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Every Day in the Year. 



I 



Every Day in the Year. 



^ K 



Every Day in the Year 



A POETICAL EPITOME OF THE 



WORLD'S HISTORY 



Edited iy 
^ antes L. Ford and Mary K. Ford 




• • • • 



NEW YORK 
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
I 902 



THE HEW VOKK 


PUBLIC LIBRARY 

G41590A 


*aTOB. LENOX AND 


TILDCN FOUNDATIONS 


n J933 L 



COPYRIOHT, 1903. 

Br DODD, Hkad & CouPANT. 



First edition published November, 1903. 



PREFACE. 



Let it be borne in mind that "Every Day in the Year" is not merely 
a poetical anthology, but a collection of poems commemorative of the 
most striking events in history and of the men and women who have left 
an imprint on their day and generation. These poems are arranged in the 
order of the calendar, the central idea of the book being that every day in 
the year is an anniversary of sufficient historic value to have been cele- 
brated in fitting verse. In short, "Every Day in the Year'' is a poetical 
epitome of the world's history — one which touches nearly all the sensitive 
points in the story of civilization, from the killing of Julius Caesar, half a 
century before the birth of Christ, down to the sinking of the Maine and 
the battles of Santiago and Manila Bay. 

Thus: of the great happenings of these twenty centuries, to which 
dates can be accurately fixed, there are few to which no reference is made 
in these pages. The battles of early Scotch and English history ; those of 
our own Revolution, and of the various struggles for freedom that have 
reddened the soil of Poland, Switzerland, Ireland, Italy, France and Cuba ; 
r^e hard fought fields which mark the different chapters of the ever 
■fascinating Napoleonic story, the charge at Balaklava, the defence of the 
^Alamo, the tragic deaths of Marie Antoinette, Emmett, Lincoln, Garfield 
- and McKinley ; the long struggle for the abolition of slavery and the 
^Aattles which brought it to a close are here treated by some of the greatest 
^of English and American poets, and by many of the humblest as well. 
While striving earnestly to maintain a high literary standard, the com- 
pilers have in many instances deemed the theme strong enough to atone 
^^or obvious poetical defects. A number of poems, chiefly sonnets, have 
-<been used to mark the days of birth or death of distinguished persons, 
^whose lives have appealed to the poetic imagination. Among those thus 
«;/y:elebrated are Washington, Lincoln, Keats, Shelley, Shakespeare, Web- 
ster, Dickens, Thackeray, Longfellow and scores of others. The historical 
Quotes which accompany the poems are, of necessity, brief and free from 
<^erbiage, but they have been prepared with every regard for accuracy and 
conciseness and, it is hoped, will add materially to the value of the book. 

The Editors. 



NOTE. 



All rights on poems in this work are reserved by the holders of the 
copyright. The publishers and others named in the subjoined list have 
accorded permission for the use of the different poems therein specified, 
for which courteous acknowledgment is hereby made by the editors. 

TO HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., BOSTON, MASS. 

By Henry W. Longfellow : "Bells of San Bias," "Ballad of the French Fleet," 
The Warden of the Cinque Ports," "The Two Angels." By James Russell 
Lowell: "Ode to France," "All Saints' Day." By Thos. W. Parsons: "Edward 
Everett," "Death of Queen Mercedes," "Taking of Sebastopol." By Edith Thomas : 
"The Summer Solstice," "The Winter Solstice," "A Last Word to Spain." By 
E. C Stedman: "The Old Admiral," "The Comedian's Last Night," "Sumter." 
By John G. Saxe : "How Cyrus Laid the Cable," "Maximilian." By Harriet Pres- 
cott Spofford: "Phillips Brooks," "How We Became a Nation." By W. W. 
Story: "The Battle of Morat." By Bayard Taylor: "Through Baltimore." By 
Elizabeth Whittier : "Lady Franklin." By Thos. B. Aldrich : "The Bells at Mid- 
night," "The Last Caesar." By C. P. Cranch: "Louis Napoleon," "Michael Angelo 
Buonarotti." By Phoebe Cary: "Peace," 'T)eath of Thaddeus Stevens." By Jas. 
T. Fields : "Agassiz." "By Annie Fields : "Battle of Cedar Mountain," "Death of 
Celia Thaxter." By R. W. Emerson: "Boston Hymn," "Concord Monument," 
"Threnody" (Extract). By Bret Harte: "The Reveille," "Review of the Grand 
Army," "Dickens in Camp." By John Hay : "Miles Keogh's Horse," "The Sphinx 
of the Tuileries." By Oliver Wendell Holmes: "Robinson of Leyden," "Francis 
Parkman." By Julia Ward Howe: "Pio Nono." By Emma Lazarus: "Destiny," 
'*To Carmen Sylva." By Edna Dean Proctor : "On the Freeing of the Serfs." By 
James Jeffrey Roche: "The Kearsarge," "The Constitution's Last Fight," "The 
Gospel of Peace." By J. G. Whittier: "Proclamation of Emancipation," "W. H. 
Seward," "Laus Deo," "Ichabod." By W. D. Howells : "The Battle in the Clouds." 

TO CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, NEW YORK. 

From "Poems by H. C. Bunner": "The Last of the New Year's Callers," 
"Emperor William First," "Farewell to Salvini," and "J. B.". From "Poems by 
Sidney Lanier" : "The Dying Words of Stonewall Jackson" and "Christine Nilsson." 
From "Poetical Writings of R. H. Stoddard": "Men of the North and West," 
"Abraham Lincoln," "Thomas Moore," "Twilight on Sumter" and "Adsum." From 
"Bramble Brae" by Robert Bridges : "At the Farragut Statue." 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



TO SMALL, MAYNAKD & CO., BOSTON, MASS. 

From "Leaves of Grass" by Walt Whitman: "Oh. Captain I My Captain I" 

From Poems by John B. Tabb: "The Annunciation," "The Assumption" and 

"Father Damien." From "By the Aurelian Wall" by Bliss Carman: "Henry 

George." From "More Songs From Vagabondia" by Carman and Hovey: "Verlaine." 

TO "PUCK," NEW YORK. 
By A. E. Watrous: "Fiti James O'Brien," "Lohengrin," "In Memoriam, J. O." 
and "DeLong." 

TO LITTLE, BROWN & CO., BOSTON, MASS. 
By Louisa M. Alcott: "Thoreau's Flute." By Susan Coolidge: "The Cradle 
Tomb in Westminster." By Louise Chandler Moulton: "Death of Louisa M. 
Alcott," "John A Andrew" and "Dead Men's Holiday." 

TO P. J. KENEDY, NEW YORK. 

By the Reverend Abram J. Ryan : "The Conquered Banner." 

TO P. F. COLLIER, NEW YORK. 

By Caroline Duer: "An International Episode." 

TO FRANK A. MUNSEY. NEW YORK. 

By R. H, Titherington: "Faithful Unto Death." 

TO "TOWN AND COUNTRY," NEW YORK. 

By Charlotte Becker; "CharloHe Bronte." 

TO R. H. RUSSELL, NEW YORK. 

By Edmond Rostand (translated by Louis Parker) : Extract from "L'Aiglon." 

TO THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO., INDIANAPOLIS, IND. 

By Charles E. Rusiell : "February Fifteenth," "Chatterton," "Philip Massinger," 
"Benjamin Harrison," "The Sixty-second Birthday of Swinburne," "The Fleet at 
Santiago," "Nikolson's Nek" and "Chatterton at Bristol." 

TO JOHN LANE, LONDON AND NEW YORK. 

By Henry Newbolt: "Drake's Drum" and "Hawke." By Enrico Nencione: 
"St. Simeon Slylites." 

TO D. APPLETON & CO., NEW YORK. 

By William Cullen Bryant : "On the Twenty-second of February," "Cervantes," 
"The Battle of Bennington," "The Death of Schiller," "The Massacre in Scio." 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. jx 

TO HARPER AND BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 

By Thomas Dunn English: "The Battle of New Orleans." By Thomas A 
Janvier: "Santiago." By Herman Melville: "The Battle of the Wilderness," 
"Stonewall Jackson" and "The Slain at Chickamauga." By Guy Wetmore Carryl : 
"When the Great Gray Ships Come In." By Rosamond Marriott Watson: "All 
Souls' Day." 

TO FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
By Richard Realf : "A Man's Name" and "Apocalypse." 

TO J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 

By George H. Boker : "Hooker's Across," "The Black Regiment," "Elisha Kent 
Kane," "To Andrew Jackson," "Ballad of Sir John Franklin," "Before Vicksburg," 
"Dirge for a Soldier," "To Louis Napoleon" and "Bryant's Birthday." By Robert 
Loveman : "Hobson and His Men." 

TO THE CENTURY COMPANY, NEW YORK. 

By Richard Watson Gilder: "To Austin Dobson," "To the Spirit of Abraham 
Lincoln," "The Tower of Flame," "Beethoven," "One Country, One Sacrifice," 
"Sheridan," "At the President's Grave," "The Death of John George Nicolay," 
"Emma Lazarus," "Sherman," "At Luther's Grave," "Napoleon," "The Comfort of 
the Trees,'* "On the Portrait of Servetus," "Of Henry George," "Sir Walter Scott," 
By Tudor Jenks: "The Spirit of the Maine." By Horace: "The Death of 
Cleopatra." By W. H. Thompson : "High Tide at Gettysburg." By W. T. Mere- 
dith: "Farragut." By Ina Coolbrith: "Frederick HI." By R. U. Johnson: 
"Browning at Asolo." 



TO G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK. 

By "Ironquill" : "Memorial Day," "John Brown" and "Blaine of Maine." By 
R. C. Rogers : "Thackeray's Birthday." By Joseph O'Connor : "The Reason Why." 

TO THE LOTHROP PUBLISHING CO., BOSTON, MASS. 

From "The Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne" : "On the Death of Canon Kings- 
ley," "To Alexander H. Stephens," "Battle of Charleston Harbor," "Eliot in Fort 
Sumter," 'T)ean Stanley," "Yorktown Centennial Lyric," "Carlyle," "Bryant Dead, 
"To O. W. Hohnes," "Under the Pine," "To Bayard Taylor Beyond Us. 



TO F. A. STOKES CO., NEW YORK. 

By W. H. Hayne : "Oliver Wendell Holmes," "Sidney Lanier," "Threnody of 
the Pines," "The Charge at Santiago." By Clinton Scollard : "Sidney Godolphin," 
"Montgomery at Quebec." 



J 



Every Day in the Year. 



A POETICAL EPITOME OF THE 
WORLD'S HISTORY. 



i 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



And combat and combine ; 
And much where we were in Twenty- 
eight, 
We shall be in Twenty-nine. 

O'Connell will toil to raise the Rent, 

And Kenyon to sink the Nation; 
And Shiel will abuse the Parliament, 

And Peel the Association ; 
And thought of bayonets and swords 

Will make ex-Chancellors merry; 
And jokes will be cut in the House of 
Lords 

And throats in the County of Kerry; 
And writers of weight will speculate 

On the Cabinet's design; 
And just what it did in Twenty-eight 

It will do in Twenty-nine. 

And the goddess of Love will keep her 
smiles. 

And the god of Cups his orgies; 
And there'll be riots in St Giles, 

And weddings in St George's; 
And mendicants will sup like kings. 

And lords will swear like lacqueys; 
And black eyes oft will lead to rings. 

And rings will lead to black eyes; 
And pretty Kate will scold her mate, 

In a dialect all divine; 
Alas! they married in Twenty-eight 

They will part in Twenty-nine. 

My uncle will swathe his gouty limbs, 

And talk of his oils and blubbers ; 
My aunt. Miss Dobbs, will play longer 
hymns, 

And rather longer rubbers; 
My cousin in Parliament will prove 

How utterly ruined trade is; 
My brother, at Eaton, will fall in love 

With half a hundred ladies; 
My patron will sate his pride from plate, 

And his thirst from Bordeaux wine — 
His nose was red in Twenty-eight, 

Twill be redder in Twenty-nine. 

And O ! I shall find how, day by day, 

All thoughts and things look older — -^ 
How the laugh of Pleasure grows less 
gay. 

And the heart of Friendship colder ; 
But still I shall be what I have been, 

Sworn foe to Lady Reason, 
And seldom troubled with the spleen. 

And fond of talking treason ; 



I shall buckle my skait, and leap my gate, 
And throw and write my line ; 

And the woman I worshipped in Twenty- 
eight 
I shall worship in Twenty-nine. 

— William Mackworth Praed, 



THE LAST OF THE NEW YEAR'S 

CALLERS. 



The story of an old man, an old mai^i 
friendship, and a new card-baskeL 



The door is shut — I think the fine old 
face 
Trembles a little, round the under lip : 
His look is wistful— <an it be the place 
Where, at his knock, the bolt was 
quick to slip 
(It had a knocker then), when, bravely 
decked, ,.. "■ 

He took, of New Year's, with h«s low- 
est bow, 
His glass of egg-nog, white and nutmeg- 
flecked, 
From her who is — ^where is the young 
bride now? 

O Greenwood, answer! Through your 
ample gate 
There went a hearse, these many years 
ago; 
And often by a grave — more oft of late-^ 
Stands an old gentleman, with hair 
like snow. 
Two graves he stands by, truly; for the.,- 
friend ^ / 

Who won her, long has lain beside his 
wife; 
And their old comrade, waiting for the 
end. 
Remembers what they were to him in 
life. 

And now he stands before the old-time 
door, 
A little gladdened in his lonely heart 
To give of love for those that are no 
more 
To those that live to-day a generous 
part. 
Ay, She has gone, sweet, loyal, brave and 
gay— 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



y ' But then, her daughter's grown and 
wed the whilt ; 
And [he old custom Ungers; New Year's 
Day. 
Will not she greet him with her 
mother's smile? 

But things are changed, ah, changed, you 

UWe keep no New Year's, now, not we — 
■ It 3 an old-time day. 

And an old-time way, 
lAnd an old-time fashion we've chosen 

And the dear old man 
May wait as he can 
|ln front of the old-time door that's 
shut. — H. C. Banner. 



Januat? 2. 



re by tlic Fed 



lEre Murfreesboro's thunders rent the 
IWhh cannon booming 'mid the trumpet'; 
ICane Hill and David Mills, stern battles 



hosts in Gray and 
ild tor- 



■Had carried death 
Bine. 

But here, more deadly, 

^. rent rushed, 
l^d victory, at first, the Rebels flushed. 
iThe "right wing" gone, and troops io 
I panic, lol 

iThe battle seemed already lost. But, No. 
|Brave Rosecrans cried out — "Now stop 



INow silence yonder batt'ry, to begin! 
lAnd all re-form and meet the yelling 

IStand firm and fire a volley! Back he'll 
I go- 

BIf not, present your bayonets, and 
Cbarge I 



we die!" 
And all that Rosccrans desired was 

And Murfreesboro's battle thus was won. 
Hail! to that New Year's Day in 'Sixty 

three. 
And to that morrow which brought vic- 

Hail ! to the courage of the Boys in 
Blue. 



3anuar? 3. 

RACHEL. 



iKBBn ID «liidy music in Vara, b 
voTce turned lo, the .tudy of Ira. 

visited YnB!and"3nd AmS^and 



il the VDTid hu 
and Swim (»irth 
r in Lyons. She 



□ f thirty- St 



I. Jan 



Sprung from the blood of Israel's scat- 
tered race. 

At a mean inn in German Aarau bom, 

To forms from antique Greece and Rome 
uptorn, 

Tricked out with a Parisian speech and 



A-Kempis! her departing soul outworn, 
While by her bedside Hebrew rites have 
place- 

Ah, not the radiant spirit of Greece 

She had — one power, which made het 

breast its home ! 
In her, like us, there clashed, contending 

powers, 
Germany. France, Chrisi, Moses, Athena, 

The strife, the mixture in her soul are 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



3anuari2 4* 



TO CHARLES DICKENS. 



On his departure for Ameri«^ Jan. 4, 1842. 



Pshaw', away with leaf and berry, 

And the sober-sided cupl 
Bring a goblet and bright sherry, 

And a bumper fill me up! 
Though a pledge I had to shiver. 

And the longest ever was' 
Ere his vessel leaves our river, 

I would drink a health to Boz ! 

Here's success to all his antics. 

Since it pleases him to roam. 
And to paddle o'er Atlantics, 

After such a sale at home I 
May he shun all rocks whatever. 

And each shallow sand that lurks. 
And his passage be as clever 

As the best among his works ! 

— Thomas Hood. 



3nnmvQ 5. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



A Syrian ascetic who passed the last thirty 
years of his life on ajpillar near Antioch, and 
died Jan. 6, 469, A. D. 



On the white head of the old man 

divine 
The sun in torrents falls— the August 

sua — 
In the fields the yellow grasses smoke 

with heat: 
He from his place upon the pillar's 

height 
A living statute stands, an iron form, 
Yet animated by the breath of God. 

In Sagittarius is the sun. From heaven 
Upon the desolate earth, naked and bare 
Like some poor mendicant's hand, in 

large white flakes 
Falls the abundant snow. All things that 

breathe 
Seek shelter, and the polar bear alone 



Wanders — ^yet still upon the column's 

height 
The sacred figure of the old man stands. 

Now in the unending rain each field be- 
comes 

A lake, and every furrow is a stream. 

From the monotonous grey sky pour 
down. 

Continuous, the waters obstinate. 

Drenched, like a solitary tree aloft 

Still on the fatal column dost thou stand, 

O King of Saints and Martyrs, Simeon. 

O Saint, I tremble at the thought of thee. 
And well I deem the Sun, and all the 

stars. 
And wandering birds who now for forty 

years 
Have contemplated in the fields of air 
Thy meagre profile pale, and all the 

winds 
Who shook in storms thy venerable 

beard. 
White, hoary like the foam o' the sea, 

and all 
Nature, have trembled as they looked on 

thee. 

— Enrico Nencione, 



RELEASED. 



On Jan. 6, 1878, three of the Irish political 
prisoners, who had been confined since 1866, 
were set at liberty. The released men were 
received by their fellow countrymen in London. 
"They are well," said the report, "but they 
look prematurely old.*' 



ff 



They are free at last ! They can face the 
sun; 
Their hearts now throb with the 
world's pulsation; 
Their prisons are open — ^their night is 
done; 
'Tis England's mercy and reparation! 

The years of their doom have slowly 
sped — 
Their limbs are withered — ^thcir tics 
are riven; 
Their children are scattered, their 
friends are dead — 
But the prisons are open — ^thc "crime" 
forgiven. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



God ! what a threshold they stand upon 
The world has passed on while the}' 
were buried; 
In the glare of the sun they walk alone 
On the grass-grown track where the 
crowd has hurried 

Haggard and broken and seared with 
pain, 
They seek the remembered friends and 
places ; 
Men shuddering turn, and gaze again 
At the deep-drawn lines on their al- 
tered faces. 

What do they read on the pallid page? 
What is the tale of these woeful let- 
ters? 
A lesson as old as their country's age. 
Of a love that is stronger than stripes 
and fetters. 

In the blood of the slain some dip their 
blade, 
And swear by the stain the foe to fol- 
low; 
But a deadlier oath might here be made, 
On the wasted bodies and faces hol- 
low. 

Irishmen! You who have kept the 
peace — 
Look on these forms diseased and 
broken: 
Believe, if you can, that their late re- 
lease, 
When their lives are sapped, is a good- 
will token. 

Their hearts are the bait on England's 
hook; 
For this are they dragged from her 
hopeless prison; 
She reads her doom in the Nation's 
book — 
She fears the day that has darkly 
risen; 

She reaches her hand for Ireland's aid — 

Ireland, scourged, contemned, derided ; 

She begs from the beggar her hate has 

made; 

She seeks for the strength her guile 

divided. 



She offers a bribe — ah, God above ! 

Behold the price of the desecration: 
The hearts she has tortured for Irish love 

She brings as a bribe to the Irish na- 
tion! 

O, blind and cruel ! She fills her cup 
With conquest and pride, till its red 
wine splashes: 
But shrieks at the draught as she drinks 
it up^ 
Her wine has been turned to blood and 
ashes. 

Wc know her — our Sister I Come on the 
storm! 
God send it soon and sudden upon her : 
The race she has shattered and sought 
to deform 
Shall laugh as she drinks the black 
dishonor. 

—John Boyle O'Reilly, 



3anuari2 6. 



EPIPHANY. 



A feast in the Church commemorating the 
Adoration of The Magi, or Manifestation of 
Christ to the Gentiles. 



Brightest and best of the sons of the 
morning, 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us 
thine aid I 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 
Guide where our infant Redeemer is 
laid! 

Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are 
shining ; 
Low lies His bed with the beasts of 
the stall ; 
Angels adore Him in slumber reclining — 
Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of 
all 

Say, shall we 3rield Him, in costly de- 
votion, 
Odors of Edom, and offerings divine — 
Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the 
ocean — 
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from 
the mine? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Vainly we offer each ample oblation, 
Vainly with gold would His favor se- 
cure; 
Richer by far is the heart's adoration, 
Dearer to God are the prayers of the 
poor. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the 
morning. 
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us 
thine aidl 
Star of the East, the horizon adorning. 
Guide where our infant Redeemer is 
laid! 

^^Reginald Heber. 



3anuari? 7. 



HOLY CROSS DAY. 



On which the Jews were forced to at- 
tend an annual Christian sermon in 
Rome. 

Brownins calls this poem "Holy Cross Day," 
but in Evelyn's time the sermon was preached 
on Jan. 7th, as the following extract trom his 
diary shows: 

*'A sermon was preach'd to the Jewes at 
Ponte Sisto, who are constrained to sit till the 
houre is don: but it is with so much malice in 
their countenances, spitting, humming, cough- 
ing and motion that it is almost impossible they 
should heare a word from the preacher. A con- 
▼ersion is rery rare." 



I. 

Fee, faw, fumi bubble and squeak! 
Blessedest Thursday's the fat of the 

week. 
Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough. 
Stinking and savory, smug and gruff. 
Take the church-road, for the bells due 

chime 
Gives us the summons — 'tis sermon- 
time. 

n. 

Boh, here's Barnabas. Job, that's you? 
Up stumps Solomon — bustling too? 
Shame, man ! greedy beyond your years 
To handsel the bishop's shaving shears? 
Fair play's a jewel! leave friends in the 

lurch? 
Stand on a line ere you start for the 

diurch. 



HI. 

Higgledy piggledy, packed we lie, 
Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty. 
Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve. 
Worms in a carcase, fleas in a sleeve. 
Hist! square your shoulders, settle your 

thumbs 
And buzz for the bishop— here he comes. 

IV. 

Bow, wow, wow — ^a bone for the dog. 
I liken his Grace to an acomed hog. 
What, a boy at his side, with the bloom 

of a lass, 
To help and handle my lord's hour-glass ! 
Didst ever behold so lithe a chine? 
His cheek hath laps like a fresh-singed 

swine. 

V. 

Aaron's asleep^shove hip to haunch. 
Or somebody deal him a dig in the 

paunch ! 
Look at the purse with the tassel and 

knob. 
And down with the angel and thingum* 

bob. 
What's he at, quotha? reading his text! 
Now you've his courtsey — and what 

comes next? 

VI. 

See to our converts — ^you doomed black 

dozen — 
No stealing away — ^nor cog, nor cozen! 
You five that were thieves, deserve it 

fairly ; 
You seven that were beggars, will live 

less sparely. 
You took your turn and dipped in the 

hat, 
Got fortune — ^and fortune gets you ; mind 

that! 

vn. 

Give your first groan— compunction's at 

work; 
And soft! from a Jew you mount to a 

Turk. 
Lo, Micah — the selfsame beard on chin 
He was four times already converted in. 
Here's a knife, clip quick — it's a sign of 

grace— 
Or he ruins us all with his hanging-face. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



I'll tell him tomorrow, a word just now 
Went to my heart and made me tow 
I meddle no more with the worst of 

Let somebody else pay bis serenades. 

rx. 

