapids;
Deep unto deep through the dead night calls;
Truly, I hear but the voice of Freedom
Shouting her name from her fortress walls!
Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies,
League upon league of the golden grain:
Comfort, housed in the smiling homestead--
Plenty, throned on the lumbering wain.
Land of Contentment! May no strife vex you,
Never war's flag on your plains be unfurl'd;
Only the blessings of mankind reach you--
Finding the food for a hungry world!
Sing me the charm of her blazing camp fires;
Sing me the quiet of her happy homes,
Whether afar 'neath the forest arches,
Or in the shade of the city's domes;
Sing me her life, her loves, her labours;
All of a mother a son would hear;
For when a lov'd one's praise is sounding,
Sweet are the strains to the lover's ear.
Sing me the worth of each Canadian,
Roamer in wilderness--toiler in town--
Search earth over you'll find none stancher,
Whether his hands be white or brown;
Come of a right good stock to start with,
Best of the world's blood in each vein;
Lords of ourselves, and slaves to no one,
For us or from us, you'll find we're--MEN!
Sing me the song, then; sing it bravely;
Put your soul in the words you sing;
Sing me the praise of this glorious country--
Clear on the ear let the deep notes ring.
Here is no starveling--Heaven-forsaken--
Crouching apart where the Nations throng;
Proud as the proudest moves she among them--
Well is she worthy a noble song!
ROBERT REID
A MAD TEA PARTY
There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the
March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting
between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion,
resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very
uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep,
I suppose it doesn't mind."
The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at
one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice
coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice, indignantly, and she sat
down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.
"Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice
for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech.
"You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some
severity: "it's very rude."
The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_
was: "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"
"Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've
begun asking riddles--I believe I can guess that," she added aloud.
"Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the
March Hare.
"Exactly so," said Alice.
"Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on.
"I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I
say--that's the same thing, you know."
"Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "Why, you might just as
well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I
see'!"
"You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what I
get' is the same thing as 'I get what I like'!"
"You might just as well say," added the Dormouse, who seemed to be
talking in its sleep, "that 'I breathe when I sleep' is the same thing
as 'I sleep when I breathe'!"
"It _is_ the same thing with you," said the Hatter, and here the
conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice
thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks,
which wasn't much.
"Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the Hatter said, turning to Alice
again.
"No, I give it up," Alice replied: "what's the answer?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," said the Hatter.
"Nor I," said the March Hare.
Alice sighed wearily. "I think you might do something better with the
time," she said, "than wasting it in asking riddles that have no
answers."
"Suppose we change the subject," the March Hare interrupted, yawning.
"I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story."
"I'm afraid I don't know one," said Alice, rather alarmed at the
proposal.
"Then the Dormouse shall!" they both cried.
"Wake up, Dormouse!" And they pinched it on both sides at once.
The Dormouse slowly opened its eyes. "I wasn't asleep," it said in a
hoarse, feeble voice, "I heard every word you fellows were saying."
"Tell us a story!" said the March Hare.
"Yes, please do!" pleaded Alice.
"And be quick about it," added the Hatter, "or you'll be asleep again
before it's done."
"Once upon a time there were three little sisters," the Dormouse began
in a great hurry, "and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and
they lived at the bottom of a well--"
"What did they live on?" said Alice, who always took a great interest in
questions of eating and drinking.
"They lived on treacle," said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or
two.
"They couldn't have done that, you know," Alice gently remarked: "they'd
have been ill."
"So they were," said the Dormouse, "_very_ ill."
Alice tried a little to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary way
of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on:
"But why did they live at the bottom of a well?"
"Take some more tea," the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.
"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't
take more."
"You mean you can't take _less_," said the Hatter: "It's very easy to
take _more_ than nothing."
"Nobody asked _your_ opinion," said Alice.
"Who's making personal remarks now?" the Hatter asked triumphantly.
Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to
some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and
repeated her question. "Why did they live at the bottom of a well?"
The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then
said: "It was a treacle-well."
