Humorous Hits and How to Hold an Audience

  PART III

  SERIOUS HITS

  IF WE HAD THE TIME

  BY RICHARD BURTON

  If I had the time to find a place And sit me down full face to face With my better self, that can not show In my daily life that rushes so: It might be then I would see my soul Was stumbling toward the shining goal, I might be nerved by the thought sublime,-- If I had the time!

  If I had the time to let my heart Speak out and take in my life apart, To look about and to stretch a hand To a comrade quartered in no-luck land; Ah, God! If I might but just sit still And hear the note of the whippoorwill, I think that my wish with God's would rhyme,-- If I had the time!

  If I had the time to learn from you How much comfort my word could do; And I told you then of my sudden will To kiss your feet when I did you ill; If the tears aback of the coldness feigned Could flow, and the wrong be quite explained,-- Brothers, the souls of us all would chime, If we had the time!

  By permission of the author and of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee &Shepard Company, Boston.

  THE FOOL'S PRAYER

  BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

  The royal feast was done; the king Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"

  The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before: They could not see the bitter smile Behind the patient grin he wore.

  He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose, "O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!

  "No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!

  "'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 'Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away.

  "These clumsy feet still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heartstrings of a friend.

  "The ill-timed truth we might have kept,-- Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say,-- Who knows how grandly it had rung?

  "Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripe must cleanse them all; But for our blunders,--oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

  "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!"

  The room was hushed; in silence rose The king, and sought his garden cool, And walked apart, and murmured low: "Be merciful to me, a fool!"

  THE EVE OF WATERLOO

  BY LORD BYRON

  There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell;-- But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

  Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or a car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-- But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is--it is the cannon's opening roar!

  * * * * *

  Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

  And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar, And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"

  And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.

  Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn, the marshaling in arms,--the day, Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.

  THE WRECK OF THE JULIE PLANTE

  BY WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND

  On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win' she blow, blow, blow, An' de crew of de wood scow Julie Plante Got scar't an' run below-- For de win' she blow lak hurricane; Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre Wan arpent from de shore.

  De captinne walk on de fronte deck, An' walk de hin' deck, too-- He call de crew from up de hole; He call de cook also. De cook she's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal, Was chambre maid on lumber barge, On de Grande Lachine Canal.

  De win' she blow from nor'--eas'--wes', De sout' win' she blow, too, W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne, Mon cher, w'at shall I do?" Den de captinne t'row de big ankerre, But still the scow she dreef, De crew he can't pass on de shore, Becos' he los' hees skeef.

  De night was dark lak wan black cat, De wave run high an' fas', W'en de captinne tak de Rosie girl An' tie her to de mas'. Den he also tak de life preserve An' jump off on de lak' An' say, "Good-by, ma Rosie, dear, I go drown for your sak."

  Nex' morning very early 'Bout ha'f-pas' two--t'ree--four-- De captinne--scow--an' de poor Rosie Was corpses on de shore. For de win' she blow lak hurricane; Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre Wan arpent from de shore.

  Now, all good wood scow sailor man Tak' warning by dat storm An' go an' marry some nice French girl An' leev on wan beeg farm. De win' can blow lak' hurricane An s'pose she blow some more, You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre So long you stay on shore.

  From "The Habitant," by permission of the publishers, G. P. Putnam'sSons, New York and London.

  FATHER'S WAY

  BY EUGENE FIELD

  My father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth,-- Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth. He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong,-- I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song; But, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue, He'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,--

  [Music]

  Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so, Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know; He never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere way But that I'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay." And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth.

  When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went down To see the
gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town. A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break, And all us children, too,--for _hers_, and _not_ for _William's_ sake! But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so, Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low.

  And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went West, Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest. She was the sunlight in our home,--why, father used to say It wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go away; But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears, Poor father whistled lonesome-like--and went to feed the steers.

  When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot, He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not; And when came death and bore away the one he worshiped so, How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with wo! You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit,-- He'd always stopt his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it.

  I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again,-- To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow men. Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong, And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song! Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago, When he did battle with the griefs he would not have _us_ know!

  I AM CONTENT

  TRANSLATED BY CARMEN SYLVA

  _A spindle of hazelwood had I; Into the mill-stream it fell one day-- The water has brought it me back no more._

  As he lay a-dying, the soldier spake: "I am content! Let my mother be told in the village there, And my bride in the hut be told, That they must pray with folded hands, With folded hands for me." The soldier is dead--and with folded hands, His bride and his mother pray. On the field of battle they dug his grave, And red with his life-blood the earth was dyed, The earth they laid him in. The sun looked down on him there and spake: "I am content."

  And flowers bloomed thickly upon his grave, And were glad they blossomed there. And when the wind in the tree-tops roared, The soldier asked from the deep, dark grave: "Did the banner flutter then?" "Not so, my hero," the wind replied, "The fight is done, but the banner won, Thy comrades of old have borne it hence, Have borne it in triumph hence." Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave: "I am content."

  And again he hears the shepherds pass, And the flocks go wand'ring by, And the soldier asked: "Is the sound I hear, The sound of the battle's roar?" And they replied: "My hero, nay! Thou art dead and the fight is o'er, Our country joyful and free." Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave: "I am content."

  Then he heareth the lovers, laughing, pass, And the soldier asks once more: "Are these not the voices of them that love, That love--and remember me?" "Not so, my hero," the lovers say, "We are those that remember not; For the spring has come and the earth has smiled, And the dead must be forgot." Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave: "I am content."

  _A spindle of hazelwood had I; Into the mill-stream it fell one day-- The water has brought it me back no more._

  THE EAGLE'S SONG

  BY RICHARD MANSFIELD

  The lioness whelped, and the sturdy cub Was seized by an eagle and carried up And homed for a while in an eagle's nest, And slept for a while on an eagle's breast, And the eagle taught it the eagle's song: "To be staunch and valiant and free and strong!"

  The lion whelp sprang from the eerie nest, From the lofty crag where the queen birds rest; He fought the king on the spreading plain, And drove him back o'er the foaming main.

  He held the land as a thrifty chief, And reared his cattle and reaped his sheaf, Nor sought the help of a foreign hand, Yet welcomed all to his own free land!

  Two were the sons that the country bore To the Northern lakes and the Southern shore, And Chivalry dwelt with the Southern son, And Industry lived with the Northern one. Tears for the time when they broke and fought! Tears was the price of the union wrought! And the land was red in a sea of blood, Where brother for brother had swelled the flood!

  And now that the two are one again, Behold on their shield the word "Refrain!" And the lion cubs twain sing the eagle's song, "To be staunch and valiant and free and strong!" For the eagle's beak and the lion's paw, And the lion's fangs and the eagle's claw, And the eagle's swoop and the lion's might, And the lion's leap and the eagle's sight, Shall guard the flag with the word "Refrain!" Now that the two are one again! Here's to a cheer for the Yankee ships! And "Well done, Sam," from the mother's lips!

  BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

  BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

  O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

  And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

  Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

  VIRGINIUS

  BY MACAULAY

  Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide. Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down,-- "Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown. And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child, farewell! The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,-- The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls, Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom, And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. "The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this way; See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey; With all his wit he little deems that spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left: He little deems that, in my hand, I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave; Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow,-- Foul outrage, which thou knowest not,--which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this!" With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died. Then, for a little moment, all the people held their breath; And through the crowded forum was stillness as of death; And in another moment broke forth from one and all A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall; Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife on high: "O dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain; And e'en as Appius Claudius has dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!" So spake the slayer of his child; then where the body lay, Pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went his way. Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead! Ten pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!" He looked upon his clients, but none would work his will; He looked upon his lictors, but they trembled and stood still. And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left; And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home, And there ta'en horse, to tell the camp what deeds are done in Rome.

  THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD

  BY CLEMENT SCOTT

  Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen! And I'll tell y
ou a simple story of what women do for men. It's only a tale of a life-boat, of the dying and the dead, Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head! Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south; Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oyster-mouth; It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way, And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.

  Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone, In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone; It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men. When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he! Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea, Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said, Had saved some hundred lives apiece--at a shilling or so a head!

  So the father launched the life-boat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar, And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar. Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons! Leaving the weeping women, and booming of signal guns; Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love; Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above! Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed, For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?

  It didn't go well with the life-boat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew! And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew; And then the anchor parted--'twas a tussle to keep afloat! But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat. Then at last on the poor doomed life-boat a wave broke mountains high! "God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-by!" Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves, But the father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.

  Up at the lighthouse window two women beheld the storm, And saw in the boiling breakers a figure,--a fighting form; It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath; It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death; It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships. They had seen the launch of the life-boat, they had seen the worst, and more, Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.

  There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand, Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land. 'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave, But what are a couple of women with only a man to save? What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven men Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir-- and then Off went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent, Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!

  "Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper. "For God's sake, girls, come back!" As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack. "Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea, "If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!" "Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale, "You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!" "_Come back?_" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town. We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!"

  "Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand! Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land! Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more, And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore." Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast, They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest-- Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed, And many a glass was tossed right off to "The Women of Mumbles Head!"

  WILLIAM TELL AND HIS BOY

  BY WILLIAM BAINE

  "Place there the boy," the tyrant said; "Fix me the apple on his head. Ha! rebel, now! There's a fair mark for your shaft; To yonder shining apple waft An arrow." And the tyrant laughed. With quivering brow. Bold Tell looked there; his cheek turned pale; His proud lips throbbed as if would fail Their quivering breath. "Ha! doth he blanch?" fierce Gesler cried, "I've conquered, slave, thy soul of pride." No voice to that stern taunt replied, All mute as death.

  "And what the meed?" at length Tell asked. "Bold fool, when slaves like thee are tasked, It is my will. But that thine eye may keener be, And nerved to such nice archery, If thou cleav'st yon, thou goest free. What! pause you still? Give him a bow and arrow there One shaft--but one." Gleams of despair Rush for a moment o'er the Switzer's face: Then passed away each stormy trace, And high resolve came in their place, Unmoved, yet flushed, "I take thy terms," he muttered low, Grasped eagerly the proffered bow-- The quiver searched, Sought out an arrow keen and long, Fit for a sinewy arm, and strong, And placed it on the sounding thong The tough yew arched.

  He drew the bow, whilst all around That thronging crowd there was no sound, No step, no word, no breath. All gazed with an unerring eye, To see the fearful arrow fly; The light wind dies into a sigh, And scarcely stirred. Afar the boy stood, firm and mute; He saw the strong bow curved to shoot, But never moved. He knew the daring coolness of that hand He knew it was a father scanned The boy he loved.

  The Switzer gazed--the arrow hung "My only boy!" sobbed on his tongue; He could not shoot. "Ha!" cried the tyrant, "doth he quail? Mark how his haughty brow grows pale!" But a deep voice rung on the gale-- "Shoot in God's name!" Again the drooping shaft he took, And turned to Heaven one burning look, Of all doubts reft. "Be firm, my boy!" was all he said. The apple's left the stripling's head. Ha! Ha! 'tis cleft! And so it was, and Tell was free. Quick the brave boy was at his knee With rosy cheek.

  His loving arms his boy embrace; But again that tyrant cried in haste, "An arrow in thy belt is placed; What means it? Speak"; The Switzer raised his clenched hand high, Whilst lightning flashed across his eye Incessantly. "To smite thee, tyrant, to the heart, Had Heaven willed it that my dart Had touched my boy." "Rebellion! Treason! chain the slave!" A hundred swords around him wave, Whilst hate to Gesler's features gave Infuriate joy.

  But that one arrow found its goal Hid with revenge in Gesler's soul; And Lucerne's lake Heard his dastard soul outmoan When Freedom's call abroad was blown, And Switzerland, a giant grown, Her fetters brake. From hill to hill the mandate flew, From lake to lake the tempest grew, With wakening swell, Till proud oppression crouched for shame, And Austria's haughtiness grew tame And Freedom's watchword was the name of William Tell.

  LASCA

  BY F. DESPREZ

  I want free life and I want fresh air; And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, The crack of the whips like shots in battle, The mellay of horns, and hoofs, and heads That wars, and wrangles, and scatters, and spreads; The green beneath and the blue above, And dash and danger and life and love. And Lasca! Lasca used to ride On a mouse-gray mustang, close to my side, With blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur; I laughed with joy as I looked at her! Little knew she of books or creeds; An _Ave Maria_ sufficed her needs; Little she cared, save to be by my side, To ride with me, and ever to ride, From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide. She was as bold as th
e billows that beat, She was as wild as the breezes that blow; From her little head to her little feet She was swayed, in her suppleness, to and fro By each gust of passion; a sapling pine, That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff, And wars with the wind when the weather is rough, Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. She would hunger that I might eat, Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; But once, when I made her jealous for fun, At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done, One Sunday, in San Antonio, To a glorious girl on the Alamo, She drew from her garter a dear little dagger, And--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger! An inch to the left or an inch to the right, And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night; But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound Her torn _reboso_ about the wound That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

  Her eye was brown,--a deep, deep brown; Her hair was darker than her eye; And something in her smile and frown, Curled crimson lip, and instep high, Showed that there ran in each blue vein, Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, The vigorous vintage of old Spain. The air was heavy, the night was hot, I sat by her side, and forgot--forgot; Forgot the herd that were taking their rest; Forgot that the air was close opprest, That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, In the dead of night or the blaze of noon; That once let the herd at its breath take fright, That nothing on earth can stop the flight; And wo to the rider, and wo to the steed, Who falls in front of their mad stampede! Was that thunder? No, by the Lord! I spring to my saddle without a word. One foot on mine, and she clung behind. Away! on a hot chase down the wind! But never was fox-hunt half so hard, And never was steed so little spared. For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

  The mustang flew, and we urged him on; There was one chance left, and you have but one-- Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; Crouch under his carcass, and take your chance; And if the steers, in their frantic course, Don't batter you both to pieces at once, You may thank your star; if not, good-by To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, And the open air and the open sky, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

  The cattle gained on just as I felt For my old six-shooter, behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we, Clinging together, and--what was the rest? A body that spread itself on my breast, Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, Two lips that hard on my lips were prest; Then came thunder in my ears As over us surged the sea of steers, Blows that beat blood into my eyes, And when I could rise Lasca was dead! I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, And there in earth's arms I laid her to sleep; And there she is lying, and no one knows, And the summer shines and the winter snows; For many a day the flowers have spread A pall of petals over her head; And the little gray hawk that hangs aloft in the air; And the sly coyote trots here and there, And the black snake glides, and glitters, and slides Into the rift in a cotton-wood tree; And the buzzard sails on, And comes and is gone, Stately and still like a ship at sea; And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are like the things that were. Does half my heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

  THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST

  BY S. W. FOSS

  The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth an' uv silk, An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's milk; Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' stovepipe hats were there, An' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't kneel down in prayer.

  The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he slowly riz: "Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, An' as we hev no substitoot, as Brother Moore aint here, Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volunteer?"

