THE FUTURE.
When Earth’s last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an æon or two,
Till the Master of all Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!
And those that were good shall be happy; they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets’ hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame!
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!
THE POWER OF HABIT.
Adapted to the development of transition in pitch, and a very spirited
utterance. When you are able to deliver this as Mr. Gough did, you may
consider yourself a graduate in the art of elocution.
I remember once riding from Buffalo
to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gentleman,
“What river is that, sir?”
“That,” said he, “is Niagara River.”
“Well, it is a beautiful stream,” said I;
“bright and fair and glassy. How far off are
the rapids?”
“Only a mile or two,” was the reply.
“Is it possible that only a mile from us we
shall find the water in the turbulence which
it must show near the Falls?”
“You will find it so, sir.” And so I found
it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never
forget.
Now, launch your bark on that Niagara
River; it is bright, smooth, beautiful and
glassy. There is a ripple at the bow;
the silver wake you leave behind adds to
your enjoyment. Down the stream you
glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper trim,
and you set out on your pleasure excursion.
Suddenly some one cries out from the
bank, “Young men, ahoy!”
“What is it?”
“The rapids are below you!”
“Ha! ha! we have heard of the rapids;
but we are not such fools as to get there. If
we go too fast, then we shall up with the
helm, and steer to the shore; we will set the
mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed
to the land. Then on, boys; don’t be
alarmed, there is no danger.”
“Young men, ahoy there!”
“What is it?”
“The rapids are below you!”
“Ha! ha! we will laugh and quaff; all
things delight us. What care we for the
future? No man ever saw it. Sufficient for
the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy
life while we may, will catch pleasure as it
flies. This is enjoyment; time enough to
steer out of danger when we are sailing
swiftly with the current.”
“Young men, ahoy!”
“What is it?”
“Beware! beware! The rapids are below
you!”
“Now you see the water foaming all
around. See how fast you pass that point!
Up with the helm! Now turn! Pull hard!
Quick! quick! quick! pull for your lives!
pull till the blood starts from your nostrils,
and the veins stand like whip cords upon your
brow! Set the mast in the socket! hoist the
sail! Ah! ah! it is too late! Shrieking,
blaspheming, over they go.”
Thousands go over the rapids of intemperance
every year, through the power of habit,
crying all the while, “When I find out that
it is injuring me, I will give it up!”
John B. Gough.
DIED ON DUTY.
The following lines were written by a comrade, on the death of Engineer
Billy Ruffin, who lost his life by an accident that occurred on the
Illinois Central Railroad, in Mississippi.
Bill Ruffin to some wouldn’t rank very high, being only an engineer;
But he opened the throttle with a steady grip, and didn’t know nothin’ like fear;
For doin’ his duty and doin’ it right, he was known all along the line,
And with him in the box of 258, you might figger “you’d be thar on time.”
Bill was comin’ down the run, one Monday night, a pullin’ of No. 3,
Just jogging along at a 30 gait, and a darker night you never see.
They had struck the trestle twenty rod north of old Tallahatchie bridge,
Where the water backs up under the track, with here and there a ridge.
Bill had come down that run a hundred times, and supposed that all was right;
But the devil’s own had been at work, and loosened a rail that night;
When, gods of mercy! what a shock and crash! then all so quiet and still.
And old 258 lay dead in the pond, and the train piled up on the fill.
The crew showed up one by one, looking all white and chill,
Anxious to see if all were on deck, but whar on airth wuz Bill?
But it wasn’t long before they knew, for there in the pond was the tank,
Stickin’ clus to her engine pard, and holdin’ Bill down by the shank.
When the boys saw what orter be done, they went to work with a vim,
But willin’ hands doin’ all they would, couldn’t rize tons offen him;
Bill stood thar, brave man that he was, as the hours went slowly by,
Seemin’ to feel, if the rest wur scared, he was perfectly willin’ to die.
Just before daylight looked over the trees, they brought poor Bill to the fire,
And done the best they could for him in a place that was all mud and mire;
But they done no good, ’twant no use; he had seen his last of wrecks;
And thar by the fire that lit up his brave face, poor Bill passed in his checks.