"There's no such thing!" Alice was beginning very angrily, but the
Hatter and the March Hare went "Sh! Sh!" and the Dormouse sulkily
remarked: "If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for
yourself."
"No, please go on!" Alice said, very humbly, "I won't interrupt you
again. I dare say there may be _one_."
"One, indeed!" said the Dormouse, indignantly. However it consented to
go on. "And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw,
you know--"
"What did they draw?" said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.
"Treacle," said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time.
"I want a clean cup," interrupted the Hatter, "let's all move one place
on."
He moved as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare
moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice, rather unwillingly, took the
place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any
advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than
before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk jug into his plate.
Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very
cautiously: "But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle
from?"
"You can draw water out of a water-well," said the Hatter; "so I should
think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh stupid?"
"But they were _in_ the well," Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing
to notice this last remark.
"Of course they were," said the Dormouse,--"well in."
This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for
some time without interrupting it.
"They were learning to draw," the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing
its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; "and they drew all manner of
things--everything that begins with an M--"
"Why with an M?" said Alice.
"Why not?" said the March Hare.
Alice was silent.
The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a
doze, but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a
little shriek, and went on, "--that begins with an M, such as
mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say
things are 'much of a muchness'--did you ever see such a thing as a
drawing of a muchness?"
"Really, now you ask me," said Alice, very much confused, "I don't
think--"
"Then you shouldn't talk," said the Hatter.
This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in
great disgust, and walked off: the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and
neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she
looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her:
the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into
the teapot.
LEWIS CARROLL: "The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland."
THE SLAVE'S DREAM
Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land.
Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain road.
He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!--
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand.
And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank.
Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.
At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds,
Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!
LONGFELLOW
Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact
man. Histories make men wise; poets, witty; the mathematics, subtle;
logic and rhetoric, able to contend.
BACON
THE CHASE
Early one August morning a doe was feeding on Basin Mountain.
The sole companion of the doe was her only child, a charming little
fawn, whose brown coat was just beginning to be mottled with beautiful
spots.
The buck, his father, had been that night on a long tramp across the
mountain to Clear Pond, and had not yet returned. He went to feed on the
lily pads there.
The doe was daintily cropping tender leaves and turning from time to
time to regard her offspring. The fawn had taken his morning meal and
now lay curled up on a bed of moss.
If the mother stepped a pace or two farther away in feeding, the fawn
made a half-movement, as if to rise and follow her. If, in alarm, he
uttered a plaintive cry, she bounded to him at once.
It was a pretty picture,--maternal love on the one part, and happy trust
on the other.
The doe lifted her head with a quick motion. Had she heard something?
Probably it was only the south wind in the balsams. There was silence
all about in the forest. With an affectionate glance at her fawn, she
continued picking up her breakfast.
But suddenly she started, head erect, eyes dilated, a tremor in her
limbs. She turned her head to the south; she listened intently.
There was a sound, a distinct, prolonged note, pervading the woods. It
was repeated. The doe had no doubt now. It was the baying of a
hound--far off, at the foot of the mountain.
Time enough to fly; time enough to put miles between her and the hound
before he should come upon her fresh trail; yes, time enough. But there
was the fawn.
The cry of the hound was repeated, more distinct this time. The mother
bounded away a few paces. The fawn started up with an anxious bleat. The
doe turned; she came back; she couldn't leave him.
She walked away toward the west, and the little thing skipped after her.
It was slow going for the slender legs, over the fallen logs and through
the rasping bushes. The doe bounded in advance and waited. The fawn
scrambled after her, slipping and tumbling along, and whining a good
deal because his mother kept always moving away from him.
Whenever the fawn caught up, he was quite content to frisk about. He
wanted more breakfast, for one thing; and his mother wouldn't stand
still. She moved on continually; and his weak legs were tangled in the
roots of the narrow deer path.
Suddenly came a sound that threw the doe into a panic of terror,--a
short, sharp yelp, followed by a prolonged howl, caught up and re-echoed
by other bayings along the mountain side. The danger was certain now; it
was near. She could not crawl on in this way; the dogs would soon be
upon them. She turned again for flight. The fawn, scrambling after her,
tumbled over, and bleated piteously. Flight with the fawn was
impossible.
