through him, down to his lowest roots, up to his highest twigs, even to
the very leaves. The tree felt in his roots that a warm life stirred in
the earth, and that he was growing taller and taller; his trunk shot up
more and more, his crown grew fuller; and still he soared and spread.
He felt that his power grew, too, and he longed to advance higher and
higher to the warm, bright sun.
Already he towered above the clouds, which drifted below him, now like a
troop of dark-plumaged birds of passage, now like flocks of large, white
swans. The stars became visible by daylight, so large and bright, each
one sparkling like a mild, clear eye.
It was a blessed moment! and yet, in the height of his joy, the oak tree
felt a desire and longing that all the other trees, bushes, herbs, and
flowers of the wood might be lifted up with him to share in his glory
and gladness. He could not be fully blessed unless he might have all,
small and great, blessed with him.
The tree's crown bowed itself as though it had missed something, and
looked backward. Then he felt the fragrance of honeysuckle and violets,
and fancied he could hear the birds. And so it was! for now peeped forth
through the clouds the green summits of the wood; the other trees below
had grown and lifted themselves up likewise; bushes and herbs shot high
into the air, some tearing themselves loose from their roots to mount
the faster.
Like a flash of white lightning the birch, moving fastest of all, shot
upward its slender stem. Even the feathery brown reeds had pierced their
way through the clouds, and the birds sang and sang, and on the grass
that fluttered to and fro like a streaming ribbon perched the
grasshopper, while cockchafers hummed and bees buzzed. All was music and
gladness.
"But the little blue flower near the water--I want that, too," said the
oak; "and the bellflower, and the dear little daisy." "We are here! we
are here!" chanted sweet low voices on all sides.
"But the pretty anemones, and the bed of lilies of the valley, and all
the flowers that bloomed so long ago,--would that they were here!" "We
are here! we are here!" was the answer, and it seemed to come from the
air above, as if they had fled upward first.
"Oh, this is too great happiness!" exclaimed the oak tree; and now he
felt that his own roots were loosening themselves from the earth. "This
is best of all," he said. "Now no bounds shall detain me. I can soar to
the heights of light and glory, and I have all my dear ones with me."
Such was the oak tree's Christmas dream. And all the while a mighty
storm swept the sea and land; the ocean rolled his heavy billows on the
shore, the tree cracked, and was rent and torn up by the roots at the
very moment when he dreamed that he was soaring to the skies.
Next day the sea was calm again, and a large vessel that had weathered
the storm hoisted all its flags for Merry Christmas. "The tree is
gone--the old oak tree, our beacon! How can its place ever be supplied?"
said the crew. This was the tree's funeral eulogium, while the Christmas
hymn re-echoed from the wood.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
(Adapted)
A PRAYER
The day returns and brings us the petty round of irritating concerns and
duties. Help us to play the man, help us to perform them with laughter
and kind faces; let cheerfulness abound with industry. Give us to go
blithely on our business all this day, bring us to our resting beds
weary and content and undishonoured; and grant us in the end the gift of
sleep.
R. L. STEVENSON
[Illustration: IN THE PASTURE]
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs, the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
BRYANT
'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER
'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone!
MOORE
A ROMAN'S HONOUR
The Romans had suffered a terrible defeat in B.C. 251, and Regulus, a
famous soldier and senator, had been captured and dragged into Carthage
where the victors feasted and rejoiced through half the night, and
testified their thanks to their god by offering in his fires the bravest
of their captives.
Regulus himself was not, however, one of these victims. He was kept a
close prisoner for two years, pining and sickening in his loneliness;
while, in the meantime, the war continued, and at last a victory so
decisive was gained by the Romans, that the people of Carthage were
discouraged, and resolved to ask terms of peace. They thought that no
one would be so readily listened to at Rome as Regulus, and they
therefore sent him there with their envoys, having first made him swear
that he would come back to his prison, if there should neither be peace
nor an exchange of prisoners. They little knew how much more a
true-hearted Roman cared for his city than for himself--for his word
than for his life.
Worn and dejected, the captive warrior came to the outside of the gates
of his own city and there paused, refusing to enter. "I am no longer a
Roman citizen," he said; "I am but the barbarian's slave, and the Senate
may not give audience to strangers within the walls."
His wife, Marcia, ran out to greet him, with his two sons, but he did
not look up, and received their caresses as one beneath their notice, as
a mere slave, and he continued, in spite of all entreaty, to remain
outside the city, and would not even go to the little farm he had loved
so well.