When they raised old 258 again, the story she did tell
Was that the hero in her cab had done his duty well;
They found her lever thrown hard, her throttle open wide,
Her air applied so close and hard that every wheel must slide.
Thar’s a wife and two kids down the line, whose sole dependence wuz Bill,
Who little thought when he came home he’d be brought cold and still;
But tell them, tho’ Bill was rough by natur’ and somewhat so by name,
That thar’s a better land for men like him, and he died clear grit just the same.
MY FRIEND THE CRICKET AND I.
My friend the Cricket and I
Once sat by the fireside talking;
“This life,” I said, “is such weary work;”
Chirped Cricket, “You’re always croaking.”
“It’s rowing against baith wind an’ tide,
And a’ for the smallest earning.”
“Ah! weel,” the merry Cricket replied,
“But the tide will soon be turning.”
“And then,” I answered, “dark clouds may rise,
And winds with the waters flowing.”
“Weel! keep a bit sunshine in your heart,
It’s a wonderfu’ help in rowing.”
“But many a boat goes down at sea:”
“O! friend, but you’re unco trying,
Pray how many more come into port,
With a’ their colors flying?
“Would ye idly drift with changing tides,
Till lost in a sea of sorrow?”
“Ah! no, good Cricket, I’ll take the oars
And cheerfully row to-morrow.”
“I would! I would! Yes, I would!” he chirped,
While I watched the bright fire burning,
“I would! I would! Yes, I’d try again,
For the tide must have a turning.”
So all the night long through the drowsy hours
I heard, like a cheerful humming—
“I would! I would! Yes, I’d try again,
Ye never ken what is coming.”
So I tried again:—now the wind sets fair,
And the tide is shoreward turning,
And Cricket and I chirp pleasantly
While the fire is brightly burning.
THE SNOW STORM.
A farmer came from the village plain,
But he lost the traveled way;
And for hours he trod with might and main
A path for his horse and sleigh;
But colder still the cold winds blew,
And deeper still the deep drifts grew,
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown,
At last in her struggles, floundered down,
Where a log in a hollow lay.
In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort,
She plunged in the drifting snow,
While her master urged, till his breath grew short,
With a word and a gentle blow.
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight;
His hands were numb and had lost their might;
So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh,
And strove to shelter himself till day,
With his coat and the buffalo.
He has given the last faint jerk of the rein,
To rouse up his dying steed;
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain
For help in his master’s need.
For a while he strives with a wistful cry
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye,
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap,
And whines when he takes no heed.
The wind goes down and the storm is o’er,
’Tis the hour of midnight, past;
The old trees writhe and bend no more
In the whirl of the rushing blast.
The silent moon with her peaceful light
Looks down on the hills with snow all white,
And the giant shadow of Camel’s Hump,
The blasted pine and the ghostly stump
Afar on the plain are cast.
But cold and dead by the hidden log
Are they who came from the town:
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,
And his beautiful Morgan brown—
In the wide snow-desert, far and grand,
With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand—
The dog with his nose on his master’s feet,
And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet
Where she lay when she floundered down.
PARRHASIUS AND THE CAPTIVE.
This is a picture of inordinate ambition. It should be represented by
a voice of cold indifference to human suffering. The flame of selfish
passion is wild and frenzied.
Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus—
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And as the painter’s mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and pluck’d the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip,
Were like the winged god’s, breathing from his flight.
“Bring me the captive now!
My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens—around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.
“Ha! bind him on his back!
Look!—as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick—or he faints!—stand with the cordial near!
Now—bend him to the rack!
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
“So—let him writhe! How long
Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
“‘Pity’ thee! So I do!
I pity the dumb victim at the altar—
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I’d rack thee, though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine—
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?
“‘Hereafter!’ Ay—hereafter!
A whip to keep a coward to his track!
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back
To check the skeptic’s laughter?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story
And I may take some softer path to glory.
“No, no, old man! we die
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they!
Strain well thy fainting eye—
For when that bloodshot quivering is o’er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.
“Yet there’s a deathless name!
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn—
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I’d bind it on!
