NOTES.—Lucknow, a city in the British possession of India. In 1857 there was a mutiny of the native troops, and the British garrison of 1700 men was besieged by 10,000 mutineers. After twelve weeks' siege, fresh British troops forced an entrance, and the town was held until relieved three weeks later by the arrival of Sir Colin Campbell, as above described.
1. Cawnpore, also a city of India, near Lucknow, which was besieged during the mutiny. After surrendering, the English, two thirds of whom were women and children, were treacherously massacred.
4. The inhabitants of the northern part of Scotland are called Highlanders; those of the southern part, Lowlanders. The dialect of the former is very peculiar, as shown in the language of Jessie Brown; as, dinna for did not, a' for all, no for not, noo for now, auld for old. Macgregor and Campbell are names of Highland clans or families.
Whittier's poem, "The Pipes at Lucknow," and Robert T. S. Lowell's "The
Relief of Lucknow," are descriptive of this same incident.
XLVIII. THE SNOWSTORM.
James Thomson (b. 1700, d.1748) was born at Ednam, in the shire of Roxburgh, Scotland. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and afterwards studied for the ministry, but in a short time changed his plans and devoted himself to literature. His early poems are quite insignificant, but "The Seasons," from which the following selection is taken; and the "Castle of Indolence," are masterpieces of English poetry.
1. Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends,
At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes
Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day,
With a continual flow. The cherished fields
Put on their winter robe of purest white.
'T is brightness all: save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current.
2. Low the woods
Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun
Faint from the west emits its evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill,
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man.
3. Drooping, the laborer ox
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them.
4. One alone,
The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit.
5. Half-afraid, he first
Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights
On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is;
Till, more familiar grown, the table crumbs
Attract his slender feet.
6. The foodless wilds
Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare,
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset
By death in various forms, dark snares and dogs,
And more unpitying men, the garden seeks,
Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind.
Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening earth,
With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed,
Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow
7. Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind,
Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens
With food at will; lodge them below the storm,
And watch them strict; for from the bellowing east,
In this dire season, oft the whirlwind's wing
Sweeps up the burden of whole wintry plains
In one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks,
Hid in the hollow of two neighboring hills,
The billowy tempest 'whelms; till, upward urged,
The valley to a shining mountain swells,
Tipped with a wreath high-curling in the sky
DEFINITIONS.—1. Ma'zy, winding. 2. Hoar, white or grayish white. E-mits', sends forth, throws out, 3. Win'now-ing, separat-ing chaff from grain by means of wind. Boon, a gift. 4. Em—broil'ing, throwing into disorder or contention. 5, A-skance', side-ways. 6. Wilds, woods, forests. Be-set', hemmed in on all sides so that escape is difficult. 7. Dire, dreadful, terrible. Waft, a current of wind. Whelms', covers completely.
NOTE.—4. Household gods. An allusion to the belief of the ancient Romans in the Penates—certain gods who were supposed to protect the household and all connected with it. The idea here expressed is, that the Redbreast was secure from harm.
XLIX. BEHIND TIME.
1. A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was just ahead, beyond which was a station where two trains usually met. The conductor was late,—so late that the period during which the up train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pass the curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all because an engineer had been behind time.
2. A great battle was going on. Column after column had been precipitated for eight hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking in the west; reenforcements for the obstinate defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position with one final charge, or everything would be lost.
3. A powerful corps had been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, formed his reserve into an attacking column, and ordered them to charge the enemy. The whole world knows the result. Grouchy failed to appear; the imperial guard was beaten back; and Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St. Helena because one of his marshals was behind time.
4. A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy. As it had large sums of money in California, it expected remittances by a certain day, and if they arrived, its credit, its honor, and its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed without bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day on which the firm had bills maturing to large amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at daybreak; but it was found, on inquiry, that she brought no funds, and the house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents, but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in remitting, had been behind time.
5. A condemned man was led, out for execution. He had taken human life, but under circumstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve; a favorable answer had been expected the night before, and though it had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive. Thus the morning passed without the appearance of the messenger.
6. The last moment was up. The prisoner took his place, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the wind. Just at that moment a horseman came into sight, galloping down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved frantically to the crowd. He was the express rider with the reprieve; but he came too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignominious death because a watch had been five minutes too late, making its bearer arrive behind time.
7. It is continually so in life. The best laid plans, the most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed, because somebody is "behind time." There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because they are "behind time." There are others who put off reformation year after year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because forever "behind time."
DEFINITIONS.—1. Col-li'sion, the act of striking together violently. 2. Pre-cip'i-tat-ed, urged on violently. Re-en-force'ments, additional troops. 3. Corps (pro. kor), a body of troops. Re-serve', a select body of troops held back in case of special need for their services. 4. Bank'rupt-cy. inability to pay all debts, insolvency. Re-mit'tanc-es, mouey, drafts, etc., sent from a distance. Ma-tur'ing, approaching the time fixed for payment. 5. Prov-o-ca'tion, that which causes anger. 6. Ig-no-min'i-ous, infamous. 7. Weal, prosperity, happiness.
NOTES.—3. Emmanuel Grouchy was one of Napoleon's marshals at the battle of Waterloo, fought in 1815 between the French under Napoleon, and the English, Dutch, and German troops under Wellington.
Napoleon Bonaparte (b. 1769, d. 1821) was born on the island of Corsica. At school he was "studious, well-behaved, and distinguished in mathematical studies." In 1785 he was commissioned as a sublieutenant in the army. From this obscure position he raised himself to the head of the army, and in 1804 was elected emperor of the French. He is almost universally acknowledged to have been the greatest general the world has known.
L. THE OLD SAMPLER.
1. Out of the way, in a corner
Of our dear old attic room,
Where bunches of herbs from the hillside
Shake ever a faint perfume,
An oaken chest is standing,
With hasp and padlock and key,
Strong as the hands that made it
On the other side of the sea.
2. When the winter days are dreary,
And we're out of heart with life,
Of its crowding cares aweary,
And sick of its restless strife,
We take a lesson in patience
From the attic corner dim,
Where the chest still holds its treasures,
A warder faithful and grim.
