THE ALMA.

September 20th,

1854. BY WILLIAM C. BENNET.



Yes—clash, ye pealing steeples! Ye grim-mouthed cannon, roar! Tell what each heart is feeling, From shore to throbbing shore! What every shouting city, What every home would say, The triumph and the rapture That swell our hearts to-day.

And did they say, O England, That now thy blood was cold, That from thee had departed The might thou hadst of old! Tell them no deed more stirring Than this thy sons have done, Than this, no nobler triumph, Their conquering arms have won.

The mighty fleet bore seaward; We hushed our hearts in fear, In awe of what each moment Might utter to our ear; For the air grew thick with murmurs That stilled the hearer's breath, With sounds that told of battle, Of victory and of death.

We knew they could but conquer; O fearless hearts, we knew The name and fame of England Could but be safe with you. We knew no ranks more dauntless The rush of bayonets bore, Through all Spain's fields of carnage, Or thine, Ferozepore.

O red day of the Alma! O when thy tale was heard, How was the heart of England With pride and gladness stirred! How did our peopled cities All else forget, to tell Ye living, how ye conquered, And how, O dead, ye fell.

Glory to those who led you! Glory to those they led! Fame to the dauntless living! Fame to the peaceful dead! Honour, for ever, honour To those whose bloody swords Struck back the baffled despot, And smote to flight his hordes!

On, with your fierce burst onward! On, sweep the foe before, Till the great sea-hold's volleys Roll through the ghastly roar! Till your resistless onset The mighty fortress know, And storm-won fort and rampart Your conquering standards show.

Yes—clash, ye bells, in triumph! Yes—roar, ye cannon, roar! Not for the living only, But for those who come no more. For the brave hearts coldly lying In their far-off gory graves, By the Alma's reddened waters, And the Euxine's dashing waves.

For thee, thou weeping mother, We grieve; our pity hears Thy wail, O wife; the fallen, For them we have no tears; No—but with pride we name them, For grief their memory wrongs; Our proudest thoughts shall claim them, And our exalting songs.

Heights of the rocky Alma, The flags that scaled you bore "Plassey," "Quebec," and "Blenheim," And many a triumph more; And they shall show your glory Till men shall silent be, Of Waterloo and Maida Moultan and Meanee.

I look; another glory Methinks they give to fame; By Badajoz and Bhurtpoor Streams out another name; From captured fleet and city, And fort, the thick clouds roll, And on the flags above them Is writ "Sebastopol."



THE MAMELUKE CHARGE.

BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

Let the Arab courser go Headlong on the silent foe; Their plumes may shine like mountain snow, Like fire their iron tubes may glow, Their cannon death on death may throw, Their pomp, their pride, their strength, we know, But—let the Arab courser go.

The Arab horse is free and bold, His blood is noble from of old, Through dams, and sires, many a one, Up to the steed of Solomon. He needs no spur to rouse his ire, His limbs of beauty never tire, Then, give the Arab horse the rein, And their dark squares will close in vain. Though loud the death-shot peal, and louder, He will only neigh the prouder; Though nigh the death-flash glare, and nigher, He will face the storm of fire; He will leap the mound of slain, Only let him have the rein.

The Arab horse will not shrink back, Though death confront him in his track, The Arab horse will not shrink back, And shall his rider's arm be slack? No!—By the God who gave us life, Our souls are ready for the strife. We need no serried lines, to show A gallant bearing to the foe. We need no trumpet to awake The thirst, which blood alone can slake. What is it that can stop our course, Free riders of the Arab horse?

Go—brave the desert wind of fire; Go—beard the lightning's look of ire; Drive back the ravening flames, which leap In thunder from the mountain steep; But dream not, men of fifes and drums, To stop the Arab when he comes: Not tides of fire, not walls of rock, Could shield you from that earthquake shock. Come, brethren, come, too long we stay, The shades of night have rolled away, Too fast the golden moments fleet, Charge, ere another pulse has beat; Charge—like the tiger on the fawn— Before another breath is drawn.



MY LADY'S LEAP.

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

My lady's leap! that's it, sir,— That's what we call it 'ere;— It's a nasty jump for a man, sir, Let alone for a woman to clear. D'ye see the fencing around it? And the cross as folk can tell, That this is the very spot, sir, Where her sweet young ladyship fell?

I've lived in his lordship's family For goin' on forty year. And the tears will come a wellin' Whenever I think of her; For my mem'ry takes me backwards To the days when by my side She would sit in her tiny saddle As I taught her the way to ride.

But she didn't want much teachin';— Lor' bless ye, afore she was eight There wasn't a fence in the county Nor ever a five-barred gate But what she'd leap, aye, and laugh at. I think now I hear the ring Of her voice, shouting, "Now then, lassie!" As over a ditch she'd spring.

How proud I was of my mistress, When round the country-side I'd hear folks talking of her, sir, And how she used to ride! Every one knew my young mistress, "My lady of Hislop Chase;" And, what's more, every one loved her, And her sunny, angel face.

Lord Hislop lost his wife, sir, When Lady Vi' was born. And never man aged so quickly: He grew haggard and white and worn In less than a week. Then after, At times, he'd grow queer and wild; And only one thing saved him— His love for his only child. He worshipped her like an idol; He loved her, folks said too well; And God sent the end as a judgment,— But how that may be who can tell?

I don't know how it all happened— I heard the story you see, In bits and scraps,—just here and there; But, sir, 'atween you and me, In putting them all together, I think I've a good idea As how the Master got swindled, And things at the "Chase" went queer. He'd a notion to leave Miss Vi'let Rich, I fancy, you know; For now and ag'in I noticed He'd take in his head to go Away for a time—to London,— And I, who knew him so well, Could see as he came home worried. Aye, sir! I could read—could tell As things had gone wrong with Master. I was right: 'twas that tale so old! He'd lost in that great big gamble, In that cursed greed for gold.

And then the worst came to the worst, sir. "The old Chase must go from us, Vi'!" Her father told her one morning, "My child! oh, my child! I would die Ten thousand deaths rather than tell you What price our freedom would cost." And then, in a voice hoarse and broken, He told her how all had been lost. They say, sir, the girl answered proudly, "I know, father, what you would say: The man who has swindled you, duped you, Will return you your own if you pay His price—my hand. Don't speak, father! You know what I'm saying is true; And, father, I know Paul Delaunay, Yes, better, far better, than you. Go, tell him I'll wed him to-morrow, On this one condition—list here,— That he beats me across the country From Hislop to Motecombe Mere. But say that should I chance to beat him He must give back everything—all Of what he has robbed you, father: That's the message I send Sir Paul."

Two men watched that ride across country At the break of an autumn day: Young Hilton, the son of the Squire, And I, sir. They started away And came through the first field together, Then leaped the first fence neck and neck; On, on again, riding like mad, sir, Jumping all without hinder or check. In this, the last field 'fore the finish, You could save half a minute or more By leaping the stone wall and brooklet; But never, sir, never before, Had anyone ever attempted That leap; it was madness, but, sir, My young mistress knew that Delaunay Was too great a coward and cur To follow; and, what's more, she knew, sir, That she must be first in the race— For the sake of the Hislop honour, To win back the dear old Chase.

I looked at young Hilton beside me— A finer lad never walked: I don't think he thought as I knew, sir, Their secret, for I'd never talked; But I'd known for a long time, you see, sir, As he and my lady Vi' Had loved and would love for ever. At last from his lips came a cry, "Good God! she never will clear it!" Then he turned his face to the ground; While I—I looked on in terror, Watched her, sir, taking that bound. With a cold sweat bathing my forehead, I saw her sweep onward, and gasped— "For Heaven's sake, stop, Lady Vi'let!" A laugh was her answer. She passed On, on, like a shimmer of lightning, And then came her last great leap— The next, sir, I saw of my lady Was a crushed and mangled heap. Delaunay? No, he didn't follow, Nor even drew rein when she fell; But rode on, the longest way round, sir. When he came back to claim her—well, She was dead in the arms of her lover— Claspt tight in his mad embrace;— With her life-blood staining her tresses, And a sad, sweet smile on her face.

I heard the last words that she uttered— "My love! tell my father I tried To do what was best for his honour; For you and for him I have died."



A SONG FOR THE END OF THE SEASON.

BY J.R. PLANCHE.

(FROM THE "DRAMATIC COLLEGE ANNUAL.")

Sir John has this moment gone by In the brougham that was to be mine, But, my dear, I'm not going to cry, Though I know where he's going to dine. I shall meet him at Lady Gay's ball With that girl to his arm clinging fast, But it won't, love, disturb me at all, I've recovered my spirits at last!

I was horribly low for a week, For I could not go out anywhere Without hearing, "You know they don't speak;" Or, "I'm told it's all broken off there." But the Earl whispered something last night, I sha'n't say exactly what past, But of this, dear, be satisfied quite, I've recovered my spirits at last!



THE AGED PILOT MAN.

BY MARK TWAIN.

On the Erie Canal, it was, All on a summer's day, I sailed forth with my parents Far away to Albany.

From out the clouds at noon that day There came a dreadful storm, That piled the billows high about, And filled us with alarm.

A man came rushing from a house, "Tie up your boat I pray! Tie up your boat, tie up, alas! Tie up while yet you may."

Our captain cast one glance astern, Then forward glanced he, And said, "My wife and little ones I never more shall see."

Said Dollinger the pilot man, In noble words, but few— "Fear not, but lean on Dollinger, And he will fetch you through."

The boat drove on, the frightened mules Tore through the rain and wind, And bravely still in danger's post, The whip-boy strode behind.