Groan all together now, whee — face — heel 
It's a-work, it's a-work, ah woe is me I 
It began, when a herd of us, picked and 

placed. 
Were spurred throu|:h the Corso, 

stripped to the waist ; 
Jew-brutes, with sweat and blood well 

spent 
To usher in worthily Christian Lent. 



It grew, when the hangman entered our 

bounds. 
Yelled, pricked us out to this church like 

hounds. 
It got to a pitch, when the band indeed 
Which gutted my purse, would throttle 

my creed. 
And it overflows, when, to even the odd, 
Hen I helped to their sins, help me to 



their God. 

XI. 

But now, while the scapegoats leave our 

flock. 
And the rest sit silent and count the 

clock. 
Since forced to muse the appointed time 
On these precious facts and truths sub- 
lime, — 
Let us fitly employ it, under our breath. 
Id saying Ben Ezra's Song of Death. 

XII. 

For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died. 
Called sons and sons' sons to his side. 
And spoke, "This world has been harsh 

and strange, 
Something is wrong, there needeth a 

But what, or where? at the last, or first? 
In one point only we sinned, at worst. 



xin. 

"The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet. 
And again in his border see Israel set. 
When Judah beholds Jerusalein, 
The stranger's eed shall be joined to 

To Jacob's house shall the Gentiles 
cleave. 

So the Prophet saith and his sons be- 
lieve. 

XIV. 



plac 
In the land of the Lora shall lead the 

Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall 

When the slaves enslave, the oppressed 

The oppressor triumph for 



XV. 

"God spoke, and gave us the word to 

Bade never fold the hands nor sleep 
'Mid a faithless world, — at watch and 

Till the Christ at the end relieve our 

By his servant Moses the watch was set : 
Though near upon cock-crow— we keep 
it yet. 

XVI. 

"Thou I if thou wast He, who at mid- 
watch came, 
By the starlight naming a dubious Name! 
And if we were too heavy with sleeps 

With fear — O Thou, if that martyr-gash 
Fell on thee coming to take thine own. 
And we gave the Cross, when we owed 
the Throne— 

XVIL 

"Thou art the Judge. We are bruised 

thus. 
But, the judgment over, join sides with 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Than ours, is the work of these dogs and 

swine. 
Whose life laughs through and spits at 

their creed. 
Who maintain thee in word, and defy 

thee in deed! 

XVIII. 

*Wc withstood Christ then? be mindful 

how 
At least we withstand Barabbas now ! 
Was our outrage sore? but the worst wc 

spared. 
To have called these — Christians, — ^had 

we dared! 
Let defiance of them, pay mistrust of 

thee, 
And Rome make amends for Calvary I 

XIX. 

"By the torture, prolonged from age to 

age. 
By the infamy, Israel's heritage, 
By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's dis- 
grace. 
By the badge of shame, by the felon's 

place. 
By the branding tool, the bloody whip, 
Aiid the summons to Christian fellow- 
ship. 

XX. 

"We boast our proofs, that at least the 

Jew 
Would wrest Christ's name from the 

Devil's crew. 
Thy face took never so deep a shade 
But we fought them in it, God our aid 
A trophy to bear, as we march, a band 
South, east, and on the Pleasant Land !*' 

— Robert Browning. 



ST. DISTAFFS DAY. 



Called St. DisUff*8 Day because after the 
Christmas holidays ending on Twelfth Nisht 
the women proposed to resume their distaffs. 
The ploughmen would make it their sport to set 
fire to the flax in requital for which prank the 
nuuds would souse the men from the water 
pails. 



"Partly work and partly play 

You must on St Distaff's Day: 
From the plough soon free your team ; 



Then come home and f other them; 
If the maids a-spinning go. 

Burn the flax and fire the tow. 
Bring in pails of water then. 

Let the maids bewash the men. 
Give St Distaff all the right; 

Then bid Christmas sport good night; 
And next morrow every one 

To his own vocation. 

— Herrick. 



SmnnvQ 8. 



VERLAINK 



A modem French poet whose life was passed 
in alternate stages ox religious ecstasy and de- 
plorable excesses. His genius was undoubted 
and he has been called the ninteenth century 
Villon." He died Jan. 8, 1896. 



Avid of life and love, insatiate vagabond. 
With quest too furious for the grail he 

would have won, 
He flung himself at the eternal sky, as 

one 
Wrenching his chains but impotent to 

burst the bond. 

Yet under the revolt, the revel, the des- 
pond, 

What pools of innocence, what crystal 
benison ! 

As through a riven mist that glowers in 
the sun, 

A stretch of God's blue calm glassed in a 
virgin pond. 

Prowler of obscene streets that riot reels 
along, 

And aisles with incense numb and gar- 
dens mad with rose. 

Monastic cells and dreams of dim bro- 
caded lawns, 

Death, which has set the calm of Time 

upon his song, 
Surely upon his soul has kissed the same 

repose 
In some fair heaven the Christ has set 

apart for Fauns. 

— Bliss Carman. 



lO 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS. 



The last battle of the war of 1812, which 
was fought Jan. 8, 1815, and which after all 
need not have been fought as a treaty of peace 
had already been signed. The battle was 
fought between the British ^about 12,000) un- 
der Pakenham, who was killed in action, and 
the Americans (6,000) under Andrew Jackson. 
Owing to the Americans being sheltered by 
breastworks their loss consisted of 8 killed and 
18 wounded, while the loss of the British was 
over 2,000. 

Here, in my rude log cabin. 

Few poorer men Uiere be 
Among the mountain ranges 

Of Eastern Tennessee. 
My limbs are weak and shrunken. 

White hairs upon my brow. 
My dog — lie still old fellow ! — 

My sole companion now. 
Yet I, when young and lusty, 

Have gone through stirring scenes. 
For I went down with Carroll 

To fight at New Orleans. 

You say you'd like to hear me 

The stirring story tell. 
Of those who stood the battle 

And those who fighting fell. 
Short work to count our losses — 
We stood and dropped the foe 
An easily as by firelight 

Men shoot the budc or doe. 
And while they fell by hundreds 

Upon the bloody plain, 
Of us, fourteen were wounded 

And only eight were slain. 

The eighth of January, 

Before the break of day. 
Our raw and hasty levies 

Were brought into array. 
No cotton-bales before us — 

Some fool that falsehood told; 
Before us was an earthwork 

Built from the swampy mould. 
And there we stood in silence. 

And waited with a frown. 
To greet with bloody welcome 

The bull-dogs of the Crown. 

The heavy fog of morning 
Still hid the plain from sight. 

When came a thread of scarlet 
Marked faintly in the white. 

We fired a single cannon, 
And as its thunders rolled. 

The mist before us lifted 



In many a heavy fold — 
The mist before us lifted 

And in their bravery fine 
Came rushing to their ruin 

The fearless British line. 

Then from our waiting cannon 

Leaped forth the deadly flame. 
To meet the advancing columns 

That swift and steady came. 
The thirty-twos of Crowley 

And Bluchi's twenty-four 
To Spotts's eighteen-pounders 

Responded with their roar, 
Sending the grape-shot deadly 

That marked its pathway plain. 
And paved the road it travelled 

With corpses of the slain. 

Our rifles firmly (grasping, 

And heedless of the din. 
We stood in silence waiting 

For orders to begin. 
Our fingers on the triggers. 

Our hearts, with anger stirred, 
Grew still more fierce and eager 

As Jackson's voice was heard : 
"Stand steady! Waste no powder! 

Wait till your shots will tell! 
To-day the work you finish — 

See that you do it well !" 

Their columns drawing nearer, 

We felt our patience tire, 
When came the voice of Carroll, 

Distinct and measured, "Fire !" 
Oh I then you should have marked us 

Our volleys on them pour — 
Have heard our joyous rifles 

Ring sharply through the roar. 
And seen their foremost columns 

Melt hastily away 
As snow in mountain gorges 

Before the floods of May. 

They soon re-formed their columns. 

And, mid the fatal rain 
We never ceased to hurtle, 

Came to their work again. 
The Forty-fourth is with them. 

That first its laurels won 
With stout old Abercrombie 

Beneath an eastern sun. 
It rushes to the battle. 

And, though within the rear 
Its leader is a laggard, 

It shows no signs of fear. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



II 



It did not need its colonel, 

For soon there came instead 
An eagle-eyed commander, 

And on its march he led. 
Twas Pakenham in person. 

The leader of the field; 
I knew it by the cheering 

That loudly round him pealed; 
And by his quick, sharp movement 

We felt his heart was stirred. 
As when at Salamanca 

He led the fighting Third. 

I raised my rifle quickly, 

I sighted at his breast, 
God save the gallant leader 

And take him to his rest! 
I did not draw the trigger, 

I could not for my life. 
So calm he sat his charger 

Amid the deadly strife. 
That in my fiercest moment 

A prayer arose from me — 
God save that gallant leader. 

Our foeman Uiough he be! 

Sir Edward's charger staggers; 

He leaps at once to ground. 
And ere the beast falls bleeding 

Another horse is found. 
His right arm falls — 'tis wounded; 

He waves on high his left ; 
In vain he leads the movement. 

The ranks in twain are cleft 
The men in scarlet waver 

Before the men in brown. 
And fly in utter panic — 

The soldiers of the Crown ! 

I thought the work was over. 
But nearer shouts were heard. 

And came, with Gibbs to head it. 
The gallant Ninety-third. 

Then Pakenham, exulting, 
With proud and joyous glance. 

Cried, "Children of the tartan- 
Bold Highlanders — advance 1 

Advance to scale the breastworks. 
And drive them from their hold. 

And show the stainless courage 
That marked your sires of old!" 

His voice as yet was ringing. 
When, quick as light, there came 

The roaring of a cannon. 
And earth seemed all aflame. 

Who causes thus the thunder 



The doom of men to speak? 
It is the Baratarian, 

The fearless Dominique. 
Down through the marshalled Scotsmen 

The step of death is heard. 
And by the fierce tornado 

Falls half the Ninety-third. 

The smoke passed slowly upward. 

And, as it soared on high, 
I saw the brave commander 

In dying anguish lie. 
They bear him from the battle 

Who never fled the foe; 
Unmoved by death around them 

His bearers softly go. 
In vain their care, so gentle. 

Fades earth and all its scenes; 
The man of Salamanca 

Lies dead at New Orleans. 

But where were his lieutenants? 

Had they in terror fled? 
No! Keane was sorely wounded 

And Gibbs as good as dead. 
Brave Wilkinson commanding, 

A major of brigade. 
The shattered force to rally 

A final effort made. 
He led it up our ramparts. 

Small glory did he gain — 
Our captives some; some slaughtered, 

And he himself was slain. 

The stormers had retreated. 

The bloody work was o'er; 
The feet of the invaders 

Were soon to leave our shore. 
We rested on our rifles 

And talked about the fight. 
When came a sudden murmur 

Like fire from left to right; 
We turned and saw our chieftain. 

And then, good friend of mine, 
You should have heard the cheering 

That rang along the line. 

For well our men remembered 

How little, when they came. 
Had they but native courage. 

And trust in Jackson's name; 
How through the day he labored. 

How kept the vigils still, 
Till discipline controlled us— 

A stronger power than will; 
And how he hurled us at them 

Within the evening hour. 
That red night in December 

And made us feel our v<^vi^t« 



12 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



In answer to our shouting 

Fire lit his eye of grey; 
Erect, but thin and pallid. 

He passed upon his bay. 
Weak from the baffled fever. 

And shrunken in each limb, 
The swamps of Alabama 

Had done their work on him ; 
But spite of that and fasting, 

And hours of sleepless care, 
The soul of Andrew Jackson 

Shone forth in glory there. 

— Thomas Dunn English. 



JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS. 



Hear through the morning drums and 
trumpets sounding, 

Rumbling of cannon, tramp of mighty 
armies ; 

Then the mist sunders, all the plain dis- 
closing 
Scarlet for England. 

Batteries roll on, halt, and flashing light- 
nings 

Search out our earthworks, silent and 
portentous. 

Fierce on our right with crimson banners 
tossing 
Their lines spring forward. 

Lanyards in hand, Americans and sea- 
men, 

Gunners from warships, Lafitte's priva- 
teersmen, 

Roar out our thunders till the grape and 
shrapnel 
Shriek through their columns. 

Shattered in fragments, thus their right 
is riven; 

But on our left a deadlier bolt is speed- 
ing: 

Wellesley's Peninsulars, never yet de- 
feated. 
Charge in their valor. 

Closing their files, our cannon fire dis- 
daining, 

Dauntless they come with victory on 
their standards; 

Then slowly rise the rifles of our marks- 
men, 
Tennessee hunters. 



Cradles of flame and scythes of whistling 

bullets 
Lay them in windrows, war's infernal 

harvest. 
High through the onslaught Tennessee 

is shouting, 
Joying in battle. 

Pakenham falls there, Keane and his 
Highlanders 

Close from the centre, hopeless in their 
courage ; 

Backward they stagger, dying and dis- 
abled, 
Gloriously routed. 

Stilled are our rifles as our cheers grow 

louder : 
War clouds sweep back in January 

breezes, 
Showing the dreadful proof of the great 

triumph 
God hath vouchsafed us. 

That gallant war-host, England's best 

and bravest, 
Met by raw levies, scores against its 

hundreds, 
Lies at our feet, a thing for woman's 

weeping, 
Red'ning the meadows. 

Freed are our States from European ty- 
rants: 
Lift then your voices for the little army 
Led by our battle-loving Andrew Jack- 
son, 
Blest of Jehovah. 

— Wallace Rice. 



THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS. 



There's a blare of bugles blowing 
And a hum of rumbling drums; 
Red upon the green plain flowing. 

See, the British army comes! 
There are regiments in scarlet. 
Renegade and negro varlet. 

Rolling on ; 
There are regiments half savage 
That had aided Ross to ravage 
Washington. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



13 



Broad their banners forth are streaming 

In the January sun. 
Bright their bayonets are gleaming 

Over every deadly gun ; 
Bold marine and bolder seaman 
Who had fought like any demon 

On the main ; 
Thousands more black with the pillage 
Gleaned in many a hopeless village 
Back in Spain. 

Here are Wellesley's trusted henchmen, 

Fiendish old Peninsulars, 
Stained with blood of slaughtered 
Frenchmen 
Through the long and bitter wars; 
Rank and file as ripe with evil, 
Rape, and rapine as the devil 

And his dam; 
At their head that hero-Briton 
On whose brow success was written, 
Pakenham. 

There are sixty warships heaving 

On the Mississippi sound, 
Near ten thousand warriors weaving 

Through that tufted, swampy ground. 
There are breastworks just before them — 
One bold charge and they'll be o'er them, 

High or low ; 
Then an hour of British shooting 
And a week of British looting, 
Death, and woe. 

But the frontiersmen with Jackson 
See there's powder in the pan, 

They have never turned their backs on 
Savage beast or savage man; 

Craven Spain at Pensacola 

And the Creeks of Tallapoosa 
Know their glance. 

Know the coonskin cap and rifle 

And the bullet clouds that stifle 
All advance. 

For the fourth time now the Briton 

Since his coming in the night 
Is to see his bravest smitten 

By the lightnings of our might : 
When our gunboats meet their barges; 
On the night our army charges 

Into flame; 
When their cannon are dismounted — 
Thrice they've learned we can be 
counted 
On for aim. 



Yet they come in long ranks steady 

To take up the battle brunt. 
With their courage tried and ready. 

Gallant officers in front ; 
Near the river Rennie's soldiers 
With their muskets on their shoulders 

Hold their path; 
'Gainst our right he leads his raiders — 
Welcome now the bold invaders 

With our wrath! 

On our first redoubt they're dashing. 
Rank on rank they rush a-swarm: 
Down their files our cannon crashing 

Hurl an extirpating storm; 
Thunder-stricken and astounded 
They are hurled back crushed and 
wounded 
By our lead, 
Patterson in wide swaths mows them, 
Humphrey's grape in huge gusts blows 
them — 
Rennie's dead. 

Steadily, not one a coward, 
Gibbs's men charge with a will ; 

Steadily our shrapnel's showered — 
They are coming closer still; 

There Lafitte's bold men are aiming. 

All our batteries are flaming, 
For their fall; 

But our hail of grape despising. 

On they come, their broad front rising 
At the call. 

Every rifleman with longing 

Gazes on the lines in red 
As they come in columns thronging; 

But the word has not been said: 
At two hundred yards, or nearer. 
Sounds the signal for each hearer, 

"Tennessee !" 
Hurled to hell in quick disorder, 
Britons leave a crimson border 
As they flee. 

Pakenham rides up to rally — 

He is wounded in the arm, 
Gibbs shall never from that sally 

Speed again to war's alarm. 
Quick to aid Keane's men are coming — 
Hear our rifles, ceaseless humming! — 

Keane is slain; 
Spreads the panic's fitful pallor — 
Pakenham in all his valor 
Low is lain.. 



14 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



There *s no blare of bugles blowing, 

Not a hum of rumbling drum. 
Bitter is their overthrowing, 

Thousands lie forever dumb. 
With raw levies to defend us 
We have won the odds tremendous. 

One to three. 
Woe to him who dares to trifle 
With the 'coonskin cap and rifle, 
Tennessee ! 

Talluschatches, Talladega, 

These our General's victories, 
Bowyer's Fort, and Tohopeka — 

Now New Orleans is his. 
Silence ! then a noise of cheering — 
Louder — louder— he is nearing — 

Jackson comes! 
Hear the song of triumph growing. 
Hear the blare of bugles blowing, 
Hear the drums I 

— Wallace Rice, 



Sanuari? 9. 



DEATH OF LOUIS NAPOLEON. 



Napoleon III., after his downfall at Sedan| 
was imprisoned for awhile at the Chateau of 
Wilhelmshohe, near Cassel. He then joined 
the Empress at Chiselhurst in England, where 
he lived quietly until his death, Jan. 9, 187S. 



How long he sat — ^this Caesar of the 

stage, 
This bold, pretending patron of the age ! 
Muzzled the press, yet bade the people 

think; 
Knelt to the Pope, but gave the crowd 

a wink; 
Now capped a Cardinal, now endowed a 

sdiool ; 
Permitted suffrage, under iron rule; 
Gave wings to trade, but clogged all 

daring thought. 
Counting all counsel but his own as 

naught ; 
Put new wine in old bottles, best in 

worst, 
And clamped them round with iron, lest 

they burst; 
Forced two extremes to marry, last with 

first; 
Wed light to darkness, and misnamed 

the brood 
Bom of the union, France's highest 

good 



Professing friendship for our western 

main, 
He hoped to split our continent in twain ; 
And while our back is turned to grasp 

our foe. 
Drives in an Austrian wedge at Mexico ; 
Finds he has bungled sadly, and would 

fain 
Withdraw poor Maximilian again. 
Would like to recall his forces too from 

Rome, 
But fears the hubbub of his priests at 

home. 
So, pledged to God and Mammon^ he 

prolongs 
The strife with chaos, smiles on rights 

and wrongs; 
The Pope's non possumus most blandly 

hears, 
And leaves poor Rome in misery and 

tears; 

Prates loud of nation's rights, and ten 

times o'er 
Opens and shuts a people's prison-door. 

Now, time brings round its retributions 

strange. 
O'er Europe's face there sweeps a 

mighty change. 
Now Germany compact and bristling 

stands 
Guarding her blue Rhine from the in- 
vader's hands. 
Now Venice sets her sea-pearl in the 

ring 
Worn by young Italy's victorious king. 
Now Rome, e'en Rome, must add her 

eternal fame 
To a throne upborne by Garabaldi's 

name; 
Unguarded by her Gallic sentinel, 
She loosely holds the keys of heaven and 

hell; 
Her Pope, whose thunders rattled west 

and east, 
Changed by a pen-scrawl to a harmless 

priest 

And he, the mighty Emperor, whose 

word 
Held Europe spell-bound, in war's thun- 
ders heard 
A voice that overruled his subtile tricks. 
His blunders and his shuffling politics, 
His sham democracy, his hard decrees. 
His double-dealings and diplomacies. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



15 



These brought their sure results, — ambi- 
tion checked, 

A tarnished splendor, and an empire 
wrecked. 

And that distrust through every heart 
that crept. 

At rights withheld and promises unkcpt ; 

Wlule downward sank his star, un- 
mourned of all 

Who hailed the nation's rise, the usurp- 
er's fall ; 

Till death has swept away the last frail 
chance 

That cheered the friends of tyranny in 
France. 

—From "Louis Napoleon," C, P. Cranch. 



Smnavi XO. 



LAUD. 



Wniiam Laud, Archbishop of Canterbaqr, 
wat ti^e son of poor parents, and rose by his 
own ability to the primacy. He was a staunch 
supporter of Charles I. in all ecclesiastic mat- 
ters and after the death of the King was im- 
peached by the Long Parliament ana beheaded 
on Tower HiU. He died Jan. 10, 1646. 



Prejudged by foes determined not to 
spare. 

An old wesdc Man for vengeance thrown 
aside. 

Laud, "in the painful art of dying" tried, 

(Like a poor bird entangled in a snare 

Whose heart still flutters, though his 
wings forbear 

To stir in useless struggles) hath relied 

On hope that conscious innocence sup- 
plied. 

And in his prison breathes celestial air 

Why tarries then thy chariot? Where- 
fore stay, 

O Death! the ensanguined yet trium- 
phant wheels, 

Which thou prepar'st, full often, to con- 
vey 

(What time a State with madding fac- 
tion reels) 

The Saint or Patriot to the world that 
heals 

All wounds, all perturbations doth allay? 

^WiUiam Wordsworth. 



Sanuari? ll* 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 



(Bom Jan. 11, 1825.) 



Here find the poet's scrip, — his ready pen. 
The staff of service on his pilgrim round. 
Now laid aside ; for he in sleep is bound. 
No more to wander through the ways of 

men; 
But these his furnishings, ingathered 

when 
He traveled all Arcadia's laurelled 

ground. 
The cheer and nurture of his journey 

found, 
He hath bequeathed them to the world 

again. 

Herein note Love, his crust of daily 

bread, 
Romance, his flask of wine, and Reverie 

sweet. 
The rich-chased missal brought from 

Orient clime; 
Here also Hope, his belt, and from his 

head 
His scallop-shell of Fancy ; from his feet 
The rythmic sandals of his passion. 

Rhyme! — Craven L. Beits, 



3anuan? 12* 



TO WILLIAM H. SEWARD. 



On Jan. 12, 1861, Mr. Seward made a speech 
in the Senate on **The State of The Union/' in 
which he urged the paramount duty of preserv* 
ing the Union and went as far as it was possi- 
ble to go, without surrender of principles, in 
concession to the Southern party. 



Statesman, I thank thee I and, if yet dis- 
sent 

Mingles, reluctant, with my large con- 
tent, 

I cannot censure what was nobly meant. 

But, while constrained to hold even 
Union less 

Than Liberty and Truth and Righteous- 
ness, 

I thank thee in the sweet and holy name 

Of peace, for wise calm words that put 
to shame 

Passion and party. Courage may be 
shown 



i6 



EVERY DAY IN THE .YEAR. 



Not in defiance of the wrong alone; 
He may be bravest who, unweaponed, 

bears 
The olive-branch, and, strong in justice, 

spares 
The rash wrong-doer, giving widest 

scope 
To Christian charity and generous hope. 
If, without damage to the sacred cause 
Of Freedom and the safeguard of its 

laws — 
If, without yielding that for which alone 
We prize the Union, thou canst save it 

now 
From a baptism of blood, upon thy brow 
A wreath whose flowers no earthly soil 

have known. 
Woven of the beatitudes, shall rest. 
And the peacemaker be forever blest 

"John G. Whittier. 



3anuari? 13. 



SPENSER. 



(Died Jan. 18, 1599.) 



I've watched him stroll with Raleigh by 
the wood. 

Or Sidney, near the Mulla's rippling 
brim, 

While Nature crooned her Summer-even- 
ing hymn, 

Till o'er the fields the new moon's syckle 
stood. 

