The giant dwelt content
Upon the bank, and back and forth
Across the stream he went;
And on his giant shoulders bore
All travellers who came,
By night, by day, or rich or poor,
All in King Jesus' name.
But much he doubted if the King
His work would note or know,
And often with a weary heart
He waded to and fro.
One night, as wrapped in sleep he lay,
He sudden heard a call,--
"O Christopher, come, carry me!"
He sprang, looked out, but all
Was dark and silent on the shore,
"It must be that I dreamed,"
He said, and laid him down again;
But instantly there seemed
Again the feeble, distant cry,--
"Oh, come and carry me!"
Again he sprang and looked: again
No living thing could see.
The third time came the plaintive voice,
Like infant's, soft and weak;
With lantern strode the giant forth,
More carefully to seek.
Down on the bank a little child
He found,--a piteous sight,--
Who weeping, earnestly implored
To cross that very night.
With gruff good will he picked him up,
And on his neck to ride
He tossed him, as men play with babes,
And plunged into the tide.
But as the water closed around
His knees, the infant's weight
Grew heavier, and heavier,
Until it was so great
The giant scarce could stand upright,
His staff shook in his hand,
His mighty knees bent under him,
He barely reached the land.
And, staggering, set the infant down,
And turned to scan his face;
When, lo! he saw a halo bright
Which lit up all the place.
Then Christopher fell down, afraid
At marvel of the thing,
And dreamed not that it was the face
Of Jesus Christ, his King.
Until the infant spoke, and said:
"O Christopher, behold!
I am the Lord whom thou hast served,
Rise up, be glad and bold!
"For I have seen and noted well,
Thy works of charity;
And that thou art my servant good
A token thou shalt see.
Plant firmly here upon this bank
Thy stalwart staff of pine,
And it shall blossom and bear fruit,
This very hour, in sign."
Then, vanishing, the infant smiled.
The giant, left alone,
Saw on the bank, with luscious dates,
His stout pine staff bent down.
I think the lesson is as good
To-day as it was then--
As good to us called Christians
As to the heathen men--
The lesson of Saint Christopher,
Who spent his strength for others,
And saved his soul by working hard
To help and save his brothers!
HELEN HUNT JACKSON
WILLIAM TELL AND HIS SON
The sun already shone brightly as William Tell entered the town of
Altorf, and he advanced at once to the public place, where the first
object that caught his eyes was a handsome cap, embroidered with gold,
stuck upon the end of a long pole. Soldiers were walking around it in
silence, and the people of Altorf, as they passed, bowed their head to
the symbol of authority. The cap had been set up by Gessler, the
Austrian commander, for the purpose of discovering those who were not
submissive to the Austrian power, which had ruled the people of the
Swiss Cantons for a long time with great severity. He suspected that the
people were about to break into rebellion, and with a view to learn who
were the most discontented, he had placed the ducal cap of Austria on
this pole, publicly proclaiming that every one passing near, or within
sight of it, should bow before it, in proof of his homage to the duke.
Tell was much surprised at this new and strange attempt to humble the
people, and, leaning on his cross-bow, gazed scornfully on them and the
soldiers. Berenger, captain of the guard, at length observed this man,
who alone amidst the cringing crowd carried his head erect. He ordered
him to be seized and disarmed by the soldiers, and then conducted him to
Gessler, who put some questions to him, which he answered so haughtily
that Gessler was both surprised and angry. Suddenly, he was struck by
the likeness between him and the boy Walter Tell, whom he had seized and
put in prison the previous day for uttering some seditious words; he
immediately asked his name, which he no sooner heard than he knew him to
be the archer so famous, as the best marksman in the Canton.
Gessler at once resolved to punish both father and son at the same time,
by a method which was perhaps the most refined act of torture which man
ever imagined. As soon, then, as the youth was brought out, the governor
turned to Tell, and said: "I have often heard of thy great skill as an
archer, and I now intend to put it to the proof. Thy son shall be placed
at a distance of a hundred yards, with an apple on his head. If thou
strikest the apple with thy arrow, I will pardon you both; but if thou
refusest this trial, thy son shall die before thine eyes."
Tell implored Gessler to spare him so cruel a trial, in which he might
perhaps kill his beloved boy with his own hand. The governor would not
alter his purpose; so Tell at last agreed to shoot at the apple, as the
only chance of saving his son's life. Walter stood with his back to a
linden tree. Gessler, some distance behind, watched every motion. His
cross-bow and one arrow were handed to Tell; he tried the point, broke
the weapon, and demanded his quiver. It was brought to him and emptied
at his feet. He stooped down, and taking a long time to choose an arrow,
he managed to hide a second in his girdle.