The doe returned, stood by him, head erect and nostrils distended.
Perhaps she was thinking. The fawn lay down contentedly, and the doe
licked him for a moment. Then, with the swiftness of a bird, she dashed
away, and in a moment was lost in the forest. She went in the direction
of the hounds.
She descended the slope of the mountain until she reached the more open
forest of hard wood. She was going due east, when she turned away toward
the north, and kept on at a good pace.
In five minutes more she heard the sharp yelp of discovery, and then the
deep-mouthed howl of pursuit. The hounds had struck her trail where she
turned, and the fawn was safe.
For the moment fear left her, and she bounded on with the exaltation of
triumph. For a quarter of an hour she went on at a slapping pace,
clearing the bushes with bound after bound, flying over the fallen logs,
pausing neither for brook nor ravine. The baying of the hounds grew
fainter behind.
After running at high speed perhaps half a mile farther, it occurred to
her that it would be safe now to turn to the west, and, by a wide
circuit, seek her fawn. But at the moment she heard a sound that chilled
her heart. It was the cry of a hound to the west of her. There was
nothing to do but to keep on, and on she went, with the noise of the
pack behind her.
In five minutes more she had passed into a hillside clearing. She heard
a tinkle of bells. Below her, down the mountain slope, were other
clearings broken by patches of woods. A mile or two down lay the valley
and the farmhouses. That way also her enemies were. Not a merciful heart
in all that lovely valley. She hesitated; it was only for an instant.
She must cross the Slide Brook valley, if possible, and gain the
mountain opposite. She bounded on; she stopped. What was that? From the
valley ahead came the cry of a searching hound. Every way was closed but
one, and that led straight down the mountain to the cluster of houses.
The hunted doe went down "the open," clearing the fences, flying along
the stony path.
As she approached Slide Brook, she saw a boy standing by a tree with a
raised rifle. The dogs were not in sight, but she could hear them coming
down the hill. There was no time for hesitation. With a tremendous burst
of speed she cleared the stream, and as she touched the bank heard the
"ping" of a rifle bullet in the air above her. The cruel sound gave
wings to the poor thing.
In a moment more she leaped into the travelled road. Women and children
ran to the doors and windows; men snatched their rifles. There were
twenty people who were just going to shoot her, when the doe leaped the
road fence, and went away across a marsh toward the foothills.
By this time the dogs, panting and lolling out their tongues, came
swinging along, keeping the trail, like stupids, and consequently
losing ground when the deer doubled. But when the doe had got into the
timber, she heard the savage brutes howling across the meadow. (It is
well enough, perhaps, to say that nobody offered to shoot the dogs.)
The courage of the panting fugitive was not gone, but the fearful pace
at which she had been going told on her. Her legs trembled, and her
heart beat like a trip-hammer. She slowed her speed, but still fled up
the right bank of the stream. The dogs were gaining again, and she
crossed the broad, deep brook. The fording of the river threw the hounds
off for a time. She used the little respite to push on until the baying
was faint in her ears.
Late in the afternoon she staggered down the shoulder of Bartlett, and
stood upon the shore of the lake. If she could put that piece of water
between her and her pursuers, she would be safe. Had she strength to
swim it?
At her first step into the water she saw a sight that sent her back with
a bound. There was a boat mid-lake; two men were in it. One was rowing;
the other had a gun in his hand. What should she do? With only a
moment's hesitation she plunged into the lake. Her tired legs could not
propel the tired body rapidly.
The doe saw the boat nearing her. She turned to the shore whence she
came; the dogs were lapping the water and howling there. She turned
again to the centre of the lake. The brave, pretty creature was quite
exhausted now. In a moment more the boat was on her, and the man at the
oars had leaned over and caught her.
"Knock her on the head with that paddle!" he shouted to the gentleman in
the stern. The gentleman _was_ a gentleman, with a kind face. He took
the paddle in his hand. Just then the doe turned her head and looked at
him with her great appealing eyes.