"Come 'board, come 'board," the captain cried, "Nor tempt so wild a storm;" But still the raging mules advanced, And still the boy strode on.

Then said the captain to us all, "Alas, 'tis plain to me, The greater danger is not there, But here upon the sea.

So let us strive, while life remains, To save all souls on board, And then if die at last we must, I ... cannot speak the word!"

Said Dollinger the pilot man, Tow'ring above the crew, "Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, And he will fetch you through."

"Low bridge! low bridge!" all heads went down, The labouring bark sped on; A mill we passed, we passed a church, Hamlets, and fields of corn;

And all the world came out to see, And chased along the shore, Crying, "Alas, the sheeted rain, The wind, the tempest's roar! Alas, the gallant ship and crew, Can nothing help them more?"

And from our deck sad eyes looked out Across the stormy scene: The tossing wake of billows aft, The bending forests green,

The chickens sheltered under carts, In lee of barn the cows, The skurrying swine with straw in mouth, The wild spray from our bows!

"She balances? She wavers! Now let her go about! If she misses stays and broaches to We're all"—[then with a shout,] "Huray! huray! Avast! belay! Take in more sail! Lor! what a gale! Ho, boy, haul taut on the hind mule's tail!"

"Ho! lighten ship! ho! man the pump! Ho, hostler, heave the lead!" "A quarter-three!—'tis shoaling fast! Three feet large!—three-e feet!— 'Tis three feet scant!" I cried in fright, "Oh, is there no retreat?"

Said Dollinger the pilot man, As on the vessel flew, "Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, And he will fetch you through."

A panic struck the bravest hearts, The boldest cheek turned pale; For plain to all, this shoaling said A leak had burst the ditch's bed! And, straight as bolt from crossbow sped, Our ship swept on, with shoaling lead, Before the fearful gale!

"Sever the tow-line! Stop the mules!" Too late! .... There comes a shock!

* * * * *

Another length, and the fated craft Would have swum in the saving lock!

Then gathered together the shipwrecked crew And took one last embrace, While sorrowful tears from despairing eyes Ran down each hopeless face; And some did think of their little ones Whom they never more might see, And others of waiting wives at home, And mothers that grieved would be.

But of all the children of misery there On that poor sinking frame, But one spake words of hope and faith, And I worshipped as they came: Said Dollinger the pilot man— (O brave heart strong and true!)— "Fear not, but trust in Dollinger, For he will fetch you through."

Lo! scarce the words have passed his lips The dauntless prophet say'th, When every soul about him seeth A wonder crown his faith!

And count ye all, both great and small, As numbered with the dead! For mariner for forty year, On Erie, boy and man, I never yet saw such a storm, Or one 't with it began!

So overboard a keg of nails And anvils three we threw, Likewise four bales of gunny-sacks, Two hundred pounds of glue, Two sacks of corn, four ditto wheat, A box of books, a cow, A violin, Lord Byron's works, A rip-saw and a sow.

A curve! a curve; the dangers grow! "Labbord!—stabbord!—s-t-e-a-d-y!—so!— Hard-a.-port, Dol!—hellum-a-lee! Haw the head mule!—the aft one gee! Luff!—bring her to the wind!"

For straight a farmer brought a plank,— (Mysteriously inspired)— And laying it unto the ship, In silent awe retired. Then every sufferer stood amazed That pilot man before; A moment stood. Then wondering turned, And speechless walked ashore.



TIM KEYSER'S NOSE.

BY MAX ADELER.

Tim Keyser lived at Wilmington, He had a monstrous nose, Which was a great deal redder Than the very reddest rose, And was completely capable Of most terrific blows.

He wandered down one Christmas-day To skate upon the creek, And there upon the smoothest ice He slid along so slick, The people were amazed to see Him cut it up so quick;

The exercise excited thirst, And so, to get a drink, He cut an opening in the ice, And lay down on the brink. Says he, "I'll dip my nose right in, And sip it up, I think."

But while his nose was thus immersed Six inches in the stream, A very hungry pickerel Was attracted by the gleam, And darting up, it gave a snap, And Keyser gave a scream.

Tim Keyser then was well assured He had a famous bite; To pull that pickerel up he tried, And tugged with all his might; But the disgusting pickerel had The better of the fight.

And just as Mr. Keyser thought His nose would split in two, The pickerel gave his tail a twist, And pulled Tim Keyser through, And he was scudding through the waves The first thing that he knew.

Then onward swam the savage fish With swiftness towards its nest, Still chewing Mr. Keyser's nose, While Mr. Keyser guessed What kind of policy would suit His circumstances best.

Just then his nose was tickled With a spear of grass close by; Tim Keyser gave a sneeze which burst The pickerel into "pi," And blew its bones, the ice, and waves A thousand feet on high.

Tim Keyser swam up to the top, A breath of air to take, And finding broken ice, he hooked His nose upon a cake, And gloried in a nose that could Such a concussion make.

His Christmas dinner on that day He tackled with a vim; And thanked his stars, as shuddering He thought upon his swim, That that wild pickerel had not Spent Christmas eating him.



THE LOST EXPRESSION.

BY MARSHALL STEELE.

Oh! I fell in love with Dora, and my heart was all a-glow, For I never met before a girl who took my fancy so; She had eyes—no! cheeks a-blushing with the peach's ripening flush, Was ecstatically gushing—and I like a girl to gush. She'd the loveliest of faces, and the goldenest of hair, And all customary graces lovers fancy in the fair.

Now, she doated on romances, she was yearnful and refined, She had sentimental fancies of a most aesthetic kind, She was sensitive, fantastic, tender, too, as she was fair, But alas! she was not plastic, as I owned in my despair. And, for all she was so gentle, yet she gave me this rebuff— Though I might be sentimental, I'd not sentiment enough.

Then I did grow sentimental, for that seemed to be my part, And I talked in transcendental fashion that might move her heart, Sighed to live in fairy grottoes with my Dora all alone, And I studied cracker mottoes, which I quoted as my own. Thus I strove to be romantic, but I failed upon the whole, And she nearly drove me frantic when she said I had not "soul."

So, despair tinged all my passion, sorrow mingled with my love, Though I wooed her in a fashion which the stones of Rome might move, Though I wrote her fervid sonnets with the fervour underlined, Though I bought her gloves and bonnets of the most artistic kind, Yet for me life held no pleasure, and my sorrow grew acute That she smiled upon my presents, but she frowned upon my suit.

All in vain seemed love and longing till upon one fateful day Hopes anew came on me thronging, as I heard my Dora say— "Richard mine, I saw you sobbing o'er my photograph last night, With a look that set me throbbing with unspeakable delight. Wide your eyelids you were oping and your look was far from hence With a passionate wild hoping that was soulful and intense.

"I have seen that look on Irving and sometimes on Beerbohm Tree, And it seems to be observing joy and rapture yet to be. In the nostril elevated and the lip that lightly curled Was a cold scorn indicated of this vulgar nether world. I could marry that expression. Show it once again then, do! And I meekly make profession—I—I—I will marry you!"

Joy was then my heart's possession, joy and rapturous content, For I'd practised that expression, and I knew just what she meant: So my eyebrows up I lifted and I stared with all my might And my right-hand nostril shifted somewhat further to the right, But I quite forgot—sad error was this dire mnemonic slip!— I forgot in doubt and terror how to move my lower lip!

With one eyebrow elevated down I dropped my dexter lid, Never mortal dislocated all his features as I did, For I moved them in my folly right and left and up and down, Till she asked if I was qualifying for the part of clown. And I left in deep depression when she showed me to the door, Saying, "Bring back that expression, sir, or never see me more!"

Then before my looking-glass I sought, and sought for months in vain, That expression which, alas! I had forgotten, to my pain, And I said then, feeling poorly, "I'll go seek the haunts of men, I could reproduce it surely, if I met with it again: For, whose-ever—peer's or peasant's—face that heavenly look might wear, He should never leave my presence till I copied it, I swear."

Could I meet a schoolboy, madly pleased the day that school begins, Or a father smiling gladly, when the nurse says "Sir, it's twins!" Or a well-placed politician who no better place desires, But achieves his one ambition on the day that he retires, That expression—'tis my sure hope—on their faces I should get, So I searched for them through Europe, but I haven't found them yet.

Then I lunched one day with Irving, once I dined with Mr. Tree, Who in intervals of serving made such faces up at me. But they failed me, though the former once a look upon me hurled, Which expressed how the barn-stormer shows disdain of all the world, And his look of rapture when I rose to go was quite immense, Though not either now or then I thought it soulful or intense.

But at last, some long months later—'twas a dinner I was at In the City—"Bring me, waiter," someone said, "some more green fat." 'Twas my vis-a-vis was speaking, and an Alderman was he; On his radiant face, and reeking, was the hope of joy to be. He had all that lost expression, every detail showing plain, Soulfulness, hope of possession, joy, intensity, disdain.

Then I sought to make him merry, and I plied him with old port, Claret, burgundy, Bass, sherry, and a little something short; And this guzzler, by me aided, kept on soaking all the while, Till that lost expression faded to an idiotic smile, And his speech grew thick and thicker, and his mind began to roam, Till he finished off his liquor and I drove him to my home.

There with coils of rope I strapped him to my sofa, firm and fast, Douched him, doused him, bled and tapped him, till I sobered him at last, To that lost expression led him—that was all that I was at— As for days and weeks I fed him on suggestions of green fat. Thus I caught that lost expression, and I cried, "Thrice happy day! Once again 'tis my possession." Then I turned and fled away.