3. Robes of an antique fashion,
Linen and lace and silk,
That time has tinted with saffron,
Though once they were white as milk;
Wonderful baby garments,
'Boidered with loving care
By fingers that felt the pleasure,
As they wrought the ruffles fair;
4. A sword, with the red rust on it,
That flashed in the battle tide,
When from Lexington to Yorktown
Sorely men's souls were tried;
A plumed chapeau and a buckle,
And many a relic fine,
And, an by itself, the sampler,
Framed in with berry and vine.
5. Faded the square of canvas,
And dim is the silken thread,
But I think of white hands dimpled,
And a childish, sunny head;
For here in cross and in tent stitch,
In a wreath of berry and vine,
She worked it a hundred years ago,
"Elizabeth, Aged Nine."
6. In and out in the sunshine,
The little needle flashed,
And in and out on the rainy day,
When the merry drops down plashed,
As close she sat by her mother,
The little Puritan maid,
And did her piece in the sampler,
While the other children played.
7. You are safe in the beautiful heaven,
"Elizabeth, aged nine;"
But before you went you had troubles
Sharper than any of mine.
Oh, the gold hair turned with sorrow
White as the drifted snow.
And your tears dropped here where I'm standing,
On this very plumed chapeau.
8. When you put it away, its wearer
Would need it nevermore,
By a sword thrust learning the secrets
God keeps on yonder shore;
And you wore your grief like glory,
You would not yield supine,
Who wrought in your patient childhood,
"Elizabeth, Aged Nine."
9. Out of the way, in a corner,
With hasp and padlock and key,
Stands the oaken chest of my fathers
That came from over the sea;
And the hillside herbs above it
Shake odors fragrant and fine,
And here on its lid is a garland
To "Elizabeth, aged nine."
10. For love is of the immortal,
And patience is sublime,
And trouble a thing of every day,
And touching every time;
And childhood sweet and sunny,
And womanly truth and grace,
Ever call light life's darkness
And bless earth's lowliest place.
—Mrs. M. E. Sangster.
DEFINITIONS.—2. Ward'er, a keeper, a guard. 3. An-tique', old, ancient.
Saf'fron, a deep yellow. 4. Cha-peau', a hat. 8. Su-pine', listless. 10.
Im-mort'al, undying.
NOTES.—6. Puritan. The Puritans were a religious sect who fled from persecution in England, and afterwards settled the most of New England.
A sampler is a needlework pattern; a species of fancywork formerly much in vogue.
LI. THE GOODNESS OF GOD.
1. Bless the Lord, O my soul! O Lord, my God, thou art very great; thou art clothed with honor and majesty: who coverest thyself with light as with a garment; who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain; who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters; who maketh the clouds his chariot; who walketh upon the wings of the wind; who maketh his angels spirits, his ministers a flaming fire; who laid the foundations of the earth, that it should not be removed forever.
2. Thou coveredst it with the deep as with a garment: the waters stood above the mountains. At thy rebuke they fled; at the voice of thy thunder they hasted away. They go up by the mountains; they go down by the valleys unto the place which thou hast founded for them. Thou hast set a bound which they may not pass over; that they turn not again to cover the earth.
3. He sendeth the springs into the valleys, which run among the hills. They give drink to every beast of the field; the wild asses quench their thirst. By them shall the fowls of the heaven have their habitation, which sing among the branches. He watereth the hills from his chambers; the earth is satisfied with the fruit of thy works.
4. He caused the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man, that he may bring forth food out of the earth; and wine that maketh glad the heart of man, and oil to make his face to shine, and bread which strengtheneth man's heart.
5. The trees of the Lord are full of sap; the cedars of Lebanon, which he hath planted, where the birds make their nests: as for the stork, the fir trees are her house. The high hills are a refuge for the wild goats, and the rocks for the conies.
6. He appointed the moon for seasons; the sun knoweth his going down. Thou makest darkness, and it is night, wherein all the beasts of the forest do creep forth. The young lions roar after their prey, and seek their meat from God. The sun ariseth, they gather themselves together, and lay them down in their dens. Man goeth forth unto his work, and to his labor until the evening.
7. O Lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches. So is this great and wide sea, wherein are things creeping innumerable, both small and great beasts. There go the ships: there is that leviathan, whom thou hast made to play therein. These wait all upon thee, that thou mayest give them their meat in due season.
8. That thou givest them they gather; thou openest thine hand, they are filled with good. Thou hidest thy face, they are troubled; thou takest away their breath, they die, and return to their dust. Thou sendest forth thy Spirit, they are created; and thou renewest the face of the earth.
9. The glory of the Lord shall endure forever: the Lord shall rejoice in his works. He looketh on the earth, and it trembleth: he toucheth the hills, and they smoke.
10. O that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men! And let them sacrifice the sacrifices of thanksgiving, and declare his works with rejoicing.
11. O give thanks unto the Lord; call upon his name; make known his deeds among the people. Sing unto him, sing psalms unto him: talk ye of all his wondrous' works. Glory ye in his holy name: let the heart of them rejoice that seek the Lord. Seek the Lord, and his strength; seek his face evermore.
12. Remember his marvelous works that he hath done; his wonders, and the judgments of his mouth. He is the Lord our God; his judgments are in all the earth. I will sing unto the Lord as long as I live: I will sing praise to my God while I have my being. —Extracts from the Bible.
DEFINITIONS.—2. Found'ed, built, established. 3. Hab-i-ta' tion, place of abode. 5. Ref 'uge, shelter, protection. Co'ny, a kind of rabbit. 6. Ap-point'ed, ordained.
NOTES.—5. Cedars of Lebanon. A species of cedar, of great magnificence, formerly abundant in Mt. Lebanon and the Taurus Range in Asia Minor, but now almost entirely destroyed. The wood is durable and fragrant, and was used in the construction of costly buildings, such as the palace of David and Solomon's Temple.