I've heard calm words of courtly broth- 
erhood 

Chime like an Angelus through the ages 
dim, 

And they, whom all else honored, hon- 
ered him. 

My Spenser, votary of the Holy Rood. 

They rose and passed through Honor's 
troubled sky; 

Each quenched in blood his fitful, fer- 
vent star; 

He dwelt apart, unknown, and fixed his 
eye 

Where aureoled Beauty beckoned him 
afar. 

Thy Lion, Maid, and Knight can never 
die, 

O Childe, for of them England's glories 
are! — Craven L. Betis, 



3anuans 14. 



CARDINAL MANNING. 



The midde of the nineteenth century smw s 
great movement in England towards the Church 
of Rome. Among the many welMcnown con^ 
▼erts waa Henry E. Manning, who had been a 
clergyman in the Church of England for over 
fifteen years. He entered the Roman priest- 
hood and was ultimately made Cardinal Arch- 
bishop of Westminster. He died Jan. 14, 189S. 



One more great Voice gone silent I 

Friends or foes. 
None well could watch that long life's 
gentle close 
Without a softening thrill. 
A valiant champion of the faith he held, 
No conflict ever his strong courage 
quelled. 
Or shook his steadfast will. 

Yet, were that all, some well might turn 
away 

With custom's passing courtliness, to- 
day. 
And bid a cold farewell 

To the great priest, shrewd marshaller 
of men. 

Subtle of verbal fence with tongue or 
pen, 
Ascetic of the cell — 

But there was more: and many a hun- 
dred hearts, 

Who not in cleric conflict played their 
parts, 
Will mourn him well and long. 

Friend of the poor, apart from creed or 
clique, 

And ardent champion of the struggling 
weak 

Against the selfish strong. 

Toiler for Temperance, hastener on of 

Light, 
In many a fray where right's at odds 
with might, 
Might's foes will miss their friend. 
Farewell I it moves the common heart to 

heart 
The crowning of so glorious a career 
By such a gracious end I 

-^London Punchn 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



17 



IN MEMORY OF LEWIS CARROLL. 



(Rev. C L. Dodgson, best known to the 
English-speaking world as Lewis Carroll, the 
sutnor ox **Alice in Wonderland/' died Jan. 
14, 1898.) 



Lover of children! Fellow heir with 
those 
Of whom the imperishable kingdom is. 
Beyond all doubting now your spirit 
knows 
The unimagined mysteries. 

Darkly as in a glass our faces look 
To read ourselves, if so we may, 
aright ; 

You, like the maiden in your fairy book, 
You step behind and see the light. 

Farewell I But in our hearts we have 
you yet. 
Holding our heritage with loving hand. 
Who may not follow where your feet are 
set 
Upon the ways of Wonderland. 

— London Punch. 



DEATH OF A FIRSTBORN. 



The Duke of Clarence, eldest son of the 
then Prince of Wales, died on Jan. 14, 1892. 



One young life lost, two happy young 
lives blighted. 
With earthward eyes we see: 
With eyes uplifted, keener, farther-sight- 
ed. 
We look, O Lord, to Thee. 

Grief hears a funeral knell: hope hears 
the ringing 
Of birthday bells on high; 
Faith, hope and love make answer with 
soft singing. 
Half carol and half cry. 

Stoop to console us, Christ, Sole Conso- 
lation, 
While dust returns to dust; 
Until that blessed day when all Thy Na- 
tion 
ShaU rise up of the Just^ 

— Christina G. Rossetti, 



3«nuain2 15* 



EVERETT. 



(Edward Everett died Jan, 15, 1865.) 



So fell our stateman — for he stood sub- 
lime 
On that proud pedestal, a people's 
heart — 
As when some image, through the touch 
of time. 
That long was reverenced in the pub- 
lic mart; 
As some tall clock-tower, that was wont 
to tell 
The hour of duty to the young and 
olden. 
With tongue most musical of every bell. 
Bends to its base, and is no more be- 
holden ! 

So fell our Everett: more like some 
great elm. 
Lord of the grove, but something set 
apart, 
That all the tempests could not over- 
whelm, 
Nor all the winters of his seventy 
years. 
But on some peaceful midnight bursts 
his heart. 
And in the morning men behold the 
wreck, 
(Some with gray hairs, who cannot hold 
their tears), 
But in the giant timber find no speck 
Nor unsound spot, but only wholesome 
wood. 



No secret worm consuming at the core 
The stem that ever seemed so fair and 
good; 
And aged men that knew the tree of 
yore 
When but a sapling, promising full well,' 
Say to each other, "This majestic plant 
Came to its full growth ; it made no idle 
vaunt; 
From its own weight, without a flaw, 
it fell !" 

— Thomas W. Parsons, 



i8 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



A THOUGHT. 



Suggested by the death of Fanny Kemble, 
January 16, 1898. 

The soul of Man, evolving more and 
more 

Life's deeper meaning, slights the outer 
round 

Of mere display. The thrill that tells 
the ground 

Spring is above and Winter's bondage 
o'er. 

The melodies that ripple on the shore, — 

Awake emotions stormy and profound 

As in the savage breast the thunderous 
sound 

Of avalanches or the earthquake's roar. 

Thus she in whom men's memories re- 
joice 

Forsook the mimic stage nor could en- 
dure 

The noisy mockeries that so arouse 

The raptures of the mob. — In that one 
voice 

More sweetly sang the birds on Ardeu's 
boughs, 

More fiercely raged the madness of the 
Moor. — John Hall Ingham, 



3anuans 16. 

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

A British general in the Peninralar War. 
Deserted by nis Spanish Allies he was ob- 
liged to retreat to Corunna where the English 
troops were attacked by the French as they 
were embarking and Sir John Moore was killed 
January 16, 1809. He was buried in the 
citadel at night It is rather a remarkable 
fact that the author of this poem, one of the 
gems of the English language, and known 
wherever that language is spoken, should never 
have written anjrthing else of importance. 



Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral 
note. 
As his corse to the rampart we hur- 
ried; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell 
shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we 
buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sod with our bayonets turning. 



By the struggling moonbeams' misty 
light. 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin inclosed his breast. 
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound 
him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him ! 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of 
the dead. 
And we bitterly thought of the mor- 
row. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow 
bed. 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 
That the foe and the stranger would 
tread o'er his head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's 
gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — 
But little he'll reck if they let him sleep 
on. 
In the grave where a Briton has laid 
him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 
When the clock struck the hour for 
retiring ; 

And we knew by the distant random fi^n. 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame fresh and 
gory; 
We carved not a line, we raised not a 
stone — 
But we left him alone in his glory. 

— Charles Wolfe, 



3muav^ 17. 



COLONEL BURNABY. 



A distinguished English traveler, soldier and 
author. Best known by his *'Ride to Khiva," 
which describes his journey thither across the 
steppes. He was war correspondent at one 
time . for the London Times. He was killed 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



19 



Jan. 17, 1885, at Abu Klea by a spear wound 
while rallying his men. 



Thou that on every field of earth and sky 

Didst hunt for Death — that seemed to 

flee and fear — 

How great and greatly fallen dost thou 

lie 

Slain in the Desert by some wandering 

spear! 
"Not here," alas! may England say — 
^ *'not here 
Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die. 
But in that dreadful battle drawing nigh. 
To shake the Afghan passes strait and 
sheer." 

Like Aias by the Ships shouldst thou 
have stood. 
And in some glen have stayed the 
stream of flight, 
The pillar of thy people and their shield, 
Till *Helmund or till Indus ran with 
blood. 
And back, towards the Northlands and 
the Night 
The stricken Eagles scattered from the 
field. 

— Andrew Lang. 



ST. ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE 

FISHES. 



St Anthony at church 

Was left in the lurch, 

So he went to the ditches 

And preached to the fishes; 

They wriggled their tails, 

In the sun glanced their scales. 

The carps, with their spawn. 

Are all hither drawn; 

Have opened their jaws. 

Eager for each clause. 
No sermon beside 
Had the carps so edified. 

Sharp-snouted pikes. 

Who keep fighting like tikes, 

Now swam harmonious 

To hear St. Antonious. 
No sermon beside 
Had the pikes so edified. 



And that very odd fish, 

Who loves fast days, the cod-fish — 

The stock-fish, I mean — 

At the sermon was seen. 

No sermon beside 

Had the cods so edified. 

Good eels and sturgeon. 
Which aldermen gorge on, 
Went out of their way 
To hear preaching that day. 

No sermon beside 

Had the eels so edified. 

Crabs and turtles also. 
Who always move slow. 
Made haste from the bottom. 
As if the devil had got *em. 

No sermon beside 

Had the crabs so edified. 

Fish great and fish small. 
Lords, lackeys, and all, 
Each looked at the preacher, 
Like a reasonable creature: 

At God's word, 

They Anthony heard. 

The sermon now ended. 

Each turned and descended ; 

The pikes went on stealing. 

The eels went on eeling ; 
Much delighted were they. 
But preferred the old way. 

The crabs are backsliders. 

The stock-fish thick-siders. 

The carps are sharp-set, 

All the sermon forget: 
Much delighted were they. 
But preferred the old way. 

— Anonymous, 



3anuari? 18. 



TO AUSTIN DOBSON. 



(Born Jan. 18, 1840.) 






Laureate of the Gentle Heart ? 
Only art like your own art, 
Limpid, gracious, happy-phrased. 
Could praise you as you should be 
praised, 



20 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Many a lyric you have writ. 
Grave with pathos, gay with wit. 
Or conceived in larger mood, 
Shall outlast the clattering brood 
That usurp our noisy day ; 
Shall, with all that's noble, stay 
In our well-loved English tongue 
Till the ending song is sung; 
For no purer tone was heard 
Since men sought Beauty and the Word. 
Richard Watson Gilder, 



Sanuari? 19* 



TO MR. CONGREVE. 



William Congreve was an English dramatist 
and one of the greatest writers of comedy. He 
is celebrated for his wit and the beauty of his 
style. He died Jan. 19, 1729. 



Congreve! the justest glory of our age! 

The whole Menander of the English 
stage ! 

Thy comic muse, in each complete de- 
sign, 

Does manly sense and sprightly wit com- 
bine. 

And sure the theatre was meant a school. 

To lash the vicious, and expose the fool ; 

The wilful fool, whose wit is always 
shown 

To hit another's fault and miss his own, 

Laughs at himself, when by thy skill cx- 
prest. 

And always in his neighbor finds the jest. 

A fame from vulgar characters to raise 

Is every poet's labour, and his praise: 

They, fearful, coast; while you forsake 
the shore. 

And undiscovered worlds of wit explore. 

Enrich the scene with characters un- 
known, 

There plant your colonies and fix your 
throne. 



Then let half critics veil their idle spite. 
For he knows best to rail who worst can 

write. 
Let juster satire now employ thy pen, 
To tax the vicious on the world's great 

scene ; 



There the reformer's praise the poet 

shares. 
And boldly lashes whom the zealot 

spares. 

-^Elisabeth Toilet. 



Sanuari? 20* 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 



St. Agnes was a Roman Virgin and Martyr 
12 or 18 years of age, who was beheaded in the 
reign of Diocletian. 



Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon: 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes : 

May my soul follow soon! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies. 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

ToiJ«wl€r argent round; 
So mivcf my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
Soip mine earthly house I am. 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. 

In raiment white and clean. 

.He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors. 

And strews her lights below. 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridgegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride ! 

— Alfred Tennyson. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



21 



3anuari? 2h 

EXECUTION OF LOUIS XVI. 



(Beheaded Jan. 2, 1793.) 



"You all know the Place de la Q)ncorde? 

'Tis hard t^ the Tuileries wall. 
Mid terraces, fountains, and statues, 

There rises an obelisk tall. 
There rises an obelisk tall. 

All gamish*d and gilded the base is: 
'Tis surely the gayest of all 

Our beautiful city's gay places. 

"Around it are gardens and flowers, 

And the cities of France on their 
thrones 
Each crown'd with his circlet of flowers, 

Sits watching this biggest of stones! 
I love to go sit in the sun there. 

The flowers and fountains to see. 
And to think of the deeds that were done 
there 

In the glorious year ninety-three . 

"Twas here stood the Altar of Free- 
dom; 

And though neither marble nor gilding 
Was used in those days to adorn 

Our simple republican building, 
Corbleu ! but the Mere Guillotine 

Cared little for splendour or show, 
So you gave her an axe and a beam. 

And a plank and a basket or so. 

"Awful, and proud, and erect. 

Here sat our republican goddess. 
Each morning her table we deck'd 

With dainty aristocrats' bodies. 
The people each day flocked around 

As she sat at her meat and her wine : 
'Twas always the use of our nation 

To witness the sovereign dine. 

"Young virgins with fair golden tresses. 

Old silver-hair'd prelates and priests, 
Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses. 

Were splendidly served at her feasts. 
Ventrebleu ! but we pampered our ogress 

With the best that our nation could 
bring. 
And dainty she grew in her progress, 

And called for the head of a King ! 

"She called for the blood of our King, 
And straight from his prison we drew 
1dm; 



And to her with shouting we led him. 
And took him, and bound him, and 
slew him 

The monarchs of Europe against me 
Have plotted a godless alliance; 

I'll fling them the head of King Louis/ 
She said, 'as my gage of defiance.' 

"I see him as now, for a moment, 

Away from his gaolers he broke; 
And stood at the loot of the scaffold. 
And linger'd and fain would have 
spoke. 
*Ho, drummer ! quick, silence yon Capet,' 
Says Santerre, *with a beat of your 
drum.' 
Lustily then did I tap it. 

And the son of Saint Louis was dumb." 
(From 'The Chronicle of the Drum.") 
— IVilliam Makepeace Thackeray. 



3anmvi 22. 



GOD SAVE THE KING I 



(Accession of Edward VII., Jan. 22, 1901.) 



God save the King! Not from those 
things 
Duly ennumbered in the common plea, 
Not only from a court's monotony 
Or tangled trials of State high office 

brings ; 
Not only from the licensed jester's flings. 
Not from a Parliament that strives to 
please. 
Or yet from sycophantic dri veilings — 
God save his Majesty from more than 
these ! 

God save the King! From what? Well, 
here's the prayer: 
Save him from certain moments that 

may be 
Sacred to pomp and circumstance, 
when he 
Feels ennui stealing o'er him unaware 
With that sick longing to be otherwhere. 
That makes him envy, aye, and here's 
the rub. 
That man who may enjoy an easy chair 
And cigarette and cognac at a club« 



22 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



God save the King! From what? From 
memories 
That come when one lies long awake 

o' night, 
And hears an echo laughter, sweet and 
light, 
Sound from old days more jubilant than 

wise ; 
Save him from certain thoughts of cer- 
tain eyes; 
Save him from hearing in his dreams 

the beat 
Of unforgotten, pirouetting feet 
That knew no Ime 'twixt men and 
majesties. 

From all the cares that needs must hedge 
the Guelph, 
From all the ills with which our 

prayer-books ring, 
From fools' advice and wise men's 
blundering, 
But ever and above all, from himself 
God save the King! 

— Theodosia Garrison. 



THE AKOND OF SWAT. 



On this day, Jan. 22. 1876, the ruler of a re- 
mote eastern principality died after a reign that 
had lasted from very early in the century and 
had been so peaceful and devoid of incident that 
very few people, outside of the British Foreign 
Office, knew ox the existence of either Swat 
or its venerable ruler. Curiously enough, the 
publication of the demise of the Ahkoond of 
Swatz appealed simultaneously to the humor- 
ous sense of Mr. Edward Lrar in England and 
of Mr. George T. Lanigan in America, and each 
of these distinguished versifiers celebrated the 
occasion in his own way. 



Who, or why, or which, or what. 

Is the Akond of Swat? 

Is he tall or short, or dark or fair? 
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or chair, 

OR SQUAT? 

The Akond of Swat? 

Is he wise or foolish, young or old? 
Does he drink his soup or his coffee cold, 

OR HOT, 

The Akond of Swat? 



Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, 
And when riding abroad does he gallop 
or walk, 

OR TROT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat ? 
Does he sleep on a matress, a bed, or a 
mat, 

OR A COT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

When he writes a copy in round-hand 

size. 
Does he cross his T's and finish his Vs 

WITH A DOT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

Can he write a letter concisely clear 
Without a speck or a smudge or a smear 

OR BLOT, 

The Aicond of Swat? 

Do his people like him extremely well ? 
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, 

OR PLOT, 

At the Akond of Swat? 

If he catches them then, either old or 

young. 
Does he have them chopped in pieces or 

hung, 

OR SHOT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

Do his people prig in the lanes or park? 
Or even at times when days are dark, 

GARROTTE ! 

O the Akond of Swat I 

Does he study the wants of his own do- 
minion ? ' 
Or doesn't he care for public opinion 

A JOT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

To amuse his mind do the people show 

him 
Pictures, or any one's last new poem, 

OR WHAT, 

For the Akond of Swat ? 

At night if he suddenly screams and 

wakes. 
Do they bring him only a few small 

cakes, 

OR A LOT, 

For the Akond of Swat? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



23 



Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe? 
Does he like his shawl to be marked with 
a stripe, 

OK A jxrr, 

The Akond of Swat? 

Does he like to lie on his back in a boat 
Like the lady who lived in that isle re* 
mote, 

SHALLOTT^ 

The Akond of Swat? 

Is he quiet or always making a fuss ? 
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a 
Russ, 

OR A SCOT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

Does he drink small beer from a silver 
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green 
cave, 

OR A GROTT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

Does he drink small beer from a silver 

jug? 
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a 
mug? 

OR A POT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped 

pipe. 
When she lets the gooseberries grow too 

ripe, 

OR ROT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

Does he wear a white tie when he dines 

with friends. 
And tie it neat in a bow with ends, 

OR A KNOT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

Does he like new cream and hate mince- 
pies? 

When he looks at the sun does he wink 
his eyes, 

OR NOT, 

The Akond of Swat? 

Does he teach his subjects to roast and 

bake? 
Does he sail about on an inland lake, 

IN A YACHT, 

The Akond of Swat 



Some one, or nobody, knows I wot 
Who or which or why or what 

Is the Akond of Swat 
— Edward Lear. 



A THRENODY. 



What, what, what. 

What's the news from Swat? 
Sad news, 
Bad news, 

Comes by the cable led 
Through the Indian Ocean's bed. 
Through the Persian Gulf, the Red 

Sea and the Med — 

Iterranean — he's dead: 

The Ahkoond is dead ! 

For the Ahkoond I mourn, — 
Who wouldn't? 
He strove to disregard the message stem. 
But he Ahkoodn't 

Dead, dead, dead. 

Sorrow Swats I 
Shats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, 
Swats whom he hath often led 
Onward to a gory bed. 

Or to victory, 
As the case might be. 

Sorrow Swats! 

Tears shed, 
Shed tears like water: 
Your great Ahkoond is dead! 
That Swats the matter! 

Mourn, city of Swat ! 
Your great Ahkoond is not. 
But laid mid worms to rot, — 
His mortal part alone: — ^his soul was 
caught 
(Because he was a good Ahkoond) 

Up to the bosom of Mahound. 
Though earthy walls his frame sur- 
round, 
(Forever hallowed be the ground!) 
And skeptics mock the lowly mound 
And say "He's now of no Ahkoond !" 
His soul is in the skies — 
The azure skies that bend above his loved 
Metropolis of Swat. 
He sees with larger, other eyes 
Athwart all earthly mysteries- 
He knows what's Swat 



24 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond 
With a noise of mourning and of lamen- 
tation ! 
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond 
With the noise of the mourning of the 
Swattish nation! 

Fallen is at length 
Its tower of strength: 
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned: 
Dead lies the great Ahkoond, 
The great Ahkoond of Swat 
Is not! 

— George T. Lanigan. 



ON LORD BACON'S BIRTHDAY. 



Francis Bacon was a celebrated philosopher. 

J'urist, and statesman under Elizabeth and 
ames I. He is generally, though erroneously, 
spoken of as Lord Bacon, his proper title being 
Baron Verulam and Viscount St. Albans. He 
was bom Jan. 22, 1661. 



Hail, happy Genius of this ancient pile! 
How comes it all things so about thee 

smile? 
The fire, the wine, the men! and in the 

midst 
Thou stand'st as if some mystery thou 

didst ! 
Pardon, I read it in thy face, the day 
For whose returns, and many, all these 

pray; 

And so do I. This is the sixtieth year, 
Since Bacon, and thy lord was bom, and 

here; 
Son to the grave wise Keeper of the Seal, 
Fame and foundation of the English 

weal. 
What then his father was, that since is 

he. 
Now with a title more to the degree; 
England's high Chancellor: the destined 

heir. 
In his soft cradle, to his father's chair : 
Whose even thread the fates spin round 

and full. 
Out of their choicest and their whitest 

wool. 
'Tis a brave cause of joy, let it be known, 
For 'twere a narrow gladness, kept thine 

own. 
Give me a deep crowned bowl, that I 

may sing, 
In raising him, the wisdom of my king. 

— Ben Jonson. 



ON MY THIRTY-SEVENTH 
BIRTHDAY. 



(I«ord Byron was bom Jan. 22, 1788.) 



'Tis time this heart should be unmoved. 

Since others it has ceased to move ; 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
No torch is kindled at its blaze, — 
A funeral pile! 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — ^and 'tis not here — 
Such thoughts should shake my soul, 
nor now 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
Was not more free. 

Awake! (not Greece — she is awake!) 
Awake my spirit! Think through 
whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhood! unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth. Why liveT 

The land of honorable death 
Is here: — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 
Then look around, and choose thy 
ground, 
And take thy rest 

--Lord Byron. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



25 



3anuari? 23* 



A WELCOME TO THE DUKE AND 
DUCHESS OF EDINBURGH. 



(Married Jan. 28, 1874.) 



The Son of him with whom we strove 
for power — 
Whose will is lord thro' all his world- 
domain — 
Who made the serf a man, and burst 
his chain — 
Has given our Prince his own Imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 

And welcome, Russian flower, a people's 

pride. 

To Britain, when her flowers begin to 

blow ! 

From love to love, from home to home 

you go. 
From mother unto mother, stately bride, 

Marie- Alexandrovna. 

The golden news along the steppes is 
blown. 
And at thy name the Tartar tents are 

stirred : 
Elburz and all the Caucasus have 
heard; 
And all the sultry palms of India known, 

Alexandrovna. 

The voice of our univers; 1 sea, 

On capes of Afric as on cliffs of Kent, 

The Maoris and that Isle of Continent. 

And loyal pines of Canada murmur thee. 

Marie- Alexandrovna. 

Fair empires branching, both, in lusty 
life I— 
Yet Harold's England fell to Norman 

swords : 
Yet thine own land has bow'd to 
Tartar hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne a 
wife, 

Alexandrovna. 

For thrones and peoples are as waifs that 
swing, 
And float or fall, in endless ebb and 

flow; 
But who love best have best the grace 
to know 
That Love by right divine is deathless 
Idngt 

Marie- Alexandrovna ! 



And Love has led thee to the stranger 
land. 
Where men are bold and strongly say 

their say: — 
See, empire upon empire smiles to-day. 
As thou with thy young lover hand in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna ! 
So now thy fuller life is in the West, 
Whose hand at home was gracious to 

thy poor: 
Thy name was blest within the narrow 
door; 
Here, also, Marie, shall thy name be 
blest, 

Marie- Alexandrovna ! 

Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame 
again ? 
Or at thy coming. Princess, every- 
where. 
The blue heaven break, and some di- 
viner air 
Breathe thro' the world and change the 
hearts of men, 

Alexandrovna ? 
But hearts that change not, love that 
cannot cease, 
And peace be yours, the peace of soul 

in soul! 
And howsoever this wide world may 
roll, 
Between your peoples truth and manful 
peace, 

Alfred — Alexandrovna ! 
— Alfred Tennyson. 



ON THE DEATH OF CANON 
KINGSLEY. 



(Died Jan. 23, 1875.) 