Without swerving or digression to my Dora straight I sped, And she gazed at that expression, then she clapped her hands and said— "You have found it—who'd have thought it?—you have brought it me again!" "Yes!" I cried, "and as I've brought it, make me happiest of men." But—oh! who could tell her sorrow, as she cried in wistful tones?— "Dick, I'd marry you to-morrow, but I'm Mrs. Bowler Jones!"



A NIGHT SCENE.

BY ROBERT B. BROUGH.

Out of the grog-shop, I've stepp'd in the street. Road, what's the matter? you're loose on your feet; Staggering, swaggering, reeling about, Road, you're in liquor, past question or doubt.

Gas-lamps, be quiet—stand up, if you please. What the deuce ails you? you're weak in the knees: Some on your heads—in the gutter some sunk— Gas-lamps, I see it, you're all of you drunk.

Angels and ministers! look at the moon— Shining up there like a paper balloon, Winking like mad at me: Moon, I'm afraid— Now I'm convinced—Oh! you tipsy old jade.

Here's a phenomenon: Look at the stars— Jupiter, Ceres, Uranus, and Mars, Dancing quadrilles; caper'd, shuffl'd and hopp'd. Heavenly bodies! this ought to be stopp'd.

Down come the houses! each drunk as a king— Can't say I fancy much this sort of thing; Inside the bar it was safe and all right, I shall go back there, and stop for the night.



KARL, THE MARTYR.

BY FRANCES WHITESIDE.

It was the closing of a summer's day, And trellised branches from encircling trees Threw silver shadows o'er the golden space. Where groups of merry-hearted sons of toil Were met to celebrate a village feast; Casting away, in frolic sport, the cares That ever press and crowd and leave their mark Upon the brows of all whose bread is earned By daily labour. 'Twas perchance the feast Of fav'rite saint, or anniversary Of one of bounteous nature's season gifts To grateful husbandry—no matter what The cause of their uniting. Joy beamed forth On ev'ry face, and the sweet echoes rang With sounds of honest mirth too rarely heard In the vast workshop man has made his world, Where months of toil must pay one day of song.

Somewhat apart from the assembled throng There sat a swarthy giant, with a face So nobly grand that though (unlike the rest) He wore no festal garb nor laughing mien, Yet was he study for the painter's art: He joined not in their sports, but rather seemed To please his eye with sight of others' joy. There was a cast of sorrow on his brow, As though it had been early there. He sat In listless attitude, yet not devoid Of gentlest grace, as down his stalwart form He bent, to catch the playful whisperings, And note the movements of a bright-hair'd child Who danced before him in the evening sun, Holding a tiny brother by the hand.

He was the village smith (the rolled-up sleeves And the well-charred leathern apron show'd his craft); Karl was his name—a man beloved by all. He was not of the district. He had come Amongst them ere his forehead bore one trace Of age or suffering. A wife and child He had brought with him; but the wife was dead. Not so the child—who danced before him now And held a tiny brother by the hand— Their mother's last and priceless legacy! So Karl was happy still that those two lived, And laughed and danced before him in the sun.

Yet sadly so. The children both were fair, Ruddy, and active, though of fragile form; But to that father's ever watchful eye, Who had so loved their mother, it was plain That each inherited the wasting doom Which cost that mother's life. 'Twas reason more To work and toil for them by night and day! Early and late his anvil's ringing sound Was heard amidst all seasons. Oftentimes The neighbours asked him why he worked so hard With only two to care for? He would smile, Wipe his hot brow, and say, "'Twas done in love For sake of those in mercy left him still— And hers: he might not stay. He could not live To lose them all." The tenderest of plants Required the careful'st gardening, and so He worked on valiantly; and if he marked An extra gleam of health in Trudchen's cheeks, A growing strength in little Casper's laugh, He bowed his head, and felt his work was paid. Even as now, while sitting 'neath the tree, He watched the bright-hair'd image of his wife, Who danced before him in the evening sun, Holding her tiny brother by the hand.

The frolics pause: now Casper's laughing head Rests wearily against his father's knee In trusting lovingness; while Trudchen runs To snatch a hasty kiss (the little man, It may be, wonders if the tiny hand With which he strives to reach his father's neck Will ever grow as big and brown as that He sees imbedded in his sister's curls). When quick as lightning's flash up starts the smith, Huddles the frightened children in his arms, Thrusts them far back—extends his giant frame And covers them as with Goliath's shield!

Now hark! a rushing, yelping, panting sound, So terrible that all stood chilled with fear; And in the midst of that late joyous throng Leapt an infuriate hound, with flaming eyes, Half-open mouth, and fiercely bristling hair, Proving that madness tore the brute to death. One spring from Karl, and the wild thing was seized, Fast prison'd in the stalwart Vulcan's gripe.

A sharp, shrill cry of agony from Karl Was mingled with the hound's low fever'd growl. And all with horror saw the creature's teeth Fixed in the blacksmith's shoulder. None had power To rescue him; for scarcely could you count A moment's space ere both had disappeared— The man and dog. The smith had leapt a fence And gained the forest with a frantic rush, Bearing the hideous mischief in his arms.

A long receding cry came on the ear, Showing how swift their flight; and fainter grew The sound: ere well a man had time to think What might be done for help, the sound was hushed, Lost in the very distance. Women crouched And huddled up their children in their arms; Men flew to seek their weapons. 'Twas a change So swift and fearful, none could realise Its actual horrors—for a time. But now, The panic past, to rescue and pursuit!

Crash! through the brake into the forest track; But pitchy darkness, caused by closing night And foliage dense, impedes the avengers' way; When lo! they trip o'er something in their path!

It was the bleeding body of the hound, Warm, but quite dead. No other trace of Karl Was near at hand; they called his name; in vain They sought him in the forest all night through; Living or dead, he was not to be found. At break of day they left the fruitless search.

Next morning, as an anxious village group Stood meditating plans what best to do, Came little Trudchen, who, in simple tones, Said, "Father's at the forge—I heard him there Working long hours ago; but he is angry. I raised the latch: he bade me to be gone. What have I done to make him chide me so?" And then her bright blue eyes ran o'er with tears. "The child's been dreaming through this troubled night," Said a kind dame, and drew the child towards her. But the sad answers of the girl were such As led them all to seek her father's forge (It lay beyond the village some short span). They forced the door, and there beheld the smith.

His sinewy frame was drawn to its full height; And round his loins a double chain of iron, Wrought with true workman skill, was riveted Fast to an anvil of enormous weight. He stood as pale and statue-like as death.

Now let his own words close the hapless tale: "I killed the hound, you know; but not until His maddening venom through my veins had passed. I knew full well the death in store for me, And would not answer when you called my name; But crouched among the brushwood, while I thought Over some plan. I know my giant strength, And dare not trust it after reason's loss. Why! I might turn and rend whom most I love. I've made all fast now. 'Tis a hideous death. I thought to plunge me in the deep, still pool That skirts the forest—to avoid it; but I thought that for the suicide's poor shift I would not throw away my chance of heaven, And meeting one who made earth heaven to me. So I came home and forged these chains about me: Full well I know no human hand can rend them, And now am safe from harming those I love. Keep off, good friends! Should God prolong my life, Throw me such food as nature may require. Look to my babes. This you are bound to do; For by my deadly grasp on that poor hound, How many of you have I saved from death Such as I now await? But hence away! The poison works! these chains must try their strength. My brain's on fire! with me 'twill soon be night."

Too true his words! the brave, great-hearted Karl, A raving maniac, battled with his chains For three fierce days. The fourth saw him free; For Death's strong hand had loosed the martyr's bonds; Where his freed spirit soars, who dares to doubt?



THE ROMANCE OF TENACHELLE.

BY HERCULES ELLIS.

On panting steeds they hurry on, Kildare, and Darcy's lovely daughter— On panting steeds they hurry on; To cross the Barrow's water; Within her father's dungeon chained, Kildare her gentle heart had gained; Now love and she have broke his chain, And he is free! is free again.

His cloak, by forest boughs is rent, The long night's toilsome journey showing; His helm's white plume is wet, and bent, And backwards o'er his shoulders flowing; Pale is the lovely lady's cheek, Her eyes grow dim, her hand is weak; And, feebly, tries she to sustain, Her falling horse, with silken rein.

"Now, clasp thy fair arms round my neck," Kildare cried to the lovely lady; "Thy weight black Memnon will not check, Nor stay his gallop, swift and steady;" The blush, one moment, dyed her cheek; The next, her arms are round his neck; And placed before him on his horse, They haste, together, on their course.

"Oh! Gerald," cried the lady fair, Now backward o'er his shoulder gazing, "I see Red Raymond, in our rear, And Owen, Darcy's banner raising— Mother of Mercy! now I see My father, in their company; Oh! Gerald, leave me here, and fly, Enough! enough! for one to die!"

"My own dear love; my own dear love!" Kildare cried to the lovely lady, "Fear not, black Memnon yet shall prove, Than all their steeds, more swift and steady: But to guide well my gallant horse, Tasks eye, and hand, and utmost force; Then look for me, my love, and tell, What see'st thou now at Tenachelle?"

"I see, I see," the lady cried, "Now bursting o'er its green banks narrow, And through the valley spreading wide, In one vast flood, the Barrow! The bridge of Tenachelle now seems, A dark stripe o'er the rushing streams; For nought above the flood is shown, Except its parapet alone."