The Roman Senate, as he would not come in to them, came out to hold
their meeting in the Campagna.
The ambassadors spoke first; then Regulus, standing up, said, as one
repeating a task: "Conscript fathers, being a slave to the
Carthaginians, I come on the part of my masters to treat with you
concerning peace and an exchange of prisoners." He then turned to go
away with the ambassadors, as a stranger might not be present at the
deliberations of the Senate. His old friends pressed him to stay and
give his opinion as a senator, who had twice been consul; but he refused
to degrade that dignity by claiming it, slave as he was. But, at the
command of his Carthaginian masters, he remained, though not taking his
seat.
Then he spoke. He told the senators to persevere in the war. He said he
had seen the distress of Carthage, and that a peace would be only to her
advantage, not to that of Rome, and therefore he strongly advised that
the war should continue. Then, as to the exchange of prisoners, the
Carthaginian generals, who were in the hands of the Romans, were in full
health and strength, whilst he himself was too much broken down to be
fit for service again; and, indeed, he believed that his enemies had
given him a slow poison, and that he could not live long. Thus he
insisted that no exchange of prisoners should be made.
It was wonderful, even to Romans, to hear a man thus pleading against
himself; and their chief priest came forward and declared that, as his
oath had been wrested from him by force, he was not bound by it to
return to his captivity. But Regulus was too noble to listen to this for
a moment. "Have you resolved to dishonour me?" he said. "I am not
ignorant that death and the extremest tortures are preparing for me; but
what are these to the shame of an infamous action, or the wounds of a
guilty mind? Slave as I am to Carthage, I have still the spirit of a
Roman. I have sworn to return. It is my duty to go; let the gods take
care of the rest."
The Senate decided to follow the advice of Regulus, though they bitterly
regretted his sacrifice. His wife wept and entreated in vain that they
would detain him--they could merely repeat their permission to him to
remain; but nothing could prevail with him to break his word, and he
turned back to the chains and death he expected, as calmly as if he had
been returning to his home. This was in the year B.C. 249.
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE: "Book of Golden Deeds."
THE FIGHTING TÉMÉRAIRE
It was eight bells ringing,
For the morning watch was done,
And the gunner's lads were singing,
As they polished every gun.
It was eight bells ringing,
And the gunner's lads were singing
For the ship she rode a-swinging,
As they polished every gun.
_Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Oh! to hear the round shot biting,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
And to hear the round shot biting,
For we're all in love with fighting
On the Fighting Téméraire._
It was noontide ringing,
And the battle just begun,
When the ship her way was winging,
As they loaded every gun.
It was noontide ringing
When the ship her way was winging,
And the gunner's lads were singing,
As they loaded every gun.
_There'll be many grim and gory,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
There'll be few to tell the story,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
There'll be many grim and gory,
There'll be few to tell the story,
But we'll all be one in glory
With the Fighting Téméraire._
There's a far bell ringing
At the setting of the sun,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of the great days done.
There's a far bell ringing,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of renown for ever clinging
To the great days done.
_Now the sunset breezes shiver,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
And she's fading down the river,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Now the sunset breezes shiver,
And she's fading down the river,
But in England's song for ever
She's the Fighting Téméraire._
HENRY NEWBOLT
DON QUIXOTE'S FIGHT WITH THE WINDMILLS
"I beseech your worship, Sir Knight-errant," quoth Sancho to his master,
"be sure you don't forget what you promised me about the island; for I
dare say I shall make shift to govern it, let it be never so big."
"You must know, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that it has been
the constant practice of knights-errant in former ages to make their
squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered."
As they were thus discoursing, they discovered some thirty or forty
windmills that are in that plain; and as soon as the knight had spied
them, "Fortune," cried he, "directs our affairs better than we ourselves
could have wished: look yonder, friend Sancho, there are at least thirty
outrageous giants, whom I intend to encounter; and having deprived them
of life, we will begin to enrich ourselves with their spoils; for they
are lawful prize; and the extirpation of that cursed brood will be an
acceptable service to Heaven."
"What giants?" quoth Sancho Panza.
"Those whom thou seest yonder," answered Don Quixote, "with their long
extended arms; some of that detested race have arms of so immense a
size, that sometimes they reach two leagues in length."