7. Leviathan. This name is applied in the Old Testament to some huge water animal. In some cases it appears to mean the crocodile, but in others the whale or a large sea serpent.
LII. MY MOTHER.
1. Often into folly straying,
O, my mother! how I've grieved her!
Oft I've heard her for me praying,
Till the gushing tears relieved her;
And she gently rose and smiled,
Whispering, "God will keep my child."
2. She was youthful then, and sprightly,
Fondly on my father leaning,
Sweet she spoke, her eyes shone brightly,
And her words were full of meaning;
Now, an autumn leaf decayed;
I, perhaps, have made it fade.
3. But, whatever ills betide thee,
Mother, in them all I share;
In thy sickness watch beside thee,
And beside thee kneel in prayer.
Best of mothers! on my breast
Lean thy head, and sink to rest.
LIII. THE HOUR OF PRAYER.
Felicia Dorothea Hemans (b. 1794, d. 1835) was born in Liverpool, England. Her maiden name was Browne. Her childhood was spent in Wales. Her first volume of poems was published in 1808; her second in 1812. In 1812 she was married to Captain Hemans, but he left her about six years after their marriage, and they never again lived together. She went, with her five sons, to reside with her mother, then living near St. Asaph, in North Wales. Mrs. Hemans then resumed her literary pursuits, and wrote much and well. Her poetry is smooth and graceful, and she excels in description. Many of her poems are exceedingly beautiful.
1. Child, amid the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze at eve
Called thy harvest work to leave;
Pray! Ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.
2. Traveler, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea;
Lift the heart and bend the knee.
3. Warrior, that from battle won,
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see;
Lift the heart, and bend the knee.
LIV. THE WILL.
Characters.—SWIPES, a brewer; CURRIE, a saddler; FRANK MILLINGTON; and
SQUIRE DRAWL.
Swipes. A sober occasion, this, brother Currie. Who would have thought the old lady was so near her end?
Currie. Ah! we must all die, brother Swipes; and those who live the longest outlive the most.
Swipes. True, true; but, since we must die and leave our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she departed?
Cur. Perfectly, perfectly. Squire Drawl told me she read every word of the will aloud, and never signed her name better.
Swipes. Had you any hint from the Squire what disposition she made of her property?
Cur. Not a whisper; the Squire is as close as an underground tomb; but one of the witnesses hinted to me that she had cut off her graceless nephew, Frank, without a shilling.
Swipes. Has she, good soul, has she? You know I come in, then, in right of my wife.
Cur. And I in my own right; and this is no doubt the reason why we have been called to hear the reading of the will. Squire Drawl knows how things should be done, though he is as air-tight as one of your beer barrels. But here comes the young reprobate. He must be present, as a matter of course, you know. [Enter FRANK MILLINGTON.] Your servant, young gentleman. So your benefactress has left you at last.
Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and good friends, Mr.
Millington.
Frank. It is so, sir; but I could bear her loss better had I not so often been ungrateful for her kindness. She was my only friend, and I knew not her value.
Cur. It is too late to repent, Master Millington. You will now have a chance to earn your own bread.
Swipes. Ay, ay, or the sweat of your brow, as better people are obliged to. You would make a fine brewer's boy, if you were not too old.
Cur. Ay, or a saddler's lackey, if held with a tight rein.
Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly as I shall mine submissively. I shall retire. [Going: He meets SQUIRE DRAWL.]
Squire. Stop, stop, young man. We must have your presence. Good morning, gentlemen; you are early on the ground.
Cur. I hope the Squire is well to-day.
Squire. Pretty comfortable, for an invalid.
Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected your lungs again.
Squire. No, I believe not. But, since the heirs at law are all convened, I shall now proceed to open the last will and testament of your deceased relative, according to law.
Swipes. [While the SQUIRE is breaking the seal,] It is a trying thing to leave all one's possessions, Squire; in this manner.
Cur. It really makes me feel melancholy when I look around and see everything but the venerable owner of these goods. Well did the Preacher say, "All is vanity."
Squire. Please to be seated, gentlemen. [He puts on his spectacles and begins to read slowly.] "Imprirmis; whereas, my nephew, Francis Millington, by his disobedience and ungrateful conduct, has shown himself unworthy of my bounty, and incapable of managing my large estate, I do hereby give and bequeath all my houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys, and property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt Street, brewer, and Christopher Currie, of Fly Court, saddler." [The SQUIRE here takes off his spectacles, and begins to wipe them very leisurely.]
Swipes. Generous creature! kind soul! I always loved her!
Cur. She was good, she was kind;—and, brother Swipes, when we divide, I think I'll take the mansion house.
Swipes. Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie. My wife has long had her eye upon that, and must have it.
Cur. There will be two words to that bargain, Mr. Swipes. And, besides, I ought to have the first choice. Did I not lend her a new chaise every time she wished to ride? And who knows what influence—
Swipes. Am I not named first in her will? and did I not furnish her with my best small beer for more than six months? And who knows—
Frank. Gentlemen, I must leave you. [Going.] Squire. [Putting on his spectacles very deliberately.] Pray, gentlemen, keep your seats, I have not done yet. Let me see; where was I? Ay, "All my property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt Street, brewer,"—
Swipes. Yes!
Squire. "And Christopher Currie, of Fly Court, saddler,"
Cur. Yes!
Squire. "To have and to hold, IN TRUST, for the sole and exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Millington, until he shall have attained the age of twenty-one years, by which time I hope he will have so far reformed his evil habits, as that he may safely be intrusted with the large fortune which I hereby bequeath to him."
Swipes. What is all this? You don't mean that we are humbugged? In trust!
How does that appear? Where is it?
Squire. There; in two words of as good old English as I ever penned.
Cur. Pretty well, too, Mr. Squire, if we must be sent for to be made a laughingstock of. She shall pay for every ride she has had out of my chaise, I promise you.
Swipes. And for every drop of my beer. Fine times, if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here to be made the sport of a graceless profligate. But we will manage his property for him, Mr. Currie; we will make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with.
Cur. That we will.