  An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of low-toned, rowdy style, Give an interductory hiccup, an' then staggered up the aisle. Then through thet holy atmosphere there crep' a sense er sin, An' through thet air of sanctity the odor uv old gin.

  Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all set on edge: "This man profanes the house of God! W'y this is sacrilege!" The tramp didn't hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, an' gained the organ seat.

  He then went pawin' through the keys, an' soon there rose a strain Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 'lectrify the brain; An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' head an' knees, He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop upon the keys.

  The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high an' dry; It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out into the sky, The ol' church shook an' staggered an' seemed to reel an' sway, An' the elder shouted "Glory!" an' I yelled out "Hooray!"

  An then he tried a tender strain thet melted in our ears, Thet brought up blessed memories and drenched 'em down 'ith tears; An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens 'ith Tabby on the mat, Uv home an' luv an' baby-days an' mother an' all that!

  An' then he struck a streak uv hope--a song from souls forgiven-- Thet burst from prison-bars uv sin an' stormed the gates uv heaven; The morning stars they sung together--no soul wuz left alone-- We felt the universe wuz safe an' God wuz on His throne!

  An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness come again, An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv all the homes uv men; No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs of glad delight, An' then--the tramp, he staggered down an' reeled into the night!

  But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho he never spoke a word, An' it was the saddest story thet our ears had ever heard; He hed tol' his own life history an' no eye was dry the day, W'en the elder rose an' simply said: "My brethren, let us pray."

  By permission of _The Blade_, Toledo, Ohio.

  LIFE COMPARED TO A GAME OF CARDS

  ANONYMOUS

  Life is like a game of cards Which each one has to learn. Each shuffles, cuts and deals a pack, And each a trump does turn.

  Some turn a high card at the top, While others turn a low. Some hold a hand quite flushed with trumps, While others none can show.

  When hearts are trumps we play for love And pleasure decks the hour. No thought of danger ever comes In roses' lovely bower.

  When diamonds chance to turn the pack 'Tis then men play for gold, And heavy sums are won and lost By gamblers young and old.

  When clubs are trumps beware of war On ocean and on land, For fearful things have come to pass When clubs were in the hand.

  But last of all is when the spade is turned by the hand of time, And finishes up the game in every land and clime; No matter how much a man may make or how much a man may save, You'll find the spade turns up at last to dig each player's grave.

  OLD DADDY TURNER

  ANONYMOUS

  This was the picture in front of "Old Daddy Turner's" cabin in theKaintuck quarter the other afternoon: Two colored men sitting on awash-bench, silent and sorrowful; an old dog, sleeping in the sun attheir feet, and a colored woman calling to a boy who was on the fence:"Now, Jeems Henry, you git right down from dat! Doan you know day DaddyTurner am jist on de p'int of dyin' and gwine up to hebben?"

  Here was the picture inside: The poor old, white-headed man lying on hisdying bed, flesh wasted away and strength departed. Near him sat hisfaithful old wife, rocking to and fro and moaning and grieving. Fartheraway was a colored man and woman, solemn-faced and sad-hearted, shakingtheir heads as they cast glances toward the bed. For a long time the oldman lay quiet and speechless, but at length he signed to be propped up.A sun as warm as springtime poured into the room. He took notice of it,and a change came to his face as his eyes r
ested upon his grieving wife.

  "Ize bin gwine back in my mind!" he whispered, as he reached out histhin hand for her to clasp. "Fur ober fo'ty y'ars we's trabbled 'longthe same path. We sung de same songs--we prayed de same prayers--we hadhold of han's when we 'listed in de Gospel ranks an' sot our facesto'rds de golden gates of hebben. Ole woman, Ize gwine to part wid you!Yes, Ize gwine ter leave yer all alone!"

  "O Daddy! Daddy!" she wailed as she leaned over him.

  "Doan't take on so, chile! It's de Lawd's doin's, not mine. To-morrow desun may be as bright an' warm, but de ole man won't be heah. All dearternoon Ize had glimpses of a shady path leadin' down to de shor' of abig broad ribber. Ize seen people gwine down dar to cross ober, an' in aleetle time I'll be wid 'em."

  She put her wrinkled face on the pillow beside his and sobbed, and heplaced his hand on her head and said:

  "It's de Lawd, chile--de bressed Lawd! Chile, Ize tried to be good toyer. You has been good to me. We am nuffin but ole cull'd folk, po' ineberyting, but tryin' to do right by eberybody. "When dey tole me I'dgot to die, I wasn't sartin if de Lawd wanted a po' ole black man likeme up dar. Yes, chile, He will! Dis mawnin' I heard de harps playin', derustle of wings, an' a cloud sorter lifted up an' I got a cl'ar viewright frew de pearly gates. I saw ole slaves an' nayburs dar, an' deywas jist as white as anybody, an' a hundred han's beckoned me to comeright up dar 'mong 'em."

  "O Daddy! I'll be all alone--all alone!" she wailed.

  "Hush, chile! Ize gwine to be lookin' down on ye! Ize gwine to put myhan' on yer head an' kiss ye when yer heart am big wid sorrow; an' whennight shuts down an' you pray to de Lawd, I'll be kneelin' long side ofye. Ye won't see me, but I'll be wid ye. You's old an' gray. It won't belong before ye'll git de summons. In a little time de cloud will lif'fur ye, an' I'll be right dar by de pearly gates to take ye in my arms."

  "But I can't let you go--I will hold you down heah wid me!"

  "Chile! Ize sorry for ye, but Ize drawin' nigh dat shady path! Hark! Ikin h'ah de footsteps of de mighty parade of speerits marchin' down tode 'broad ribber! Dey will dig a grave an' lay my ole bones dar, an' ina week all de world but you will forgit me. But doan' grieve, chile. DeLawd isn't gwine to shet de gates on me 'cause I'm ole an' po' an'black. I kin see dem shinin' way up dar--see our boy at the gate--h'ahde sweetest music dat angels kin play!--Light de lamp, chile, 'cause denight has come!"

  "Oh! he's gwine--he's gwine!" she wailed, as her tears fell upon hisface.

  "Chile! hold my han'! Ober heah am de path! I kin see men an' women an'chil'en marchin' 'long! Furder down am de sunlight. It shines on degreat ribber! Ober de ribber am--de--gates--of----"

  Of heaven! On earth, old and poor and low--beyond the gates, an angelwith the rest.

  THE TRAMP

  ANONYMOUS

  Now, is that any way for to treat a poor man? I just asked for a penny or two; Don't get your back up, and call me a "bum," Because I have nothing to do.

  Once I was strong and handsome, Had plenty of money and clothes: That was afore I tippled, And whisky had painted my nose.

  Down in the Lehigh Valley Me and my people grew. Gentlemen, I was a farmer, And a very good farmer, too.

  Me and my wife, and Nellie,-- Nellie was just sixteen; And she was the prettiest creature That ever that valley had seen.

  Beaux? Why, she had a dozen; They come from near and fur: But they was mostly farmers, And that didn't quite suit her.

  But one of 'em was a New Yorker, Stylish and handsome and tall. Hang him! If I had him I'd-- Well, just let me catch him, that's all.

  Well, he was the fellow for Nellie,-- She didn't know no ill. Her mother tried to prevent it; But you know a young girl's will.

  Well, it's the same old story, Common enough, you'll say: He was a smooth-tongued villain, And he got her to run away.

  About a month or so after, We heard from the poor young thing: He had gone away, and left her Without any wedding-ring.

  Back to our home we brought her,-- Back to her mother's side, Filled with a raging fever; And she fell at our feet, and died.