After being in doubt a long time, his whole soul beaming in his face,
his love for his son rendering him almost powerless, he at length roused
himself--drew the bow--aimed--shot--and the apple, struck to the core,
was carried away by the arrow.
The market-place of Altorf was filled by loud cheers. Walter flew to
embrace his father, who, overcome by his emotion, fell fainting to the
ground, thus exposing the second arrow to view. Gessler stood over him,
awaiting his recovery, which speedily taking place, Tell rose, and
turned away from the governor with horror. The latter, however,
scarcely yet believing his senses, thus addressed him: "Incomparable
archer, I will keep my promise; but what needed you with that second
arrow which I see in your girdle?"
Tell replied: "It is the custom of the bowmen of Uri to have always one
arrow in reserve."
"Nay, nay," said Gessler, "tell me thy real motive; and, whatever it may
have been, speak frankly, and thy life is spared."
"The second shaft," replied Tell, "was to pierce thy heart, tyrant, if I
had chanced to harm my son."
CHAMBER'S "Tracts."
A MIDSUMMER SONG
O, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day,
And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay,
And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill,
While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will:
"Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?"
From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound--
A murmur as of waters from skies and trees and ground.
The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo,
And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo:
"Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?"
Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom,
And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom.
Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows,
And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose.
But Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?
How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter!
The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders what's the matter.
O, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill,
While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill.
But Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?
RICHARD WATSON GILDER
THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW
On every side death stared us in the face; no human skill could avert it
any longer. We saw the moment approach when we must bid farewell to
earth, yet without feeling that unutterable horror which must have been
experienced by the unhappy victims at Cawnpore. We were resolved rather
to die than yield, and were fully persuaded that in twenty-four hours
all would be over. The engineer had said so, and all knew the worst. We
women strove to encourage each other, and to perform the light duties
which had been assigned to us, such as conveying orders to the
batteries, and supplying the men with provisions, especially cups of
coffee, which we prepared day and night.
I had gone out to try to make myself useful, in company with Jessie
Brown, the wife of a corporal in my husband's regiment. Poor Jessie had
been in a state of restless excitement all through the siege, and had
fallen away visibly within the last few days. A constant fever consumed
her, and her mind wandered occasionally, especially that day when the
recollections of home seemed powerfully present to her. At last,
overcome with fatigue, she lay down on the ground, wrapped up in her
plaid. I sat beside her, promising to awaken her when, as she said, her
"father should return from the ploughing."
She fell at length into a profound slumber, motionless and apparently
breathless, her head resting in my lap. I myself could no longer resist
the inclination to sleep, in spite of the continual roar of the cannon.
Suddenly I was aroused by a wild, unearthly scream close to my ear; my
companion stood upright beside me, her arms raised, and her head bent
forward in the attitude of listening.
A look of intense delight broke over her countenance. She grasped my
hand, drew me toward her, and exclaimed: "Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye
hear it? Aye. I'm no dreaming: it's the slogan o' the Highlanders!
We're saved! we're saved!" Then, flinging herself on her knees, she
thanked God with passionate fervour.
I felt utterly bewildered; my English ears heard only the roar of
artillery, and I thought my poor Jessie was still raving, but she darted
to the batteries, and I heard her cry incessantly to the men: "Courage!
courage! Hark to the slogan--to the Macgregor, the grandest of them a'!
Here's help at last!"
To describe the effect of these words upon the soldiers would be
impossible. For a moment they ceased firing, and every soul listened
with intense anxiety. Gradually, however, there arose a murmur of bitter
disappointment, and the wailing of the women, who had flocked to the
spot, burst out anew as the colonel shook his head. Our dull Lowland
ears heard only the rattle of the musketry.
A few moments more of this deathlike suspense, of this agonizing hope,
and Jessie, who had again sunk on the ground, sprang to her feet, and
cried in a voice so clear and piercing that it was heard along the whole
line: "Will ye no believe it noo? The slogan has ceased, indeed, but the
Campbells are comin'! D'ye hear? d'ye hear?"
At that moment all seemed, indeed, to hear the voice of God in the
distance, when the pibroch of the Highlanders brought us tidings of
deliverance; for now there was no longer any doubt of the fact. That
shrill, penetrating, ceaseless sound, which rose above all other sounds,
could come neither from the advance of the enemy nor from the work of
the sappers. No, it was, indeed, the blast of the Scottish bagpipes, now
shrill and harsh, as threatening vengeance on the foe, then in softer
tones, seeming to promise succour to their friends in need.