Squire. Not so fast, gentlemen; for the instrument is dated three years ago; and the young gentleman must be already of age, and able to take care of himself. Is it not so, Francis?
Frank. It is, your worship. Squire. Then, gentlemen, having attended to the breaking of the seal, according to law, you are released from any further trouble about the business.
DEFINITIONS.—Dis-po-si'tion, disposal. Grace'less, depraved, corrupt. Rep'ro-bate, one morally lost. Lack'ey, an attending servant, a footman. De-ceased', dead. Con-vened', met together, assembled. Im-pri'mis (Latin), in the first place. Chaise (pro. shaz), a kind of two-wheeled carriage. Re-formed', returned to a good state. Prof'li-gate, a person openly and shamelessly vicious. In'stru-ment (a term in law), a writing expressive of some act, con-tract, etc.
NOTES.—Terms having the same, or nearly the same, meaning, as, "will and testament," "give and bequeath," "to have and to hold," "sole and exclusive," are commonly joined in this way in legal documents.
Personal property usually consists of things temporary and movable, while real property includes things fixed and immovable such as lands and tenements.
LV. THE NOSE AND THE EYES.
William Cowper (b. 1731, d. 1800) was the son of an English clergyman, and was born in Great Berkhamstead, Hertfordshire, England. He was sent to Westminster School when he was ten years of age, and he remained there, a diligent student, eight years. He then studied law, and was admitted to the bar, but he never practiced his profession. He was appointed to a clerkship in the House of Lords when he was about thirty years old, but he never entered upon the discharge of his duties. He became insane, and was sent to a private asylum. After his recovery, he found a home in the family of the Rev. Mr. Unwin. On the death of this gentleman, he resided with the widow till her death—most of the time at Olney. His first writing's were published in 1782. "The Task," some hymns, a number of minor poems, and his translations or Homer, composed his published works. His insanity returned at times, and darkened a pure and gentle life at its close.
1. Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose;
The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong;
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,
To which the said spectacles ought to belong.
2. So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause,
With a great deal of skill and a wig full of learning,
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.
3. "In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear,
And your lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly find,
That the Nose has the spectacles always to wear,
Which amounts to possession, time out of mind."
4. Then, holding the spectacles up to the court,
"Your lordship observes, they are made with a straddle
As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short,
Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.
5. "Again, would your lordship a moment suppose
('T is a case that has happened, and may happen again)
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,
Pray, who would or who could wear spectacles then?
6. "On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,
With a reasoning the court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them."
7. Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how),
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes:
But what were his arguments, few people know,
For the court did not think them equally wise.
8. So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but,
That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By daylight or candlelight,—Eyes should be shut.
DEFINITIONS.—2. Ar'gued, discussed, treated by reasoning. Dis-cern'ing (pro. diz-zern'ing), marking as different, distinguishing, 3. Be-half', support, defense. 8. De-creed', determined judicially by authority, ordered,
LVI. AN ICEBERG.
Louis Legrand Noble (b. 1813, d. 1882) was horn in Otsetgo County, New York. When twelve years of age, he removed with his family to the wilds of Michigan, but after the death of his father he returned to New York to study for the ministry, which he entered in 1840. About this time he published his first productions, two Indian romances in the form of poems, entitled "Pewatem" and "Nimahmin." Mr. Noble lived for a time in North Carolina, and later at Catskill on the Hudson, where he became a warm friend of the artist Cole. After the latter's death he wrote a memorial of him. Other works of this author are "The Hours, and other Poems," and "After Icebergs with a Painter," from which this selection is taken.
1. We have just passed a fragment of some one of the surrounding icebergs that had amused us. It bore the resemblance of a huge polar bear, reposing upon the base of an inverted cone, with a twist of a seashell, and whirling slowly round and round. The ever-attending green water, with its aerial clearness, enabled us to see its spiral folds and horns as they hung suspended in the deep.
2. The bear, a ten-foot mass in tolerable proportion, seemed to be regularly beset by a pack of hungry little swells. First, one would take him on the haunch, then whip back into the sea over his tail and between his legs. Presently a bolder swell would rise and pitch into his back with a ferocity that threatened instant destruction. It only washed his satin fleece the whiter.
3. While Bruin was turning to look the daring assailant in the face, the rogue had pitched himself back into his cave. No sooner that, than a very bulldog of a billow would attack him in the face. The serenity with which the impertinent assault was borne was complete. It was but a puff of silvery dust, powdering his mane with fresher brightness. Nothing would be left of bull but a little froth of all the foam displayed in the fierce onset. He too would turn and scud into his hiding place.
4. Persistent little waves! After a dash, singly, all around, upon the common enemy, as if by some silent agreement underwater, they would all rush on at once, with their loudest roar and shaggiest foam, and overwhelm poor bear so completely that nothing less might be expected than to behold him broken in four quarters, and floating helplessly asunder. Mistaken spectators! Although, by his momentary rolling and plunging, he was evidently aroused, yet neither Bruin nor his burrow was at all the worse for all the wear and washing.
5. The deep fluting, the wrinkled folds, and cavities, over and through which the green and silvery water rushed back into the sea, rivaled the most exquisite sculpture. And nature not only gives her marbles, with the finest lines, the most perfect lights and shades, she colors them also. She is no monochromist, but polychroic, imparting such touches of dove tints, emerald, and azure as she bestows upon her gems and skies.
6. We are bearing up under the big berg as closely as we dare. To our delight, what we have been wishing and watching for is actually taking place: loud explosions, with heavy falls of ice, followed by the cataract-like roar, and the high, thin seas, wheeling away beautifully crested with sparkling foam. If it is possible, imagine the effect upon the beholder: this precipice of ice, with tremendous cracking, is falling toward us with a majestic and awful motion.