"But can'st thou see," Earl Gerald said, "My faithful Gallowglasses standing? Waves the green plume on Milo's head, For me, at Tenachelle commanding?" "No men are there," the lady said, "No living thing, no human aid; The trees appear, like isles of green, Nought else, through all the vale is seen."

Deep agony through Gerald passed; Oh! must she fall, the noble-hearted; And must this morning prove their last, By kinsmen and by friends deserted? Sure treason must have made its way, Within the courts of Castle Ley; And kept away the mail-clad ranks He ordered to the Barrow's banks.

"The chase comes fast," the lady cries; "Both whip and spur I see them plying; Sir Robert Verdon foremost hies, Through Regan's forest flying; Each moment on our course they gain, Alas! why did I break thy chain, And urge thee, from thy prison, here, To make the mossy turf thy bier?"

"Cheer up! cheer up! my own dear maid," Kildare cried to the weeping lady; "Soon, soon, shall come the promised aid, With shield and lance for battle ready; Look out, while swift we ride, and tell What see'st thou now at Tenachelle. Does aught on Clemgaum's Hill now move? Cheer up, and look, my own dear love!"

"Still higher swells the rushing tide," The lady said, "along the river; The bridge wall's rent, with breaches wide, Beneath its force the arches quiver. But on Clemgaum I see no plumes; From Offaly no succour comes; No banner floats, no trumpet's blown— Alas! alas! we are alone.

"And now, O God! I see behind, My father to Red Raymond lending, His war-horse, fleeter than the wind, And on our chase, the traitor sending: He holds the lighted aquebus, Bearing death to both of us; Speed, my gallant Memnon, speed, Nor let us 'neath the ruffian bleed."

"Thy love saved me at risk of life," Kildare cried, "when the axe was wielding; And now I joy, my own dear wife, To think my breast thy life is shielding; Thank Heaven no bolt can now reach thee, That shall not first have passed through me; For death were mercy to the thought, That thou, for me, to death were brought."

And now they reach the trembling bridge, Through flooded bottoms swiftly rushing; Along it heaves a foaming ridge, Through its rent walls the torrent's gushing. Across the bridge their way they make, 'Neath Memnon's hoofs the arches shake; While fierce as hate, and fleet as wind, Red Raymond follows fast behind.

They've gained, they've gained the farther side! Through clouds of foam, stout Memnon dashes; And, as they swiftly onward ride, Beneath his feet the vext flood splashes. But as they reach the floodless ground, The valley rings with a sharp sound; The aquebus has hurled its rain, And by it gallant Memnon's slain.

And now behind loud rose the cry— "The bridge! beware! the bridge is breaking!" Backwards the scared pursuers fly, While, like a tyrant, his wrath wreaking, Rushed the flood, the strong bridge rending, And its fragments downwards sending; In its throat Red Raymond swallowed, While above him the flood bellowed.

Hissing, roaring, in its course, The shattered bridge before it spurning, The flood burst down, with giant force, The oaks of centuries upturning. The awed pursuers stood aghast; All hope to reach Kildare's now past Blest be the Barrow, which thus rose, To save true lovers from their foes!

And now o'er Clemgaum's Hill appear, Their white plumes on the breezes dancing, A gallant troop, with shield and spear, From Offaley with aid advancing. Quick to Kildare his soldiers ride, And raise him up from Memnon's side; Unhurt he stands, and to his breast, The Lady Anna Darcy's pressed.

"Kinsmen and friends," exclaimed Kildare, "Behold my bride, the fair and fearless, Who broke my chain, and brought me here, In truth, in love, and beauty, peerless. Here, at the bridge of Tenachelle, Amid the friends I love so well, I swear that until life depart, She'll rule my home, my soul, my heart!"



MICHAEL FLYNN.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

Said Michael Flynn, the lab'ring man, "Yis, sorr, although oi'm poor, Sooner than live on charity I'd beg from door to door."



A NIGHT WITH A STORK.

BY WILLIAM G. WILCOX.

Four individuals—namely, my wife, my infant son, my maid-of-all-work, and myself, occupy one of a row of very small houses in the suburbs of London. I am a thoroughly domesticated man, and notwithstanding that my occupation necessitates absence from my dwelling between the hours of 9 A.M. and 5 P.M., my heart is usually at home with my diminutive household. My wife and I love regularity and quiet above all things; and although, since the arrival of my son and heir, we have not enjoyed that perfect peace which was ours during the first years of our married life, yet his powerful little lungs, I am bound to say, have failed to make ours a noisy house.

Up to the time when the incident occurred which I am going to tell you about our regularity had remained undisturbed, and we got up, went to bed, dined, breakfasted, and took tea at the same time, day after day. Well, as I say, we had been going on in this clockwork fashion for a considerable time, when the other morning the postman brought a letter to our door, and on looking at the direction, I found that it came from an old, rich, and very eccentric uncle of mine, with whom—hem! for certain reasons, we wished to remain on the best of terms.

"What can Uncle Martin have to write about?" was our simultaneous exclamation. "The present for baby at last, I do believe, James," added my wife; "a cheque, perhaps, or——" I opened the letter and read:—

"MARTIN HOUSE, HERTS., "October 17th.

"DEAR NEPHEW,—You may perhaps have heard that I am forming an aviary here. A friend in Rotterdam has written to me to say that he has sent by the boat, which will arrive in London to-morrow afternoon, a very intelligent parrot and a fine stork. As the vessel arrives too late for them to be sent on the same night, I shall be obliged by your taking the birds home, and forwarding them to me the next morning. With my respects to your good lady,

"I remain,

"Your affectionate Uncle,

"RALPH MARTIN."

We looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then my wife said, "James, what is a stork?"

"A stork, my dear, is a—a—sort of ostrich, I think."

"An ostrich! why that's an enormous——"

"Yes, my dear, the creature that puts its head in the sand, and kicks when it's pursued, you know."

"James, the horrid thing shall not come here! If it should kick baby we should never forgive ourselves."

"No, no, my dear, I don't think the stork is at all ferocious. No, it can't be. Stork! stork! I always associate storks with chimneys. Yes, abroad, I think in Holland, or Germany, or somewhere, the stork sweeps the chimneys with its long legs from the top. But let's see what the Natural History says, my dear. That will tell us all about it. Stork—um—um—'hind toe short, middle toe long, and joined to the outer one by a large membrane, and by a smaller one to the inner toe.' Well, that won't matter much for one night, will it, dear? 'His height often exceeds four feet.'"

"Four feet!!!" interrupted my wife. "James, how high are you?"

"Well, my dear, really, comparisons are exceedingly disagreeable—um—um—'appetite extremely voracious,' and his food—hulloa! 'frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels!'"

"Frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels," repeated my wife. "James, do you expect me to provide supper and breakfast of this description for the horrid thing?"

"Well, my dear, we must do our best for baby's sake, you know, for baby's sake," and, getting my hat, I left as usual for the office. I passed anything but a pleasant day there, my thoughts constantly reverting to our expected visitors. At four o'clock I took a cab to the docks, and on arriving there inquired for the ship, which was pointed out to me as "the one with the crowd on the quay." On driving up I discovered why there was a crowd, and the discovery did not bring comfort with it. On the deck, on one leg, stood the stork. Whether it was the sea voyage, or the leaving his home, or, that being a stork of high moral principle, he was grieving at the persistent swearing of the parrot, I do not know, but I never saw a more melancholy looking object in my life.

I went down on the deck, and did not like the expression of relief that came over the captain's face when he found what I had come for. The transmission of the parrot from the ship to the cab was an easy matter, as he was in a cage; but the stork was merely tethered by one leg; and although he did his best, when brought to the foot of the ladder, in trying to get up, he failed utterly, and had to be half shoved, half hauled all the way. Even then he persisted in getting outside of every bar—like this. After a great deal of trouble we got him to the top. I hurried him into the cab, and telling the man to drive as quickly as possible, got in with my guests. At first I had to keep dodging my head about to keep my face away from his bill, as he turned round; but all of a sudden he broke the little window at the back of the cab, thrust his head through, and would keep it there, notwithstanding that I kept pulling him back. Consequently when we drove up to my house there was a mob of about a thousand strong around us. I got him in as well as I could, and shut the door.

How can I describe the spending of that evening? How can I get sufficient power out of the English language to let you know what a nuisance that bird was to us? How can I tell you of the cool manner in which he inspected our domestic arrangements, walking slowly from room to room, and standing on one leg till his curiosity was satisfied, or how describe the expression of wretchedness that he threw over his entire person when he was tethered to the banisters, and found out that, owing to our limited accommodation he was to remain in the hall all night, or picture the way in which he ate the snails specially provided for him, verifying to the letter the naturalist's description of his appetite. How can you who have not had a stork staying with you have any idea of the change that came over his temper after his supper, how he pecked at everybody who came near him; how he stood sentinel at the foot of the stairs; how my wife and I made fruitless attempts to get past, followed by ignominious retreats; how at last we outmanoeuvred him by throwing a tablecloth over his head, and then rushing by him, gained the top of the stairs before he could disentangle himself.

Added to all this we had to endure language from that parrot which was really shocking: indeed, so scurrilous did he become that we had at last to take him and lock him up in the coal-hole, where, owing to the darkness of his bedroom, or from fatigue, he presently swore himself to sleep.

Well, by this time, we were quite ready for rest, and the forgetfulness which, we hoped, sleep would bring with it; but our peace was not to last long. About 2 A.M. my wife clutched my hair and woke me up. "James, James, listen!" I listened. I heard a sort of scrambling noise outside the door. "The water running into the cistern, my dear," I said sleepily.

"James, don't be absurd; that horrid thing has broken its string, and is coming upstairs."