  Frantic with grief and sorrow, Her mother began to sink: Dead! in less than a fortnight. That's when I took to drink.

  And all I want is a penny or two, Just to help me on my way; And I'll tramp till I find that hell-hound, If it takes till the judgment-day.

  THE DANDY FIFTH

  BY F. H. GASSAWAY

  'Twas the time of the workingmen's great strike, when all the land stood still At the sudden roar from the hungry mouths that labor could not fill; When the thunder of the railroad ceased, and startled towns could spy A hundred blazing factories painting each midnight sky; Through Philadelphia's surging streets marched the brown ranks of toil, The grimy legions of the shops, the tillers of the soil. White-faced militiamen looked on, while women shrank with dread; 'Twas muscle against money then, 'twas riches against bread. Once, as the mighty mob tramped on, a carriage stopt the way, Upon the silken seat of which a young patrician lay; And as, with haughty glance, he swept along the jeering crowd, A white-haired blacksmith in the ranks took off his cap and bowed. That night the Labor League was met, and soon the chairman said, "There hides a Judas in our midst, one man who bows the head, Who bends the coward's servile knee when capital rolls by." "Down with him!" "Kill the traitor cur!" rang out the savage cry. Up rose the blacksmith, then, and held erect his head of gray: "I am no traitor, tho I bowed to a rich man's son to-day; And, tho you kill me as I stand, as like you mean to do,-- I want to tell you a story short, and I ask you'll hear me through. I was one of those who enlisted first, the old flag to defend; With Pope and Halleck, with 'Mac' and Grant, I followed to the end. 'Twas somewhere down on the Rapidan, when the Union cause looked drear, That a regiment of rich young bloods came down to us from here. Their uniforms were by tailors cut; they brought hampers of good wine; And every squad had a servant, too, to keep their boots in shine; They'd naught to say to us dusty 'vets,' and, through the whole brigade We called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth, when we passed them on parade. Well, they were sent to hold a fort that Rebs tried hard to take, 'Twas the key of all our line, which naught while it held out could break. But a fearful fight we lost just then, the reserve came up too late, And on that fort, and the Dandy Fifth, hung the whole division's fate. Three times we tried to take them aid, and each time back we fell, Tho once we could hear the fort's far guns boom like a funeral knell; Till at length Joe Hooker's corps came up, and then straight through we broke; How we cheered as we saw those dandy coats still back of the drifting smoke! With bands all front and our colors spread we swarmed up the parapet, But the sight that silenced our welcome shout I shall never in life forget. Four days before had their water gone,--they had dreaded that the most,-- The next, their last scant ration went, and each man looked a ghost As he stood gaunt-eyed, behind his gun, like a crippled stag at bay, And watched starvation, not defeat, draw nearer every day. Of all the Fifth, not fourscore men could in their places stand, And their white lips told a fearful tale, as we grasped each bloodless hand. The rest in the stupor of famine lay, save here and there a few In death sat rigid against the guns, grim sentinels in blue; And their colonel could not speak or stir, but we saw his proud eye thrill As he simply glanced to the shot-scarred staff where the old flag floated still! Now, I hate the tyrants who grind us down, while the wolf snarls at our door, And the men who've risen from us, to laugh at the misery of the poor; But I tell you, mates, while this weak old hand I have left the strength to lift, I will touch my cap to the proudest swell who fought in the Dandy Fifth!"

  ON LINCOLN

  BY WALT WHITMAN


  O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But, O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen, cold and dead.

  O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! this arm beneath your head! It is some dream, that on the deck you've fallen cold and dead.

  My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful tread Walk the deck my Captain lies, fallen, cold and dead.

  THE LITTLE STOWAWAY

  ANONYMOUS

  "'Bout three years ago, afore I got this berth as I'm in now, I wassecond engineer aboard a Liverpool steamer bound for New York. There'dbeen a lot of extra cargo sent down just at the last minute, and we'd noend of a job stowin' it away, and that ran us late o' startin'; so that,altogether, you may think, the cap'n warn't in the sweetest temper inthe world, nor the mate neither. On the mornin' of the third day outfrom Liverpool, the chief engineer cum down to me in a precious hurry,and says he: 'Tom, what d'ye think? Blest if we ain't found a stowaway!'

  "I didn't wait to hear no more, but up on deck like a sky-rocket; andthere I did see a sight, and no mistake. Every man-Jack o' the crew, andwhat few passengers we had aboard, was all in a ring on the fo'c'stle,and in the middle was the fust mate, lookin' as black as thunder. Rightin front of him, lookin' a reg'lar mite among them big fellers, was alittle bit o' a lad not ten year old--ragged as a scarecrow, but withbright, curly hair, and a bonnie little face o' his own, if it hadn'tbeen so woful and pale. The mate was a great, hulkin', black-beardedfeller with a look that 'ud ha' frightened a horse, and a voice fit tomake one jump through a keyhole; but the young un warn't a bitafeard--he stood straight up, and looked him full in the face with thembright, clear eyes o' his'n, for all the world as if he was PrinceHalferd himself. You might ha' heerd a pin drop, as the mate spoke.

  "'Well, you young whelp,' says he, 'what's brought you here?'

  "'It was my stepfather as done it,' says the boy, in a weak littlevoice, but as steady as he could be. 'Father's dead, and mother'smarried again, and my new father says as how he won't have no bratsabout eatin' up his wages; and he stowed me away when nobody warn'tlookin', and guv me some grub to keep me going' for a day or two till Igot to sea. He says I'm to go to Aunt Jane, at Halifax; and here's heraddress.'

  "We all believed every word on't, even without the paper he held out.But the mate says: 'Look here, my lad; that's all very fine, but itwon't do here--some o' these men o' mine are in the secret, and I meanto have it out of 'em. Now, you just point out the man as stowed youaway and fed you, this very minute; if you don't, it'll be worse foryou!'

  "The boy looked up in his bright, fearless way (it did my heart good tolook at him, the brave little chap!) and says, quietly, 'I've told youthe truth; I ain't got no more to say.'

  "The mate says nothin', but looks at him for a minute as if he'd seeclean through him; and then he sings out to the crew loud enough toraise the dead: 'Reeve a rope to the yard; smart now!'

  "'Now, my lad, you see that 'ere rope? Well, I'll give you ten minutesto confess; and if you don't tell the truth afore the time's up, I'llhang you like a dog!'

  "The crew all stared at one another as if they couldn't believe theirears (I didn't believe mine, I can tell ye), and then a low growl wentamong 'em, like a wild beast awakin' out of a nap.

  "'Silence there!' shouts the mate, in a voice like the roar of anor'easter. 'Stan' by to run for'ard!' as he held the noose ready to putit round the boy's neck. The little fellow never flinched a bit; butthere was some among the sailors (big strong chaps as could ha' felledan ox) as shook like leaves in the wind. I clutched hold o' a handspike,and held it behind my back, all ready.

  "'Tom,' whispers the chief engineer to me, 'd'ye think he really meansto do it?'

  "'I don't know,' says I, through my teeth; 'but if he does, he shall gofirst, if I swings for it!'

  "I've been in many an ugly scrape in my time, but I never felt 'arf asbad as I did then. Every minute seemed as long as a dozen; and the ticko' the mate's watch, reg'lar, pricked my ears like a pin.

  "'Eight minutes,' says the mate, his great, deep voice breakin' in uponthe silence like the toll o' a funeral bell. 'If you've got anything toconfess, my lad, you'd best out with it, for ye're time's nearly up.'

  "'I've told you the truth,' answers the boy, very pale, but as firm asever. 'May I say my prayers, please?'