7. Down sinks the long water line into the black deep; down go the porcelain crags and galleries of glassy sculpture—a speechless and awful baptism. Now it pauses, and returns: up rise sculptures and crags streaming with the shining white brine; up comes the great encircling line, followed by things new and strange—crags, niches, balconies, and caves; up, up, it rises, higher and higher still, crossing the very breast of the grand ice, and all bathed with rivulets of gleaming foam. Over goes the summit, ridge, pinnacles, and all, standing off obliquely in the opposite air. Now it pauses in its upward roll: back it comes again, cracking, cracking, cracking, "groaning out harsh thunder" as it comes, and threatening to burst, like a mighty bomb, into millions of glittering fragments. The spectacle is terrific and magnificent. Emotion is irrepressible, and peals of wild hurrah burst forth from all.
DEFINITIONS.—1. Cone, a solid body having a circular base, from which it tapers gradually to a point. 2. Swells, waves. 3. Se-ren'i-ty, quietness, calmness. 5. Ex'qui-site, exceedingly nice, giving rare satisfaction. Sculp'ture, carved work. Mon'o-chro-mist, one who paints in a single color. Pol-y-chro'ic, given to the use of many colors. 7. Pin'na-cles, high, spirelike points. Ob-lique'ly, slantingly. Ir-re-press'i-ble, not to be restrained.
Notes—Only about one eighth of an iceberg appears above the surface of the water. When one side of it grows heavier than another, through unequal melting and the action of the waves, the whole mass rolls over in the water in the manner so well described in this lesson.
LVII. ABOUT QUAIL.
William Post Hawes (b. 1803, d.1842) was born in New York City. and was a graduate of Columbia College. He was a lawyer by profession. His writings consist mainly of essays, contributed to various newspapers and magazines, and show great descriptive power. He was a frequent contributor to the "Spirit of the Times," under the title of "Cypress, Jr.," on various sporting topics. After his death a collection of his writings was published in two volumes, entitled, "Sporting Scenes" and "Sundry Sketches."
1. The quail is peculiarly a domestic bird, and is attached to his birthplace and the home of his forefathers. The various members of the aquatic families educate their children in the cool summer of the far north, and bathe their warm bosoms in July in the iced waters of Hudson Bay; but when Boreas scatters the rushes where they had builded their bedchambers, they desert their fatherland, and fly to disport in the sunny waters of the south.
2. The songsters of the woodland, when their customary crops of insects and berries are cut off in the fall, gather themselves to renew their loves and get married in more genial climes. Presently, the groves so vocal, and the sky so full, shall be silent and barren. The "melancholy days" will soon be here; only thou, dear Bob White, wilt remain.
3. The quail is the bird for me. He is no rover, no emigrant. He stays at home, and is identified with the soil. Where the farmer works, he lives, and loves, and whistles. In budding springtime, and in scorching summer—in bounteous autumn, and in barren winter, his voice is heard from the same bushy hedge fence, and from his customary cedars. Cupidity and cruelty may drive him to the woods, and to seek more quiet seats; but be merciful and kind to him, and he will visit your barnyard, and sing for you upon the boughs of the apple tree by your gateway.
4. When warm May first wooes the young flowers to open and receive her breath, then begin the cares and responsibilitie of wedded life. Away fly the happy pair to seek some grassy tussock, where, safe from the eye of the hawk and the nose of the fox, they may rear their expectant brood in peace.
5. Oats harvest arrives, and the fields are waving with yellow grain. Now be wary, O kind-hearted cradler, and tread not into those pure white eggs ready to burst with life! Soon there is a peeping sound heard, and lo! a proud mother walketh magnificently in the midst of her children, scratching and picking, and teaching them how to swallow. Happy she, if she may be permitted to bring them up to maturity, and uncompelled to renew her joys in another nest.
6. The assiduities of a mother have a beauty and a sacredness about them that command respect and reverence in all animal nature, human or inhuman—what a lie does that word carry—except, perhaps, in monsters, insects, and fish. I never yet heard of the parental tenderness of a trout, eating up his little baby, nor of the filial gratitude of a spider, nipping the life out of his gray-headed father, and usurping his web.
7. But if you would see the purest, the sincerest, the most affecting piety of a parent's love, startle a young family of quails, and watch the conduct of the mother. She will not leave you. No, not she. But she will fall at your feet, uttering a noise which none but a distressed mother can make, and she will run, and flutter, and seem to try to be caught, and cheat your outstretched hand, and affect to be wing-broken and wounded, and yet have just strength to tumble along, until she has drawn you, fatigued, a safe distance from her threatened children and the young hopes of her heart; and then will she mount, whirring with glad strength, and away through the maze of trees you have not seen before, like a close-shot bullet, fly to her skulking infants,
8. Listen now. Do you hear those three half-plaintive notes, quickly and clearly poured out? She is calling the boys and girls together. She sings not now "Bob White!" nor "Ah! Bob White!" That is her husband's love call, or his trumpet blast of defiance. But she calls sweetly and softly for her lost children. Hear them "Peep! peep! peep!" at the welcome voice of their mother's love! They are coming together. Soon the whole family will meet again.
9. It is a foul sin to disturb them; but retread your devious way, and let her hear your coming footsteps, breaking down the briers, as you renew the danger. She is quiet. Not a word is passed between the fearful fugitives. Now, if you have the heart to do it, lie low, keep still, and imitate the call of the hen quail. O mother! mother! how your heart would die if you could witness the deception! The little ones raise up their trembling heads, and catch comfort and imagined safety from the sound. "Peep! peep!" They come to you, straining their little eyes, and, clustering together and answering, seem to say, "Where is she? Mother! mother! we are here!"
DEFINITIONS.—1. A-quat'ic, frequenting the water. 2. Vo'cal, having a voice. 3. I-den'ti-fied, united. Cu-pid'i-ty, eager desire to possess something. 4. Tus'sock, a tuft of grass or twigs. 5. Cra'dler, one who uses a cradle, which is an instrument attached to a scythe in cutting grain. 6. U-surp'ing, seizing and holding in possession by force. 7. Af-fect', to pretend. 9. De'vi-ous, winding.
NOTE.—l. Boreas is the name which the ancient Greeks gave to the north wind.
LVIII. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.
1. By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the one, the Blue;
Under the other, the Gray.