Mortals there are who seem, all over, 

flame. 
Vitalized radiance, keen, intense, and 

high. 
Whose souls, like planets in a dominant 

sky, 
Bum with full forces of eternity: 

Such was his soul, and such the light 
which came 

From that pure heaven he lived in; hol- 
iest worth 



26 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Of will and work was his, to brighten 

earth. 
Heal its foul wounds, and beautify its 

dearth. 

He dwelt in clear white purity apart, 
Yet walked the world; through many a 

sufferer's door 
He shone like morning; comfort 

streamed before 
His footsteps; on the feeble and the 

poor 

He lavished the rich spikenard of his 

heart. 
Christ's soldier! To his trumpet-call 

he sprung, 
Eager, elate; valiant of pen and tongue, 
Grand were the words he spake, the 

songs he sung. 

Still, hero-priest! bom out of thy due 

time — 
Thou shouldst have lived when on thine 

England's sod 
Giants of faith and seers of freedom trod. 
Daring all things to break the oppres' 

sor's rod. 

Great in thine own age, thou hadst been 
sublime 

In theirs — that age of fervent, fruitful 
breath, 

When, scorning treachery, and defying 
death, 

Her true knights girt their loved Eliza- 
beth, 

Seeing on her the centuries' hopes were 

set; 
Then hadst thou ranged with Raleigh 

land and sea, 
Bible and sword in hand, gone forth 

with Leigh, 
The tyrant smote, the heathen folk made 

free! 

Yea! but to God and grace thou hast 
paid thy debt. 

In measure scarce less glorious and com- 
plete 

Than theirs who bearded on his chosen 
seat 

The bloody Antichrist; or fleet to fleet. 

Thundered through storms of battle- 
wrack and fire 
At Britain's Salamis ; the heroic strain 



Ran purpling all thy nature like a vein 
Oped from God's heart to thine ; the loft- 
iest plane 

Of thought and action, purpose and de- 
sire 

Thou trod'st on triumphing; thy Vik- 
ing's face 

Showed granite-willed, yet softened into 
grace 

By effluence of good deeds, the angelic 
race 

Of prayers to prompt, and aid them! 
Fare thee well. 

Clear spirit and strong! thy life-work 
nobly done. 

Shines beautiful as some unsetting sun 

O'er Arctic summers; chords of victory 
run 

Even through the mournful boom of thy 
deep funeral knell ! 

—Paul H. Hayne. 



EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. 



(Died Jan. 28, 1806.) 



With death doomed to grapple. 
Beneath this cold slab, he 

Who lied in the Chapel 
Now lies in the Abbey. 

— Lord Byron. 



PHILLIPS BROOKS. 



(Died Jan. 28, 1898.) 



Perhaps we do not know how much of 

God 
Was walking with us. 

Surely not forlorn 
Are men, when such great overflow of 

heaven 
Brings down the light of the eternal 

morn 
Into the earth's deep shadows, where 

they plod. 
The slaves of sorrow. 

Something of divine 
Was in his nature, open to the source 
Of love, that master of primeval force, 
As, answering freshly their unfailing 
sign. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



27 



To the early and the latter rain the sod 
Lies bare, and drinking in by mom and 

even 
The precious dews that lift it into flower 
Distilled again in fragrance every hour. 

I think if Jesus, whom he loved as Lord, 
Were here again, in such guise might He 

go, 
So bind all creeds as with a golden cord, 
So with the saint speak, with the sinner 

so. 
And then remembering all the torrent's 

hush. 
Of praise and blessing o'er the listening 

hush, 
Remembering the lightning of the glance. 
Remembering the lifted countenance 
White with the prophet's glory that it 

wore, 
With the Holy Spirit shining through the 

clay. 
Prophet — ^yea, I say unto you and more 
Than a prophet was with us but yester- 
day. 

— Harriet Prescott Spoffard, 



PHILLIPS BROOKS. 



Fallen that mighty form, 

Silent the voice 
That through the sin and storm 

Made men rejoice. 

Not alone Friendship stands 

Mute and forlorn — 
Over all English lands 

Myriads mourn. 

Soldier, as one he fought 

Loving the strife; 
Teacher, a truth he taught 

Radiant with life. 

The narrow bounds he burst 

Of creed and clan, 
Seeing in sinner first 

Brother and man; 

Kept through maturer might 

Fervor of youth ; 
Saw through the smoke of rite 

The Sun of Truth ; 



Let faded dogmas drop. 

Sure of the Soul — 
Fearless that Doubt would stop 

Man from his goal ; 

Drew from the dust and weeds 

Lessons of Love 
Sown in our earthly needs. 

Garnered above; 

Saw in the stars and sea 

S}rmbols sublime. 
Gleams of Eternity, 

Hopes beyond Time; 

Heard heavenly whisperings 

Where'er he trod, 
Felt through the frame of things 

The pulse of God. 

O, dying century, test 

Thy sons and say, 
"My bravest, truest, best, 

1 lose this day !" 

— John Hall Ingham, 



"1 



Sanuari? 24* 



AFTER THE LECTURE ON SPION 

KOP. 



Delivered at Mulligan's Hall. New York. 

On the night of Jan. 28 (1900), Sir Charles 
Warren's division of General Sir Kedvers Bui- 
ler's armv, under the immediate command of 
General Woodgate, occupied Spion Kop in the 
belief that it was the key to the Boer position. 
When day broke they found themselves in an 
unsheltered place on the ridge, with no water 
except what was in their canteens and exposed 
to a terrible artillery fire from the neighboring 
bills, to which they were unable to reply. They 
held their position all day with heavy loss and 
at nightfall, the command having devolved on 
Col. Thomeycroft, General Woodgate being 
mortally wounded, a retreat was ordered and 
they marched down the hill without knowing 
that artillery had been ordered to their relief 
and was then close at hand. 



"Man, Blake was fine : ev'ry word that he 
spoke 
Snapped out like the crack of a whip. 
D*ye mind where he looked through the 
cannon smoke 
As the English let go their grip? 
For that one hot minute on Spion Kop. 
God willin', I'd roast ten yeax^l 



28 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



No wonder the lecture was called to a 
stop 
Till the boys were dead with their 
cheers ; 
And so/' said Burke with his glass in his 
hand, 
"God bless the burghers of Boerland !" 

"And Blake left a leg there," 't was Kelly 
stood up. 
"They've scattered the Irish Brigade: 
But few as they were they emptied their 
cup. 
And the man who dies twice isn't 
made. 
'Twas a fresh red mark on the old war- 
map: 
They signed it, men, for us all. 
And we'd rather lie stiff with them there 
in the gap 
Than to cheer them in Mulligan's Hall. 
Oh, the fights all along the Tugela were 
grand, 
So, God bless the burghers of Boer- 
land !" 

"Ah, things have gone badly," said 
Burke, "since then." 
"In time," said Shea, with a frown. 
Two hundred and fifty thousand men 
Will wear forty thousand down." 
If I was De Wet," said Burke, "I'd 
set—" 
If yottf arrah whisht," said Shea, 
Phil Sheridan couldn't give points to 

De Wet 
In a dash and a smash and — ^away. 
He'd keep up the fight with a lone com- 
mand, 
God bless the burghers of Boer- 
land !" 



<f 



« 



tt 



"And the Boers are Protestants. One 
would think," 
Said Burke, "'twould for something 
count" 
"In questions of loot," said Shea with a 
wink 
"That wouldn't reduce the amount. 
When Cromwell made Ireland an open 
grave 
And gave us the edge of the knife. 
It wasn't our souls he wanted to save, 

But to case us of land and life. 
And 'tis Ireland yet, lads, mountain and 
strand, 
So, God bless the burghers of Boer- 
land!" 



"The smoke of their homesteads darkens 
the sky," 
Said Burke, "but their guns are bright : 
Their women and children are herded to 
die. 
But they don't give up the fight. 
The world has left them, more shame to 
the world. 
To rastle their way to death. 
But an Englishman's soul to the pit is 
hurled. 
When a Boer gives up his breath. 
And they're fighting to-day from the 
Cape to the Rand : 
God bless the burghers of Boerland t" 



"A race doesn't hate for the sake of hate, 
"Nor," said Kelly, "when gun faces 
gun; 
But the bitter black flow'r grows early 
and late 
Where the killing of women is done: 
On the graves of the children its roots 
strike deep, 
Then the hearts of live men it will 
clutch. 
And till Judgment their race will its foot- 
hold keep: 
You can't kill the Irish — or Dutch! 
So, if none but us three were to stretch 
them a hand, 
God bless the burghers of Boerland!" 

— Joseph I. C. Clarke. 



SIDNEY GODOLPHIN. 



A young man of fine family and great prom- 
ise. He was intimate with Falkland and Clar- 
endon and is mentioned by Hobbes in the dedi- 
cation of his "Leviathan" to his brother, 
Francis Godolphin. He had great literary taste 
and left some poems which have never been 
collected. On the breaking out of the Civil 
War he joined the royalist troops and was 
killed Jan. 24, 1642, in a skirmish at Chag- 
ford in Devonshire. 



They rode from the camp at morn 

With clash of sword and spur. 
The birds were loud in the thorn, 

The sky was an azure blur. 
A gallant show they made 

That warm noontide of the year. 
Led on by a dashing blade, 

By the poet-cavalier. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



29 



They laughed through the leafy lanes, 

The long lanes of Dartmoor; 
And they sang their soldier strains, 

Pledged "death" to the Roundhead 
boor; 
Then they came at the middle day 

To a hamlet quaint and brown 
Where the hated troopers lay, 

And they cheered for the King and 
crown. 

They fought in the fervid heat, 

Fought fearlessly and well. 
But low at the foeman's feet 

Their valorous leader fell. 
Full on his fair young face 

The blinding sun beat down; 
In the mom of his manly grace 

He died for the King and crown. 

Oh the pitiless blow. 

The vengeance-thrust of strife, 
That blotted the golden glow 

From the sky of his glad, brave life I 
The glorious promise gone; — 

Night with its grim black frown! 
Never again the dawn. 

And all for the King and crown. 

Hidden his sad fate now 

In the sealed book of the years ; 
Few are the heads that bow, 

Or the eyes that brim with tears, 
Reading 'twixt blots and stains 

From a musty tome that saith 
How he rode through the Dartmoor lanes 

To his woful, dauntless death. 

But I, in the summer's prime. 

From that lovely leafy land 
Look back to the olden time 

And the leal and loyal band. 
I see them dash along, — 

I hear them charge and cheer, 
And my heart goes out in a song 

To the poet-cavalier. 

— Clinton Scollard. 



Januari? 25. 



ROBIN BURNS. 



(Robert Bums was born, Jan. 25, 1769.) 

A hundred years ago this morn, 
He came to walk our human way ; 



And we would change the Crown of 
Thorn 
For healing leaves To-day. 

But we can only hang our wreath 

Upon the cold white marble's brow; 
Tho' loud we speak, or low we breathe 
We cannot reach him now. 

He loved us all! he loved so much! 

His heart of love the world could hold ; 
And now the whole wide world, with 

such 

A love, would round him fold. 

Tis long and late before it wakes 

So kindly, — ^yet a true world still; 
It hath a heart so large, it takes 
A Century to fill. 

4c 4c 4c 4c 4t 4t 4c 

And near or far, where Britons band 

To-day, the leal and true heart turns 
More fondly to the fatherland. 
For love of Robin Burns. 

— Gerald Massey. 



January? 26. 



GORDON. 



General Gordon*s is one of the most strik* 
ing of modern personalities. After a brilliant 
career in China he went to Egypt, where he 
was made Governor of the Equatorial Provinces 
and of the Soudan under the Khedive, by 
whom he was also made Pasha. He was be- 
sieged by the Mahdi in Khartoum and killed in 
the storming of tlie city, Jan. 26, 1886. 



Son of the Brittannia's isle. 

There by the storied Nile, 

The dust has claimed him ere his work 

was done: 
But not for that alone 
Has Fame's clear trumpet blown 
Most mournful music o*er her bravest 

son. 
Alas ! for England, when the dead 
Fell by a coward's hand her honor fled ! 

No English squadrons broke 
Through the thick battle smoke. 
At that last hour when the hero fell; 



30 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



He hoped to see again 

(But ah that hope was vain) 

Those English colors he had served so 
well; 

He fell, forsaken, undismayed, 

True to the land that thus his trust be- 
trayed. 



His was the hardest part, 
That tries the stauncnest heart ; 
Better the headlong charge when hun- 
dreds die. 
Than the relentless foe 
Watching to strike the blow, 
And the slow waiting while the bullets 

fly- 
No friends, no hope, but, like a star, 
High duty shining Uirough the clouds of 
war. 



No stately Gothic fane 
Roofs in the hero slain. 
But the wide sky above the desert sands ; 
No graven stone shall tell 
Where at the last he fell. 
And, if interred at all, bv alien hands, — 
Thrust in a shallow grave to wait 
The last loud summons to the fallen 
great 



No more can England boast 

Her name from coast to coast 

Shall be a passport to her wandering 

sons; 
Once they could freely roam, 
As in their Island home, 
Safe far abroad as underneath her guns ; 
Or, should mishap for vengeance call. 
Swift would her anger on the oppressor 

fall. 



But let the meed of blame 
Fall with its weight of shame 
On those who lacked the courage to com- 
mand; 
The heart of England beats 
In London's thronging streets, 
And in the quiet places of the land. 
Still to its old traditions true. 
In spite of all our rulers failed to do. 

— Bertram Tennyson. 



EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORDON. 



(In the Gordon Boys' Memorial Home, near 

Woking.) 



Warrior of God, man's friend, and ty- 
rant's foe 
Now somewhere dead far in the waste 
Soudai^ 
Thou livest in all hearts, for all mea 
know 
This earth has never borne a nobler 
man. ^^Lord Tennyson. 



THRENODY. 



On Jan. 27, 1842, Ralph Waldo Emerson lost 

his (then) onlv son, a lovely child of five 

vears. As in Milton's ivycidas and Shelley's 

'Adonais/' his grief found expression in verse. 

The South-wind brings 

Life, sunshine and desire, 

And on every mound and meadow 

Breathes aromatic fire; 

But over the dead he has no power. 

The lost, the lost, he cannot restore; 

And, looking over the hills, I mourn 

The darling who shall not return. 

I see my empty house, 

I see my trees repair their boughs ; 

And, he, the wondrous child. 

Whose silver warble wild 

Outvalued every pulsing sound 

Within the air's cerulean round, — 

The hyacinthine boy, for whom 

Morn well might break and April 

bloom, — 
The gracious boy, who did adorn 
The world whereinto he was born, 
And by his countenance repay 
The favor of the loving Day, — 
Has disappeared from the Day's eye; 
Far and wide she cannot find him; 
My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. 
Returned this day, the south-wind 

searches. 
And finds young pines and budding 

birches ; 
But finds not the budding man; 
Nature, who lost, cannot remake him; 
Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him; 
Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain. 

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



31 



UNTER DEN LINDEN. 



(Emperor William II of Germany, bom Jan. 
S7, 1859.) 



The rays of waning sunlight steal 

Along the overhanging eaves; 
The awnings droop and scarcely feel 

The wind that stirs the linden leaves ; 
And here the curious strangers try 

To wile away an idle hour, 
And watch the crowd that surges hy 

All day before the Cafe Bauer. 

Not all unmoved can one abide 

And with a careless heart survey 
This city of imperial pride. 

Where men make history to-day; 
Here is no idle pleasure-mart 

To witch the fancy of an hour ; 
Here throbs a nation's living heart. 

Here beats the pulse of conscious 
power. 

On every side, displayed afar. 
Flung out with martial blazonry. 

Are ^mbols of successful war. 
While he who looks can ever see 
Behind the veil that Peace has spread, 

The banners of a mighty camp. 
Can hear above the hum of trade 

The gathering armies' ceaseless tramp. 

And suddenly with naught to show 

What stilled the tongue and checked 
the feet. 
As when a wind has ceased to blow, 

A hush comes o'er the busy street, 
A bugle sounds; and in reply 

Rolls forth a distant storm of drums; 
Then down the Linden runs the cry : 

"The Kaiser comes! The Kaiser 
comes!" . 

Cold eyes, set li^s, a restless glance 

That. wanders m uneasy quest. 
With looks that like a living lance 

Blaze from beneath the helmet-crest ; 
Upon that face as on a page 

Has nature stamped with cruel truth 
The heartlessness of cynic age. 

The reckless insolence of youth. 

What morbid motive half defined. 
What oestrus-thought that stings and 
stays, 

Goads on his restless, brooding mind — 
This sceptred Sphinx of modem days ? 



It is ambition's poisoned wine — 

The throb, perchance, of ceaseless pain — 

The spark of genius half divine — 
The burning of a madman's brain? 



And this is he whose sword and pen 

All Europe eyes with bated breath, 
Whose word can arm a million men, 

Whose nod can hurl them on to death: 
A nation's life, a nation's case. 

The honour of a nation's name, 
The awful fates of war and peace, 

AH centred in a single frame. 

O type of all the dreadful past 

When birth made brutes the lords of 
brain! 
When Hope stood naked to the blast. 

And cowering Freedom clanked her 
chain ! 
Thou art the last of all the line 

Of them that set with lordly beck 
The ruthless heel of right divme 

Forever on a nation's neck! 



Yet thus, perchance, must victors pay 
The price that War has sternly set ; 

The while, ere Peace returns to stay, 
There looms a conflict mightier yet 

Than that which burst in years before 
When German unity awoke 
Saluted by the cannon's roar 
Amid the mists of battle-smoke. 



To scourge the land with sword and 
flame 

The northern Cossack grimly waits; 
The Dane remembers Duppel's shame, 

The Austrian broods o'er Koniggratz; 
While on the hills of fair Lorraine 

That front the slopes of Vendenheim^ 
A tiger with a slender chain — 

The Gallic foeman bides his time. 



Stout-hearted sons of Fatherland! 

Who kneel to God but face the foe. 
And side by side together stand 

To sing the song of long ago 
That, rising from a myriad throats, 

A nation's battle-hymn divine. 
Thrills on the ear like bugle notes: 

"Fest steht und treu die Wacht am 
Rhein !" 



32 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Such thoughts the musing fancy weaves 

Throughout the drowsy summer day, 
While glints the sunlight on the eaves 

Along the Linden's stately way 
Where still the curious strangers try 

To wile away an idle hour, 
And watch the crowd that surges by 

All day before the Cafe Bauer. 

— Harry Thurston Peck. 



Januari? 28* 



DRAKE'S DRUM. 



Sir Francis Drake was one of the great ad- 
mirals of the Elizabethan age and like many of 
them was a Devonshire man. He early became 
a sailor and for over forty years followed the 
sea. He was a terror to the Spaniards, man^ of 
whose treasure ships he captured. He sailed 
around the world and finally died and was 
buried at sea, Jan. 28» 1606. 

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the 
Devon seas: 
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) 
Rovin tho' his death fell, he went with 
heart at ease, 
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth 
Hoe. 
"Take my drum to England, hang et by 
the shore. 
Strike et when your powder's runnin' 
low: 
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the 
port o' Heaven, 
An' drum them up the Channel as we 
drummed them long ago." 

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thou- 
sand miles away, 
(Capten, art tha sleepin* there below?) 
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre 
Dios Bay, 
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth 
Hoe. 
Yamder lumes the island, yamder lie the 
ships, 
Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an-toe. 
An' the shore lights flashin', an' the 
night tide dashin', — 
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et 
long ago. 

Drake lies in his hammock till the great 
Armadas come. 



(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) 
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' 
for the drum. 
An* dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth 
Hoe. 
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the 
Sound, 
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe ; 
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old 
flag flyin'. 
They shall find him ware and wakin', 
as they found him long ago. 

— Henry Newbolt. 



EPIGRAM ON FRANCIS DRAKE. 



The stars above will make thee known. 
If man were silent here: 
The sun himself cannot forget 
His fellow-traveller. 
—Cowley, translated by Ben Jonson. 



January? 29* 



ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE THE 

THIRD. 



The latter days of George III. form one of 
the most pitiful spectacles in history. For the 
last ten years of his life he was insane, with 
only occasional lucid intervals. He died Jan. 
29, 1820. 

Written under Windsor Terrace. 



I saw him last on this terrace proud. 
Walking in health and gladness. 

Begirt with his court; and in all the 
crowd 
Not a single look of sadness. 

Bright was the sun, the leaves were 
green — 

Blithely the birds were singing ; 
The cymbals replied to the tambourine. 

And the bells were merrily ringing. 

I have stood with the crowd beside his 
bier, 

When not a word was spoken — 
When every eye was dim with a tear, 

And the silence by sobs was broken. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



33 



I have heard the earth on his coffin pour 
To the muffled drums, deep rolling. 

While the minute-gun, with its solemn 
roar. 
Drowned the death-bells' tolling. 

The time — since he walked in his glory 
thus. 
To the grave till I saw him carried — 
Was an age of the mightiest change to 
us. 
But to him a night unvaried. 

A daughter beloved, a queen, a son. 

And a son's sole child, have perished; 
And sad was each heart, save only the 
one 

By which they were fondest cherished ; 
For his eyes were sealed and his mind 
was dark. 

And he sat in his age's lateness — 
Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark 

Of the frailty of human greatness; 

His silver beard, o'er a bosom spread 
Unvexed by life's commotion. 

Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift 
shed 
On the calm of a frozen ocean. 

Still o'er him Oblivion's waters lay. 
Though the stream of life kept flow- 
ing; 
When they spoke of our king, 'twas hue 
to say 
The old man's strength was going. 

At intervals thus the waves disgorge. 

By weakness rent asunder, 
A piece of the wreck of the Royal 
George, 

To the people's pity and wonder. 

He is gone at length — ^he is laid in the 
dust, 
Death's hand his slumbers breaking ; 
For the coffined sleep of the good and 
just 
Is a sure and blissful waking. 

His people's heart is his funeral urn; 
And should sculptured stone be de- 
nied him. 
There will his name be found, when in 
turn 
We lay our heads beside him. 

— Horace Smith. 



Smnavi 30* 



EXECUTION OF CHARLES L 



Charles I. was executed at Whitehall on Jan. 
S0» 1649, and was buried on the same night in 
St George's Chapel, Windsor. 

That Charles himself might chase 
To Carisbrook's narrow case; 

That thence the royal actor borne. 
The tragic scaffold might adorn. 

While round the armed bands 
Did clap their bloody hands. 

He nothing common did or mean 
Upon that memorable scene; 

But with his keener eye 

The axe's edge did try : 

Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite. 
To vindicate his helpless right; 

But bowed his comely head 
Down, as upon a bed. 

From "An Horation Ode." 
— Andrew Marvel, 



UPON THE DEATH OF KING 
CHARLES I. 



Great, good, and just! could I but rate 
My griefs and thy too rigid fate, 
I'd weep the world to such a strain. 
As it should deluge once again. 
But since thy lond-tongued blood de- 
mands supplies 
More from Briareus' hands than Argus' 

eyes, 
I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet 

sounds. 
And write thy epitaph with blood and 
wounds. 
— James, Marquis of Montrose. 



ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES 
THE FIRST. 



The castle clock had tolled midnight. 

With mattock and with spade — 
And silent, by the torches 'light — 

His corse in earth we laid. 



34 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The coffin bore his name; that those 

Of other years might know, 
When earth its secrets should disclose. 

Whose bones were laid below. 

"Peace to the dead !" no children sung. 

Slow pacing up the nave; 
No prayers were read, no knell was rung. 

As deep we dug his grave. 

We only heard the winter's wind, 

In many a sullen gust. 
As o'er the open grave inclined, 

We murmured, "Dust to dust!" 

A moonbeam from the arch's height 
Streamed, as we placed the stone; 

The long aisles started into light. 
And all the windows shone. 

We thought we saw the banners then 
That shook along the walls, 

Whilst the sad shades of mailed men 
Were gazing on the stalls. 

Tis gone I — ^Again on tombs defaced 
Sits darkness more profound; 

And only by the torch we traced 
The shadows on the ground. 