  "The mate nodded; and down goes the poor little chap on his knees andput up his poor little hands to pray. I couldn't make out what he said,but I'll be bound God heard every word. Then he ups on his feet again,and puts his hands behind him, and says to the mate quite quietly: 'I'mready.'

  "And then, sir, the mate's hard, grim face broke up all to once, likeI've seed the ice in the Baltic. He snatched up the boy in his arms,kissed him, and burst out a-cryin' like a child; and I think therewarn't one of us as didn't do the same. I know I did for one.

  "'God bless you, my boy!' says he, smoothin' the child's hair with hisgreat hard hand. 'You're a true Englishman, every inch of you; youwouldn't tell a lie to save yer life! Well, if so be as yer father'scast yer off, I'll be yer father from this day forth; and if I everforget you, then may God forget me!'

  "And he kep' his word, too. When we got to Halifax, he found out thelittle un's aunt, and gev' her a lump o' money to make him comfortable;and now he goes to see the youngster every voyage, as reg'lar as can be;and to see the pair on 'em together--the little chap so fond of him, andnot bearin' him a bit o' grudge--it's 'bout as pretty a sight as ever Iseed. And now, sir, yer parding, it's time for me to be goin' below; soI'll just wish yer good-night."

  SAINT CRISPIAN'S DAY

  BY SHAKESPEARE

  _King Henry._ What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland?--No, my fair cousin: If we are marked to die, we are enough To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men the greater share of honor. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold; Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It years me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires; But if it be a sin to covet honor I am the most offending soul alive. No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England: God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor, As one man more, methinks, would share from me, For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more. Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse: We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is called--the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tiptoe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, And say,--"_To-morrow is Saint Crispian_": Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars, And say, "_These wounds I had on Crispian's day_." Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day: then shall our names, Familiar in their mouths as household words,-- Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,-- Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd: This story shall the good man teach his son; And _Crispin Crispian_ shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember'd: We
few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed, Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here; And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks That fought with us upon SAINT CRISPIAN'S DAY.

  THE C'RRECT CARD

  BY GEORGE R. SIMS

  "C'rrect card, sir? C'rrect card, sir? What! you've seen my face before?Well I dare say as how you have, sir, and so have many more; but theypasses me by without a word--but perhaps it's just as well; a poorcrippled chap like me, sir, ain't fit company for a swell. But I've seenthe time when they all was proud with me to be talking seen--when I rodefor Lord Arthur Forester, and wore the black and green. How did ithappen ? I'll tell you, sir. You knew little Fanny Flight--old FarmerFlight's one daughter--always so pretty and bright? You used to jokewith her sometimes, sir, and say as, if you she'd marry, you'd set up a'pub' together, an' pitch your folks to Old Harry. You was just down forthe holidays, sir, from Oxford, where you were at school; but _you_ onlyplayed at being in love, while I ... was a cursed fool! Well, there werelots of 'm after her, sir, what with her ways and face; but I was inearnest, you see, sir, and rode a waiting race. 'Twas one fine Aprilmorning, when she came out to see us train, and just as she stood withher little hand holding on by my horse's mane, I felt as how I could doit, and came with a rush, you see, an' I said to her--all of a tremble,sir,--'Fan, will you marry me?' And she blushed an' smiled, an'whinnied, and after a bit she agreed that as soon as I found the moneyto pay for our keep and feed, why we'd run in harness together. We'd ha'made a tidyish pair; for I weren't a bad looking colt at the time, and_she_--such a nice little mare! Such a mouth! such a forehead! suchaction! Ah, well, let 'em say what they may, that's the sort to makerunning with us, sir,--tho, hang it! they never can _stay_.

  "Well, the time went on, and I rode my best, an' they called me a'cuteish' chap, and Lord Arthur put me up to ride for the LeicestershireHandicap. Lord Arthur, he was a _gentleman_--never was stingy ormean--an' he said, 'I'll give you five hundred, my man, if you win withthe black and green.' Well, the horse I rode was Rasper; perhaps youremember him?--Black all but one white foot, sir; _and_ a temper!--he'dpull like sin. But jump like a bird if he had a mind--plenty of powerand pace--and I knew he had it in him, and I swore I'd win the race. Thenight before the race came off I went down to Farmer Flight's--they'dgot to expect me regular now on Tuesday and Friday nights--and I toldher what Lord Arthur said, and how, if I chanced to win, we'd go intodouble harness on the strength of his lordship's tin. An' she put mycolors in her hair, and her arms around my neck, and I felt ... but,hang it! a chap's a fool as can't keep his feelings in check. But then,you sees, sir, I _was_ a fool--a big one as ever was seen--but then Iwas only twenty when I rode in the black and green. I got up early nextmorning, an' felt as light as a feather, and I went to start for thestables; and mother she asked me whether I'd not take my flask in mypocket, in case it might come in handy; but 'Mother,' I says, 'when achap's in love, he don't feel to want any brandy.' And I thought, as Iput on a new pair o' spurs, and a jacket bran new and clean, that I'dgive long odds that I'd pull it off--ten to one on the black and green.Well, Lord Arthur gave me my orders, and a leg up on to my horse, and Ijust had taken my canter an' was coming back up the course, when whoshould I spy but Fanny, in a stylish sort of a trap, talking away likeblazes to a dark, long-whiskered chap; but I hadn't time to think ofmore, for we got the word to start, and Rasper gave a thundering tearthat nearly pulled out my heart; an' then I pulled him together, formine was a waiting race, and I knew that what was to win it was Rasper'spluck not pace. Well, I got round all right the first time; the fenceswere easy enough--at least to a couple like _we_ were; the only one thatwas tough was a biggish hedge, with a post and rails; but the taking-offwas fair, and I shouldn't call it a dangerous jump, as long as you tookit with care. And Rasper! that very morning I said to Lord Arthur, Isaid, 'I think as that horse there could jump a _church_, if he took thething into his head'; an' that morning he went like a lady and looked asbright as a bean, and I knew, if it only lasted, I'd win with the blackand green. I was riding Rasper easy, when, just as we passed the stand,it struck me the carriage that Fanny was in was somewhere upon my righthand; and I took a pull at Rasper, and a glance toward that side, and Isaw what made me forget the race and forget the way to ride--only akiss! An' what's a kiss to the like of him and her? But I could not helpletting Rasper feel that I wore a long-necked spur; an' tho I set myteeth to be cool and steadied him with the rein, I knew that the devilin Rasper was up, and couldn't be laid again; an' the very next fence,tho I kept him straight, and he went at it after the rest, I could feelthat he meant to do his worst, and I couldn't ride my best. For, youknow, when a man feels desperate-like, he's no more head than a child,and it's all _up_ with a jock, you see, if he goes at his fences wild.Over the next fence--over the next--till I thought, as my teeth I set,if I only could keep my head to my work, I might pull through with ityet; and I took a pull at Rasper, an' fell back a bit to the tail, forI'd never forget the one difficult spot--the hedge with the post andrail. How it all comes back! We're in the field--now for a rattlingburst; for the race is half won by the horse and man that crosses thatfence first. I run up to my horses and pass them--I've given Rasper hishead; I can hear, some lengths behind me, the trampling and the tread;and now I send him at it firmly but not too fast--he stops--lays hisears back--REFUSES! _The devil's come out at last!_ And I dig in thesteel and let him feel the sting of stout whalebone, and I say, 'Youshall do it, you devil! if I break your neck and my own.' And the brutegives a squeal, and rushes at the post and rail like mad--no time torise him at it--not much use if I had; and then ... well, I feel a crashand a blow, and hear a woman scream, and I seem to be dying by inches ina horrid sort of a dream.