I listened again. It really sounded like it.

"James, if you don't go at once, I must. You know the nursery door is always left open, and if that horrid thing should get in to baby——"

"But, my dear," said I, "what am I to do in my present defenceless state of clothing, if he should take to pecking?"

My wife's expression of contempt at the idea of considering myself before the baby determined me at once, come what might, to go and do him battle. Out I went, and there, sure enough, he was on the landing resting himself after his unusual exertion by tucking up one leg. He looked so subdued that I was about to take him by the string and lead him downstairs, when he drew back his head, and in less time than it takes to relate, I was back in my room, bleeding from a severe wound in the leg. I shouted out to the nurse to shut the door, and determined to let the infamous bird go where he liked. I bound up my leg and went to bed again; but the thought that there was a stork wandering about the house prevented me from getting any more sleep. From certain sounds that we heard, we had little doubt that he was spending some of his time in the cupboard where we kept our surplus crockery, and an inspection the next day confirmed this.

In the morning I ventured cautiously out, and finding he was in our spare bedroom, I shut the door upon him. I then sent for a large sack, and with the help of the tablecloth, and the boy who cleans our boots, we got him into it without any further personal damage. I took him off in this way to the station, and confided him and the parrot to the guard of the early train. As the train moved off, I heard a yell and a very improper expression from the guard. I have reason to believe that the stork had freed himself from the wrapper, and had begun pecking again.

We have determined that, taking our chance about a place in my uncle's will, we will never again have anything to do with any foreign birds, however much he may ask and desire it.



AN UNMUSICAL NEIGHBOUR.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

I once knew a man who was musical mad— A hundred years old was the fiddle he had; I never complained, but whenever he played I wished I had lived when that fiddle was made.



THE CHALICE.

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY.

Swift, storm-scud, raced the morning sky, As light along the road I fared; Stern was the way, yet glad was I, Though feet and breast and brow were bared; For fancy, like a happy child, Ran on before and turned and smiled.

The track grew fair with turf and tree, The air was blithe with bird and flower. Boon nature's gentlest wizardry Was potent with the bounteous hour: A raptured languor o'er me crept; I laid me down at noon and slept.

I woke, and there, as in a dream, Which holds some boding fear of wrong, By fog-bound fen and sluggard stream I dragged my leaden steps along. My blood ran ice; I turned and spied A shrouded figure at my side.

"And who art thou that pacest here?" He answered like a hollow wind, Not heard by any outer ear, But in dim chambers of the mind. "I walk," he said, "in ways of shame, The comrade of thy wasted fame."

A passion clamoured in my breast, For mirthless laughter, and I laughed; In mine the phantom's cold hand pressed A cup, and in self's spite I quaffed. It clung like slime; 'twas black like ink: Death is less bitter than that drink.

"This chalice scarce can fail," said he, "Till thou and I shall fail from earth;' And we will walk in company, And waste the night with shameful mirth. I pledge thy fate; now pledge thou mine." I pledged him in the bitter wine.

"Had'st thou not slept at noon," he said, "Thou should'st have walked in praise and fame. Now loathest thou thine heart and head, And both thine eyes are blind with shame." His voice was like a hollow wind In dim death-chambers in the mind.

He turned; he bared a demon face; He filled the night with ribald song; For many a league, in evil case, We danced our leaden feet along. And every rood, in that foul wine, I pledged his fate: he drank to mine.

"What comfort has thou?" suddenly To me my phantom comrade saith. "I know," said I, "where'er I lie, The end of each man's road is death. I pray that I may find it soon; I weary of night's changeless moon."

Then, in such lays of hideous mirth As never tainted human breath, He cursed all things of human worth— Made mock of life and scorn of death. "Art weary?" quoth he; and said I: "Fain here to lay me down and die."

"Then join," he saith, "my roundelay; Curse God and die, and make an end. Fled is thine hope, and done thy day; The fleshworm is thine only friend. Thy mouth is fouled, and he, I ween, Alone can scour thy palate clean."

I said: "I justify the rod; I claim its heaviest stripe mine own. Did justice cease to dwell with God, Then God were toppled from His throne! Fill up thy chalice to the brink— Thy bitterest, and I will drink."

With looks like any devil's grim, He poured the brewage till it ran With fetid horror at the brim. "Now, drink," he gibed, "and play the man!" He stretched the chalice forth. It stank That my soul failed me, and I drank.

With loathing soul and quivering flesh I drank, and lo! the draught I took Was limpid-clear, and sweet and fresh As ever came from summer brook Or fountain, where the trees have made Long from the sun a pleasant shade.

He hurled the chalice to the sky; A bright hand caught it; and was gone. He blessed me with a sovereign eye, And like a god's his visage shone, And there he took me by the hand, And led me towards another land.



LIVINGSTONE.

Buried in Westminster Abbey, April, 1874.

BY HENRY LLOYD.

With solemn march and slow a soldier comes, In conquest fallen; home we bring him dead; Stand silent by, beat low the muffled drums, Uncover ye, and bow the reverent head.

Where ghostly echoes dwell and grey light falls, Where Kings and Heroes rest in honoured sleep; Their names steel bitten on the sacred walls, Inter his dust, while England bends to weep.

Stir not ye Kings and Heroes in your rest, Lest these poor bones dishonour such as you; This man was both, though nodding plume or crest Ne'er waved above his eye so bright and true.

By no sad orphan is his name abhorred, A hero, yet no battered shield he brings. Nor on his bier a blood encrusted sword; Nor as his trophies Kings, nor crowns of Kings.

War hath its heroes, Peace hath hers as well, Armed by Heaven's King from Heaven's armoury; And this dead man was one, who fought and fell, Life less his choice, than death and victory.

To do his work with purpose iron strong, To loose the captive, set the prisoner free; To heal the hideous sore of deadly wrong Kept festering by greed and cruelty;

Love on his banner, Pity in his heart; His lofty soul moved on with single aim; 'Mid deadly perils bore a noble part, And, dying, left a pure, unsullied name.

Thro' dreary miles of foul eternal swamp, And over lonely leagues of burning sand, He wrought his purpose; Faith his quenchless lamp, And Truth his sword held as in giant's hand.

His lot was as his sorrowing Master's lot, Nowhere to lay his weary honoured head; "My limbs they fail me, and my brow is hot; Build me a hut—wherein—to die," he said.

"Ah, England, I shall see thee nevermore. Farewell, my loved ones, far o'er ocean's foam; Ye watch in vain on that dear mother shore," He looked to Heaven and cried, "I'm going home."

Home, sweetest word that ever man has made, Home, after weariness and toil and pain; Home to his Father's house all unafraid, Home to his rest, no more to weep again.

How found they him, this hero of all time? Dead on his knees, as if at last he said: "Into thy hands, O God!" with faith sublime; And death looked on, scarce knowing he was dead.

O British land, that breedeth sturdy men, Be proud to hold our hero's honoured bones; Land that he wrought for with his life and pen, Write, write his glory in enduring stones.

Tell how he lived and died, how fought and fell, So in the world's glad future, looming dim; The children of the lands he loved so well, Shall learn his name and love to honour him.



IN SWANAGE BAY.

BY MRS. CRAIK.

"'Twas five-and-forty year ago, Just such another morn, The fishermen were on the beach, The reapers in the corn; My tale is true, young gentlemen, As sure as you were born.

"My tale's all true, young gentlemen," The fond old boatman cried Unto the sullen, angry lads, Who vain obedience tried: "Mind what your father says to you, And don't go out this tide.

"Just such a shiny sea as this, Smooth as a pond, you'd say, And white gulls flying, and the crafts Down Channel making way; And the Isle of Wight, all glittering bright, Seen clear from Swanage Bay.

"The Battery Point, the Race beyond, Just as to-day you see; This was, I think, the very stone Where sat Dick, Dolly, and me; She was our little sister, sirs, A small child, just turned three.

"And Dick was mighty fond of her: Though a big lad and bold, He'd carry her like any nurse, Almost from birth, I'm told; For mother sickened soon, and died When Doll was eight months old.

"We sat and watched a little boat, Her name the 'Tricksy Jane,' A queer old tub laid up ashore, But we could see her plain. To see her and not haul her up Cost us a deal of pain.

"Said Dick to me, 'Let's have a pull; Father will never know: He's busy in his wheat up there, And cannot see us go; These landsmen are such cowards if A puff of wind does blow.

"'I've been to France and back three times— Who knows best, dad or me, Whether a ship's seaworthy or not? Dolly, wilt go to sea?' And Dolly laughed and hugged him tight, As pleased as she could be.

"I don't mean, sirs, to blame poor Dick: What he did, sure I'd do; And many a sail in 'Tricksy Jane' We'd had when she was new. Father was always sharp; and what He said, he meant it too.

"But now the sky had not a cloud, The bay looked smooth as glass; Our Dick could manage any boat, As neat as ever was. And Dolly crowed, 'Me go to sea!' The jolly little lass!

"Well, sirs, we went: a pair of oars; My jacket for a sail: Just round 'Old Harry and his Wife'— Those rocks there, within hail; And we came back.——D'ye want to hear The end o' the old man's tale?

"Ay, ay, we came back past that point, But then a. breeze up-sprung; Dick shouted, 'Hoy! down sail!' and pulled With all his might among The white sea-horses that upreared So terrible and strong.

"I pulled too: I was blind with fear; But I could hear Dick's breath Coming and going, as he told Dolly to creep beneath His jacket, and not hold him so: We rowed for life or death.