"Pray look better, sir," quoth Sancho; "those things yonder are no
giants, but windmills, and the arms you fancy, are their sails, which
being whirled about by the wind, make the mill go."
"'Tis a sign," cried Don Quixote, "thou art but little acquainted with
adventures! I tell thee, they are giants; and therefore if thou art
afraid, go aside and say thy prayers, for I am resolved to engage in a
dreadful unequal combat against them all." This said, he clapped spurs
to his horse Rozinante, without giving ear to his squire Sancho, who
bawled out to him, and assured him that they were windmills, and no
giants. But he was so fully possessed with a strong conceit of the
contrary, that he did not so much as hear his squire's outcry, nor was
he sensible of what they were, although he was already very near them;
far from that: "Stand, cowards," cried he, as loud as he could; "stand
your ground, ignoble creatures, and fly not basely from a single knight,
who dares encounter you all!"
At the same time, the wind rising, the mill-sails began to move, which
when Don Quixote spied, "Base miscreants," cried he, "though you move
more arms than the giant Briareus, you shall pay for your arrogance."
He most devoutly recommended himself to his Lady Dulcinea, imploring her
assistance in this perilous adventure; and, so covering himself with his
shield, and couching his lance, he rushed with Rozinante's utmost speed
upon the first windmill he could come at, and running his lance into the
sail, the wind whirled it about with such swiftness, that the rapidity
of the motion presently broke the lance into shivers, and hurled away
both knight and horse along with it, till down he fell, rolling a good
way off in the field.
Sancho Panza ran as fast as his ass could drive to help his master, whom
he found lying, and not able to stir, such a blow had he and Rozinante
received. "Mercy o' me!" cried Sancho, "did not I give your worship fair
warning? Did not I tell you they were windmills, and that nobody could
think otherwise, unless he had also windmills in his head!"
"Peace, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote: "there is nothing so
subject to the inconstancy of fortune as war. I am verily persuaded that
cursed necromancer, Freston, who carried away my study and my books, has
transformed these giants into windmills to deprive me of the honour of
the victory; such is his inveterate malice against me; but in the end,
all his pernicious wiles and stratagems shall prove ineffectual against
the prevailing edge of my sword."
"Amen, say I," replied Sancho.
And so heaving him up again upon his legs, once more the knight mounted
poor Rozinante, that was half shoulder-slipped with his fall.
This adventure was the subject of their discourse, as they made the best
of their way towards the pass of Lapice, for Don Quixote took that road,
believing he could not miss of adventure in one so mightily frequented.
However, the loss of his lance was no small affliction to him; and as he
was making his complaint about it to his squire, "I have read," said he,
"friend Sancho, that a certain Spanish knight, having broken his sword
in the heat of an engagement, pulled up by the roots a huge oak tree, or
at least tore down a massy branch, and did such wonderful execution,
crushing and grinding so many Moors with it that day, that he won
himself and his posterity the surname of The Pounder, or Bruiser. I tell
thee this, because I intend to tear up the next oak or holm tree we
meet; with the trunk whereof I hope to perform such wondrous deeds that
thou wilt esteem thyself particularly happy in having had the honour to
behold them, and been the ocular witness of achievements which posterity
will scarce be able to believe."
"Heaven grant you may," cried Sancho; "I believe it all, because your
worship says it. But, an't please you, sit a little more upright in your
saddle; you ride sideling methinks; but that, I suppose, proceeds from
your being bruised by the fall."
"It does so," replied Don Quixote; "and if I do not complain of the
pain, it is because a knight-errant must never complain of his wounds."
"Then I have no more to say," quoth Sancho; "and yet Heaven knows my
heart, I should be glad to hear your worship groan a little now and then
when something ails you: for my part, I shall not fail to bemoan myself
when I suffer the smallest pain, unless, indeed, it can be proved that
the rule of not complaining extends to the squires as well as knights."
Don Quixote could not forbear smiling at the simplicity of his squire;
and told him he gave him leave to complain not only when he pleased, but
as much as he pleased, whether he had any cause or no; for he had never
yet read anything to the contrary in any books of chivalry.
CERVANTES: "The Adventures of Don Quixote."
THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST
Little Ellie sits alone
'Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side on the grass,
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water's flow.
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.
Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly uses,
Fills the silence like a speech,
While she thinks what shall be done,--
And the sweetest pleasure chooses
For her future within reach.
Little Ellie in her smile
Chooses ... "I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds!