  "No, thank ye--I'd rather not, sir. You see they ain't all like you;these gents as has plenty of money don't care who they gives it to; butas for stopping an' saying a word, an' hearing a fellow's tale, they'drather give him a crown, sir, or stand him a quart of ale. But it bringsback old times to be talking to you. Ah! the jolly old times as I'veseen, when I rode for Lord Arthur (c'rrect card, sir?) and wore theblack and green!"

  THE ENGINEER'S STORY

  BY ROSA H. THORPE

  No, children, my trips are over, The engineer needs rest; My hand is shaky; I'm feeling A tugging pain i' my breast; But here, as the twilight gathers, I'll tell you a tale of the road, That'll ring in my head forever, Till it rests beneath the sod.

  We were lumbering along in the twilight, The night was drooping her shade, And the "Gladiator" labored,-- Climbing the top of the grade; The train was heavily laden, So I let my engine rest, Climbing the grading slowly, Till we reached the upland's crest.

  I held my watch to the lamplight,-- Ten minutes behind the time! Lost in the slackened motion Of the up-grade's heavy climb; But I knew the miles of the prairie That stretched a level track, So I touched the gauge of the boiler, And pulled the lever back.

  Over the rails a-gleaming, Thirty an hour, or so, The engine leaped like a demon, Breathing a fiery glow; But to me--a-hold of the lever-- It seemed a child alway, Trustful and always ready My lightest touch to obey.

  I was proud, you know, of my engine, Holding it steady that night, And my eye on the track before us, Ablaze with the Drummond light. We neared a well-known cabin, Where a child of three or four, As the up train passed, oft called me, A-playing around the door.

  My hand was firm on the throttle As we swept around the curve, When something afar in the shadow Struck fire through every nerve. I sounded the brakes, and crashing The reverse-lever down in dismay, Groaning to heaven,--eighty paces Ahead was the child at its play!

  One instant,--one, awful and only, The world flew round in my
brain, And I smote my hand hard on my forehead To keep back the terrible pain; The train I thought flying forever, With mad, irresistible roll, While the cries of the dying, the night-wind Swept into my shuddering soul.

  Then I stood on the front of the engine-- How I got there I never could tell-- My feet planted down on the crossbar, Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, One hand firmly locked on the coupler, And one held out in the night, While my eye gauged the distance, and measured The speed of our slackening flight.

  My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady; I saw the curls of her hair, And the face that, turning in wonder, Was lit by the deadly glare. I know little more--but I heard it-- The groan of the anguished wheels, And remember thinking--the engine In agony trembles and reels.

  One rod! To the day of my dying I shall think the old engine reared back, And as it recoiled, with a shudder I swept my hand over the track; Then darkness fell over my eyelids, But I heard the surge of the train, And the poor old engine creaking, As racked by a deadly pain.

  They found us, they said, on the gravel, My fingers enmeshed in her hair, And she on my bosom a-climbing, To nestle securely there. We are not much given to crying-- We men that run on the road-- But that night, they said, there were faces With tears on them, lifted to God.

  For years in the eve and the morning, As I neared the cabin again, My hand on the lever prest downward And slackened the speed of the train. When my engine had blown her a greeting, She always would come to the door; And her look with a fulness of heaven Blesses me evermore.

  THE FACE UPON THE FLOOR

  BY H. ANTOINE D'ARCY

  'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there, Which well-nigh filled Joe's barroom on the corner of the square; And as songs and witty stories came through the open door, A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

  "Where did it come from?" some one said. "The wind has blown it in." "What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, rum or gin?" "Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach's equal to the work-- I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk."

  This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace; In fact, he smiled as tho he thought he'd struck the proper place. "Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd-- To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

  "Give me a drink--that's what I want--I'm out of funds, you know, When I had the cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow. What? You laugh as tho you thought this pocket never held a sou, I once was fixt as well, my boys, as any one of you.

  "There, thanks; that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all; Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call. _Give you a song?_ No, I can't do that, my singing days are past; My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

  "Say! give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do-- I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too. That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think; But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

  "Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame-- Such little drinks, to a bum like me, are miserably tame; Five fingers--there, that's the scheme--and corking whisky, too. Well, here's luck, boys; and landlord, my best regards to you.

  "You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now. As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health, And but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

  "I was a painter--not one that daubed on bricks and wood, But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good. I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise, For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

  "I made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame,' It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name. And then I met a woman--now comes the funny part-- With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

  "Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me; But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given, And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven.

  "Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give, With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live; With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-nor, and a wealth of chestnut hair? If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

  "I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May, Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way; And Madeline admired it, and, much to my surprize, Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

  "It didn't take long to know him, and before a month had flown, My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone; And ere a year of misery had passed above my head, The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead.

  "That's why I took to drink, boys. Why I never saw you smile, I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while. Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear-drop in your eye, Come, laugh like me; 'tis only babes and women that cry.

  "Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad, And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad. Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score-- You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor."

  Another drink, and, with chalk in hand, the vagabond began To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man. Then as he placed another look upon the shapely head, With a fearful shriek he leaped and fell across the picture dead.

  THE FUNERAL OF THE FLOWERS

  BY T. DE WITT TALMAGE

  The summer is ended, and we have all been invited to attend the Funeralof the Flowers. It occurred on a long slope which at one side dipt intothe warm valleys, and on the other side arose very high into the frostyair, so that on one boundary line lived cactus and orange-blossom andcamellia, and on the other resided balsam-pine and Alpine strawberry,and all kinds of growths between.

  Living midway that steep slope of land there was a rose, that in commonparlance we called "Giant of Battle." It was red and fiery, looking asif it had stood on fields of carnage where the blood dashed to the lip.It was a hero among flowers. Many of the grasses of the field worshipedit as a god, the mignonette burning incense beneath it, the marigoldthrowing glittering rays of beauty before it, the mistletoe crawling atits feet. The fame of this Giant of Battle was world-wide, and somesaid that its ancestors on the father's side had stood on the plains ofWaterloo, and on its mother's side at Magneta, and drank themselvesdrunk on human gore. But children are not to blame for what theirancestors do, and this rose, called Giant of Battle, was universallyadored.

  But the Giant got sick. Whether it was from the poisonous breath of theNightshade that had insolently kissed him, or from grief at the loss ofa Damask-rose that had first won his heart by her blushes, and thendied, we know not; but the Giant of Battle was passing rapidly away.There was great excitement up and down the slopes. A consultation ofbotanical physicians was called, and Doctor Eglantine came and thrust athorn for a lancet into the Giant's veins, on the principle that he hadtoo much blood and was apoplectic, and Doctor Balm of Gilead attemptedto heal the pain by poultices; but still the Giant grew worse and worse.The Primrose called in the evening to see how the dying hero was, andthe Morning-glory stopt before breakfast to see if it could do any good.Every flower or grass that called had a prescription for him that wouldsurely cure. Neighbor Horse-sorrel suggested acids, and Honeysuckleproposed sugars, and Myrrh suggested bitters, and Ladies'-slipper,having taken off her shoes, said all the patient wanted was more quietabout the room.

  But too much changing of medicine only made the Gi
ant more and moresick, and one afternoon, while sitting up in bed with a cup ofhoneysuckle to his lips, and with the fan of the south wind flutteringin his face, his head dropt and he died. As the breath went out of him aClematis that had been overlooking the sad scene, said: "What time isit?" and a cluster of Four-o'clocks answered, "A little past the middleof the afternoon."