2. These, in the robings of glory,
Those, in the gloom of defeat,
All, with the battle blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet;—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue;
Under the willow, the Gray.
3. From the silence of sorrowful hours,
The desolate mourners go,
Lovingly laden with flowers,
Alike for the friend and the foe;—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue;
Under the lilies, the Gray.
4. So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sun rays fall,
With a touch, impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all;—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.
5. So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain;—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue;
Wet with the rain, the Gray.
6. Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done:
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.
7. No more shall the war cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever,
When they laurel the graves of our dead;—
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Love and tears, for the Blue;
Tears and love, for the Gray.
—F. M. Finch.
NOTE.—The above touching little poem first appeared in the "Atlantic Monthly" in September, 1867. It commemorates the noble action on the part of the women at Columbus, Miss., who in decorating the graves strewed flowers impartially on those of the Confederate and of the Federal soldiers.
LIX. THE MACHINIST'S RETURN.
[Adapted from a letter written by a correspondent of the Washington
"Capital."]
1. On our way from Springfield to Boston, a stout, black-whiskered man sat immediately in front of me, in the drawing-room car, whose maneuvers were a source of constant amusement. He would get up every five minutes, hurry away to the narrow passage leading to the door of the car, and commence laughing in the most violent manner, continuing that healthful exercise until he observed that some one was watching him, when he would return to his seat.
2. As we neared Boston these demonstrations increased in frequency and violence, but the stranger kept his seat and chuckled to himself. He shifted the position of his two portmanteaus, or placed them on the seat as if he was getting ready to leave. As we were at least twenty-five miles from Boston, such early preparations seemed extremely ridiculous. He became so excited at last that he could not keep his secret. Some one must be made a confidant; and as I happened to be the nearest to him, he selected me.
3. Turning around suddenly, and rocking himself to and fro in his chair, he said, "I have been away from home three years. Have been in Europe. My folks don't expect me for three months yet, but I got through and started. I telegraphed them at the last station—they've got the dispatch by this time." As he said this he rubbed his hands, and changed the portmanteau on his left to the right, and then the one on the right to the left.
4. "Have you a wife?" said I. "Yes, and three children," was the answer. He then got up and folded his overcoat anew, and hung it over the back of the seat. "You are somewhat nervous just now, are you not?" said I.
5. "Well, I should think so," he replied. "I have n't slept soundly for a week. Do you know," he went on, speaking in a low tone, "I am almost certain this train will run off the track and break my neck before I get to Boston. I have had too much good luck lately for one man. It can't last. It rains so hard, sometimes, that you think it's never going to stop; then it shines so bright you think it's always going to shine; and just as you are settle in either belief, you are knocked over by a change, to show you that you know nothing about it."
6. "Well, according to your philosophy," I said, "you will continue to have sunshine because you are expecting a storm." "Perhaps so," he replied; "but it is curious that the only thing which makes me think I shall get through safe is, I fear that I shall not."
7. "I am a machinist," he continued; "I made a discovery; nobody believed in it; I spent all my money in trying to bring it out; I mortgaged my home—everything went. Everybody laughed at me—everybody but my wife. She said she would work her fingers off before I should give it up. I went to England. At first I met with no encouragement whatever, and came very near jumping off London Bridge. I went into a workshop to earn money enough to come home with: there I met the man I wanted. To make a long story short, I've brought home 50,000 Pounds with me, and here I am."
8. "Good!" I exclaimed. "Yes," said he, "and the best of it is, she knows nothing about it. She has been disappointed so often that I concluded I would not write to her about my unexpected good luck. When I got my money, though, I started for home at once."
9. "And now, I suppose, you will make her happy?" "Happy!" he replied; "why, you don't know anything about it! She's worked night and day since I have been in England, trying to support herself and the children decently. They paid her thirteen cents apiece for making shirts, and that's the way she has lived half the time. She'll come down to the depot to meet me in a gingham dress and a shawl a hundred years old, and she'll think she's dressed up! Perhaps she won't have any fine dresses in a week or so, eh?'" 10. The stranger then strode down the passageway again, and getting in a corner where he seemed to suppose that he was out of sight, went through the strangest pantomime,—laughing putting his mouth into the drollest shapes, and swinging himself back and forth in the limited space.
11. As the train was going into the depot, I placed myself on the platform of the car in front of the one in which I had been riding, and opposite the stranger, who, with a portmanteau in each hand, was standing on the lowest step, ready to jump to the ground. I looked from his face to the faces of the people before us, but saw no sign of recognition. Suddenly he cried, "There they are!"
12. Then he laughed outright, but in a hysterical way, as he looked over the crowd in front of him. I followed his eye and saw, some distance back, as if crowded out by the well-dressed and elbowing throng, a little woman in a faded dress and a well-worn hat, with a face almost painful in its intense but hopeful expression, glancing rapidly from window to window as the coaches passed by.
13. She had not seen the stranger, but a moment after she caught his eye. In another instant he had jumped to the platform with his two portmanteaus, and, pushing his way through the crowd, he rushed towards the place where she was standing. I think I never saw a face assume so many different expressions in so short a time as did that of the little woman while her husband was on his way to meet her.
14. She was not pretty,—on the contrary, she was very plain-looking; but somehow I felt a big lump rise in my throat as I watched her. She was trying to laugh, but, God bless her, how completely she failed in the attempt! Her mouth got into the position to laugh, but it never moved after that, save to draw down at the corners and quiver, while her eyes blinked so fast that I suspect she only caught occasional glimpses of the broad-shouldered fellow who elbowed his way so rapidly toward her.
15. As he drew close, and dropped the portmanteaus, she turned to one side, and covered her face with her hands; and thus she was when the strong man gathered her up in his arms as if she were a child, and held her sobbing to his breast.
16. There were enough staring at them, heaven knows; so I turned my eyes away a moment, and then I saw two boys in threadbare roundabouts standing near, wiping their eyes on their sleeves, and bursting into tears anew at every fresh demonstration on the part of their mother. When I looked at the stranger again he had his hat drawn over his eyes; but his wife was looking up at him, and it seemed as if the pent-up tears of those weary months of waiting were streaming through her eyelids.