Never, surely, was there such a scene as that which followed. Not a
heart in the residency of Lucknow but bowed itself before God. All, by
one simultaneous impulse, fell upon their knees, and nothing was heard
but bursting sobs and the murmured voice of prayer. Then all arose, and
there rang out from a thousand lips a great shout of joy, which
resounded far and wide, and lent new vigour to that blessed pibroch.
To our cheer of "God save the Queen," they replied by the well-known
strain that moves every Scot to tears, "Should auld acquaintance be
forgot." After that, nothing else made any impression on me. I scarcely
remember what followed. Jessie was presented to the general on his
entrance into the fort, and at the officers' banquet her health was
drunk by all present, while the pipers marched around the table, playing
once more the familiar air of "Auld Lang Syne."
"Letter from an officer's wife."
THE SONG IN CAMP
"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay, grim and threatening, under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.
There was a pause. A guardsman said:
"We storm the forts to-morrow;
Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."
They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:
Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie."
Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,--
Their battle-eve confession.
Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.
Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.
And once again a fire of hell
Rained on the Russian quarters,
With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars!
And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."
Sleep, soldiers! still in honoured rest
Your truth and valour wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest,--
The loving are the daring.
BAYARD TAYLOR
AFTERGLOW
After the clangour of battle
There comes a moment of rest,
And the simple hopes and the simple joys
And the simple thoughts are best.
After the victor's pæan,
After the thunder of gun,
There comes a lull that must come to all
Before the set of the sun.
Then what is the happiest memory?
Is it the foe's defeat?
Is it the splendid praise of a world
That thunders by at your feet?
Nay, nay, to the life-worn spirit
The happiest thoughts are those
That carry us back to the simple joys
And the sweetness of life's repose.
A simple love and a simple trust
And a simple duty done,
Are truer torches to light to death
Than a whole world's victories won.
WILFRED CAMPBELL
KING RICHARD AND SALADIN
Saladin led the way to a splendid pavilion where was everything that
royal luxury could devise. De Vaux, who was in attendance, then removed
the long riding-cloak which Richard wore, and he stood before Saladin in
the close dress which showed to advantage the strength and symmetry of
his person, while it bore a strong contrast to the flowing robes which
disguised the thin frame of the Eastern monarch. It was Richard's
two-handed sword that chiefly attracted the attention of the Saracen--a
broad straight blade, the seemingly unwieldy length of which extended
wellnigh from the shoulder to the heel of the wearer.
"Had I not," said Saladin, "seen this brand flaming in the front of
battle, like that of Azrael, I had scarce believed that human arm could
wield it. Might I request to see the Melech Ric strike one blow with it
in peace and in pure trial of strength?"
"Willingly, noble Saladin," answered Richard; and looking around for
something whereon to exercise his strength, he saw a steel mace, held by
one of the attendants, the handle being of the same metal, and about an
inch and a half in diameter. This he placed on a block of wood.
The glittering broadsword, wielded by both his hands, rose aloft to the
king's left shoulder, circled round his head, descended with the sway of
some terrific engine, and the bar of iron rolled on the ground in two
pieces, as a woodman would sever a sapling with a hedging-bill.
"By the head of the Prophet, a most wonderful blow!" said the Soldan,
critically and accurately examining the iron bar which had been cut
asunder; and the blade of the sword was so well tempered as to exhibit
not the least token of having suffered by the feat it had performed. He
then took the king's hand, and looking on the size and muscular strength
which it exhibited, laughed as he placed it beside his own, so lank and
thin, so inferior in brawn and sinew.
"Ay, look well," said De Vaux in English, "it will be long ere your long
jackanape's fingers do such a feat with your fine gilded reaping-hook
there."
"Silence, De Vaux," said Richard; "by Our Lady, he understands or
guesses thy meaning--be not so broad, I pray thee."
The Soldan, indeed, presently said: "Something I would fain attempt,
though wherefore should the weak show their inferiority in presence of
the strong? Yet, each land hath its own exercises, and this may be new
to the Melech Ric." So saying, he took from the floor a cushion of silk
and down, and placed it upright on one end. "Can thy weapon, my brother,
sever that cushion?" he said to King Richard.
"No, surely," replied the king; "no sword on earth, were it the
Excalibur of King Arthur, can cut that which opposes no steady
resistance to the blow."