And now the chilling, freezing air 
Without blew long and loud ; 

Upon our knees we breathed one prayer. 
Where he slept in his shroud. 

We laid the broken marble floor, — 

No name, no trace appears ! 
And when we closed the sounding door, 

We thought of him with tears. 

— William Lisle Bowles. 



3muav^ 3\. 



THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE 

CHARLES. 



Charles Edward, the grandson of James II. 
of England} was known as the Young Pre- 
tender to distinguish him from his father the 
Old Pretender, the son of James II. In the 
rising of 1745 he was at one time very near 
entermg London, but the fatality that hung 
over the Stuarts overwhelmed him: he re- 
treated to Scotland where he and his army 
were utterly routed at Culloden. With him the 
direct line of the Stuarts became extinct. He 
died Jan. 81, 1788. 



I73I. 

Beautiful face of a child. 

Lighted with laughter and glee, 
Mirthful, and tender, and wild. 

My heart is heavy for thee 1 

1744. 
Beautiful face of a youth. 

As an eagle poised to fly forth 
To the old land loyal of truth. 

To the hills and the sounds of the 
North : 
Fair face, daring and proud, 

Lo! the shadow of doom even now» 
The fate of thy line, like a cloud. 

Rests on the grace of thy brow! 

1773 
Cruel and angry face. 

Hateful and heavy with wine. 
Where are the gladness, the grace. 
The beauty, the mirth that were 
thine? 

Ah, my Prince, it were well, — 

Hadst thou to the gods been dear, — 
To have fallen where Keppoch fell. 

With the war-pipe loud in thine ear 1 
To have died with never a stain 

On the fair White Rose of Renown, 
To have fallen fighting in vain. 

For thy father, thy faith, and thy 
crown I 
More than thy marble pile. 

With its women weeping for thee, 
Were to dream in thine ancient isle. 

To the endless dirge of the sea ! 
But the Fates deemed otherwise; 

Far thou sleepest from home. 
From the tears of the Northern skies, 

In the secular dust of Rome. 
A city of death and the dead. 

But thither a pilgrim came. 
Wearing on weary head 

The crowns of years and fame: 
Little the Lucrine lake 

Or Tivoli said to him. 
Scarce did the memories wake, 

Of the far-off years and dim. 
For he stood by Avemus* shore. 

But he dreamed of a Northern glen. 
And he murmured, over and o'er, 

"For Charlie and his men:" 
And his feet, to death that went, 

Crept forth to St. Peter's shrine, 
And the latest Minstrel bent 

O'er the last of the Stuart line. 

— Andrew Lang, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



35 



CHARLES H. SPURGEON. 



A well known Baptist mina8ter» who preached 
for many yeara in Xondon. He died Jan. 81, 
1802. 



Sturdy saint militant, stout genial soul. 
Through good and ill report you've 

reached the goal 
Of all brave effort, and attained that li^ht 
Which makes our clearest noontide 

seem as night. 

Puritan, yet of no ascetic strain 

Or arid straightness, freshening as the 

rain 
And healthy as the clod, a native force 
Incult yet quickening, cleaving its 

straight course 
Unchecked, unchastened, conquering to 

the end, 
Crudeness may chill and confidence of- 
fend. 
But manhood, mother-wit and selfless 

zeal. 
Speech clear as light and courage true 

as steel 
Must win the many. Honest soul and 

brave 
The greatest drop their garlands on 

your grave. 

— London Punch. 



LAUS DEO ! 



The rcaolution on the Amendment of the 
Co natituti on abolishing slavery was adopted on 
Tan. 81, 1866. These lines were composed by 
Whittier on hearing^ the bells ring on that oc- 
casion and aa he said himself, "it wrote itself, 
or rather sang itself, while the bells rang." 



It is done 1 

Clang of bell and roar of gun 
Send the tidings up and down. 

How the belfries rock and reel! 

How the great guns, peal on peal. 
Fling the joy from town to town! 

Ring, O bells ! 
Every stroke exulting tells 

Of the burial hour of crime. 
Loud and long, that all may hear. 
Ring for every listening ear 

Of Eternity and Time I 



Let us kneel: 
God's own voice is in that peal. 

And this spot is holy ground. 
Lord, forgive us! What are we, 
That our eyes this glory see. 

That our ears have heard the sound! 

For the Lord 

On the whirlwind is abroad; 
In the earthquake he has spoken; 

He has smitten with his thunder 

The iron walls asunder. 
And the gates of brass are broken ! 

Loud and long 
Lift the old exulting song; 
Sing with Miriam by the sea 
He has cast the mighty down; 
Horse and rider sink and drown; 
"He hath triumphed gloriously!" 

Did we dare. 

In our agony of prayer. 
Ask for more than He has done? 

When was ever his right hand 

Over any time or land 
Stretched as now beneath the sun? 

How they pale. 

Ancient mjrth and song and tale. 
In this wonder of our days. 

When the cruel rod of war 

Blossoms white with righteous law, 
And the wrath of man is praise! 

Blotted out ! 

All within and all about 
Shall a fresher life begin; 

Freer breathe the universe 

As it rolls its heavy curse 
On the dead and buried sin ! 

It is done ! 
In the circuit of the sun 

Shall the sound thereof go forth. 
It shall bid the sad rejoice. 
It shall give the dumb a voice. 

It shall belt with joy the earth! 

Ring and swing. 
Bells of joy! On morning's wing 
Send the song of praise abroad ! 
With a sound of broken chains 
Tell the nations that He reigns. 
Who alone is Lord and God ! 

—John G. Whittier. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



febmarc I. 



ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM. 



Arthur HtnryH 


Ilam wu 


th»i 




f Halljun 










































perbip. the moit 




of mo 







It is the day when he was born, 
A bitter day that early sank 
Behind a purple-frosty bank 

Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of North and East, and ice 

Makes daggers at the sbarpen'd eaves, 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, a$ she hangs 
About the wood which grides and 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns. 

Together in the drifts that pass 
To darken on the rolling brine 
That breaks the coast But fetch the 

Arrange the board and brim the glass; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie, 

To make a solid core of heat; 
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 
Of all things ev'o as he were by; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer. 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him, whate'er he be. 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 

— From "In Memoriam," Alfred Tenny- 



fcbruac? 2. 

CANDLEMAS. 

The »ecood day of Februarr ii 

Fe«»l of the Purification or Prese __ 

Cbtilt in [he Temple. Called Candlemal in the 
ejrly Church from the practice of carrying 
lighted candle* in procession in memoir of 
Suneon'a word* at Ac pceunuiLoti of the in- 
tuit Sifknu, "to be k Light to lishtes the 



called the 



churches *re taken dowr 

Down with rosemary and bayes, 

Down with the mistteto. 
Instead of holly, now up-raise 

The greener box, for show. 

The holly hitherto did sway; 

Let box now domineere. 
Until the dancing Easter-day, 

Or Easter's eve appeare. 

Then youthful box, which now h 
grace 

Your houses to renew. 
Grown old, surrender must his plac 

Unto the crisped yew. 

When yew is out, then birch comes 
And many flowers beside. 

Both of a fresh and fragrant kinne 
To honor Whitsontide. 



Green rushes then, and sweetest bents. 

With color oken boughs. 
Come in for comely ornaments, 

To re-adorn the house. 
Thus times do shift; each thing his turn 

does hold; 
New things succeed as former things 
grow old. 

—Robert Herrick. 



THE KEARSARGE. 



c launched al Pommouth, 



e ^abama oif Chcrbu 



In the gloomy ocean bed 

Dwelt a formless thing and said. 
In the dim and countless eons long ago, 

"I will build a stronghold high. 

Ocean's power to defy. 
And the pride of haughty man to ' lay 



Crept the minutes (or the sad. 
Sped the cycles for the glad. 
But the march of time was neither less 

While the formless atom died. 
Myriad millions by its side. 
And above them slowly lifted Roncador. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



37 



Roncador of Caribee, 
Coral dragon of the sea, 
Ever sleeping with his teeth below the 
wave; 
Woe to him who breaks the sleep! 
Woe to them who sail the deep! 
Woe to ship and man that fear a ship- 
man's grave! 

Hither many a galleon old, 
Heavy-keeled with guilty gold, 
Fled before the hardy rover smiting 
sore; 
But the sleeper silent lay 
Till the preyer and his prey 
Brought their plunder and their bones 
to Roncador. 

Be content, O conqueror! 
Now our bravest ship of war. 
War and tempest who had often braved 
before, 
All her storied prowess past. 
Strikes her glorious flag at last 
To the formless thing that builded 
Roncador. 

—James Jeffrey Roche. 



f cbruari? 3* 

BEFORE THE CONVENT OF 
YUSTE, 1556. 



The Emperor Charles V., one of the most 
powerful potentates of history, abdicated on 
Feb. 8, 1566, in favor of his son Philip II. and 
retired to a monastery in Spain, where he lived 
until his death two years later. 



Tis night, and storms continually roar. 
Ye monks of Spain, unbar for me the 
door. 

Here in unbroken quiet let me fare, 
Save when the loud bell startles me to 
prayer. 

Make ready for me what your house has 

meet, 
A friar's habit and a winding-sheet 

A little cell unto my use assign; 
More than the half of all this world 
was mine. 



The head that stoops unto the scissors 

now. 
Under the weight of many crowns did 

bow. 

The shoulders on which now the cowl is 

flung, 
On them the ermine of the Caesars 

hung. 

I living now as dead myself behold. 
And fall in ruins like this kingdom old 
— From the German of Count Platen, 



f cbruari? 4* 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 



Died Feb. 4, 1881. 



Shut fast the door I Let not one vulgar 

din 

Vex the long rest of patriarchal age. 

But one step more eternal peace to win, 

England's Philosopher ! Old Chelsea's 

sage! 

How they will greet him! When he 
nears the home. 
Where dwell the deathless spirits of 
the dead, 
Goethe and Schiller, "sovereign souls" 
will come 
To crown with immortelles his hon- 
ored head. 

Out from the unknown shore the heroes 
past, 
Cromwell of England, Frederick the 
Great, 
Will lead the grand procession and 
recast 
The roll of genius that he joined so 
late. 

What will his message be from life to 
death. 
Grand hero— worshipper of years 
ago? 
"Is England true?" they'll ask him in a 
breath, 
"Faithful to history?" He'll answer, 
"No." 



38 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Perchance the revolution and the shame 
That like black shadows crossed the 
Commons floor, 
Were spared him dying. Whisper not 
his name, 
Shut fast the door! He's sleeping! 
Qose the door. 

— London Punch. 



CARLYLE. 



O granite nature; like a mountain 

height 
Which pierces heaven! yet with founda- 

dations deep, 
Rooted where earth's majestic forces 

sleep, 
In quiet breathing on the breast ot 

night : — 
Proud thoughts were his that scaled the 

infinite 
Of loftiest grasp, and calm Elysian 

sweep; 
Fierce thoughts were his that burnt the 

donjon keep 
Of ancient wrong, to flood its crypts 

with light; 
Yet o'er his genius, firm as Ai]sa*s rock. 
Large, Atlantaen, with grim grandeur 

dowered, — 
Love bloomed, and buds of tender 

beauty flowered: — 
Yet down his rugged massiveness of 

will 
Unscarred by alien passion's fiery shock, 
Mercy flowed melting like an Alpine 

rill! 

—Paul H. Hayne, 



fcbruari? 5* 



DEATH OF CATO. 



Marcus Porcius Cato was a Roman patriot 
and Stoic philosopher. He sided with Pompey 
against Caesar on the outbreak of the civil war 
in the year 49 and after the battle of Pharsalia 
he committed suicide on Feb. 6, 46 B. C, hav- 
ing learned of Caesar's victory at Thapsus. 



Caesar's arms have thrown down all 

distinction ; 
Whoe'er is brave and virtuous is a 
Roman — 



I'm sick to death— O when shall I get 
loose 

From this vain world, th' abode of 
guilt and sorrow! 

— ^And yet methinks a beam of light 
breaks in 

On my departing soul. Alas I fear 

I've been too luisty. O ye powers that 
search 

The heart of man, and weigh his in- 
most thoughts. 

If I have done amiss, impute not! — 

The best may err, but you are good. 

— Addison. 



THE BALLAD OF PACO TOWN. 



Paco is a small town near Manila. The in- 
cident dttcnbed in the ballad occurred during 
the battle of Santa Ana, fought on Feb. 6. 
1899, and resulting in the total rout of General 
Ricarti's division of the Filipino army. The 
signal man who performed the daring deed, 
was Lieutenant Charles E. Kilbourne, Jr. 



In Paco town and in Paco tower, 

At the height of the tropic noonday 

hour. 
Some Tagal riflemen, half a score. 
Watched the length of the highway o*er, 
And when to the front the troopers 

spurred, 
Whiz-z ! whiz-z ! how the Mausers 

whirred ! 

From the opposite walls, through crevice 

and crack. 
Volley on volley went ringing back 
Where a band of regulars tried to drive 
The stinging rebels out of their hive; 
"Wait till our cannon come, and then," 
Cried a captain, striding among his men, 
"We'll settle that bothersome buzz and 

drone 
With a merry little tune of our own!" 

The sweltering breezes seemed to 

swoon. 
And down the calle the thickening 

flames 
Licked the roofs in the tropic noon. 
Then through the crackle and glare and 

heat, 
And the smoke and the answering 

acclaims 
Of the rifles, far up the village street 
Was heard the clatter of horses' feet. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



39 



And a band of signal-men swung in 

sight. 
Hasting back from the ebbing fight 
That had swept away to the left and 

right. 

'•Ride!" yelled the regulars, all aghast, 
And over the heads of the signal-men, 
As they whirled in desperate gallop past. 
The bullets a vicious music made. 
Like the whistle and whine of the mid- 
night blast 
On the weltering wastes of the ocean 

when 
The breast of the deep is scourged and 
flayed. 

It chanced in the line of the fiercest 

fire 
A rebel bullet had clipped the wire 
That led, from the front and the fight- 
ing, down 
To those that stayed in Manilla town; 
This gap arrested the watchful eye 
Of one of the signal-men galloping by, 
And straightway, out of the plunge and 

press. 
He reined his horse with a swift caress 
And a word in the ear of the rushing 

steed; 
Then back with never a halt nor heed 
Of the swarming bullets he rode, his 

goal 
The parted wire and the slender pole 
That stood where the deadly tower 

looked down 
On the rack and ruin of Paco town. 

Out of his saddle he sprang as gay 
As a sdioolboy taking a holiday; 
Wire in hand up the pole he went 
With never a glance at the tower, 

intent 
Only on that which he saw appear 
As the line of his duty plain and clear. 
To the very crest he climbed, and 

there, 
While the bullets buzzed in the scorch- 
ing air, 
Qipped his clothing, and scored and 

stung 
Th^ slender pole-top to which he clung, 
Made the wire that was severed sound, 
Slipped in his careless way to the 
gronndf 



Sprang to the back of his horse, and 

then 
Was off, this bravest of signal-men. 

Cheers for the hero ! While such as he. 
Heedless alike of wounds and scars. 
Fight for the dear old Stripes and Stars, 
Down through the years to us shall be 
Ever and ever the victory! 

—Clinton Scollard, 



f cbruari? 6* 



A MAN'S NAMR 



David, known to his associates as "Doc** 
Simmons, a railroad engineer, stuck to his post 
on his engine in the disaster near Hamburgh, 
N. Y., Feb. 6, 1876, and was killed with his 
hand on the throttle. 



Through the packed horror of the night 

It rose up like a star, 
And sailed into the infinite, 

Where the immortals are. 

"Down brakes!" One splendid hard- 
held breath, 

And lo, an unknown name 
Strode into sovereignty from death 

Trailing a path of fiamel 

"Jump !"— "I remain."~-No needless 
word. 

No vagueness in his breast; 
Along his blood the swift test stirred — 

He answered to the test. 

Gripped his black peril like a vise. 

And, as he grappled, saw 
That life is one with sacrifice, 

And duty one with law. 

Home: — ^but his feet grew granite fast; 

Wife: — ^yet he did not reel; 
Babes : — ah, they tugged ! but to the last 

He stood as true as steel. 

Above his own heart's lovingness. 

Above another's crime. 
Above the immitigable stress, 

Above himself and time, 



40 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Smote loving Comfort on the cheek, 
Gave quibbing Fear the lie. 

Taught ambling Fluence how to speak, 
And brave men how to die. 



Who said the time of kings was gone? 

Who said our Alps were low. 
And not by God's airs blown upon? 

Behold, it is not sol 



Out from the palace and the hut, 
Dwarf-fronted, lame of will. 

Limp our marred Joves and giants — ^but 
Sceptered for mastery still, 



And clothed with puissance to quell 

Whatever mobs of shame 
Are leagued within us, with such spell 

As David Simmons' name. 

— Richard Realf. 



PIO NONO. 



f cbruari? 1. 



TO CHARLES DICKENS. 



Born Feb. 7, 1812. 



Genius and its rewards are briefly told: 
A liberal nature and a niggard doom, 
A difficult journey to a splendid tomb. 
New-writ, nor lightly weighed, that 

story old 
In gentle Goldsmith's life I here unfold : 
Through other than lone wild or desert- 

gloom, 
In its mere joy and pain, its blight and 

bloom, 
Adventurous. Come with me and be- 
hold, 
A friend with heart as gentle for dis- 
tress. 
As resolute with fine wise thoughts to 

bind 
The happiest to the unhappiest of our 

kind, 
That there is fiercer crowded misery 
In garret-toil and London loneliness 
Than in cruel islands 'mid the far-off 
sea. 

— John Forster, 



Died Feb. 7, 1878. 



Thou should'st have had more faith I 

thy hand did shed 
The seed of Freedom in the field of 

God, 
But the last peril drove thee from thy 

bounds. 
And stranger feet the unripe harvest 

trod. 

Thou should'st have had more faith! 

thy crown was hung 
High-pitched, upon a sharp and thorny 

tree; 
We saw thee wrestle bravely with the 

boughs. 
But the last buffet did dishearten thee. 

Thou should'st have had more faith! 

the voice of Christ 
Called thee to meet him, walking on 

the wave; 
Thou should'st have trod the waters as 

a path. 
Such power divine thy holy mission 

gave. 

Shoreward thy recreant footsteps turn 

and sink; 
In vain the heavenly voice, the out* 

stretched arm. 
Thou heed'st not, though a God doth 

beckon thee. 
Binding the billows with a golden 

charm. 

Where glory should have crowned thee, 

failure whelms. 
Truth judges thee, that should have 

made thee great; 
Thine is the doom of souls that cannot 

bring 
Their highest courage to their highest 

fate. 

— Julia Ward Howe. 



fc\)tnwc^ a 



ADIEUX A MARY STUART. 



Executed by order of Queen Elizabeth on Feb. 
8, 1687, at Fotheringay castle. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



41 



Though all things breathe or sound of 
fight 
That yet make up your spell, 
To bid you were to bid the light 
Farewell 

Farewell the song says only, being 

A star whose race is run: 
Farewell the soul says never, seeing 
The sun. 

Yet, wellnigh as with flash of tears, 

The song must say but so 
That took your praise up twenty years 
Ago. 

More bright than stars or moons that 
vary. 
Sun kindling heaven and hell, 
Here, after all these years, Queen Mary, 
Farewell. 
— Algernon C. Swinburne. 



THE BATTLE OF EYLAU. 



The battle of Eylau was an indecisive action 
fought on Feb. 8 between the French under 
Napoleon and the Russians and Prussians un- 
der Bennigsen and Lestocq. The loss on each 
side amounted to about 18,000. 



Fast and furious falls the snow; 
Shrilly the bleak tempests blow. 
With a sound of wailing woe. 

O'er the soil; 
Where the watch-fires blaze around. 
Thick the warriors strew the ground, 
Each in weary slumber bound, 

Worn with toil. 

Harken to the cannon-blast! 
Drums are beating fierce and fast; 
Fierce and fast the trumpets cast 

Warning call. 
Form the battle's stem parade. 
Charge the musket, draw the blade; 
Square and column stand arrayed. 

One and all. 

On they rush in stem career, 
Dragoon and swart cuirassier; 
Hussar-lance and Cossack-spear 

Clanging meet! 
Now the grenadier of France 
Sinks beneath the Imperial lance; 
Now the Prussian horse advance. 

Now retreat 






Davoust, with his line of steel, 
Storms their squadrons till they reel, 
While his ceaseless cannon-peal 

Rends the sky. 
'Gainst that crush of iron hail 
Naught may Russia's ranks avail; 
Like the torn leaves in the gale. 

See, they fly! 

Through the battle's smoky gloom 
Shineth Murat's snowy plume; 
Fast his cohorts to their doom 

Spur the way. 
Platoff, with his desert horde. 
Is upon them with the sword; 
Deep his Tartar-spears have gored 

Their array. 

With his thousands, Augereau 
Paints with blood the virgin snow; 
Low in war's red overthrow 

Sleep they on! 
Helm and breastplate they have lost. 
Spoils that long shall be the boast 
Of the savage-bearded host 

Of the Don. 

Charge, Napoleon! Where be those 
At Marengo quelled thy foes; 
Crowning thee at Jena's close 

Conqueror ? 
At this hour of deadly need 
Faintly thy old guardsmen bleed; 
Vain dies cuirassier and steed. 

Drenched with gore. 

Sad the frosty moonbeam shone 
O'er the snows with corpses strown, 
Where the frightful shriek and groan 

Rose amain: 
Loud the night-wind rang their knell ; 
Fast the flaky horrors fell. 
Hiding in their snowy cell 

Heaps of slain! 

Many a year hath passed and fled 
O'er that harvest of the dead; 
On thy rock the Chief hath sped, 

St. Helene! 
Still the Polish peasant shows 
The round hillocks of the foes, 
Where the long grass rankly grows. 

Darkly green. 

— Isaac McLellan 



42 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



f ebruari? 9. 



HOW WE BURNED THE "PHIL- 
ADELPHIA." 



Tbe destruction of the PhilaclelphU, which 
Lord Nelson, then commanding the British 
blockading fleet off Toulon, called, "the most 
bold and caring act of the age/' was effected on 
the night of Feb. 9, 1804. In the party, num- 
bering but seventy-five officers and men all 
told, were Stephen Decatur, Jr., Jsmes Law- 
rence, Joseph Bainbridge, Thomas MacDonon^ 
and many others who rose to distinction. 



By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw 

swore 
He would scourge us from the seas; 
Yankees should trouble his soul no 

more — 
By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw 

swore, 
Then lighted his hookah, and took his 

ease, 
And troubled his soul no more. 

The moon was dim in the western sky. 
And a mist fell soft on the sea. 

As we slipped away from the Siren brig 
And headed for Tripoli. 

Behind us the hulk of the Siren lay. 
Before us the empty night; 

And when again we looked behind 
The Siren was gone from our sight 

Nothing behind us, and nothing before. 

Only the silence and rain. 
As the jaws of the sea took hold of our 
bows 

And cast us up again. 

Through the rain and the silence we 
stole along, 
Cautious and stealthy and slow. 
For we knew the waters were full ot 
those 
Who might challenge the Mastico, 

But nothing we saw till we saw the 
ghost 
Of the ship we had come to see, 
Her ghostly lights and her ghostly 
frame 
Rolling uneasily. 

And as we looked, the mist drew up 
And the moon threw off her veil. 



And we saw the ship in the pale moon- 
light, 
Ghostly and drear and pale. 

Then spoke Decatur low and said : 
"To the bulwarks' shadow all! 

But the six who wear the Tripoli dress 
Shall answer the sentinel's calL" 

"What ship is that?" cried the sentinel 
"No ship," was the answer free; 

'^ut only a Malta ketch in distress 
Wanting to moor in your lee. 

"We have lost our anchor, and wait for 
day 
To sail into Tripoli town. 
And the sea rolls fierce and high to- 
night, 
So cast a cable down." 

Then close to the frigate's side we 
came. 

Made fast to her unforbid — 
Six of us bold in the heathen dress. 

The rest of us lying hid. 