"We almost reached the sheltered bay, We could see father stand Upon the little jetty here, His sickle in his hand; The houses white, the yellow fields, The safe and pleasant land.

"And Dick, though pale as any ghost, Had only said to me, 'We're all right now, old lad!' when up A wave rolled—drenched us three— One lurch, and then I felt the chill And roar of blinding sea.

"I don't remember much but that: You see I'm safe and sound; I have been wrecked four times since then— Seen queer sights, I'll be bound. I think folks sleep beneath the deep As calm as underground."

"But Dick and Dolly?" "Well, Poor Dick! I saw him rise and cling Unto the gunwale of the boat— Floating keel up—and sing Out loud, 'Where's Doll?'—I hear him yet As clear as anything.

"'Where's Dolly?' I no answer made; For she dropped like a stone Down through the deep sea; and it closed: The little thing was gone! 'Where's Doll?' three times; then Dick loosed hold, And left me there alone.

* * * * *

"It's five-and-forty year since then," Muttered the boatman grey, And drew his rough hand o'er his eyes, And stared across the bay; "Just five-and-forty year," and not Another word did say.

"But Dolly?" ask the children all, As they about him stand. "Poor Doll! she floated back next tide With sea-weed in her hand. She's buried o'er that hill you see, In a churchyard on land.

"But where Dick lies, God knows! He'll find Our Dick at Judgment-day." The boatman fell to mending nets, The boys ran off to play; And the sun shone and the waves danced In quiet Swanage Bay.



BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

BY GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

"O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?" Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. "To know if between the land and the pole I may find a broad sea-way."

"I charge you back, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN, As you would live and thrive; For between the land and the frozen pole No man may sail alive."

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, And spoke unto his men: "Half England is wrong, if he is right; Bear off to westward then."

"O, whither sail you, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?" Cried the little Esquimaux. "Between your land and the polar star My goodly vessels go."

"Come down, if you would journey there," The little Indian said; "And change your cloth for fur clothing, Your vessel for a sled."

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, And the crew laughed with him, too:— "A sailor to change from ship to sled, I ween were something new!"

All through the long, long polar day, The vessels westward sped; And wherever the sails of Sir John were blown, The ice gave way and fled:

Gave way with many a hollow groan, And with many a surly roar; But it murmured and threatened on every side, And closed where he sailed before.

"Ho! see ye not, my merry men, The broad and open sea? Bethink ye what the whaler said, Think of the little Indian's sled!" The crew laughed out in glee.

"Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold, The scud drives on the breeze, The ice comes looming from the north, The very sunbeams freeze."

"Bright summer goes, dark winter comes— We cannot rule the year; But long ere summer's sun goes down, On yonder sea we'll steer."

The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, And floundered down the gale; The ships were stayed, the yards were manned, And furled the useless sail

"The summer's gone, the winter's come, We sail not yonder sea: Why sail we not, SIR JOHN FRANKLIN?" A silent man was he.

"The summer goes, the winter comes— We cannot rule the year." "I ween we cannot rule the ways, Sir John, wherein we'd steer!"

The cruel ice came floating on, And closed beneath the lee, Till the thickening waters dashed no more; 'Twas ice around, behind, before— Oh God! there is no sea!

What think you of the whaler now? What of the Esquimaux? A sled were better than a ship, To cruise through ice and snow.

Down sank the baleful crimson sun, The northern light came out, And glared upon the ice-bound ships, And shook its spears about.

The snow came down, storm breeding storm, And on the decks were laid: Till the weary sailor, sick at heart, Sank down beside his spade.

"Sir John, the night is black and long, The hissing wind is bleak, The hard green ice is strong as death— I prithee, Captain, speak!"

"The night is neither bright nor short, The singing breeze is cold; The ice is not so strong as hope— The heart of man is bold!"

"What hope can scale this icy wall, High o'er the main flag-staff? Above the ridges the wolf and bear Look down with a patient settled stare, Look down on us and laugh."

"The summer, went, the winter came— We could not rule the year; But summer will melt the ice again, And open a path to the sunny main, Whereon our ships shall steer."

The winter went, the summer went, The winter came around: But the hard green ice was strong as death, And the voice of hope sank to a breath, Yet caught at every sound.

"Hark! heard ye not the noise of guns? And there, and there again?" "'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar, As he turns in the frozen main."

"Hurrah! hurrah! the Esquimaux Across the ice-fields steal: God give them grace for their charity!" "Ye pray for the silly seal."

"Sir John, where are the English fields, And where are the English trees, And where are the little English flowers That open in the breeze?"

"Be still, be still, my brave sailors! You shall see the fields again, And smell the scent of the opening flowers, The grass, and the waving grain."

"Oh! when shall I see my orphan child? My Mary waits for me." "Oh! when shall I see my old mother, And pray at her trembling knee?"

"Be still, be still, my brave sailors! Think not such thoughts again." But a tear froze slowly on his cheek; He thought of Lady Jane.

Ah! bitter, bitter grows the cold, The ice grows more and more; More settled stare the wolf and bear, More patient than before.

"Oh! think you, good Sir John Franklin, We'll ever see the land? 'Twas cruel to send us here to starve, Without a helping hand.

"'Twas cruel, Sir John, to send us here, So far from help and home, To starve and freeze on this lonely sea: I ween, the Lord of the Admiralty Would rather send than come."

"Oh! whether we starve to death alone, Or sail to our own country, We have done what man has never done— The truth is found, the secret won— We passed the Northern Sea!"



PHADRIG CROHOORE.

BY JAMES SHERIDAN LE FANU.

Oh, Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy, And he stood six feet eight; And his arm was as round as another man's thigh,— 'Tis Phadrig was great.

His hair was as black as the shadows of night, And it hung over scars got in many a fight. And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud, And his eye flashed like lightning from under a cloud,— And there wasn't a girl from thirty-five under, Sorra matter how cross, but he could come round her; But of all whom he smiled on so sweetly, but one Was the girl of his heart, and he loved her alone. As warm as the sun, as the rock firm and sure, Was the love of the heart of young Phadrig Crohoore. He would die for a smile from his Kathleen O'Brien, For his love, like his hatred, was strong as a lion.

But one Michael O'Hanlon loved Kathleen as well As he hated Crohoore—and that same I can tell. And O'Brien liked him, for they were all the same parties— The O'Hanlons, O'Briens, O'Ryans, M'Carthies; And they all went together in hating Crohoore, For many's the bating he gave them before. So O'Hanlon makes up to O'Brien, and says he: "I'll marry your daughter if you'll give her to me."

So the match was made up, and when Shrovetide came on The company assembled—three hundred if one! The O'Hanlon's, of course, turned out strong on that day, And the pipers and fiddlers were tearing away; There was laughing, and roaring, and jigging, and flinging, And joking and blessing, and kissing and singing, And they were all merry; why not, to be sure, That O'Hanlon got inside of Phadrig Crohoore; And they all talked and laughed, the length of the table, Aiting and drinking while they were able— With the piping and fiddling, and roaring like thunder, Och! you'd think your head fairly was splitting asunder; And the priest shouted, "Silence, ye blabblers, agin," And he took up his prayer-book and was going to begin, And they all held their funning, and jigging, and bawling, So silent, you'd notice the smallest pin falling; And the priest was beginning to read, when the door Was flung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore.

Oh! Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy, And he stood six feet eight; His arm was as big as another man's thigh,— 'Tis Phadrig was great.

As he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye, As a dark cloud moves on through the stars in the sky— None dared to oppose him, for Phadrig was great, Till he stood, all alone, just in front of the seat Where O'Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride, Were seated together, the two side by side. He looked on Kathleen till her poor heart near broke, Then he turned to her father, O'Brien, and spoke, And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud, And his eyes flashed like lightning from under a cloud:

"I did not come here like a tame, crawling mouse; I stand like a man, in my enemy's house. In the field, on the road, Phadrig never knew fear Of his foemen, and God knows he now scorns it here. I ask but your leave, for three minutes or four, To speak to the girl whom I ne'er may see more." Then he turned to Kathleen, and his voice changed its tone, For he thought of the days when he called her his own; And said he, "Kathleen, bawn, is it true what I hear— Is this match your free choice, without threat'ning or fear? If so, say the word, and I'll turn and depart— Cheated once, but once only, by woman's false heart." Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl quite dumb; She tried hard to speak, but the words wouldn't come, For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her, Struck cold on her heart, like the night-wind in winter, And the tears in her blue eyes were trembling to flow, And her cheeks were as pale as the moonbeams on snow. Then the heart of bold Phadrig swelled high in its place, For he knew by one look in that beautiful face, That though strangers and foemen their pledged hands might sever, Her heart was still his, and his only, for ever.

Then he lifted his voice, like an eagle's hoarse call, And cried out—"She is mine yet, in spite of ye all." But up jumped O'Hanlon, and a tall chap was he, And he gazed on bold Phadrig as fierce as could be; And says he—"By my fathers, before you go out, Bold Phadrig Crohoore, you must stand for a bout." Then Phadrig made answer—"I'll do my endeavour;" And with one blow he stretched out O'Hanlon for ever!

Then he caught up his Kathleen, and rushed to the door, He leaped on his horse, and he swung her before; And they all were so bothered that not a man stirred Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard. Then up they all started, like bees in a swarm, And they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm; And they ran, and they jumped, and they shouted galore; But Phadrig or Kathleen they never saw more.

But those days are gone by, and his, too, are o'er, And the grass it grows over the grave of Crohoore, For he wouldn't be aisy or quiet at all; As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall, So he took a good pike—for Phadrig was great— And he died for old Ireland in the year ninety-eight.