  The next morning the funeral bells all rang: the Blue-bells and theCanterbury-bells and the Fox-glove-bells and Hare-bells and all theflowerdom came to the obsequies of the Giant of Battle. He was laid outon a trellis, and on a catafalque, such as dead monarchs never had, ofdahlia and phlox and magnolia and geranium and gladiola. There was agreat audience of flowers. Solemnity came down upon them. Even theCock's-comb stopt strutting, and Larkspur ceased her fickleness, andSnapdragon looked gentle, and Snowdrop seemed to melt, andBachelor's-button wished it had some one to express its grief to. ThePassion-flower came in and threw herself on the pale cheek of the Giantwith most ardent demonstration of affection. Amaranth and Hydrangea andDaffodil and Spiderwort and Spiraea having come far from the night anddew, stood around with their eyes full of tears.

  The funeral services began. Rose of Sharon and Lily of the Valley tookpart in them. The Star of Bethlehem sang a hymn to the tune of BonnyDoon. Forget-me-not said a few words of commemoration. Then Heartseasearose for the work of comfort, and read the lesson of the day: "As aflower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it,and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more." And allthe bells, Fox-glove-bells and Blue-bells and Canterbury-bells andHare-bells, prolonged the strain through all that day, tolling, tollingout, "No more! no more!"

  CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY

  BY JOSEPH ADDISON

  It must be so: Plato, thou reasonest well! Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or, whence this secret dread and inward horror Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis Heaven itself, that points out an hereafter And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

  OPPORTUNITY

  BY JOHN J. INGALLS

  Master of human destinies am I Fame, love and fortune, on my footsteps wait. Cities and fields I walk, I penetrate Deserts and seas remote--and passing by Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late, I knock unbidden once at every gate-- If sleeping, wake, if feasting, rise, before I turn away. It is the hour of fate And they who follow me, reach every state

  Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death: but those who doubt or hesitate Condemned to failure, penury and wo, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore; I answer not and I return no more.

  OPPORTUNITY'S REPLY

  BY WALTER MALONE

  They do me wrong who say I come no more, When once I knock and fail to find you in: For every day I stand outside your door, And bid you wake and rise to fight and win.

  Wail not for precious changes passed away; Weep not for golden ages on the wane; Each night I burn the records of the day; At sunrise every soul is born again.

  Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped; To vanished joys be blind, and deaf and dumb; My judgments seat the dead past with its dead, But never bind a moment yet to come.

  THE ERL-KING

  BY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

  (_Translated by Sir Walter Scott_)

  Oh, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild? It is the fond father embracing his child, And close the boy nestles within his loved arm, To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm.

  "O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says; "My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?" "Oh, 'tis the Erl-king with his crown and his shroud." "No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud."

  "Oh, come and go with me, thou loveliest child; By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled; My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy, And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy."

  "O father, my father, and did you not hear The Erl-king whisper so low in my ear?" "Be still, my heart's darling--my child, be at ease; It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees."

  "Oh, wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy? My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy; She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and thro' wild, And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child."

  "O father, my father, and saw you not plain, The Erl-king's pale daughter glide past thro' the rain?" "Oh, yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon; It was the gray willow that danced to the moon."

  "Oh, come and go with me, no longer delay, Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away." "O father! O father! now, now keep your hold, The Erl-king has seized me--his grasp is so cold!"

  Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild, Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child. He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread, But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead!

  CARCASSONNE

  BY M. E. W. SHERWOOD

  How old I am! I'm eighty years. I've worked both hard and long, Yet patient as my life has been, one dearest sight I have not seen, It almost seems a wrong. A dream I had when life was young. Alas! our dreams, they come not true. I thought to see fair Carcassonne, That lovely city, Carcassonne.

  One sees it dimly from the height beyond the mountain blue. Fain would I walk five weary leagues, I do not mind the road's fatigues, Thro' morn and evening's dew. But bitter frosts would fall at night, and on the grapes that withered blight, I could not go to Carcassonne, I never went to Carcassonne.

  They say it is as gay all times as holidays at home. The gentles ride in gay attire, and in the sun each gilded spire Shoots up like those at Rome. The bishop the procession leads, the generals curb their prancing steeds. Alas! I saw not Carcassonne. Alas! I know not Carcassonne. Our vicar's right. He preaches loud and bids us to beware. He says, "Oh, guard the weakest part and most the traitor in the heart Against ambition's snare." Perhaps in autumn I can find two sunny days with gentle wind, I then could go to Carcassonne, I still could go to Carcassonne.

  My God and Father, pardon me, if this my wish offends. One sees some hope more high than he in age, as in his infancy To which his heart ascends. My wife, my son have seen Narbonne, my grandson went to Perpignan, But I have not seen Carcassonne, But I have not seen Carcassonne.

  Thus sighed a peasant bent with age, half dreaming in his chair. I said, "My friend, come, go with me to-morrow; thine eyes shall see those streets That seem so fair." That night there came for passing soul the church-bell's low and solemn toll. He never saw gay Carcassonne. Who has not known a Carcassonne?

  THE MUSICIANS

  ANONYMOUS

  The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure, And I laughed when the music fell on my ear, For he and Mirth played a joyful measure, And they played so loud that I could not hear The wailing and mourning of souls a-weary, The strains of sorrow that sighed around; The notes of my heart sang blithe and cheery, And I heard no other sound. Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers, But sometimes a discord was heard by others Tho only the rhythm was heard by me. Louder and louder and faster and faster, The hands of those brothers played strain on strain, Till, all of a sudden a mighty master Swept them aside, and Pain, Pain, the Musician, the soul refiner, Resting the strings of my quivering heart; And the air that he played was a plaintive minor, So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start. Each note was an echo of awful anguish, As shrill, as solemn, as sad as slow, And my soul for a season seemed to languish
And faint with its weight of wo. With skilful hands that were never weary, This master of music played strain on strain; And between the bars of the Miserere He drew up the strings of my heart again. And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder To see that they did not break in two; They are drawn so tight they will snap asunder I thought, but instead they grew In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger, And I could hear on the stilly air; Now my ears were deafened by mirth no longer, The sounds of sorrow, and grief and despair. And my soul grew tender and kind to others; My nature grew sweeter and my mind grew broad And I held all men to be my brothers, Linked by the chastening rod, My soul was lifted to God and heaven, And when on my heart-strings fell again The hands of Mirth and Pleasure, even, There was no _discord_ to mar the strain, For Pain, the Musician, the soul refiner, Attuned the strings with a master hand, And whether the music be major or minor, It is always _sweet_ and grand.

  ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK

  ANONYMOUS

  The sun had set, and in the distant west The last red streaks had faded; night and rest Fell on the earth; stilled was the cannon's roar; And many a soldier slept to wake no more. 'Twas early spring--a calm and lovely night-- The moon had flooded all the earth with light. On either side the Rappahannock lay The armies; resting till the break of day Should call them to renew the fight. So near Together were the camps that each could hear The other's sentry call. And now appear The blazing bivouac fires on every hill, And save the tramp of pickets all is still. Between those silent hills in beauty flows The Rappahannock. How its bosom glows! How all its sparkling waves reflect the light And add new glories to the starlit night! But hark! From Northern hill there steal along The strains of martial music mixed with song: "Star Spangled Banner, may'st thou ever wave, Over the land we shed our blood to save!" And still they sing those words: "Our cause is just. We'll triumph in the end; in God we trust; Star Spangled Banner, wave, forever wave, Over a land united, free and brave!" Scarce had this died away when along The river rose another glorious song: A thousand lusty throats the chorus sing: With "Rally Round the Flag," the hilltops ring. And well they sang. Each heart was filled with joy. From first in rank to little drummer-boy. The loud huzzas and wildest cheers were given, That seemed to cleave the air and reach to heaven. The Union songs, the loud and heartfelt cheers Fall in the Southern camp on listening ears.