But one who saw us hiding there 

"Americano!" cried. 
Then straight we rose and made a rush 

Pellmell up the frigate's side. 

Less than a hundred men were we. 
And the heathen were twenty score; 

But a Yankee sailor in those old days 
Liked odds of one to four. 

And first we cleaned the quarter deck. 
And then from stem to stem 

We charged into our enemies 
And quickly slaughtered them. 

All around was the dreadful sound 
Of corpses striking the sea, 

And the awful shrieks of dying men 
In their last agony. 

The heathen fought like devils all. 

But one by one they fell, 
Swept from the deck by our cutlasses 

To the water, and so to hell 

Some we found in the black of the 
hold. 

Some to the fo'c's'le fled, 
But all in vain; we sought them out 

And left them lying dead; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



43 



Till at last no soul but Christian souls 

Upon that ship was found; 
The twenty score were dead, and we. 

The hundred, safe and sound. 

And, stumbling over the tangled dead. 

The deck a crimson tide, 
We fired the ship from keel to shrouds 

And tumbled over the side. 

Then out to sea we sailed once more 
With the world as light as day. 

And the flames revealed a hundred sail 
Of the heathen there in the bay. 

All suddenly the red light paled, 
And the rain rang out on the sea; 

Then — a dazzling flash, a deafening 
roar. 
Between us and Tripoli! 

Then, nothing behind us, and nbthing 
before. 
Only the silence and rain; 
And the jaws of the sea took hold of 
our bows 
And cast us up again. 

By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw 
swore 
He would scourge us from the seas; 
Yankees should trouble his soul no 

more — 
By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw 
swore, 
Then lighted his hookah and took his 

ease. 
And troubled his soul no more. 

— Barrett Eastman. 



THE MURDER OF DARNLEY. 



Lord DamleT was the second husband of 
Marj Queen oi Scots and her couain-german. 
The Queen was at first very fond of hun, but 
be contrived to alienate her afifection by his 
insolence and profligacy, and especially by his 
thzTt in the murder of her Italian secretary, 
Rizzio. While convalescing from an attack of 
tmall-pox he was removed to a sclitar^ house 
near Edinburgh, which was blown up with gun- 
powder by the Earl of Bothwell, on Feb. 0. 
apparently with the Queen's knowledge and 
consent. 



Down came the rain with steady pour, 
It splayed the pools among our feet; 



Each minute seemed in length an hour. 

As each went by, yet uncomplete. 
"Hell! should it fail, our plot is vain! 

Bolton — ^you have mislaid the light! 
Give me the key — 1*11 fire the train, 

Though I be partner of his flight!'' 
"Stay, stay, my I^rd! you shall not go! 

'Twere madness now to near the 
place ; 
The soldiers' fuses bum but slow; 

Abide, abide a little space! 
There's time enough" — 

He said no more. 

For at the instant flashed the glare. 
And with a hoarse infernal roar 

A blaze went up and filled the air! 
Rafters, and stones, and bodies rose 

In one thick gush of blinding flame. 
And down, and down, amidst the dark. 

Hurtling on every side they came. 
Surely the devil tarried near. 

To make the blast more fierce and fell. 
For never pealed on human ear 

So dreadful and so dire a knell. 
The heavens took up the earth's dismay. 

The thunder bellowed overhead; 
Steep called to steep. Away, away!— 

Then fear fell on me, and I fled. 
For I was dazzled and amazed— 

A fire was flashing in my brain — 
I hasted like a creature crazed. 

Who strives to overrun his pain. 
I took the least frequented road, 

But even there arose a hum; 
Lights showed in every vile abode. 

And far away I heard the drum. 
Roused was the city, late so still ; 

Burghers, half clad, ran hurrying by. 
Old crones came forth, and scolded 
shrill. 

Men shouted challenge and reply. 
Yet no one dared to cross my path, 

My hand was on my dagger's hilt; 
Fear is as terrible as wrath. 

And vengeance not more fierce than 
guilt. 
I would have stricken to the heart 

Whoever should have stopped me 
then; 
None saw me from the palace part. 

None saw me enter it again. 
Ah! but I heard a whisper pass. 

It thrilled me as I reached the door — 
"Welcome to thee, the knight that was, 

The felon now for evermore !" 
--W. E. Aytoun. (From "Bothweil!') 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



fcbraar? lo. 

TO CHARLES LAMB. 

Born Fib. 10, 17711. 

rbee I would think one of the many 

IVho in Eliza's time sat eminent. 
To our now world, his Purgatory sent 
To teach us what true English poets 

prize. 
Pasquilant forth and foreign galhardize 
Are none of thine ; but, when of gay 

Thou usest staid old English merriment, 
Mannerly mirth, which no one dare 

despise. 
The scoffs and g^rds of our poor critic 

Must move thy pity, as amidst their 

Monk of Truth's order, from thy mem- 



februari? 11. 

CORYDON, A PASTORAL. 

To the mmorjF of Williai 



Where- 

V/illiu 



veiled liie'a dull rt 



Shenstonb who 
an Engliit poel 
poem u "The Schoolmistr 
UoTBce Walpole lu call hi 
tiud." His "Line< Writtn 






Come shepherds, we'll follow the 

And see our loved Corydon laid : 
Though sorrow may blemish the verse. 

Yet let the sad tribute be paid. 
They called him the pride of the plain; 

In sooth he was gentle and kind; 
He marked in his elegant strain, 

TTtc Graces that glowed in hia mind. 



On purpose he planted yon trees, 

That birds in the covert might dwell; 
He cultured his thyme for the bees, 

But never would rifle their cell. 
Ye lambkins that played at his feet. 

Go bleat — and your master bemoan : 
His music was artless and sweet. 

His manners as mild as your own. 

No vendure shall cover the vale, 

No bloom on the blossoms appear; 
The sweets of the forest shall fail, 

And winter discolour the year. 
No birds in our hedges shall sing, 

(Our hedges so vocal before) 
Since he that should welcome the spring. 

Can greet the gay season no more. 

His Phillis was fond of his praise. 

And poets came round in a throng; 
They listened, and envied his lays. 

But which of them equalled his song? 
Ye shepherds, henceforth be mute. 

For lost is the pastoral strain; 
So give me my Corydon's flute. 

And thus — let me break it in twain. 
— J. CitHHitigham. 



februar^ 12. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

Born Feb, 13, 1S09. 

Some opulent force of genius, soul and 
race, 
Some deep lite- current from far 

centuries 
Flowed to his mind, and lighted his 

And gave bis name, among great names, 
high place. 

But these are miracles we may not 

Nor say why from a source and lin- 
eage mean 
He rose to grandeur never dreamt or 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



45 



The tragic fate of one broad hemis- 
phere 
Fell on stem days to his supreme 
control. 
All that the world and liberty held dear 
Pressed like a nightmare on his 
patient soul. 
Martyr beloved, on whom, when life was 

done 
Fame looked, and saw another Wash- 
ington! 

— Joel Benton, 



jfebruarp 13* 



THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE. 



For some years after the accession of William 
IIL to the English throne Scotland remained tn 
a turbulent condition. By the order of William 
forty members of the Clan Macdonald were 
massacred on Feb. 18, 1002, in their homes in 
the valley of Glencoe, an order which has left 
an indelible stain upon his memory. 

Do not lift him from the bracken. 

Leave him lying where he fell — 
Better bier ye cannot fashion : 

None beseems him half so well 
As the bare and broken heather, 

And the hard and trampled sod. 
Whence his angry soul ascended 

To the judgment-seat of God! 
Winding-sheet we cannot give him — 

Seek no mantle for the dead. 
Save the cold and spotless covering 

Showered from heaven upon his head. 
Leave his broadsword, as we found it. 

Bent and broken with the blow. 
That, before he died, avenged him 

On the foremost of the foe. 
Leave the blood upon his bosom — 

Wash not off that sacred stain: 
Let it stiffen on the tartan. 

Let his wounds unclosed remain, 
Till the day when he shall show them 

At the throne of God on high. 
When the murderer and the murdered 

Meet before their Judge's eye ! 

Nay — ^ye should not weep, my children! 

Leave it to the faint and weak; 
Sobs are but a woman's weapon — 

Tears befit a maiden's cheek. 
Weep not, diildren of Macdonald! 



Weep not thou, his orphan heir — 
Not in shame, but stainless honour. 

Lies thy slaughtered father there. 
Weep not — ^but when years are over. 

And thine arm is strong and sure. 
And thy foot is swift and steady 

On the mountain and the muir — 
Let thy heart be hard as iron. 

And thy wrath as fierce as fire, 
Till the hour when vengeance cometh 

For the race that slew thy sire; 
Till in deep and dark Glenlyon 

Rise a louder shriek of woe 
Than at midnight, from their eyrie, 

Scared the eagles of Glencoe; 
Louder than the screams that mingled 

With the howling of the blast. 
When the murderer's steel was clashing, 

And the fires were rising fast: 
When thy noble father bounded 

To the rescue of his men. 
And the slogan of our kindred 

Pealed throughout the startled glen; 
When the herd of frantic women 

Stumbled through the midnight snow. 
With their fathers' houses blazing. 

And their dearest dead below. 
Oh, the horror of the tempest. 

As the flashing drift was blown. 
Crimsoned with the conflagration. 

And the roofs went thundering down! 
Oh, the prayers — the prayers and curses 

That together winged their flight 
From the maddened hearts of many 

Through that long and woeful night ! 
Till the fires began to dwindle, 

And the shots grew faint and few. 
And we heard the foeman's challenge 

Only in a far halloo; 
Till the silence once more settled 

O'er the gorges of the glen. 
Broken only by the Cona 

Plunging through its naked den. 
Slowly from the mountain-summit 

Was the drifting veil withdrawn. 
And the ghastly valley glimmered 

In the gray December dawn. 
Better had the morning never 

Dawned upon our dark despair! 
Black amidst the common whiteness 

Rose the spectral ruins there: 
But the sight of these was nothing 

More than wrings the wild dove's 
breast. 
When she searches for her offspring 

Round the relics of her nest 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



For in manj a spot the Uitan 

Peered above the wintry heap, 
Uarking where a dead Macdonald 

Lay within his frozen sleep. 
Tremblingly we scooped the covering 

From each kindred victim's head. 
And the living lips were burning 

On the cold ones of the dead. 
And I left them with their dearest- 
Dearest charge had everyone— 
Left the maiden with her lover. 

Left the mother with her son. 
I alone of all was mateless — 

Far more wretched I than they. 
For the snow would not discover 

Where my lord and husband lay. 
But I wandered up the valley 

Till I found him lying low. 
With the gash upon his bosom. 

And the frown upon his brow- 
Till I found him lying murdered 

Where he wooed me long ago. 
From "Lays of the Scottish CavaUers." 
—William E. AytotM. 



ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. 
"Only ■ 

death, Feb. IS, iw 
titui twir nrhLch hi 
H in ■ red cBihion under aa neaa m iiii coma. 

"Only a women's hair I" We may not 
guess 
If 'twere a mocking sneer or the sharp 

cry 
Of a great heart's o'ermastering agony 
That spake in these four words. Never- 
theless, 
One thing we know— that the long 
clinging tress 
Had lived with Stella's life in days 

gone by, 
And, she being dead, lived on to 
testify 
Of love's victorious everlastingness. 

Sud) love, mute musician, doth pro- 

For thy dear head's repose a pillow 

With red of heart's blood is the cover- 
ing dyed, 
And underneath— canst thou not feel 
it there?— 



The rippling wavy wealth that was thy 
Now love's last gift— only a woman's 
— laput Athcraft NobU. 



SAINT VALENTINE'S EVR 

Fair maiden, thou didst wait for me; 
I saw thee over leagues of snow. 
Set forth the plumy cedar-tree. 
Weave holly and the mistletoe — 
Green holly with its berries red. 
And let an ample board be spread; 
Bring kisses and the elder wine 
To usher in Saint Valentine. 

Lift not again the flaxen skein 
And put aside the spinning-wheel; 
Such task this night I deem is vain 
For hand so shapely, heart so leal. 
Touch yonder ancient harpischord 
And reap my praise as thy reward. 
And let the wmter badc-log shine 
In honor of Saint Valentine. 

What sculptor carved thy lissom form? 
From lilies tall has caught thy grace? 
Thou, with a wavering, dusky storm 
Of tresses blown about thy face — 
Thy face, as some lone jewel rare 
Framed deeply in its crown of hair. 
Thy voice is music's self divine 
And well might charm Saint Valentine. 

Look I far down the ashen skies 
See how yon star descending slips. 
Gray was it once as thy clear eyes; 
Red, when it fell as thy curved lips. 
Turn, turn again; the shadows fall. 
And fancifully on the wall 
The mistletoe and holly twine 
To greet the good Saint Valentine. 

The pale moon wanes, and I must go. 
Up, up and speed the parting guest! 
What if thy heart is chill as snow, 
More bitter still is my unrest. 
For I must fly who fain would wait. 
Yea! fate is love, and love is fate. 
Clasp hands and kiss, for thou art mine 
And I am thy Saint Valentine. 

—Ernest McGaffty. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



47 



WILLIAM THE THIRD. 



William III, of England, succeeded to the 
throne with his wife Bfary, on the deposition of 
her father James II. and they were proclaimed 
joint sovereigns of England on Feb. 18, 1889. 



Calm as an imder-current, strong to 

draw 
Millions of waves into itself, and run. 
From sea to sea, impervious to the sun 
^id ploughing storm, the spirit of Nas- 



sau 

Swerves not, (how blest if by religious 
awe 

Swayed, and thereby enabled to contend 

With the wide world's commotions) 
from its end 

Swerves not — diverted by a casual law. 

Had mortal action e'er a nobler scope? 

The Hero comes to liberate, not defy; 

And, while he marches on with stead- 
fast hope. 

Conqueror beloved! expected anxiously I 

The vacillating Bondman of the Pope 

Shrinks from the verdict of his stead- 
fast eye. 

-^William Wordsworth. 



fcbxnavi 14* 



GRANDMOTHER'S VALENTINE. 



The branches creaked on the garret roof, 
And the snow blew in at the eaves, 

When I found a hymn-book, tattered 
and torn. 
And turned its moldering leaves. 

And lo ! in its yellowing pages lay 

Grandmothered valentine tudced away. 

Hearts and roses together twined. 
And sweet little Cupids quaint, 
The gilt from the hearts was worn away, 

And the pink of the roses faint, 
And the Cupids' faces were blurred and 

dim, 
But it marked the place of her favorite 
hymn. 

Before me rose on the dusty floor 
The ghost of a slender maid. 



Like the portrait hung on the parlor 

wall. 
In a gown of flowered brocade. 
And ivory laces, as fine as air. 
And a cfiamond star in her powdered 

hair. 

A handsome gallant beside her bent 

In the country dress of old. 
He wore a ring with a ruby set 

And a waistcoat flowered with gold, 
Ruflied wrists and a ribboned queue. 
Silver buckles and coat of blue. 

"What hast thou shut in thy lily hand 
With a tassel of azure tied?" 

"A valentine left on my window sill 
In the gray of the dawn," she cried, 

"And I love the lover who rode so far 

In the deep snows, under the morning 
star.'^ 

Then he pressed his arm to her rounded 
waist 

And his lips to her rosy ear : 
"Oh, lean thy head to my breast, I pray. 

And I'll tell thee a secret dear ! 
It was I who rode with the valentine 
So fast and so far — ^and thou art mine !" 



A mouse ran over the broken boards. 
Behold! when I looked again, 

The squire in thfe gay blue coat 
And the maid with the silken train. 

There was nothing there but the shad- 
ows tall 

And the cobwebs long on the windy wall. 

But I dropped a tear on the musty book 

And tenderly laid it down 
With the treasure, deep in the cedar 
chest. 

In the folds of a faded gown. 
And left it there in the lavender leaves 
And ashes of roses, under the eaves. 

For I thought of a youth with soft 
brown eyes 
And how I had vexed him sore. 
The dim, dead lovers — they touched my 
heart, 
And so I was cold no more ; 
For love is the same as long ago, 
Grandmother's valentine told me so. 

— Minnia Irving, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



A VALENTINE. 

Awake, awake, O gradous heart. 
There's some one knocking at the 
door; 

The chilling breezes make him smart; 
His little feet are tired and sore. 

Arise and welcome him before 
Adown his cheeks the big tears start ; 
Awake, awake, O gracious heart. 

There's some one knocking at the door! 

Tis Capid come with loving art 
To honor, worship, and implore; 

And lest, urwelcomed, he depart 
With all his wise, mysterious lore. 

Awake, awake, O gracious heart. 
There's some one knocking at the 

— Frank Dempster Sherman. 



VALENTINE VERSES. 

My patron saint, St. Valentine, 
Why dost thou leave me to repine. 
Still supplicating at her shrine? 

But bid her eyes to me incline — 
I'll ask no other sun to shine — 
More rich than is Golconda's mine. 

Range all that woman, song, or wine 
Can give ; wealth, power, and fame 

combine; — 
For her I'd gladly all resign. 



MOTHER AND POET. 



Turin — After News Frm 

Garu » an Italian ' 

from the Aiutriaiu b 



And one of them shot in the west by 

Dead I both my boys I When you sit at 
the feast 
And are wanting a great song for 
Italy free. 
Let none look at me ! 

Vet I was a poetess only last year, 
And good at my art, for a woman. 

But this woman, this, who is agonized 

The east sea and west sea rhyme on 
in her head 
Forever instead. 



What a 



can a woman be good a 



oh. 



What art is she good at, but hurting 
With the milk teeth of babes, and a 



And I, proud by that test. 
What art's for a woman ! To hold on 
her knees 
Both darlings I to feel all their arms 
round her throat 
Cling, struggle a liitle! to sew by de- 
grees 
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat 
little coatl 
To dream and to dote. 

To teach them It stings there. I 

made them indeed 
Speak plain the word "country," I 
taught them no doubt 
That a country's a thing men should 
die for at need. 
I prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant turned out. 

And when their eyes flashed . . . O 
my beautiful eyes ! . . . 
I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at 
the wheels 
Of the Runs and denied not. — But then 
the surprise, 
When one sits quite alone I — Then one 
weeps, then one kneels ! 
— God I how the house feels I 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



49 



At first happy news came, in gay letters 
moiled 
With my kisses, of camp-life, and 
glory, and how 
They both loved me, and soon, coming 
home to be spoiled, 
In return would fan off every fly from 
my brow 
With their green laurel-bough. 

Then was triumph at Turin. "Ancona 
was free!" 
And some one came out of the cheers 
in the street 
With a face pale as stone, to say some- 
thing to me. 
My Guido was dead! I fell down at 
his feet, 
While they cheered in the street 

I bore it ; — friends soothed me : my grief 
looked sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- 
mained 
To be leant on and walked with, recall- 
ing the time 
When the first grew immortal, while 
both of us strained 
To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, 
more strong:. 
Writ now but in one hand. "I was 
not to faint. 
One loved me for two . . would be 
with me ere long: 
And "viva Italia" he died for, our 
saint, 
Who forbids our complaint." 

My Nanni would add "he was safe, and 
aware 
Of a presence that turned off the balls 
. . . was imprest 
It was Guido himself, who knew what 
I could bear. 
And how 'twas impossible, quite dis- 
possessed. 
To live on for the rest." 

On which without pause up the tele- 
graph line 
Swept smoothly the next news from 
Gaeta :--"Shot. 
Tell his mother." Ah, ah, "his," "their" 
mother; not "mine." 
No voice says "my mother" again to 
me. What ! 
You think Guido forgot? 



Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy 
with heaven. 
They drop earth's affections, conceive 
not of woe? 
I think not. Themselves were too lately 
forgiven 
Through that love and sorrow which 
reconciled so 
The above and below. 

O Christ of the seven wounds, who 
look'dst through the dark 
To the face of thy mother! consider, 
I pray. 
How we common mothers ! stand deso- 
late, mark. 
Whose sons, not being Christs, die 
with eyes turned away, 
And no last word to say ! 

Both boys dead! but that's out of na- 
ture; we all 
Have been patriots, yet each house 
must always keep one. 
'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a 
wall. 
And when Italy's made, for what end 
is it done. 
If we have not a son ? 

Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what 
then? 
When the fair wicked queen sits no 
more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls 
out of men? 
When your guns of Cavalli with final 
retort 
Have cut the game short. — 

When Venice and Rome keep their new 
jubilee, 
When your flag takes all heaven for 
its white, green and red. 
When you have your country from 
mountain to sea, 
When King Victor has Italy's crown 
on his head, 
(And I have my dead,) 

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring 
your bells low. 
And bum your lights faintly! My 
country is there, 
Above the star pricked by the last peak 
of snow. 
My Italy's there, with my brave civic 
pair, 
To disfranchise despair. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Forgive me. Some women bear chil- 
dren in strength. 
And bite back the cry of their pain in 
self-scorn. 
But the birth-pangs of nations will 
wring us at lei^h 
Into such wail as this I — and we sit on 
forlorn 
When the man-child is bom. 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in 
the west, 
And one of them shot in the east by 
the seal 
Both I both my boys I — If in keeping the 
feast 
You want a great song for your Italy 
free. 
Let n 



From a Uiaque iRitien to do bonor to tht 
muTuge of the Lwly Eliiabetb uid the Count 
FaUline, February 1*, 

Tbia daugblcr of Jarnt 



of Uh 

her It ..__ _, 

■occeeded to Ibc thione. 



became the moth<f 

— — --., BDd it ia throufh 

prCKDt Rojtl Familr of Enilaiid 



Shake off your heavy trance. 

And leap into a dance. 
Such as no mortals use to tread. 

Fit only for Apollo 
To play to, for the Moon to lead. 

And all the stars to follows ! 

— Francis Beaumont 



Died Feb. It, IBftl. 

Glory and honor and fame and everlast- 
ing laudation 

For our captains who loved not war, but 
fought for the life of the nation; 

Who knew that, in all the land, one slave 
meant strife, not peace; 

Who fought for freedom, not glory; 
made war that war might cease. 

Glory and honor and fame; the beating 
of mufBed drums; 



The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag- 
wrapped coffin comes. 

Fame and honor and glory, and joy for 
a noble soul ; 

For a fuU and splendid life, and laureled 
rest at the goal 

Glory and honor and fame; the pomp 
that a soldier prizes; 

The league-long waving line as the 
marching falls and rises ; 

Rumbling of caissons and guns; the clat- 
ter of horses' feet. 

And a million awe-struck faces far down 
the waiting street. 

But better than martial woe, and the 
pageant of civic sorrow; 

Better than praise of today, or the statue 
we build tomorrow ; 

Better than honor and glory, and His- 
tory's iron pen, 

Was the thought of duty done and the 
love of his fellow-men. 

—Richard Watson GUder. 



februain^ 15. 



THE FIFTEENTH OF FEBRUARY. 



Is it not well, my brethren? They whose 
sleep 
Beneath the nodding palm. 
Where the strong currents of the trade 
wind sweep, 
Is measureless and calm, 
If from those loyal lips, now one year 

dumb. 
One word across the heaving seas might 

What other word 
Than this should hail the morning? 

Might they know 
That where the tides past grim Cabanas 

The mirrored glories of their banner 
glow, 
What other cheer be beard ? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



51 



The sense of all things slowly set aright 

Unto a destined aim? 
That gazing where beyond our utmost 

dreams 
The way new broken through the dark- 
ness gleams. 
Fresh wreaths we bring. 
And heeding all that these with life have 

bought. 
What wondrous things the circling 

months have wrought, 
For these held dear in all a nation's 
thought 
"Pro patria mori" sing. 

Is it not well ? Pro patria mori ! Yea, 

For her dear sake no less 
Than those that on some hard-fought 
glorious day 
Fall in the strife and stress. 
Though not as Anglo-Saxons love to go, 
Stem-set, hard-gripped, with answering 
blow for blow — 
Not thus they died — 
Yet not without such sacrifice might be 
Full wrought the perfect work of Lib- 
erty, 
Nor we the children of her first-bom see 
Her sun-lit wings spread wide. 