He shall love me without guile,
And to _him_ I will discover
The swan's nest among the reeds.
"And the steed shall be red-roan,
And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath.
And the lute he plays upon,
Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.
"And the steed it shall be shod
All in silver, housed in azure;
And the mane shall swim the wind;
And the hoofs along the sod
Shall flash onward and keep measure,
Till the shepherds look behind.
"But my lover will not prize
All the glory that he rides in,
When he gazes in my face.
He will say: 'O Love, thine eyes
Build the shrine my soul abides in,
And I kneel here for thy grace.'
"Then, ay, then--he shall kneel low,
With the red-roan steed anear him
Which shall seem to understand--
Till I answer: 'Rise and go!'
For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.
"Then he will arise so pale,
I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a _yes_ I must not say,
Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,'
I will utter, and dissemble--
'Light to-morrow with to-day.'
"Then he'll ride among the hills
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong;
To make straight distorted wills,
And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.
"Three times shall a young foot-page
Swim the stream and climb the mountain
And kneel down beside my feet--
'Lo, my master sends this gage,
Lady, for thy pity's counting!
What wilt thou exchange for it?'
"And the first time, I will send
A white rosebud for a guerdon,--
And the second time, a glove;
But the third time--I may bend
From my pride, and answer: 'Pardon,
If he comes to take my love.'
"Then the young foot-page will run--
Then my lover will ride faster,
Till he kneeleth at my knee:
'I am a duke's eldest son!
Thousand serfs do call me master,--
But, O Love, I love but _thee!_'
"He will kiss me on the mouth
Then, and lead me as a lover
Through the crowds that praise his deeds:
And, when soul-tied by one troth,
Unto _him_ I will discover
That swan's nest among the reeds."
Little Ellie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gaily,
Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,
And went homeward, round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,
What more eggs were with the two.
Pushing through the elm tree copse,
Winding up the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads--
Past the boughs she stoops--and stops.
Lo, the wild swan had deserted,--
And a rat had gnawed the reeds.
Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not! but I know
She could never show him--never,
That swan's nest among the reeds.
E. B. BROWNING
[Illustration: DEEP SEA FISHERS]
MOONLIGHT SONATA
It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called upon
Beethoven; for I wished him to take a walk, and afterwards sup with me.
In passing through a dark, narrow street, he suddenly paused. "Hush!" he
said, "what sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F. Hark! how well it
is played!"
It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened. The
player went on; but, in the midst of the finale, there was a sudden
break; then the voice of sobbing: "I cannot play any more. It is too
beautiful; it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh! what
would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!"
"Ah! my sister," said her companion; "why create regrets when there is
no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent."
"You are right, and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really
good music. But it is of no use."
Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.
"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"
"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is
feeling--genius--understanding! I will play to her, and she will
understand it."
And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door. It opened and
we entered.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes, and near him,
leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned piano, sat a young girl, with
a profusion of light hair falling over her face.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to
enter. I am a musician."
The girl blushed, and the young man looked grave and somewhat annoyed.
"I--I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend.
"You wish to hear--that is, you would like--that is--shall I play for
you?"
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comical
and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in
a moment.
"Thank you!" said the shoemaker; "but our piano is so wretched, and we
have no music."
"No music!" echoed my friend; "how, then, does the young lady--" he
paused and coloured; for, as he looked in the girl's face, he saw that
she was blind. "I--I entreat your pardon," he stammered. "I had not
perceived before. Then you play by ear? But when do you hear the music,
since you frequent no concerts?"
"We lived at Bruhl for two years, and while there I used to hear a lady
practising near us. During the summer evenings her windows were
generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her."
She seemed so shy that Beethoven said no more, but seated himself
quietly before the piano and began to play. He had no sooner struck the
first chord than I knew what would follow. Never, during all the years I
knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and
her brother. He seemed to be inspired; and, from the instant that his
fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tones of the
instrument seemed to grow sweeter and more equal.
The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former
laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward,
and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the
end of the piano, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart
should break the flow of those magical sounds.
Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and
went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a
flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before,
the moon rays falling strongest upon the piano and the player. His head
dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed
absorbed in deep thought. He remained thus for some time. At length the
young shoemaker arose and approached him eagerly.
"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone. "Who and what are you?"
"Listen!" said Beethoven, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata
in F. A cry of recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming: "Then
you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.