“Ay—though it bid me rifle
My heart’s last fount for its insatiate thirst—
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first—
Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—
“All—I would do it all—
Sooner than die, lie a dull worm, to rot—
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
O heavens!—but I appall
Your heart, old man! forgive——ha! on your lives
Let him not faint!—rack him till he revives!
“Vain—vain—give o’er! His eye
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now—
Stand back! I’ll paint the death dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die
But for one moment—one—till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those cold lips!
“Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now—that was a difficult breath—
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death!
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders—gasps—Jove help him!—so—he’s dead.”
How like a mounting devil in the heart
Rules the unreined ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit’s lip,
We look upon our splendor and forget
The thirst of which we perish!
THE NINETY-THIRD OFF CAPE VERD.
The figures refer you to the Typical Gestures at the beginning of Part
II. of this volume. Use other gestures of your own. A good recital for
animated description.
It is night upon the ocean
Near old Afric’s shore;
Loud the wind wails o’er the water,
Loud the waters roar.
Dark o’erhead
21 the storm-clouds gather,
Huge waves mountains form,
As a stout
2 old ship comes struggling
On against the storm.
Hark!
3 e’en now across the billows
On the wind there floats,
Sharp and shrill, the boatswain’s whistle
Sounding,
5 “Man the boats!”
At the sound, from cabin doorways,
Rushing out headlong,
Pours a weeping,
10 shrieking, shuddering,
Terror-stricken throng.
Men, and women with their children,
Weak and pale from fright,
Praying,
20 cursing, hurry onward
Out into the night.
But the lightning’s
21 frequent flashes
By their ghastly sheen,
Further forward in the vessel,
Show another scene.
From the crowd of trembling women,
And of trembling men,
See!
2 a soldier presses forward,
Takes his place, and then—
“Fall in!”
5 Then comes the roll-call.
Every man is at his post,
Although now they hear the breakers
Roaring on the coast.
“Present arms!”
5 And till the life-boats
With their precious freight
Have been lowered safely downward
Thus they stand and wait.
And then, as the staunch old vessel
Slowly sinks at last,
Louder than the ocean’s roaring,
Louder than the blast,
O’er the wildly raging water,
Echoing far and near,
Hear
11 the soldiers’ dying volley,
Hear their dying cheer.
A FELON’S CELL.
An intensely dramatic reading, requiring rapid changes of voice and gesture.
I’m going to a felon’s cell,
To stay there till I die;
They say my hands are stained with blood,
But they who say it—lie.
The court declared I murdered one
I would have died to save;
I know who did the awful deed,
I saw, but could not save.
I saw the knife gleam in his hand,
I heard the victim’s shriek;
My feet seem chained, I tried to run,
But terror made me weak.
Reeling, at length I reached the spot
Too late—a quivering sigh—
The pale moon only watched with me
To see a sweet girl die.
The reeking blade lay at my feet,
The murderer had fled;
I stooped to raise the prostrate form,
To lift the sunny head
Of her I loved, from out the pool
Her own sweet blood had made;
That knife was fairly in my way,
I raised the murderous blade.
Unmindful of all else, beside
That lovely, bleeding corse,
Unheeding the approaching steps
Of traveler and horse,
I raised the knife; it caught the gleam
Of the full moon’s bright glare,
One instant, and the next strong arms
Pinioned mine firmly there.
They led me forth, mute with a woe
Too deep for word or sign;
The knife within my hand the court
Identified as mine.
My name was graven on the hilt,—
The letters told a lie;
They doomed me to a felon’s cell
To stay there till I die.
And yet, I did not do the deed;
The moon, if she could speak,
Would lift this anguish from my brow,
This shame from off my cheek.
I was not born with gold or lands
Nor was I born a slave,
My hands are free from blood,—and yet
I’ll fill a felon’s grave.
And I, who last year played at ball
Upon the village green,
A stripling, on whose lips the sign
Of manhood scarce is seen,
Whose greatest crime (if crime it be)
Was loving her too well,
Must leave this beautiful, glad world
For a dark prison cell.
I had just begun to learn to live
Since I laid by my books,
And I had grown so strangely fond
Of forest, spring, and brook,
I read a lesson in each drop
That trickled through the grass,
And found a sermon in the flow
Of wavelets, as they pass.