Is it not well? Lo, where the shade was 
cast 
Of out-worn kingly sway 
To gloom the Future with a blighted 
Past, 
That curse is swept away; 
And now above the fading dark arise 
New constellations in the glittering 
skies ; 
And in our ears. 
That heard but now the universal groan, 
The prison shot and tortured prisoner's 

moan. 
The diorus of a people freed is blown 
From the verge of coming years. 

Is it not well that far beyond, below, 

The maricet's empty strife 
We have made sure what tides of feeling 
flow 

To make the people's life ? 
How deeply shrined the sacred flag has 

place 
In all the toiling million-hearted race. 

And at her need 
The youthful giant of the nation wakes. 
Within his hand a disused weapon takes 



Lays down for her his ready life, or 
shakes 
The world with deathless deed. 

Is it not well — ^the hope, as if new bora. 

The first of glinmiering light. 
The slender herald of the promised mora 

Athwart the ancient night? 
That comes with healing for her wound- 
ed breast 
Of that old East that is the radiant West 

Of times to be; 
While in her prostrate place as loaded 

long 
With chains of might and blinded hate 

and wrong. 
She trembles at the first heard moraing 
song 
From across the moraing sea? 

Is it not well, my brethren? There is 
made 
One song through all the land; 
Before one light old doubts and shadows 
fade. 
With old lines drawn in sand. 
The past lies dead. New sight, a 

broader view, 
For the Republic sees a purpose new 

Of boundless scope. 
While like a sun that burns with clearer 

flame 
Sweeps rising through the sky her spot- 
less fame. 
And lights a land that knows one love, 
one aim, 
One flag, one faith, one hope. 

— Charles E. Russell. 



THE SPIRIT OF THE MAINR 



The blowing up of the Maine in the harbor 
of Havana on the night of Feb. 16, 1808, wm 
the event which precipitated the war with Spain 
which had been impending for some months. 



In battle-line of sombre gray 

Our ships of war advance. 
As Red Cross knights in holy fray 

Qiarged with avenging lance. 
And terrible shall be thy plight, 

O fleet of crael Spain! 
For ever in our van doth fight 

The spirit of the Maine! 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



As when, beside Regillus Lake, 

The great twin brethren came 
A righteous fight for Rome to make 

Against a deed of shame, 
So now a ghostly ship shall doom 

The fleet of treacherous Spain,- 
Before her guilty soul doth loom 

The spirit of Uie Mainel 

A wrmith arrayed in peaceful white. 

As when asleep she lay 
Above the traitorous mine that night 

Within Havana Bay, 
She glides before the avenging fleet 

A sign of woe to Spain. 
Brave though her sons, how shall the; 



OFF HAVANA. 

There came at night a clarion call from 

Heaven 
To heroes' souls that unto mortal ears 
Sounded the blasts of Hell. The hopes 

and fears, 
The loves and hates that earth and time 

had given. 
Through pain and death passed to Eter- 

Tbe shattered vessel, shivering in the 

flood 
Of hostile waters, stained with martyrs' 

Uprose and sank. — Silence was on the 

Silence was there, but in the hearts of 

Through all the echoing centuries shall 



Her sons shall press undaunted to the 

goal, 
Die in their duty and be unforgot. 

— John Hall Ingham. 



THE FIGHTING RACE, 
id out the names!" and Burke i 



And Kelly dropped his head. 
While Shea— they call him Scholar 
Jack — 

Went down the list of the dead. 
Officers, seamen, gunners, marines. 

The crews of the gig and yawl. 
The bearded man and the lad in his 

Carpenters, coal passers — all. 
Then, knocking the ashes from out his 
pipe. 

Said Burke m an offhand way: 
'We're all in that dead man's list by 

Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
"Well, here's to the Maine, and I'm sorry 
for Spain," 
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 

"Wherever there's Kellys there's trou- 
ble," said Burke, 
"Wherever fighting's the game, 
Or a spice of danger in grown man's 
work," 
Said Kelly "you'll find my name." 
"And do we fall short," said Burke, get- 
ting mad, 
"When it's touch and go for life?" 
Said Shea, "It's thirty-odd years, bedad. 

Since 1 chained to drum and fife 
Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen 

Stopped a rebel ball on its way; 
There were blossoms of blood on our 
sprigs of green — 
Kelly and Burke and Shea — 
And the dead didn't brag." "Well, 
here's to the flag!" 
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 

"I wish 'twas in Ireland, for there's the 
place," 
Said Burke, "that we'd die by right. 
In the cradle of our soldier race. 



And fighting was not his trade ; 
But his rusly pike's in the cabin still. 
With Hessian blood on the blade." 
"Aye, aye," said Kelly, "the pikes were 
great 
When the word was 'clear the way I' 
We were thidt on the roll in ninety- 
eight- 
Kelly and Burke and Shea," 
"Well, here's to the pike and the sword 
and the like!" 
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



S3 



And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy. 

Said, "We were at Ramillies, 
We left our bones Fontenoy 

And up in the Pyrenees. 
Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain, 
Cremona, Lille and Ghent^ 
We're all over Austria, France and 
Spain, 
Wherever they pitched a tent. 
We've died for England, from Waterloo 

To Egypt and Dargai; 
And still there's enough for a corps or 
crew, 
Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
"Well, here is to good honest fighting 
^ blood I" 
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 

"Oh, the fighting races don't die out. 

If they seldom die in bed. 
For love is first in their hearts, no 
doubt," 
Said Burke; then Kelly said: 
"When Michael, the Irish Archangel, 
stands. 
The angel with the sword. 
And the battle-dead from a hundred, 
lands 
Are ranged in one big horde. 
Our line, that for C^briel's trumpet 
waits. 
Will stretch three deep that day, 
From Jehosaphat to the Golden Gates — 

Kelly and Burke and Shea." 
''Well, here's thank God for the race and 
the sod I" 
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 

— Joseph L C, Clarke. 



fcbvnavi \6. 



ELISHA KENT KANE. 



Eliflha Kent Kane, an American scientist and 
explorer^ died on Feb. 16, 1867. He was noted 
chiefly for his Arctic explorations. 



O, Mother Earth, thy task is done 
With him who slumbers here below ; 

From thy cold Arctic brow he won 
A glory purer than thy snow. 

Thy warmer bosom gently nursed 
The dying hero; for his eye 



The tropic Spring's full splendors 
burst, — 
"In vain!" a thousand voices cry. 

"In vain, in vainl" The poet's art 
Forsook me when the people cried ; 

Naught but the grief that fills my heart. 
And memories of my friend, abide. 

We parted in the midnight street. 
Beneath a cold autumnal rain; 

He wrung my hand, he stayed my feet 
With "Friend, we shall not meet 
again." 

I laughed ; I would not then believe , 

He smiled; he left me; all was o'er. 
How much for my poor laugh I'd 
give I — 
How much to see him smile once 
morel 

I know my lay bemeans the dead, 
That sorrow is an humble thing. 

That I should sing his praise instead. 
And strike it on a higher string. 

Let stronger minstrels raise their lay. 
And follow where his fame has flown ; 

To the whole world belongs his praise. 
His friendship was to me alone. 

So close against my heart he lay, 
That I should make his glory dim, 

And hear a bashful whisper say, 
*1 praise myself in praising him. 



i» 



O, gentle mother, following nigh 
His long, long funeral march, resign 

To me the right to lift this cry. 
And part the sorrow that is thine. 

O, father, mourning by his bier. 
Forgive this song of little worth! 

My eloquence is but a tear, 
I cannot, would not rise from earth. 

O, stricken brothers, broken band, — 
The link that held the jewel lost, — 

I pray you give me leave to stand 
Amid you, from the sorrowing host 

We'll give his honors to the world. 
We'll hark for echoes from afar; 

Where'er our country's flag 's unfurled 
His name shall shine in every stax. 



54 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



We feel no fear that time shall keep 
Our hero's memory. Lei us move 

A little from the world to weep. 
And for our portion take his love. 
—George H. Boker. 



Hdirn 



febnians t7. 



HEINE'S GRAVE. 

jnted Gemun poet (nd critic of 
lacent. For the hit twenty- four 
Tcan of hii life he lired in Firii. *heie he 
becmme the TJcdm of kn iacurable and iwinful 
iii>ladr< Some of tbe beat known Ij'fici of 
CernunjF tre ■moog hi* toof^. He died on 
Feb. IT, 185«. 

But was it thou — I think 

Surely it was — that bard 

Unnamed, who, Goethe said. 

Had every other ^ft, but wanted love; 

Love, without which the tongue 

Even of angels sounds amiss? 

Charm is the glory which makes 



How without charm wilt thou draw, 

Poetl the world to thy way? 

Not bv the lightenings of wit I 

Not by the thunder of scorn I 

These to the world, too, are given; 

Wit it possesses, and scorn, — 

Charm is the poet's alone. 

Hollow and dull are the great. 

And artists envious, and the mob pro- 

We know all this, we know I 
Cam'st thou from heaven, O child 
Of light! but this to declare? 
Alasl to help us forget 
Such barren knowledge awhile, 
God gave the poet his song. 

Therefore a secret unrest 
Tortured thee, brilliant and bold. 
Therefore triumph itself 
Tasted amiss to thy souL 
Therefore, with blood of thy foes. 
Trickled in silence thine own. 
Therefore the victor's heart 
Broke on the field of his fame. 

—ilatthtw Arnold. 



fcbruan? 18. 

AT LUTHER'S GRAVE. 
WITTENBERG. 

UaitiD Lutbcr, the grut reformer, who died 
m Feb. 18. IMS, wu Ihe oiigiiutaT of per- 

nml the v^i hM™r leen. S"lra.j all^be 
laid to be the real creator of Ihe German Ian- 



Here rests the heart whose throbbing 
shook Ibe earth! 
High soal of courage, we do owe thee 

Thee and thy warrior comrades, who the 

Of freedom proved and put it to tbe 
touch! 
Because, O Luther, thou the trutk didst 

And spake the truth out. faced the 
sceptered lie, 
E'cD we, thy untorgetting heirs, may 

Fearless, erect, unshackled, 'neath the 

sky. 
Yet at this shrine who doth forever 

linger 
Shall know not that true freedom 

"Onward," his spirit points, with lifted 

finger, 
"Onward lies truth I My work were 

never done 
If souk by me awakened climbed not 

Ever to seek, and fear not, the celestial 
fire." 

—Richard Watson Gilder 



THE DEAD CZAR. 



The Car Nicholi 

IBGE, wu the third 

ed hi* brother and died dnrinx tbe Crinean 



Lay him beneath his snows. 

The great Norse giant who in these last 

Troubled the nations. Gather decently 
The imperial robes about him. Tis but 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



55 



This demi-god. Or rather it was man, 
And is — a httlc dust, that will corrupt 
As fast as any nameless dust which 

sleeps 
'Neath Alma's grass or Balaklava's 

vines. 

No vinejrard grave for him. No quiet 

tomb 
By river margin, where across the seas 
Children's fond thoughts and women's 

memories come 
Like angels, to sit by the sepulchre, 
Sajdng : "All these were men who knew 

to count, 
Front-faced, the cost of honor, nor did 

shrinK 
From its full pasrment: coming here to 

die. 
They died — like men." 

But this man ? Ah ! for him 
Funereal state, and ceremonial grand. 
The stone-engraved sarcophagus, and 

then 
Oblivion. 

Nay, oblivion were as bliss 
To that fierce howl which rolls from 

land to land 
Exulting, — "Art thou fallen Lucifer, 
Son of the morning?" or condemning, — 

"Thus 
Perish the wicked!" or blaspheming, — 

"Here 
Lies our Belshazzar, our Sennacherit^ 
Our Pharaoh, — he whose heart God 

hardened, 
So that he would not let the people go." 
Self-glorifying sinners! Why, this man 
Was but like other men: — ^you, Levite 

small. 
Who shut your saintly ears, and prate of 

hell 
And heretics, because outside church- 
doors. 
Your church-doors, congregations poor 

and small 
Praise heaven in their own way; — ^you, 

autocrat 
Of all the hamlets, who add field to field 
And house to house, whose slavish chil- 
dren cower 
Before your tyrant footstep; — ^you, foul- 

tongued 
Fanatic and ambitious egotist, 



Who thinks God stoops from His high 
majesty 

To lay His finger on your puny head. 

And crown it, — ^that you henceforth may 
parade 

Your maggotship throughout the won- 
dering world, — 

"I am the Lord's anointed !" 

Fools and blind! 
This Czar, this emperor, this disthroned 

corpse. 
Lying so straightly in an icy calm 
Grander than sovereignty, was but as 

ye;— 
No better and no worse ; — Heaven mend 

us all! 

Carry him forth and bury him. Death's 

peace 
Rest on his memory ! Mercy by his bier 
Sits silent, or says only these few 

words, — 
"Let him who is without sin 'mongst ye 

all 
Cast the first stone." 

— Dinah M, Craik. 



LINES ON THE PRINCE OF 
WALES. 



(Oldest son of James I.) 
There seems to be little doubt that the death 
of Henry Prince of Wales, the eldest son of 
James I., who was bom on Feb. 19, 1604, was a 
national calamity. To his father's love of study 
he added what his father entirely lacked — a 
love of manly sports. He lived to be nineteen 
years of age and died greatly lamented by the 
entire nation. 



Loe where he shincth yonder 

A fixed star in heaven; 
Whose motion heere came under 

None of your planets seaven. 
If that the moone should tender 

The sunne her love and marry. 
They would not both engender 

Soe great a star as Harry. 

— Henry Frederick. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



febniars 20. 



The Constitution (Old Irottsidn) waa built 
in Boilon in ITST. In her la»t Gghi, Feb. 10. 
1816, ihe captured the Cyane and the Levant: 



Then a long rift in the mist showed up 

The stout Cyane, close-hauled 
To swing in our wake and our quarter 

And a boasting Briton bawled: 



"Starboard and larboard, ' 
fast 



A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew— 
Constitution, where ye bound for? 

Wherever, my lad, there's fight to be liad 
Acrost the Western ocean. 

Our captain was married in Boston town 

And sailed next day to sea; 
For all must go when the State says so; 

Blow high, blow low, sailed we. 

"Now, what shall I bring for a bridal 
gift 

When my home-bound pennant flies? 
The rarest that be on land or sea 

It shall be my lady's priie." 

There's never a priie on sea or land 

Could bring such joy to me 
As my true love sound and homeward 

With a king's ship under his lee." 

The Western ocean is wide and deep. 

And wild its tempests blow. 
But bravely rides "Old Ironsides," 

A-c raising to and fro. 

We cruised to the east and we cruised to 

north. 
And southing far went we, 
And at last off Cape de Verd we raised 
Two frigates sailing free. 

Oh, God made man, and man made ships. 

But God makes very few 
Like him who sailed our ship that day. 

And fought her, one to two. 



Till the night-fog fell on spar and sail. 

And ship, and sea, and sbore. 
And our only aim was the bursting 

flame 
Aiitf the hidden caaaoa's roar. 



E got him 



.. _ his heels won't take him 

through ; 

Let him luff or wear, he'll find us 
there,— 
Ho, Yankee, which will you do?" 

We did not \xxff and we did not wear. 
But braced our topsails back. 

Till the sternway drew us fair and true 
Broadsides athwart her track. 

Athwart her track and across her bows 

We raked her fore and aft, 
And out of the fight and into the night 

Drifted the beaten craft 

The slow Levant came up too late; 

No need had we to stir; 
Her decks we swept with hre, and kept 

The flies from troubling her. 

Wc raked her again, and her flag came 

The haughtiest flag that floats.— 
And the lime-juice dogs lay there like 
logs. 
With never a bark in their throats. 

With never a bark and never a bite. 

But only an oath to break, 
As we squared away for Praya Bay 

With our prizes in our wake. 

Parole they gave and parole they broke. 
What matters the cowardly cheat, 

If the captain's bride was satisfied 
With the one prize laid at her feet? 

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew — 
Constitution, where ye bound for? 
Wherever the British prizes be. 
Though it's one to two, or one to 

three,— 
"Old Ironsides" means victory, 
Acrost the Western ocean. 

—Jatnes Jeffrey Roche, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



57 



ANDREW HOFER. 



Andrew Hofer was a Swiss patriot who head- 
ed the Tyrolese insurrection of 1809. He 
gained some victories, was head of the govern- 
ment in 1809, but was finally taken and exe- 
cuted on Feb. 20, 1810. 



At Mantua in chains 

The gallant Hofer lay. 
In Mantua to death 

Led him the foe away; 
His brothers' hearts bled for the chief, 
For Germany, disgrace and grief. 

And Tyrol's mountain-land! 

His hands behind him clasped, 
With firm and measured pace, 

Marched Andrew Hofer on; 
He feared not death to face, 

Death whom from Iselberg aloft 

Into the vale he sent so oft 
In Tyrol's holy land. 

But when from dungeon-grate. 

In Mantua's stronghold, 
Their hands on high he saw 

His faithful brothers hold, 
"O God be with you all!" he said, 
"And with the German realm betrayed, 

And Tyrol's holy land!" 

The drummer's hand refused 
To beat the solemn march. 
While Andrew Hofer passed 

The portal's gloomy arch; 
In fetters shackled, yet so free, 
There on the bastion stood he. 

Brave Tyrol's gallant son. 

They bade him then kneel down, 

He answered, "I will not! 
Here standing will I die. 

As I have stood and fought, 
As now I tread this bulwark's bank, 
Long life to my g:ood Kaiser Frank, 

And, Tyrol, hail to thee !" 

A grenadier then took 

The bandage from his hand. 
While Hofer spake a prayer. 

His last on earthly land. 
"Mark well!" he with loud voice ex- 
claimed, 
"Now fire ! Ah ! 'twas badly aimed ! 
O Tyrol, fare thee well !" 

— Julius Mosen, 



f cbruarp 21* 



EPITAPH. 



In the churchyard of the parish of Balmaghie 
in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright are the grave- 
stones of three persons who fell victims to the 
boot-and-saddle mission sent into Scotland un- 
der the last Stuarts. One of these rude monu- 
ments bears the following inscription: 

"Here lyes David HaJliday, portioner of 
Mayfield, who was shot upon the 21st of Feb- 
ruary, 1685, and David Halliday, cnce in Glen- 
gape, who was likewise shot upon the 11th of 
July, 1685. for their adherence to the prin- 
ciples of Scotland's Covenanted Reformation." 



Beneath this stone two David Hallidays 
Do lie, whose souls now sing their Mas- 
ter's praise. 
To know, if curious passengers desire, 
For what, by whom, and how they did 

expire ; 
They did oppose this Nation's perjury, 
Nor could they join with lordly Prelacy. 
Indulging favors from Christ's enemies 
Quenched not their zeal. This monu- 
ment then cries. 
These were the causes, not to be forgot. 
Why they by lag so wickedly were shot ; 
One name, one cause, one grave, one 

heaven to tie 
Their souls to that one God Eternally. 



jfebruari? 22. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON. 



Born Feb. 82, 1782. 



This was the man God gave us when the 

hour 
Proclaimed the dawn of Liberty begun; 
Who dared a deed, and died when it was 

done ; 
Patient in triumph, temperate in power, — 
Not striving like the Corsican to tower 
To heaven, nor like great Philip's greater 

son 
To win the world and weep for worlds 

unwon, 
Or lose the star to revel in the flower. 
The lives that serve the eternal verities 
Alone do mould mankind. Pleasure and 

pride 
Sparkle awhile and perish, as the ^^t^.^ 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Smoking a 



s the c 



5 of 



Is impotent to hasten or delay 
The everlasting surges of the tide. 
That Man at last, beneath the diurch- 

yard spire. 
Might be once more the worm, the rock, 

the tree. 

— Jok» H. Ingham. 



THE TWENTY-SECOND OF FEB- 
RUARY. 

Pale is the February sky, 

And brief the mid-day's sunny hours; 
The wind-swept forest seems to sigh 

For the sweet time of leaves and 
ifowera. 

Yet has no month a prouder day. 
Not even when the summer broods 

O'er meadows in their fresh array. 
Or autumn tints the glowing woods. 

For this chill season now again. 
Brings, in its annual round, the morn 

When, greatest of the sons of men. 
Our glorious Washington was bom. 

Lo, where, beneath an icy shield, 
Calmly the mighty Hudson flows I 

By snow-clad fell and frozen field. 
Broadening, the lordly river goes. 

The wildest storm that sweeps through 

And rends the oak with sudden force. 
Can raise no ripple on his face, 
Or slacken his majestic course. 

Thus, 'mid the wreck of thrones, shall 
live 
Unmarred, un dimmed, our hero's 

And years succeeding years shall give 
Increase of honors to his name. 

—fVilliam CulUn Bryant. 



EDGAR W. NYE. 

Died Feb. it, ISVS. 

No more the pleasing jest, the genial 



Of mirth, the wit and wisdom haply 

With him all smiles have passed away, 
and so 
The world shall laug^ no more, since 
Nye is dead. 

— Marion F. Ham. 



februar^ 23. 

KEATS. 

Died Feb. II, IStl. 

Rare voice, the last from vernal Helbs 

And fresh Arcadian hills, why mute so 

Did the Gods grudge their unexpected 

And Phoebus envy back the lute he 
lentP 
So sudden came thy song, so sudden 

O well for thee — tree of life's Pcry 

noon. 

Free as a fairy underneath the moon, 

But ill for us bereft of ravisiiment. 

Not for our skies, piper of Grecian breed. 

Nor suits our autumn melody with 

spring's ; 
So hast thou fled on bright ethereal 

With all thy young and rich imaginings 
To be great-hearted Homer's Gany- 
mede, 
Nor dropped one feather of thy shin- 
ing wings. 

— Eratmtts H. Brodie. 



KEATS. 

Just as the earliest flowers began to 

(He felt the daisies growing o'er his 

grave) 
His fevered heart found rest; those 

Unconscious o'er the form that sleeps 

Yet there the "rathe primroses" surely 
know. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



59 



And tender violets (howsoever rave 
The rude winds o'er his slumber) that 

he gave 
Them human love in human hearts to 

grow. 

His "name was writ in water?" still 'tis 
called 

By every dnrad's ghost that mournful 
fleets! 

That name through earth and heaven 
hath been extolled ; 

That name the Summer's requiem re- 
peats; 

But he, with charms of Faery deep en- 
thralled, 

Hears no dull earth-tones echoing 
**wherc is Keats!" 

—Craven L, Betts. 



THE GRAVE OF KEATS. 



Rid of the world's injustice, and his 

pain. 
He rests at last beneath God's veil of 

blue; 
Taken from life when life and love 

were new 
The youngest of the martyrs here is 

lain, 
Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain. 
No C3rpress shades his grave, no gen- 
eral yew. 
But gentle violets weeping with the 
dew 
Weave on his bones an ever blossoming 

chain. 
O proudest heart that broke by misery! 
O sweetest lips since those of Mity- 

lenel 
O poet-painter of our English land! 
Thy name was writ in water — it shall 
stand ; 
And tears like mine will keep thy 

memory green, 
As Isabella did her Basil-tree. 

— Oscar Wilde, 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF 
JOHN KEATS. 



I. 
I weep for ADONAIS— he is dead ! 
Oh, weep for Adonais ! though our tears 



Thaw not the frost which binds so dear 

a head! 
And thou, sad, hour, selected from all 

years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure 

compeers. 
And teach them thine own sorrow ; say : 

with me 
Died Adonais; till the Future dares 
Forget the Pa^t, his fate and fame shall 

be 

An echo and a light unto eternity I 
* * 4c * * * « 

He has outsoared the shadow of our 
night; 

Envy and calumny, and hate and pain. 

And that unrest which men miscall de- 
light. 

Can touch him not and torture not 
again; 

From the contagion of the world's slow 
stain 

He is secure, and now can never mourn 

A heart grown cold, a head grown gray 
in vain; 

Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to 
burn, 

With sparkless ashes load an unlamented 
urn. 

LV. 