"I can't do it! I can't do it!" and he dropped the paddle. "Oh, let her
go!"
But the guide slung the deer round, and whipped out his hunting-knife.
And the gentleman ate that night of the venison.
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
(Adapted)
THE INCHCAPE ROCK
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The pious Abbot of Aberbrothock
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock.
The sun in heaven was shining gay;
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing:
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he: "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock."
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph: "The next who comes to the Rock
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock."
Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is, they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph: "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore."
"Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell."
They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;
Cried they: "It is the Inchcape Rock!"
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He cursed himself in his despair:
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But, even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,--
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The fiends below were ringing his knell.
SOUTHEY
A ROUGH RIDE
"Well, young ones, what be gaping at?"
"Your mare," said I, standing stoutly up, being a tall boy now; "I never
saw such a beauty, sir. Will you let me have a ride on her?"
"Think thou couldst ride her, lad? She will have no burden but mine.
Thou couldst never ride her! Tut! I would be loath to kill thee."
"Ride her!" I cried, with the bravest scorn, for she looked so kind and
gentle; "there never was a horse upon Exmoor but I could tackle in half
an hour. Only I never ride upon saddle. Take those leathers off of her."
He looked at me with a dry little whistle, and thrust his hands into his
pockets, and so grinned that I could not stand it. And Annie laid hold
of me in such a way that I was almost mad with her. And he laughed, and
approved her for doing so. And the worst of all was--he said nothing.
"Get away, Annie. Do you think I'm a fool, good sir? Only trust me with
her, and I will not override her."
"For that I will go bail, my son. She is liker to override thee. But the
ground is soft to fall upon after all this rain. Now come out into the
yard, young man, for the sake of your mother's cabbages. And the mellow
strawbed will be softer for thee, since pride must have its fall. I am
thy mother's cousin, boy, and I'm going up to the house. Tom Faggus is
my name, as everybody knows, and this is my young mare, Winnie."
What a fool I must have been not to know it at once! Tom Faggus, the
great highwayman, and his young blood mare, the strawberry.
Already her fame was noised abroad nearly as much as her master's, and
my longing to ride her grew tenfold, but fear came at the back of it.
Not that I had the smallest fear of what the mare could do to me, by
fair play and horse-trickery, but that the glory of sitting upon her
seemed to be too great for me; especially as there were rumours abroad
that she was not a mare, after all, but a witch.
Mr. Faggus gave his mare a wink, and she walked demurely after him, a
bright young thing, flowing over with life, yet dropping her soul to a
higher one, and led by love to anything, as the manner is of such
creatures, when they know what is best for them. Then Winnie trod
lightly upon the straw, because it had soft muck under it, and her
delicate feet came back again.
"Up for it still, boy, be ye?" Tom Faggus stopped, and the mare stopped
there; and they looked at me provokingly.
"Is she able to leap, sir? There is good take-off on this side of the
brook."
Mr. Faggus laughed very quietly, turning round to Winnie so that she
might enter into it. And she, for her part, seemed to know exactly where
the fun lay.
"Good tumble-off, you mean, my boy. Well, there can be small harm to
thee. I am akin to thy family, and know the substance of their skulls."
"Let me get up," said I, waxing wroth, for reasons I cannot tell you,
because they are too manifold; "take off your saddle-bag things. I will
try not to squeeze her ribs in, unless she plays nonsense with me."
Then Mr. Faggus was up on his mettle at this proud speech of mine, and
John Fry was running up all the while, and Bill Dadds, and half a dozen
others. Tom Faggus gave one glance around, and then dropped all regard
for me. The high repute of his mare was at stake, and what was my life
compared to it? Through my defiance, and stupid ways, here was I in a
duello, and my legs not come to their strength yet, and my arms as limp
as a herring.
Something of this occurred to him, even in his wrath with me, for he
spoke very softly to the filly, who now could scarcely subdue herself;
but she drew in her nostrils, and breathed to his breath, and did all
she could to answer him.