CUPID'S ARROWS.

BY ELIZA COOK.

Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day, And besought him to look at his arrow; "'Tis useless," he cried, "you must mend it, I say, 'Tisn't fit to let fly at a sparrow. There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart, For it flutters quite false to my aim; 'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart, And the world really jests at my name.

"I have straighten'd, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare, I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs; 'Tis feather'd with ringlets my mother might wear, And the barb gleams with light from young eyes; But it falls without touching—I'll break it, I vow, For there's Hymen beginning to pout; He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low, That Zephyr might puff it right out."

Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, Till Vulcan the weapon restored; "There, take it, young sir; try it now—if it fail, I will ask neither fee nor reward." The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made, The wounded and dead were untold; But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade, For the arrow was laden with gold.



THE CROCODILE'S DINNER PARTY.

BY E. VINTON BLAKE.

FROM "GOOD CHEER."

A wily crocodile Who dwelt upon the Nile, Bethought himself one day to give a dinner. "Economy," said he, "Is chief of all with me, And shall considered be—as I'm a sinner!"

With paper, pen and ink, He sat him down to think; And first of all, Sir Lion he invited; The northern wolf who dwells In rocky Arctic dells; The Leopard and the Lynx, by blood united.

Then Mr. Fox the shrewd— No lover he of good— And Madam Duck with sober step and stately; And Mr. Frog serene In garb of bottle green, Who warbled bass, and bore himself sedately.

Sir Crocodile, content, The invitations sent. The day was come—his guests were all assembled; They fancied that some guile Lurked in his ample smile; Each on the other looked, and somewhat trembled.

A lengthy time they wait Their hunger waxes great; And still the host in conversation dallies. At last the table's laid, With covered dishes spread, And out in haste the hungry party sallies.

But when—the covers raised— On empty plates they gazed, Each on the other looked with dire intention; Ma'am Duck sat last of all, And Mr. Frog was small;— She softly swallowed him, and made no mention!

This Mr. Fox perceives, And saying, "By your leaves, Some punishment is due for this transgression." He gobbled her in haste, Then much to his distaste, By Mr. Lynx was taken in possession!

The Wolf without a pause, In spite of teeth and claws, Left nothing of the Lynx to tell the story; The Leopard all irate At his relation's fate, Made mince meat of that wolfish monster hoary.

The Lion raised his head; "Since I am king," he said, "It ill befits the king to lack his dinner!" Then on the Leopard sprang, With might of claw and fang, And made a meal upon that spotted sinner!—

Then saw in sudden fear Sir Crocodile draw near, And heard him speak, with feelings of distraction; "Since all of you have dined Well suited to your mind, You surely cannot grudge me satisfaction!"

And sooth, a deal of guile Lurked in his ample smile, As down his throat the roaring lion hasted; "Economy with me, Is chief of all," said he, "And I am truly glad to see there's nothing wasted."



"TWO SOULS WITH BUT A SINGLE THOUGHT."

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

"My soul is at the gate!" The sighing lover said. He wound his arms around her form And kissed her golden head.

"My sole is at the gate!" The maiden's father said. The lover rubbed the smitten part, And from the garden fled.



A RISKY RIDE.

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

"A risky ride," they called it. Lor bless ye, there wasn't no risk: I knew if I gave 'er 'er head, sir, That "Painted Lady" would whisk Like a rocket through all the horses, And win in a fine old style, With "the field" all a-tailin' behind 'er In a kind of a' Indian file.

* * * * *

You didn't know old Josh Grinley— "Old Josh o' the Whitelands Farm," As his father had tilled afore 'im, And his afore 'im.—No harm Ever touched one of the Grinleys When the 'Ollingtons owned the lands; But they ruined themselves through racing, And it passed into other hands. Ain't ye heard how Lord 'Ollington died, sir, On that day when "Midlothian Maid" Broke down when just winning the "Stewards'"? Every farthing he'd left was laid On the old mare's chance; and vict'ry Seemed fairly within his grasp When she stumbled—went clean to pieces. With a cry of despair—a gasp— Lord 'Ollington staggered backwards; A red stream flowed from his mouth, And he died—with the shouts ringing round him: "Beaten by Queen o' the South!" But I'm going on anyhow,—ain't I? I began about my ride; And I'm talking now like a novel Of how Lord 'Ollington died.

Don't ask me to tell how I'm bred, sir; Put my "pedigree" down as "unknown," But a good 'un to go when he's "wanted," From whatever dam he was thrown. Old Joshua—he's been my mother And father all rolled into one;— It was 'im as bred and trained me; Got me "ready" and "fit" to run. It's been whispered he saved my life, sir— Picked me up one winter's night, Wrapped up in a shawl or summat,— The tale's like enough to be right. It's just what he would do,—bless 'im! Yes, I owed every atom to him: So you'll guess how I felt that mornin', When, with eyes all wet and dim, He told me the new folk would give 'im But two weeks to pay his arrears; Then he cried like a little child, sir. When I saw the old fellow's tears, My young blood boiled madly within me; I knew how he'd struggled and fought 'Gainst years of bad seasons and harvests; How nobly but vainly he'd sought To make both ends meet at the "Whitelands." "They never will do it!" I cry. "You've lived all your life at the 'Farm,' Josh, And you'll still live on there till you die! 'Tain't for me to tell stable secrets, But I know—well, just what I know: Go! say that in less than a month, Josh, You'll pay every penny you owe."

* * * * *

"A couple o' hundred" was wanted To pull good old Joshua right; I was only a lad; but I'd "fifty"— My money went that night, Every penny on "Painted Lady" For the "Stakes" in the coming week. I should 'ave backed her afore, sir; But waited for master to speak As to what he intended a-doing, I thought 'twas a "plant"—d'ye see? With a bit o' "rope" in the question, So I'd let "Painted Lady" be. I knew she could win in a canter, As long as there wasn't no "fake." And now—well, I meant that she should win, For poor old Josh Grinley's sake.

* * * * *

The three-year old "Painted Lady" Had never been beat in her life; And I'd always 'ad the mount, sir; But rumours now 'gan to get rife That something was wrong with the "filly". The "bookies" thought everything "square"— For them—so they "laid quite freely" Good odds 'gainst the master's mare! When he'd gone abroad in the summer He had given us orders to train "The Lady" for this 'ere race, sir; We'd never heard from him again. And, seeing the "bookies" a-layin', I thought they knew more than I: But now I thought with a chuckle, Let each look out for his eye. The morning before the race, sir, The owner turned up. With a smile I showed 'im the mare—"There she is, sir, Goin' jist in 'er same old style. We'll win in a common canter, 'Painted Lady' and I, Sir Hugh, As we've always done afore, sir; As we always mean to do."

He looked at me just for a moment, A shade of care seemed to pass All over his handsome features. Then he kicked at a tuft o' grass, In a sort of a pet, then stammered, As he lifted his eyes from his shoes, "I'm sorry, my lad—very sorry, But to-morrow the mare must lose." He turned on his heel. I stood stroking My "Lady's" soft shining skin, Then I muttered, "I'm sorry, sir, very, But to-morrow the mare must win."

* * * * *

I was 'tween two stools, as they say, sir— If I disobeyed orders, Sir Hugh Would "sack" me as safe as a trivet, So I thought what I'd better do. I wasn't so long, for I shouted, "I've hit it! I'll win this 'ere race, And I'll lay fifty pounds to a sov'reign As I don't get the 'kick' from my place."

* * * * *

The day of the race: bell's a-ringin' To clear the course for the start. I gets to an out-o'-way corner; Then, quickly as lightning, I dart My hand 'neath my silken jacket, Pops a tiny phial to my lips, Then off to mount "Painted Lady"— Sharp into the saddle I slips. In a minute or two we were streaming Down the course at a nailing pace; But I lets the mare take it easy, For I feels as I've got the race Well in hand. "No, nothing can touch ye: You'll win!" I cries—"Now then, my dear!" All at once I feels fairly silly; Then I comes over right down queer. I dig my knees into her girths, sir; I let the reins go—then I fall Back faint, and dizzy, and drowsy— "Painted Lady" sweeps on past them all. She can't make out what's a happenin', Flies on—maddened, scared with fright— And wins—by how far? well, don't know, sir, But the rest hadn't come in sight. I was took from the saddle, lifeless; I've heard as they thought me dead; And after I rallied—"'Twas funny! 'Twas curious—very!" they said.

* * * * *

The matter was all hushed up, sir; Sir Hugh dussn't show 'is hands. I'm head "boss" now in the stables. Josh stayed—and died—down at the 'Lands.



ON MARRIAGE.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

Marriage iz a fair transaction on the face ov it.

But thare iz quite too often put up jobs in it.

It iz an old institushun, older than the pyramids, and az phull ov hyrogliphicks that noboddy kan parse.

History holds its tounge who the pair waz who fust put on the silken harness, and promised tew work kind in it, thru thick and thin, up hill and down, and on the level, rain or shine, survive or perish, sink or swim, drown or flote.

But whoever they waz they must hav made a good thing out ov it, or so menny ov their posterity would not hav harnessed up since and drov out.

Thare iz a grate moral grip in marriage; it iz the mortar that holds the soshull bricks together.

But there ain't but darn few pholks who put their money in matrimony who could set down and giv a good written opinyun whi on arth they cum to did it.

This iz a grate proof that it iz one ov them natral kind ov acksidents that must happen, jist az birds fly out ov the nest, when they hav feathers enuff, without being able tew tell why.