DEFINITIONS.—1. Ma-neu'vers, movements. 2. Dem-on-stra'-tions, expression of the feelings by outward signs. Port-man'teau (pro. port-man'to), a traveling bag, usually made of leather. Con-fi-dant', one to whom secrets are intrusted. 3. Dis-patch', a message. 6. Phi-los'o-phy, reasoning. 7. Ma-chin'ist, a constructor of ma-chines and engines. Mort'gaged (pro. mor'gajd), given as security for debt. 9. Ging'ham, a kind of cotton cloth which is dyed before it is woven. 10. Pan'to-mime, acting without speaking, dumb show. 12. Hys-ter'ic-al, convulsive, fitful.
LX. MAKE WAY FOR LIBERTY.
James Montgomery (b. 1771, d. 1854) was born in Irvine, Ayrshire, Scotland. His father, a Moravian preacher, sent him to a Moravian school at Fulneck, Yorkshire, England, to be educated. In 1794 he started "The Sheffield Iris," a weekly paper, which he edited, with marked ability, till 1825. He was fined and imprisoned twice for publishing articles decided to be seditious. His principal poetical works are "The World before the Flood," "Greenland," "The West Indies," "The Wanderer in Switzerland," "The Pelican Island," and "Original Hymns, for Public, Private, and Social Devotion." Mr. Montgomery's style is generally too diffuse; but its smoothness and the evident sincerity of his emotions have made many of his hymns and minor poems very popular. A pension of 300 Pounds a year was granted to him in 1833.
1. "Make way for Liberty!" he cried;
Made way for Liberty, and died!
2. In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
A wall, where every conscious stone
Seemed to its kindred thousands grown;
A rampart all assaults to bear,
Till time to dust their frames should wear
A wood like that enchanted grove,
In which, with fiends, Rinaldo strove,
Where every silent tree possessed
A spirit prisoned in its breast,
Which the first stroke of coming strife
Would startle into hideous life:
So dense, so still, the Austrians stood,
A living wall, a human wood!
3. Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears,
Whose polished points before them shine,
From flank to flank, one brilliant line,
Bright as the breakers' splendors run
Along the billows to the sun.
4. Opposed to these, a hovering band,
Contending for their native laud;
Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke
From manly necks the ignoble yoke,
And forged their fetters into swords,
On equal terms to fight their lords;
And what insurgent rage had gained,
In many a mortal fray maintained:
Marshaled once more at Freedom's call,
They came to conquer or to fall,
Where he who conquered, he who fell.
Was deemed a dead or living Tell!
5. And now the work of life and death
Hung on the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burned within;
The battle trembled to begin;
Yet, while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found;
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 't were suicide to meet,
And perish at their tyrants' feet;
How could they rest within their graves,
And leave their homes the home of slaves?
Would they not feel their children tread
With clanking chains above their head?
6. It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the oppressor's power
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly, she can not yield;
Few were the numbers she could boast,
But every freeman was a host,
And felt as though himself were he
On whose sole arm hung victory.
7. It did depend on one, indeed:
Behold him! Arnold Winkelried!
There sounds not to the trump of fame
The echo of a nobler name.
Unmarked he stood amid the throng,
In rumination deep and long,
Till you might see with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And by the motion of his form:
Anticipate the bursting storm;
And by the uplifting of his brow,
Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 't was no sooner thought than done;
The field was in a moment won.
8. "Make way for Liberty!" he cried:
Then ran, with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp:
"Make way for Liberty!" he cried,
Their keen points met from side to side;
He bowed among them like a tree,
And thus made way for Liberty.
9. Swift to the breach his comrades fly;
"Make way for Liberty!" they cry,
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
While instantaneous as his fall,
Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all.
An earthquake could not overthrow
A city with a surer blow.
10. Thus Switzerland again was free,
Thus Death made way for Liberty!
DEFINITIONS.—2. Pha'lanx, a body of troops formed in close array. Con'scious, sensible, knowing. Kin'dred, those of like nature, relatives. Ram'part, that which defends from assault, a bulwark. 3. Im-preg'na-ble, that can not be moved or shaken. Hor'rent, standing out like bristles. 4. In-sur'gent, rising in opposition to authority. 13. An-ni'hi-lates, destroys. 7. Ru-mi-na'tion, the act of musing, meditation. 9. Breach, a gap or opening made by breaking.
NOTES.—The incident related in this poem is one of actual occurrence, and took place at the battle of Sempach, fought in 1386 A.D., between only 1,300 Swiss and a large army of Austrians. The latter had obtained possession of a narrow pass in the mountains, from which it seemed impossible to dislodge them until Arnold von Winkelried made a breach in their line, as narrated.
Rinaldo is a knight in Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered" (Canto XVIII, 17-40), who enters an enchanted wood, and, by cutting down a tree in spite of the nymphs and phantoms that endeavor in every way to stop him, breaks the spell; the Christian army are thus enabled to enter the grove and obtain timber for their engines of war.
LXI. THE ENGLISH SKYLARK.
Elihu Burritt (b. 1810, d. 1879). "the learned blacksmith," was born in New Britain, Conn. His father was a shoemaker. Having received only a limited amount of instruction at the district school, he was apprenticed to a blacksmith about 1827. During his apprenticeship he labored hard at self-instruction. He worked at his trade many years, from ten to twelve hours each day, but managed, in the meantime to acquire a knowledge of many ancient and modern languages. He made translations from several of these, which were published in the "American Eclectic Review." In 1844 he commenced the publication of "The Christian Citizen." His leading literary works are "Sparks from the Anvil," "A Voice from the Forge," "Peace Papers," and "Walks to John o' Groat's House." From the last of these the following selection is abridged.
1. Take it in all, no bird in either hemisphere equals the English lark in heart or voice, for both unite to make it the sweetest, the happiest, the welcomest singer that was ever winged, like the high angels of God's love. It is the living ecstasy of joy when it mounts up into its "glorious privacy of light."