  While talking at their scanty evening meal They pause and grasp their trusty blades of steel. Fearless they stand and ready for the fray; Such sounds can startle them, but not dismay. Alas! Those strains of music which of yore Could rouse their hearts are felt by them no more. When the last echo of the song had died And all was silent on the Northern side, There came from Southern hill, with gentle swell, The air of "Dixe," which was loved so well By every man that wore the coat of gray, And is revered and cherished to this day. "In Dixie's Land" they swore to live and die, That was their watchword, that their battle-cry. Then rose on high the wild Confederate yell, Resounding over every hill and dell. Cheer after cheer went up that starry night From men as brave as ever saw the light. Now all is still. Each side has played its part. How simple songs will fire a soldier's heart! But hark! O'er Rappahannock's stream there floats Another tune; but ah! how sweet the notes. Not such as lash men's passions into foam, But--richest gem of song--'tis "Home, Sweet Home!" Played by the band, it reached the very soul, And down the veteran's cheeks the tear-drops stole. On either side the stream, from North and South, Men who would march up to the cannon's mouth Wept now like children. Tender hearts and true Were beating 'neath those coats of gray and blue. The sentry stopt and rested on his gun, While back to home his thoughts unhindered run. He thought of loving wife and children there Deprived of husband's and of father's care. And stripling lads, scarce strong enough to bear The weight of saber or of knapsack, tried To stop their tears with foolish, boyish pride. They might as well have sought to stop the tide!

  Through both those hostile camps the music stole And stirred each soldier to his inmost soul. From North and South, in sympathy, there rose A shout tremendous; forgetting they were foes, Both armies joined and shouted with one voice That seemed to make the very heavens rejoice.

  Sweet music's power! One chord doth make us wild. But change the strain, we weep as little child. Touch yet another, men charge the battery-gun, And by those martial strains a victory's won! But there's one strain that friends and foes will win, One magic touch that makes the whole world kin: No heart so cold, but will, tho far it roam, Respond with tender thrill to "Home, Sweet Home!"

  COMO

  BY JOAQUIN MILLER

  The red-clad fishers row and creep Below the craigs, as half asleep, Nor even make a single sound. The walls are steep, The waves are deep; And if the dead man should be found By these same fishers in their round, Why, who shall say but he was drowned?

  The lake lay bright, as bits of broken moon Just newly set within the cloven earth; The ripened fields drew round a golden girth Far up the steppes, and glittered in the noon. And when the sun fell down, from leafy shore Fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the oar. The stars, as large as lilies, flecked the blue; From out the Alps the moon came wheeling through The rocky pass the great Napoleon knew.

  A gala night it was--the season's prime; We rode from castled lake to festal town, To fair Milan--my friend and I; rode down By night, where grasses waved in rippled rhyme; And so what theme but love in such a time? His proud lip curved the while in silent scorn At thought of love; and then, as one forlorn, He sighed, then bared his temples, dashed with gray, Then mocked, as one outworn and well blase.

  A gorgeous tiger-lily, flaming red, So full of battle, of the trumpets blare, Of old-time passion, upreared its head. I galloped past, I leaned, I clutched it there. From out the long, strong grass I held it high, And cried, "Lo! this to-night shall deck her hair Through all the dance. And mark! the man shall die Who dares assault, for good or ill design, The citadel where I shall set this sign."

  He spoke no spare word all the after while. That scornful, cold, contemptuous smile of his! Why, better men have died for less than this. Then in the hall the same old hateful smile! Then marvel not that when she graced the floor, With all the beauties gathered from the four Far quarters of the world, and she, my fair, The fairest, wore within her midnight hair My tiger-lily--marvel not, I say, That he glared like some wild beast well at bay!

  Oh, she shone fairer than the summer star, Or curled sweet moon in middle destiny. More fair than sunrise climbing up the sea, Where all the loves of Ariadne are. Who loves, who truly loves, will stand aloof, The noisy tongue makes most unholy proof Of shallow waters--all the while afar From out the dance I stood, and watched my star, My tiger-lily, borne an oriflamme of war.

  A thousand beauties flashed at love's advance, Like bright white mice at moonlight in their play, Or sunfish shooting in the shining bay, The swift feet shot and glittered in the dance. Oh, have you loved, and truly loved, and seen Aught else the while than your own stately queen? Her presence, it was majesty--so tall; Her proud development encompassed--all. She filled all space. I sought, I saw but her. I followed as some fervid worshiper.

  Adown the dance she moved with matchless pace. The world--my world--moved with her. Suddenly I questioned whom her cavalier might be. 'Twas he! His face was leaning to her face! I clutched my blade; I sprang; I caught my breath, And so stood leaning still as death. And they stood still. She blushed, then reached and tore The lily as she passed, and down the floor She strewed its _heart_ like bits of gushing gore.

  'Twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break. He taught me this that night in splendid scorn. I l
earned too well. The dance was done. Ere morn We mounted--he and I--but no more spake. And this for woman's love! My lily worn In her dark hair in pride to be thus torn And trampled on for this bold stranger's sake! _Two_ men rode silent back toward the lake. _Two_ men rode silent down, but only _one_ Rode _up_ at _morn_ to greet the _rising sun_. The walls are steep, The waves are deep; And if the dead man should be found By red-clad fishers in their round, Why, who shall say but he was--drowned?

  AUX ITALIENS

  BY OWEN MEREDITH

  At Paris it was, at the Opera there; And she looked like a queen in a book, that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast, so bright.

  Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe with a tenor note The souls in purgatory.

  The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "_Non ti scordar di me?_"

  The emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city-gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been.

  The empress, too, had a tear in her eye. You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain.

  Well! there in our front-row box we sat Together, my bride-betrothed and I; My gaze was fixt on my opera-hat, And hers on the stage hard by.

  And both were silent, and both were sad. Like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had; So confident of her charm!

  I have not a doubt she was thinking then Of her former lord, good soul that he was! Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis of Carabas.

  I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Through a needle's eye he had not yet to pass; I wish him well for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas.

  Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears.

  I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together, In that lost land, in that soft clime, In the crimson evening weather;

  Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot), And her warm, white neck in its golden chain. And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot, And falling loose again;

  And the jasmine-flower in her fair, young breast; Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower, And the one bird singing alone to his nest, And the one star over the tower.

  I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my ring, And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing!

  For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over. And I thought ... "were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her."

  And I swear, as I thought thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things were best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower, Which she used to wear in her breast.

  It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet When a mummy is half unrolled.

  And I turned and looked. She was sitting there In a dim box, over the stage; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, And that jasmine in her breast!

  I was here, and she was there, And the glittering horseshoe curved between-- From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien.

  To my early love, with her eyes downcast, And over her primrose face the shade (In short, from the Future back to the Past), There was but one step to be made.

  To my early love from my future bride One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more.

  My thinking of her, or the music's strain, Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast.

  She is not dead, and she is not wed! But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.

  The marchioness there, of Carabas, She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass-- She may marry whomever she will.

  But I will marry my own first love, With her primrose face; for old things are best, And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.

  The world is filled with folly and sin, And Love must cling where it can, I say; For Beauty is easy enough to win, But one isn't loved every day.

  And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven.

  But oh, the smell of that jasmine-flower! And oh, that music! and oh, the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower, _Non ti scordar di me, non ti scordar di me!_