Sum marry for buty, and never diskover their mistake; this iz lucky.

Sum marry for money, and—don't see it.

Sum marry for pedigree, and feel big for six months, and then very sensibly cum tew the conclusion that pedigree ain't no better than skimmilk.

Sum marry ter pleze their relashons, and are surprised tew learn that their relashuns don't care a cuss for them afterwards.

Sum marry bekause they hav bin highsted sum where else; this iz a cross match, a bay and a sorrel; pride may make it endurable.

Sum marry for love without a cent in the pocket, nor a friend in the world, nor a drop ov pedigree. This looks desperate, but it iz the strength ov the game.

If marrying for love ain't a suckcess, then matrimony iz a ded beet.

Sum marry bekauze they think wimmin will be skarse next year, and liv tew wonder how the crop holds out.

Sum marry tew get rid of themselfs, and diskover that the game waz one that two could play at, and neither win.

Sum marry the seckond time to git even, and find it a gambling game, the more they put down, the less they take up.

Sum marry tew be happy, and not finding it, wonder whare all the happiness on earth goes to when it dies.

Sum marry, they kan't tell whi, and liv, they kan't tell how.

Almoste every boddy gits married, and it iz a good joke.

Sum marry in haste, and then set down and think it careful over.

Sum think it over careful fust, and then set down and marry.

Both ways are right, if they hit the mark.

Sum marry rakes tew convert them. This iz a little risky, and takes a smart missionary to do it.

Sum marry coquetts. This iz like buying a poor farm, heavily mortgaged, and working the ballance ov yure days tew clear oph the mortgages.



THE ROMANCE OF CARRIGCLEENA.

BY HERCULES ELLIS.

"Oh! wizard, to thine aid I fly, With weary feet, and bosom aching; And if thou spurn my prayer, I die; For oh! my heart! my heart! is breaking: Oh! tell me where my Gerald's gone— My loved, my beautiful, my own; And, though in farthest lands he be; To my true lover's side I'll flee."

"Daughter," the aged wizard said, "For what cause hath thy Gerald parted? I cannot lend my mystic aid, Except to lovers, faithful hearted; My magic wand would lose its might— I could not read my spells aright— All skill would from my soul depart, If I should aid the false in heart."

"Oh! father, my fond heart was true," Cried Ellen, "to my Gerald ever; No change its stream of love e'er knew, Save that it deepened like yon river: True, as the rose to summer sun, That droops, when its loved lord is gone, And sheds its bloom, from day to day, And fades, and pines, and dies away.

"Betrothed, with my dear sire's consent, Each morn beheld my Gerald coming; Each day, in converse sweet, was spent; And, ere he went, dark eve was glooming: But one day, as he crossed the plain, I saw a cloud descend, like rain, And bear him, in its skirts, away— Oh! hour of grief, oh! woeful day!

"They sought my Gerald many a day, 'Mid winter's snow, and summer's blossom; At length, his memory passed away, From all, except his Ellen's bosom. But there his love still glows and grows, Unchanged by time, unchecked by woes; And, led by it, I've made my way, To seek thy aid, in dark Iveagh."

He traced a circle with his wand, Around the spot, where they were standing; He held a volume in his hand, All writ, with spells of power commanding: He read a spell—then looked—in vain, Southward, across the lake of Lene; Then to the east, and western side; But, when he northward looked, he cried—

"I see! I see your Gerald now! In Carrigcleena's fairy dwelling; Deep sorrow sits upon his brow, Though Cleena tales of love is telling— Cleena, most gentle, and most fair, Of all the daughters of the air; The fairy queen, whose smiles of light, Preserves from sorrow and from blight.

"Her love has borne him from thy arms, And keeps him in those fairy regions, Where Cleena blooms in matchless charms, Attended by her fairy legions. Yet kind and merciful's the queen; And if thy woe by her were seen, And all thy constancy were known, Brave Gerald yet might be thine own."

"Oh! father," the pale maiden cried, "Hath he forgotten quite his Ellen? Thinks he no more of Shannon's side, Where love so long had made his dwelling?" "Alas! fair maid, I cannot tell The thoughts that in the bosom dwell; For ah! all vain is magic art, To read the secrets of the heart."

To Carrigcleena Ellen wends, With aching breast, and footsteps weary; Low on her knees the maiden bends, Before that rocky hill of fairy; Pale as the moonbeam is her cheek; With trembling fear she scarce can speak; In agony her hands she clasps; And thus her love-taught prayer she gasps.

"Oh! Cleena, queen of fairy charms, Have mercy on my love-lorn maiden; Restore my Gerald to my arms— Behold! behold! how sorrow laden And faint, and way-worn, here I kneel; And, with clasped hands, to thee appeal: Give to my heart, oh! Cleena give, The being in whose love I live!

"Break not my heart, whose truth you see, Oh! break it not by now refusing; For Gerald's all the world to me, Whilst thou hast all the world for choosing: Oh! Cleena, fairest of the fair, Grant now a love-lorn maiden's prayer; Or, if to yield him you deny, Let me behold him once, and die."

Her prayer of love thus Ellen poured, With streaming eyes and bosom heaving; And, at each faint heart-wringing word, Her soul seemed its fair prison leaving: The linnet, on the hawthorn tree, Stood hushed by her deep misery; And the soft summer evening gale Seemed echoing the maiden's wail.

And now the solid rocks divide, A glorious fairy hall disclosing; There Cleena stands, and by her side, In slumber, Gerald seems reposing: She wakes him from his fairy trance; And, hand in hand, they both advance; And, now, the queen of fairy charms Gives Gerald to his Ellen's arms.

"Be happy," lovely Cleena cried, "Oh! lovers true, and fair, and peerless; All vain is magic, to divide Such hearts, so constant, and so fearless. Be happy, as you have been true, For Cleena's blessing rests on you; And joy, and wealth, and power, shall give, As long as upon earth you live."



THE FALSE FONTANLEE.

BY WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE.

Alas, that knight of noble birth Should ever fall from fitting worth! Alas, that guilty treachery Should stain the blood of Fontanlee!

The king hath lent a listening ear, And blacker grew his face to hear: "By Cross," he cried, "if thou speak right, The Fontanlee is a traitor knight!"

Outstepped Sir Robert of Fontanlee, A young knight and a fair to see; Outstepped Sir Stephen of Fontanlee. Sir Robert's second brother was he; Outstepped Sir John of Fontanlee, He was the youngest of the three.

There are three gloves on the oaken boards, And three white hands on their hilted swords: "On horse or foot, by day or night, We stand to do our father right."

The Baron Tranmere hath bent his knee, And gathered him up the gages three: "Ye are young knights, and loyal, I wis, And ye know not how false your father is.

"Put on, put on your armour bright; And God in heaven help the right!" "God help the right!" the sons replied; And straightway on their armour did.

The Baron Tranmere hath mounted his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; The young Sir Robert lifted his eyes, Looked fairly up in the open skies:

"If my father was true in deed and in word, Fight, O God, with my righteous sword; If my father was false in deed or in word, Let me lie at length on the battle-sward!"

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; Sir Robert's visor is crushed and marred, And he lies his length on the battle-sward.

Sir Stephen's was an angry blade— I scarce may speak the words he said: "Though Heaven itself were false," cried he, "True is my father of Fontanlee!

"And, brother, as Heaven goes with the wrong, If this lying baron should lay me along, Strike another blow for our good renown." "Doubt me not," said the young knight John.

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse, And ridden him down the battle-course; In bold Sir Stephen's best life-blood His spear's point is wet to the wood.

The young knight John hath bent his knee, And speaks his soul right solemnly: "Whatever seemeth good to Thee, The same, O Lord, attend on me.

"What though my brothers lie along, My father's faith is firm and strong: Perchance thy deeply-hid intent Doth need some nobler instrument.

"Let faithless hearts give heed to fear, I will not falter in my prayer: If ever guilty treachery Did stain the blood of Fontanlee,—

"As such an 'if' doth stain my lips, Though truth lie hidden in eclipse,— Let yonder lance-head pierce my breast, And my soul seek its endless rest."

Never a whit did young John yield When the lance ran through his painted shield; Never a whit debased his crest, When the lance ran into his tender breast.

"What is this? what is this, thou young Sir John, That runs so fast from thine armour down?" "Oh, this is my heart's blood, I feel, And it wets me through from the waist to the heel."

Sights of sadness many a one A man may meet beneath the sun; But a sadder sight did never man see Than lies in the Hall of Fontanlee.

There are three corses manly and fair, Each in its armour, and each on its bier; There are three squires weeping and wan, Every one with his head on his hand,

Every one with his hand on his knee, At the foot of his master silently Sitting, and weeping bitterly For the broken honour of Fontanlee.

Who is this at their sides that stands? "Lift, O squires, your heads from your hands; Tell me who these dead men be That lie in the Hall of the Fontanlee."

"This is Sir Robert of Fontanlee, A young knight and a fair to see; This is Sir Stephen of Fontanlee, Sir Robert's second brother was he; This is Sir John of Fontanlee, He was the youngest of the three.

"For their father's truth did they Freely give their lives away, And till he doth home return, Sadly here we sit and mourn."

These sad words they having said, Every one down sank his head; Till in accents strangely spoken, At their sides was silence broken.

"I do bring you news from far, False was the Fontanlee in war! —Unbend your bright swords from my breast, I that do speak do know it best." Wide he flung his mantle free; Lo, it was the Fontanlee!

Then the squires like stricken men Sank into their seats again, And their cheeks in wet tears steeping Fresh and faster fell a weeping.