"Mark, then," said Saladin; and tucking up the sleeve of his gown,
showed his arm, thin indeed and spare, but which constant exercise had
hardened into a mass consisting of nought but bone, brawn, and sinew. He
unsheathed his scimitar, a curved and narrow blade, which glittered not
like the swords of the Franks, but was, on the contrary, of a dull blue
colour, marked with ten millions of meandering lines, which showed how
anxiously the metal had been welded by the armourer. Wielding this
weapon, apparently so inefficient when compared to that of Richard, the
Soldan stood resting his weight upon his left foot, which was slightly
advanced; he balanced himself a little as if to steady his aim, then,
stepping at once forward, drew the scimitar across the cushion, applying
the edge so dexterously and with so little apparent effort, that the
cushion seemed rather to fall asunder than to be divided by violence.
"It is a juggler's trick," said De Vaux, darting forward and snatching
up the portion of the cushion which had been cut off, as if to assure
himself of the reality of the feat; "there is gramarye in this."
The Soldan seemed to comprehend him, for he undid the sort of veil which
he had hitherto worn, laid it double along the edge of his sabre,
extended the weapon edgeways in the air, and drawing it suddenly through
the veil, although it hung on the blade entirely loose, severed that
also into two parts, which floated to different sides of the tent,
equally displaying the extreme temper and sharpness of the weapon and
the exquisite dexterity of him who used it.
"Now, in good faith, my brother," said Richard, "thou art even matchless
at the trick of the sword, and right perilous were it to meet thee.
Still, however, I put some faith in a downright English blow, and what
we cannot do by sleight we eke out by strength. Nevertheless, in truth
thou art as expert in inflicting wounds as my sage Hakim in curing them.
I trust I shall see the learned leech; I have much to thank him for, and
had brought some small present."
As he spoke, Saladin exchanged his turban for a Tartar cap. He had no
sooner done so, than De Vaux opened at once his extended mouth and his
large round eyes, and Richard gazed with scarce less astonishment, while
the Soldan spoke in a grave and altered voice: "The sick man, sayeth the
poet, while he is yet infirm, knoweth the physician by his step; but
when he is recovered, he knoweth not even his face when he looks upon
him."
"A miracle!--a miracle!" exclaimed Richard.
"Of Mahound's working, doubtless," said Thomas de Vaux.
"That I should lose my learned Hakim," said Richard, "merely by absence
of his cap and robe, and that I should find him again in my royal
brother Saladin!"
"Such is oft the fashion of the world," answered the Soldan: "the
tattered robe makes not always the dervish."
SCOTT: "The Talisman."
ENGLAND'S DEAD
Son of the Ocean Isle!
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is reared o'er Glory's bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep--
Free, free, the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'erswayed,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm trees yield no shade;--
But let the angry sun
From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!--
There slumber England's dead.
The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar;--
But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread
For those that from their toils are gone,--
There slumber England's dead.
Loud rush the torrent-floods
The Western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung;--
But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?--
There slumber England's dead.
The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky
Like rose-leaves on the breeze;--
But let the storm rage on!
Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles' field is won,--
There slumber England's dead.
On the frozen deep's repose
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower;--
But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done,
Even there sleep England's dead.
The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep--
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
FELICIA HEMANS
HOHENLINDEN
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
THOMAS CAMPBELL
THE DREAM OF THE OAK TREE
There stood in a wood, high on the bank near the open sea-shore, such a
grand old oak tree! It was three hundred and sixty-five years old; but
all this length of years had seemed to the tree scarcely more than so
many days appear to us men and women, boys and girls.
A tree's life is not quite the same as a man's: we wake during the day,
and sleep and dream during the night; but a tree wakes throughout three
seasons of the year, and has no sleep till winter comes. The winter is
its sleeping time--its night after the long day which we call spring,
summer, and autumn.
It was just at the holy Christmas-tide that the oak tree dreamed his
most beautiful dream. He seemed to hear the church-bells ringing all
around, and to feel as if it were a mild, warm summer day. Fresh and
green he reared his mighty crown on high, and the sunbeams played among
his leaves. As in a festive procession, all that the tree had beheld in
his life now passed by.
Knights and ladies, with feathers in their caps and hawks perching on
their wrists, rode gaily through the wood; dogs barked, and the huntsman
sounded his bugle.
Then came foreign soldiers in bright armour and gay vestments, bearing
spurs and halberds, setting up their tents, and presently taking them
down again. Then watch-fires blazed up and bands of wild outlaws sang,
revelled, and slept under the tree's outstretched boughs; or happy
lovers met in quiet moonlight and carved their initials on the grayish
bark.
At one time a guitar and an Æolian harp had been hung among the old
oak's boughs by merry travelling apprentices; now they hung there again,
and the wind played sweetly with their strings.