Dear woodland haunts! I leave your shade;
No more at noon’s high hour
I’ll list the sound of insect life,
Or scent the sweet wild flower.
Dear mossy banks, by murmuring streams,
’Tis hard to say good-bye!
To leave you for a felon’s cell,
Where I must stay and die.
Farewell all joy and happiness!
Farewell all earthly bliss!
All human ties must severed be,—
Aye, even a mother’s kiss
Must fail me now; in this my need
O God! to Thee I cry!
Oh! take me now, ere yet I find
A grave wherein to lie.
Mother, you here! Mother, the boy
You call your poet child
Is innocent! His hands are clean,
His heart is undefiled.
Oh! tell me, mother, am I weak
To shrink at thought of pain?
To shudder at the sound of bolt,
Grow cold at clank of chain?
Oh! tell me, is it weakness now
To weep upon your breast,—
That faithful pillow, where so oft
You’ve soothed me to my rest!
Hark! ’tis an officer’s firm tread,
O God! Mother, good-bye!
They’ve come to bear me to my cell
Where I must stay and die.
They’re coming now, I will be strong,
No, no, it cannot be.
My giddy brain whirls round in pain,
Your face I cannot see.
But I remember when a child
I shrank at thought of pain,
But, oh, it is a fearful thing
To have this aching brain.
Pardon! heard I the sound aright?
Mine comes from yonder sky;
Hold me! don’t let them take me forth
To suffer till I die!
Pardon! pardon! came the sound,
And horsemen galloped fast,
But ’twas too late; the dying man
Was soon to breathe his last.
The crime’s confessed, the guilt made known
Quick, lead the guiltless forth.
“Then I am free! mother, your hand,
Now whisper your good-bye,
I’m going where there are no cells
To suffer in and die!”
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
This soul-stirring account of the historic battle where thrones and
empires were staked, is from the pen of the great French author whose
famous descriptions are unsurpassed by those of any other writer. In
reciting this piece every nerve must be tense, and soul and body must be
animated by the imaginary sight of the contending armies. Your utterance
should be somewhat rapid, the tones of your voice round and full, the
words of command given as a general would give them on the field of
battle, and you must picture to your hearers the thrilling scene in such
a way that it may appear to be almost a reality. Otherwise, this very
graphic description will fall flat, and the verdict of your audience will
be that you were not equal to the occasion.
The sky had been overcast all day. All
at once, at this very moment—it was
eight o’clock at night—the clouds in
the horizon broke, and through the elms of
the Nivelles road streamed the sinister red
light of the setting sun.
Arrangements were speedily made for the
final effort. Each battalion was commanded
by a general. When the tall caps of the
Grenadiers of the Guard with their large
eagle plates appeared, symmetrical, drawn
up in line, calm in the smoke of that conflict,
the enemy felt respect for France. They
thought they saw twenty victories entering
upon the field of battle with wings extended,
and those who were conquerors thinking
themselves conquered recoiled; but Wellington
cried: “Up, Guards, and at them!”
The red regiment of English Guards, lying
behind the hedges, rose up; a shower of
grape riddled the tricolored flag. All hurled
themselves forward, and the final carnage
began. The Imperial Guard felt the army
slipping away around them in the gloom
and the vast overthrow of the rout. There
were no weak souls or cowards there. The
privates of that band were as heroic as their
general. Not a man flinched from the suicide.
The army fell back rapidly from all sides
at once. A disbanding army is a thaw. The
whole bends, cracks, snaps, floats, rolls, falls,
crashes, hurries, plunges. Ney borrows a
horse, leaps upon him, and, without hat,
cravat, or sword, plants himself in the Brussels
road, arresting at once the English and the
French. He endeavors to hold the army;
he calls them back, he reproaches them, he
grapples with the rout. He is swept away.
The soldiers flee from him, crying, “Long
live Ney!” Durutte’s two regiments come
and go, frightened and tossed between the
sabres of the Uhlans and the fire of the brigades
of Kempt. Rout is the worst of all
conflicts; friends slay each other in their
flight; squadrons and battalions are crushed
and dispersed against each other, enormous
foam of the battle.