2. On the earth it is timid, silent, and bashful, as if not at home, and not sure of its right to be there at all. It is rather homely withal, having nothing in feather, feature, or form to attract notice. It is seemingly made to be heard, not seen, reversing the old axiom addressed to children when getting noisy.
3. Its mission is music, and it floods a thousand acres of the blue sky with it several times a day. Out of that palpitating speck of living joy there wells forth a sea of twittering ecstasy upon the morning and evening air. It does not ascend by gyrations, like the eagle and birds of prey. It mounts up like a human aspiration.
4. It seems to spread its wings and to be lifted straight upwards out of sight by the afflatus of its own happy heart. To pour out this in undulating rivulets of rhapsody is apparently the only motive of its ascension. This it is that has made it so loved of all generations.
5. It is the singing angel of man's nearest heaven, whose vital breath is music. Its sweet warbling is only the metrical palpitation of its life of joy. It goes up over the rooftrees of the rural hamlet on the wings of its song, as if to train the human soul to trial flights heavenward.
6. Never did the Creator put a voice of such volume into so small a living thing. It is a marvel—almost a miracle. In a still hour you can hear it at nearly a mile's distance. When its form is lost in the hazy lace work of the sun's rays above, it pours down upon you all the thrilling semitones of its song as distinctly as if it were warbling to you in your window.
DEFINITIONS.—1. Ec'sta-sy, overmastering joy, rapture. 2. Ax'i-om, a self-evident truth. 3. Pal'pi-tat-ing, throbbing, fluttering. Wells, pours, flows. Gy-ra'tions, circular or spiral motions. 4. Af—fla'tus, breath, inspiration. Un'du-la-ting, rising and falling like waves. Rhap'so-dy, that which is uttered in a disconnected way under strong excitement. Gen-er-a'tion, the mass of beings at one period. 5. Met'ric-al, arranged in measures, as poetry and music. Roof 'tree, the beam in the angle of a roof, hence the roof itself. Ham'let, a little cluster of houses.
LXII. HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.
William Collins (b. 1721, d. 1759) was born at Chichester, England. He was educated at Winchester and Oxford. About 1745, he went to London as a literary adventurer, and there won the esteem of Dr. Johnson. His "Odes" were published in 1746, but were not popular. He was subsequently relieved from pecuniary embarrassment by a legacy of 2,000 Pounds from a maternal uncle; but he soon became partially insane, and was for some time confined in an asylum for lunatics. He afterwards retired to Chichester, where he was cared for by his sister until his death.
1. How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blessed!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
2. By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There honor comes a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
LXIII. THE RAINBOW.
John Keble (b. 1792. d. 1866) was born near Fairfax, Gloucestershire, England. He graduated at Oxford with remarkably high honors, and afterwards was appointed to the professorship of poetry in that university. Since his death, Keble College, at Oxford, has been erected to his memory. In 1835, he became vicar of Hursley and rector of Otterbourne, and held these livings until his death. His most famous work is "The Christian Year," a collection of sacred poems.
1. A fragment of a rainbow bright
Through the moist air I see,
All dark and damp on yonder height,
All bright and clear to me.
2. An hour ago the storm was here,
The gleam was far behind;
So will our joys and grief appear,
When earth has ceased to blind.
3. Grief will be joy if on its edge
Fall soft that holiest ray,
Joy will be grief if no faint pledge
Be there of heavenly day.
LXIV. SUPPOSED SPEECH OF JOHN ADAMS.
Daniel Webster (b. 1782, d. 1852) was born in Salisbury, N.H. He spent a few months of his boyhood at Phillips Academy, Exeter, but fitted for college under Rev. Samuel Wood, of Boscawen, N.H. He graduated from Dartmouth College in 1801. He taught school several terms, during and after his college course. In 1805, he was admitted to the bar in Boston, and practiced law in New Hampshire for the succeeding eleven years. In 1812, he was elected to the United States House of Representatives. In 1816, he removed to Boston, and in 1827 was elected to the United States Senate, which position he held for twelve years. In 1841, he was appointed Secretary of State. He returned to the Senate in 1845. In 1850, he was reappointed Secretary of State and continued in office until his death. He died at his residence, in Marshfield, Mass. Mr. Webster's fame rests chiefly on his state papers and speeches. As a speaker he was dignified and stately, using clear, pure English. During all his life he took great interest in agriculture, and was very fond of outdoor sports.
1. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true, indeed, that, in the beginning, we aimed not at independence. But
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends."
The injustice of England has driven us to arms; and blinded to her own interest, she has obstinately persisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why then should we defer the declaration? Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or security to his own life and his own honor! Are not you, sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague, near you, are you not both already the proscribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws?
2. If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up, the war? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust? I know we do not mean to submit. We NEVER shall submit! Do we intend to violate that most solemn obligation ever entered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honor to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the political hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him in every extremity with our fortunes and our lives? I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having twelve months ago, in this place, moved you that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces raised, or to be raised, for the defense of American liberty; may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him.
3. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the war must go on, why put off the Declaration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. Nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that England herself will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence, than consent, by repealing her acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct toward us has been a course of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things, which now predestinates our independence, than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebellious subjects. The former, she would regard as the result of fortune; the latter, she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why, then, do we not change this from a civil to a national war? And since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of victory, if we gain the victory.
4. If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies; the cause will create navies. The people—the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will carry themselves, gloriously through this struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these colonies; and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and can not be eradicated. Sir, the Declaration of Independence will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead of a long and bloody war for the restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British king, set before them the glorious object of entire independence, and it will breathe into them anew the spirit of life.
5. Read this declaration at the head of the army; every sword will be drawn, and the solemn vow uttered to maintain it, or perish on the bed of honor. Publish it from the pulpit; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling around it, resolved to stand with it or fall with it. Send it to the public halls; proclaim it there; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support.
6. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see—I see clearly through this day's business. You and I, indeed, may rue it. We may not live to see the time this declaration shall be made good. We may die; die colonists; die slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously and on the scaffold. Be it so: be it so. If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a FREE country.