Napoleon gallops among the fugitives,
harangues them, urges, threatens, entreats.
The mouths which in the morning were crying
“Long live the Emperor,” are now
agape. He is hardly recognized. The Prussian
cavalry, just come up, spring forward,
fling themselves upon the enemy, sabre, cut,
hack, kill, exterminate. Teams rush off; the
guns are left to the care of themselves; the
soldiers of the train unhitch the caissons and
take the horses to escape; wagons upset,
with their four wheels in the air, block up
the road, and are accessories of massacre.
They crush and they crowd; they trample
upon the living and the dead. Arms are
broken. A multitude fills roads, paths
bridges, plains, hills, valleys, woods, choked
up by this flight of forty thousand men. Cries
despair; knapsacks and muskets cast into
the rye; passages forced at the point of
the sword; no more comrades, no more
officers, no more generals; an inexpressible
dismay. Lions become kids. Such was this
flight.
A few squares of the Guard, immovable in
the flow of the rout as rocks in running
water, held out until night. Night approaching
and death also, they awaited this double
shadow, and yielded unfaltering to its embrace.
At every discharge the square grew
less, but returned the fire. It replied to
grape by bullets, narrowing in its four walls
continually. Afar off, the fugitives, stopping
for a moment out of breath, heard in the
darkness this dismal thunder decreasing.
When this legion was reduced to a handful,
when their flag was reduced to a shred,
when their muskets, exhausted of ammunition,
were reduced to nothing but clubs, when
the pile of corpses was larger than the group
of the living, there spread among the conquerors
a sort of sacred terror about these
sublime martyrs, and the English artillery,
stopping to take breath, was silent. It was
a kind of respite. These combatants had
about them a swarm of spectres, the outlines
of men on horseback, the black profile of the
cannons, the white sky seen through the
wheels and gun-carriages. The colossal
death’s head, which heroes always see in the
smoke of the battle, was advancing upon
them and glaring at them.
They could hear in the gloom of the
twilight the loading of the pieces. The
lighted matches, like tigers’ eyes in the
night, made a circle about their heads. All
the linstocks of the English batteries approached
the guns, when, touched by their
heroism, holding the death-moment suspended
over these men, an English general
cried to them:
“Brave Frenchmen, surrender!”
The word “Never!” fierce and desperate
came rolling back.
To this word the English general replied,
“Fire!”
The batteries flamed, the hill trembled;
from all those brazen throats went forth a
final vomiting of grape, terrific. A vast
smoke, dusky white in the light of the rising
moon, rolled out, and when the smoke was
dissipated, there was nothing left. That formidable
remnant was annihilated—the Guard
was dead! The four walls of the living redoubt
had fallen. Hardly could a quivering
be distinguished here and there among the
corpses; and thus the French legions expired.
Victor Hugo.
A PIN.
Oh, I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good,
But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion could.
The little chills run up and down my spine whene’er we meet,
Though she seems a gentle creature, and she’s very trim and neat.
And she has a thousand virtues, and not one acknowledged sin,
But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin.
And she pricks you, and she sticks you in a way that can’t be said—
When you ask for what has hurt you, why you cannot find the head.
But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain—
If anybody asks you why, you really can’t explain.
A pin is such a tiny thing—of that there is no doubt—
Yet when it’s sticking in your flesh, you’re wretched till it’s out.
She is wonderfully observing—when she meets a pretty girl
She is always sure to tell her if her “bang” is out of curl.
And she is so sympathetic to her friend, who’s much admired,
She is often heard remarking: “Dear, you look so worn and tired!”
And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed
The new dress I was airing with a woman’s natural pride,
And she said: “Oh, how becoming!” and then softly added to it,
“It is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.”
Then she said: “If you had heard me yestereve,
I’m sure, my friend,
You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend.”
And she left me with the feeling—most unpleasant, I aver—
That the whole world would despise me if it had not been for her.
Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way,
She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day.
And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet),
With just one glance from her round eye, becomes a Bowery bonnet.
She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust—
Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust—
Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin
To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.
A RELENTING MOB.
Translated from the French of Victor Hugo.
The mob was fierce and furious. They cried:
“Kill him!” the while they pressed from every side
Around a man, haughty, unmoved and brave,
Too pitiless himself to pity crave.
“Down with the wretch!” on all sides rose the cry.
The captive found it natural to die,
The game is lost—he’s on the weaker side,
Life, too, is lost, and so must fate decide.
From out his home they dragged him to the street,
With fiercely clenching hands and hurrying feet,
And shouts of “Death to him!” The crimson stain
Of recent carnage on his garb showed plain.
This man was one of those who blindly slay
At a king’s bidding. He’d shoot men all day,
Killing he knew not whom, scarce knew why,
Now marching forth impassible to die,
Incapable of mercy or of fear,
Letting his powder-blackened hands appear.
A woman clutched his collar with a frown,
“He’s a policeman—he has shot us down!”
“That’s true,” the man said. “Kill him!”
“Shoot him!” “Kill!”
“No, at the Arsenal”—“The Bastile!”—
“Where you will,”
The captive answered. And with fiercest breath,
Loading their guns his captors still cried
“Death!”
“We’ll shoot him like a wolf!” “A wolf am I?
Then you’re the dogs,” he calmly made reply.
“Hark, he insults us!” And from every side
Clenched fists were shaken, angry voices cried,
Ferocious threats were muttered, deep and low.
With gall upon his lips, gloom on his brow,
And in his eyes a gleam of baffled hate,
He went, pursued by howlings, to his fate.
Treading with wearied and supreme disdain
’Midst the forms of dead men he perchance had slain.
Dread is that human storm, an angry crowd:
He braved its wrath with head erect and proud.
He was not taken, but walled in with foes,
He hated them with hate the vanquished knows,
He would have shot them all had he the power.
“Kill him—he’s fired upon us for an hour!”
“Down with the murderer—down with the spy!”
And suddenly a small voice made reply,
“No—no, he is my father!” And a ray
Like a sunbeam seemed to light the day.
A child appeared, a boy with golden hair,
His arms upraised in menace or in prayer.
All shouted, “Shoot the bandit, fell the spy!”
The little fellow clasped him with a cry
Of “Papa, papa, they’ll not hurt you now!”
The light baptismal shone upon his brow.
From out the captive’s home had come the child.
Meanwhile the shrieks of “Kill him—Death!” rose wild.
The cannon to the tocsin’s voice replied,
Sinister men thronged close on every side,
And in the street ferocious shouts increased
Of “Slay each spy—each minister—each priest—
We’ll kill them all!” The little boy replied:
“I tell you this is papa.” One girl cried
“A pretty fellow—see his curly head!”
“How old are you, my boy?” another said.
“Do not kill papa!” only he replies.
A soulful lustre lights his streaming eyes,
Some glances from his gaze are turned away,
And the rude hands less fiercely grasp their prey.
Then one of the most pitiless says, “Go—
Get you back home, boy.” “Where—why?” “Don’t you know?
Go to your mother.” Then the father said,
“He has no mother.” “What—his mother’s dead?
Then you are all he has.” “That matters not,”
The captive answers, losing not a jot
Of his composure as he closely pressed
The little hands to warm them in his breast.
And says, “Our neighbor, Catherine you know,
Go to her.” “You’ll come too?” “Not yet.” “No, no.
Then I’ll not leave you.” “Why?” “These men, I fear,
Will hurt you, papa, when I am not here.”
The father to the chieftain of the band
Says softly, “Loose your grasp and take my hand,
I’ll tell the child to-morrow we shall meet,
Then you can shoot me in the nearest street,
Or farther off, just as you like.” “’Tis well!”
The words from those rough lips reluctant fell.
And, half unclasped, the hands less fierce appear.
The father says, “You see, we’re all friends here,
I’m going with these gentlemen to walk;
Go home. Be good. I have no time to talk.”
The little fellow, reassured and gay,
Kisses his father and then runs away.
“Now he is gone and we are at our ease,
And you can kill me where and how you please,”
The father says, “Where is it I must go?”
Then through the crowd a long thrill seems to flow,
The lips, so late with cruel wrath afoam,
Relentingly and roughly cry, “Go home!”