The breath whose might I have invoked 
in song 

Descends on me; my spirit's bark is 
driven 

Far from the shore, far from the trem- 
bling throng 

Whose sails were never to the tempest 
given ; 

The massy earth and sphered skies are 
riven ! 

I am borne darkly, fearfully afar; 

Whilst burning through the inmost veil 
of Heaven, 

The soul of Adonais, like a star. 

Beacons from the abode where the Eter- 
nal are. 

—From "Adonais," Percy Bysshe Shelly, 



febvunv^ 24* 



ODE TO FRANCE. 



Louis Philippe was the son of the infamotw 
Duke of Orleans, who called hinudf "Ectlite.** 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



, but by the will of tbc people. Afler 
n the pari of the nitioo for reform in 



oiseless snow, 
Till some chance thrill the loosened ruin 
launches 
In unwarned havoc on the roofs below, 
So grew and gathered through the silent 

The madness of a People, wrong by 
wrong. 
There seemed no strength in the dumb 
toiler's tears, — 
No strength in suffering ; — but the 
Past was strong: 
The brute despair of trampled centuries 
Leaped up with one hoarse yell and 

snapped its bands, 
Groped for its right with homy. 
callous hands. 
And stared around for God with blood- 
shot '■yes. 
What wonder if those palms were alt 
too hard 
For nice distinctions, — if that msenad 
throng — 
They whose thick atmosphere no bard 
Had shivered with the lightning of his 
song, 
Brutes with the memories and desires 



of r , 
Whose chornicles v 






In the crooked shoulder and the 
forehead low — 
Set wron^ to balance wrong. 
And physicked woe with woe? 

II. 

They did as they were taught; not theirs 

the blame. 
If men who scattered firebrands reaped 
the flame : 
They trampled Peace beneath their 
savage feet, 
And by her golden tresses drew 
Mercy along the pavement of the 



O Freedom I Freedom! is thy moming- 

So gory red? Alas, thy light had 

neer 
Shone in upon the chaos of their 

lairl 
They reared to thee such symbol as 

they knew. 
And worshipped it with flame and 

blood, 
A Vengeance, axe in hand, that 

Holding a tyrant's head up by the clotted 
hair. 

III. 

What wrongs the Oppressor suffered, 
these we know; 
These have found piteous voice in 
song and prose ; 
But for the Oppressed, their darkness 
nd their woe, 
grinding 
had those? 
Though hall and palace had nor eyes nor 
ears, 
Hardeniiig a people's heart to sense- 
less stone, 
Thou knowest them, O Earth, that 
drank their tears, 
O Heaven, that heard their inarticulate 



They 
Coarsi 



link; 



] down their fetters, link by 



the hand that scrawled, and 
red the ink; 
Rude was their score, as suits unlet- 
tered men, — 
Notched with a headsman's axe upon a 

block: 
What marvel if, when came the avow- 
ing: shodc, 
"T was Ale, not Urania, held the pen? 



anguished 



IV. 



With eye averted 

Loathingly glides the Muse through 
scenes of strife. 
Where, like the heart of Vengeance up 
and down, 
Throbs in its framework the blood- 
muffled knife; 
Slow are the steps of Freedom, but her 
f^et 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



6i 



Turn never backward; hers no bloody 
glare; 
Her light is calm, and innocent, and 
sweet. 
And where it enters there is no de- 
spair: 
Not first on palace and cathedral spire 
Quivers and gleams that unconsuming 
fire; 
While these stand black against her 
morning skies. 
The peasant sees it leap from peak to 
peak 
Aloiig his hills; the craftsman's burn- 
ing eyes 
Own with cool tears its influence moth- 
er-meek ; 
It lights the poet's heart up like a 
star; — 
Ah I while the tyrant deemed it still 
afar, 
And twined with golden threads his fu- 
tile snare, 
That swift, convicting glow all round 

him ran; 
Twas close beside him there. 
Sunrise whose Memnon is the soul of 
man. 

V. 

O Broker-King, is this thy wisdom's 
fruit? 
A dynasty plucked out as 'twere a 

weed 
Grown rankly in a night, that leaves 
no^ seed I 
Could eighteen years strike down no 
deeper root? 
But now thy vulture eye was turned 
on Spain; 
A shout from Paris, and thy crown 
falls off. 
Thy race has ceased to reign, 
And thou become a fugitive and scoff: 
Slippery the feet that mount by stairs 
of gold, 
And weakest of all fences one of steel ; 
Go and keep school again like him of 
old, 
The Syracusan tyrant; — thou mayst feel 
Royal amid a birch-swayed common- 
weal! 

VI. 

Not long can he be ruler who allows 
His time to run before him ; thou wast 
naught 



Soon as the strip of gold about thy 
brows 
Was no more emblem of the People's 
thought : 
Vain were thy bayonets against the foe 
Thou hadst to cope with; thou didst 
wage 
War not with Frenchmen merely; — ^no, 
Thy strife was with the Spirit of the 
.Ag^ 
The invisible Spirit whose first breath 
divine 
Scattered thy frail endeavor, 
And, like poor last year's leaves, whirled 
thee and thine 
Into the Dark forever! 

VII. 

Is here no triumph? Nay, what 
though 
The yellow blood of Trade meanwhile 
should pour 
Along its arteries a shrunken flow, 
And the idle canvas droop around the 
shore ? 

These do not make a state, 
Nor keep it great: 
I think God made 
The earth for man, not trade; 
And where each humblest human crea- 
ture 
Can stand, no more suspicious or afraid. 
Erect and kingly in his right of nature. 
To heaven and earth knit with harmo- 
nious ties, — 
Where I behold the exultation 
Of manhood glowing in those eyes 
That had been dark for ages, — 
Or only lit with bestial loves and 
rages — 
There I behold a Nation: 
The France which lies 
Between the Pyrenees and Rhine 
Is the least part of France; 
I see her rather in the soul whose shine 
Burns through the craftsman's grimy 
countenance, 
In the new energy divine 
Of Toil's enfranchised glance. 

VIII. 

And if it be a dream. 
If the great Future be the little Past 
'Neath a new mask, which drops and 

shows at last 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The same weird, mocking face to balk 
and blast. 
Yet, Muse, a gladder measure suits the 

And the Tyrtxan harp 

Loves notes more resolute snd 

Throbbing, as throbs the bosom, hot and 
fast: 
Such visions are of morning, 
Theirs is no vague forewarning. 

The dreams which nations dream come 

And Miape the world anew; 
If this be a sleep. 
Make it long, make it deep, 
O Father, who sendest the harvests 

While Labor so sleepeth 

His sorrow is gone. 
No longer he weepeth. 
But smileth and steepeth 

His thoughts in the dawn; 
He heareth Hope yonder 

Rain, lark-like, her fancies. 
His dreaming hands wander 

'Mid heart's-ease and pansies ; 
"'Tis a dream 1 T is a vision I" 

Shrieks Mammon aghast; 
"The day's broad derision 

Will chase it at last ; 
Ye are mad, ye have taken 
A slumbering kraken 

For firm land of the Pastl" 
Ah! if he awaken, 

God shield us all then, 
If this dream rudely shaken 

Shall cheat him again I 

IX. 

Since first I heard our North wind 

Since first I saw Atlantic throw 

On our grim rocks bis thunderous 

snow 
I loved thee, Freedom; as a boy 
The rattle of thy shield at Marathon 
Did with 3 Grecian joy 
Through all my pulses run; 
But I have learned to love thee now 
Without the helm upon thy gleaming 

A maiden mild and undefiled 
Like her who bore the world's redeem- 
ing child; 



And surely never did thy altars glance 
With purer fires than now in France; 
While, in their dear white Bashes, 
Wrong's shadow, backward Citst, 
Waves cowering o'er the ashes 
Of the dead, blaspheming Fast 

O'er the shapes of fallen giants. 

His own unburied brood, 
Whose dead hands clench defiance 

At the overpowering Good : 
And down the happy future run a flood 

Of prophesying light; 
It shows an Earth no longer stained 

with blood. 
Blossom and fruit where now we see the 
bud 



DERWENTWATER'S FARE- 
WELL. 

June* Haddiffe, Eu-l of Dcrwentinter, w*s 
an Engliih Catholic nobleman, who wm one of 
the leaden of (he Jacobite rebellion of 1T1S. 
He and Lord Kenmuce were executed in Lon. 
don and died, gallantly proclaiming their alle- 
giance to the Stuart cbobc. 

Farewell to pleasant Dilston Hall, 

My father's ancient seat; 
A stranger now must call thee his, 

Which gars my heart to greet. 

Farewell each kindly well-known face, 

My heart has held so dear: 
My tenants now must leave their lands, 

Or hold their lives in fear. 

No more along the banks of Tyne 

I'll rove in autumn gray; 
No more I'll hear, at early dawn, 

The lav' rocks wake the day ; 
Then fare thee well, brave Withrington, 

And Forster ever true. 
Dear Shaftbury and Errington, 

Receive my last adiea 

And fare thee well, George Collingwood, 
Since fate has put us down; 

If thou and I have lost our lives, 
Our king has lost his crown. 

Farewell, farewell, my lady dear, 
111, ill thou counsell'dst tat : 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



63 



I never more may see the babe 
That smiles upon thy knee. 

And fare thee well, my bonny grey steed. 

That carried me aye so free; 
I wish I had been asleep in my bed 

The last time I mounted thee. 
The warning bell now bids me cease; 

My trouble's nearly o'er; 
Yon sun that rises from the sea 

Shall rise on me no more. 

Albeit that here in London town 

It is my fate to die, 
O carry me to Northumberland, 

In my father's grave to lie: 
There chant my solemn requiem 

In Hexham's holy towers. 
And let six maids of fair Tynedale 

Scatter my grave with flowers. 

And when the head that wears the 
crown 

Shall be laid low like mine, 
Some honest hearts may then lament 

For Radcliffe's fallen line. 
Farewell to pleasant Dilston Hall, 

My father's ancient seat; 
A stranger now must call thee his. 

Which gars my heart to greet. 

— 0/(/ Ballad, 



f cbruari? 25* 



WALLENSTEIN'S DEATH. 



A celebrated Austrian general in the , Thirty 
Years' War. He was murdered by some of his 
own officers on Feb. 26, 1684. 



When Richelieu learned that Wallen- 

stein was dead, 
His thin face sharpened to an edge. He 

said, 
"Soon as the great tree falls, the rabble 

run 
To strip him of his branches one by 

one. 

— Owen Meredith, 



fcbruain? 26* 



THE LOSS OF THE BIRKEN- 
HEAD." 



(Supposed to be told by a soldier who 
survived.) 

An English troop steamer which was wrecked 
off the Cape of Good Hope on Feb. 86, 1868. 
The troops formed at the word of command and 
went down at their posts, having put the women 
and children in the boats. Over four hundred 
men were drowned. 






Right on our flank the crimson sun went 

down; 
The deep sea rolled around in dark re- 
pose; 
When, like the wild shriek from some 
captured town, 
A cry of women rose. 

The stout ship "Birkenhead" lay hard 

and fast. 
Caught without hope upon a hidden 

rock; 
Her timbers thrilled as nerves, when 

through them passed 
The spirit of that shock. 

And ever like base cowards, who leave 

their ranks 
In danger's hour, before the rush of 

steel, 
Drifted away disorderly the planks 
From tmderneath her keel. 

So calm the air, so calm and still the 

flood. 
That low down in its blue translucent 

glass 
We saw the great fierce fish, that thirst 

for blood. 
Pass slowly, then repass. 

They tarried, the waves tarried for their 

prey! 
The sea turned one clear smile I Like 

things asleep 
Those dark shapes in the azure silence 

lay. 
As quiet as the deep. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Then amidst oath, and prayer, and rush 

and wreck, 
Faint screams, faint questions waiting 

no reply, 
Our Colonel gave the word, and on the 

deck 

Formed us in line to die. 

To diet— 'twas hard whilst the sleek 

ocean glowed 
Beneath a sky as fair as summer 

flowers ; — 
"All to the boats!" cried one; — he was, 

thank God, 
No officer of ours! ' 

Our English hearts beat true : — we 

would not stir; 
That base appeal we heard but heeded 

On land, on sea, we had our Colours, 

To keep without a spot I 

1 England, that we 

[th, unhonoured life 

deserters, 



They shall not ■ 

fought 
With shameful s 

Into mean safety, 
brought 
By trampling down the weak. 



5 made v 



1 with their children 



The oars ply back again, and yet again ; 
Whilst, indi by inch, the drowning ship 
sank low. 
Still under steadfast men. 

— What follows, why recall? — The brave 

who died, 
Died without flinching in the bloody 

They sleep as well beneath that purple 
tide. 
As others under lurf ; — 

They steep as wetl ! and, roused from 

their wild grave, 
Wearing their wounds like stars, shall 

rise again, 
Joint-heirs with Christ, because they 
bled to save 
His weak ones, not in vain. 

—F. H. Doyle. 



februani 27. 

LONGFELLOW. 

(Born Ftb. 87, 1B07.) 



singer t 



The New-World's 

Time may lay 
Rude touch on some, thy betters, yet for 

thee. 
Thy seat is where the throned immortals 

be. 
The chaste affections answering to thy 

As fair, as fresh as children of the May, 
Thy verse springs up from wood and 

sun<bathed lea, 
Yet oft the rhythmic cadence of the sea. 
Rolls 'neath thy song and speeds its 

shining way. 

Thy borrowed robes, even, thou wear st 

with grace; 
Such grace our English buckram seldom 

Through thee the grave Italian takes his 
place 

Among us ; but across Acadian fields 
Who is it moves with rapt and pensive 

Evangeline, his heart thy love reveals! 

—Craven L. Belts. 



fel>ruar« 28. 

ANNE CLOUGH. 

Sister of Arthur Hugh Clough and first 
presidfM of Nlwnhara College, Cnmbridse. 
Sh* died Frt. 28, ISVi. 

Esteemed, admired, beloved, — farewell t 
Alas! what need hadst thou of peace? 

Our bitterest winter tolls the kntll, 
And tolls, and tolls, and will not cease. 

It tolls and tolls with iron tongue 

For empty lives and hearts unblessed, 

And tolls for thee, whose heart was 
young. 
Whose life was stored with hope and 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Tbf meditative quaint replies, 
Cast out like arrows on the air. 

The hninor in thy dark blue eyea. 
The wisdom in thy silver hair,— 

Though these grow faint, shade after 
shade, 
As those who loved thee droop and 

Thf being was not wholly made 
To shrmk like breath upon a glass. 



TboD with new graces didst n _ 

The old, outworn scholastic seat, 

Throned, simply, with an ardent train 
Of studious beauty round thy feet 

Those girls, grown mothers soon, will 
teach 
Their sons to praise thy sacred name. 
Thy hand that taught their hands to 
reach 
The broader thought, the brighter 
flame. 

So thou, though sunk amidst the gloom 
That gathers round our reedy shore, 

Shalt with diffused light illume 
A thousand hearths unlit before. 

—Edmund Goite. 



fcbvtmvft 29. 

ROSSINI. 



1 Ital- 



The ghostly wind of Weber's northern 

With Its luxurious dread, ne'er haunted 

thee; 
Maddening the heart like bright Circean 

Thy siren songs float o'er the sunlit sea; 
Thy Faun-like childhood caught a 

Pagan glee 
From mellow dusters, bending trcllised 

In some warm Tuscan vale, where sun- 

sti shines 
On vintage dance and jocund minstrelsy. 
If life were but a Bacchanal procession 
Of sensuous joys, thou wert its great 

high -priest. 
Old Pan Of music, who, balf-god, half- 

On the shy nymph of tears mak'st bold 

aggression : 
Yet in thy bowers we sit at endless feast. 
And of thy gorgeous realm take rich 
—John Todhuitirr. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



flDarcb I. 

ROBINSON OF LEYDEN. 



The Reverend John Rob 



rch of Eniland, 



wmptoi 



lenled in I.erden in the 
re he bectme putor of tbe 
a' Choich from which came 
familit* who eiaicTBted fron 

„ the Uayflower. Iindini M 

Uau. He died Mvcfa 1, 1016. 



He sleeps not here; in hope and prayer 
His wandering flock had gone before, 

But he, the shepherd, might not share 
Their sorrows on the wintry shore. 



Before the Speedwdt's andior swung. 
Ere yet the MaySower's sail was 

While round his feet the Pilgrims clung. 
The pastor spake, and thus he said :— 

"Men, brethem, sisters, children dear I 
God calls you hence from over sea; 

Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer, 
Nor yet along the Zuydcr-Zee. 

"Ye go to bear the saving word 
To tribes unnamed and shores untrod 

Heed well the lessons ye have heard 
From those old teachers taught of God. 

'^et think not unto them was lent 
All light for all the coming days. 

And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent 
In making straight the ancient ways: 

"The living fountain overflows 
For every flock, for every lamb. 

Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose 
With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam." 

with lingering, long embrace. 



They passed the frowning towers of 
Briel, 

The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of aand. 
And grated soon with lifting keel 

The sullen shores of Fatherland. 



No home for these!— too well they knew 
The mitred king behind the throne; — 

The sails were set, the pennons flew. 
And westward ho 1 for worlds un- 
known. 

— ^And these were they who gave us 
birth, 

The Pilgrims of the sunset wave. 
Who won for us this virgin earth. 

And freedom with the soil they gave. 

The pastor slumbers by the Rhine, — 
In alien earth the exiles lie, — 

Their nameless graves our holiest shrine. 
His words our noblest battle-cry ! 

Still cry them, and the world shall hear, 
Ye dwellers by the storm-swept seal 

Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer, 

Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee I 

—0. W. Hoimet. 



flDarcb 2. 

ULRIC DAHLGREN. 

_ A ion of Admirel Dihlgren U. S, N., di»- 

ArSr* of lit Polonilc!''*f^''lm't T'leg'" 
GeClr>buig, and, while >ti[l on cnilchei. led 

Lihby Priaon at Richmand Biid""^^'^ a mid- 
night amhuah on Hatch I, ISSt. at the age 
of twenty-two. 

A flash of light across the night. 

An eager face, an eye afire I 
lad so true, you yet may rue 

The courage of your deep desire I 

"Nay, tempt me not; the. way is plain — 
'Tis but the coward checks his rein; 

For there they lie, 

And there they cry. 
For whose dear sake 't were joy lo die !" 

He bends unto his saddlebow, 

The steeds they follow two and two; 
Their flanks are wet with foam and 

Their rider's locks are damp wiih dew. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



67 



The hunger preys, 
The famine slays, 
An awful horror veils our ways !" 

Beneath the pall of prison wall 
The rush of hoofs they seem to hear; 

From loathsome guise they lift their 
eyes, 
And beat their bars and bend their ear. 

''Ah, God be thanked! our friends are 

nigh; 
He wills it not that thus we die; 

O fiends accurst 

Of Want and Thirst, 
Our comrades gather, — do your worst!" 

A sharp affright runs through the night. 

An ambush stirred, a column reined; 

The hurrying steed has checked his 

speed. 

His smoking flanks are crimson 

stained. 

O noble son of noble sire. 

Thine ears are deaf to our desire! 

O knightly grace 

Of valiant race, 
The grave is honor's trysting-place ! 

O life so pure! O faith so sure! 

O heart so brave, and true, and strong ! 
With tips of flame is writ your name. 

In annaled deed and storied song! 

It flares across the solemn night, 
It glitters in the radiant light ; 

A jewel set, 

Unnumbered yet. 
In our Republic's coronet! 

— Kate Brownlee Sherwood. 



flDarcb 3* 



ON THE FREEING OF THE SERFS. 



Alexander II» Emperor of Russia, pro- 
claimed the emancipation of the serfs through- 
out his dominions on March 8. 1861. The 
attacks of the Nihilists led him to enter upon 
a reactionary policy and he was assassinated 
by them. 

Hail to the Czar Alexander ! 
Hail to the Prince of the Free ! 



Not to the proud would he pander; 
Truer and nobler and grander 
Than Macedon's hero is he, 
Alexander ! 

Listen! how melodies rural 

Freight every wind with his praise! 
Give him the golden crown mural! — 
First from the seas to the Ural 

Liberty's flag to upraise, 
Alexander I 

Greatest is not the Czar Peter; 

(Sound it, O Bells, from each steeple!) 
No, for his fame will be fleeter; 
No, for the homage is sweeter 

"^aid to the Czar of the People, 
Alexander ! 

Ah! when the Muscovite story 

Ages to ages shall tell, 
Still will the patriarchs hoary 
Cry, ** 'twas the Czar of our glory. 

He who loved Russians so well, 
Alexander !" 

God be his shield and defender ! 
Keep him from sorrow afar! 
Then, when his life he shall render. 
Fold in eternity's splendor 
Russia's redeemer, the Czar 
Alexander ! 

— Edna Dean Proctor. 



EPIGRAM ON WALLER. 



Edmund Waller was an English poet who 
was born on March 8. 1606. and lived in the 
time of the Civil War. A cousin of Hamp 
den's and a connection of Cromwell's he sat 
in the Long Parliament and in the earlv days 
of the struggle was on the popular side, but 
he afterwards engaged in rojralist plots and 
was exiled. Later on, owing, it was said, to 
Cromwell's influence, his sentence was re- 
voked and after the Restoration he resumed 
his political career and was a great favorite at 
the courts of Charles II and James II. 



Various his subjects, yet they jointly 
warm, 

All spirit, life, and every line a charm; 

Correct throughout, so exquisitely pen- 
ned, 

What he had finished, nothing else could 
mend. 

— Thomas Middleton. 



E\ ]-:in' DAY IX THE YEAR. 



flDarcb 4* 



TO ALEXANDER H. STEPHENS. 



Vice-President of the Southern Confederacy. 
He died on March 4, 1883. 



Last of a stalwart time and race gone by, 
That simple, stately, God-appointed 

band, 
Who wrought alone to glorify their 
land. 
With lives built high on truth's eternity, 
While placemen plot, while flatterers 

fawn or lie. 
And foul corruptions, wave on wave, 

expand, 
I see thee rise, stainless of heart as 
hand, 
O man of Roman thought and radiant 
eye! 

Through thy frail form, there bum 

divinely strong 

The antique virtues of a worthier day ; 

Thy soul is golden, if they head be gray. 

No years can work that lofty nature 

wrong ; 
They set to concords of ethereal song 
A life grown holier on its heavenward 
way. 

— Paul H, Hayne, 



flDarcb 5. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF GEN. 
JOSEPH REED. 



A member of the Continental Congress and 
General in the Revolution. He died March 6, 
1785. 



Swift to the dust descends each honored 
name 

That raised their country to these heights 
of fame, 

Sages that planned, and chiefs that led 
the way 

To freedom's temple — ^all too soon de- 
cay; 

Alike submit to one unaltered doom. 

Their glories closing in perpetual gloom. 

Like the dim splendors of the evening. 



While iiiglil advanco to ^^ iTiiJiLHc the 
shade. 

Reed! 'tis for thee we shed th' un- 
purchased tear, 

Bend o'er thy tomb, and plant our laurels 
here, 

Thy own brave deeds the noblest pile 
transcend. 

And virtue, patriot virtue, mourns her 
friend. 

Gone to those realms where worth may 
claim regard. 

And gone where virtue meets her best re- 
ward 

No single art engaged his manly mind. 
In every scene his active genius shined. 
Nature in him, in honor to our age, 
At once composed the soldier and the 

sage ;— - 
Firm to his purpose, vigilant, and bold, 
Detesting traitors and despising gold. 
He scorned all bribes from Britain's hos- 
tile throne — 
For all his country's wrongs were thrice 
his own. 

Reed, rest in peace, for time's impartial 

page 
Shall blast the wrongs of this ungrateful 

age: 
Long in these climes thy name shall 

flourish fair, 
The statesman's pattern, and the poet's 

care; 
Long on these plains thy memory shall 

remain, 
And still new tributes from new ages 

gain, 
Fair to the eye that injured honor rise — 
Nor traitors triumph while the patriot 

dies. 

— Philip Freneau, 



THE BOSTON MASSACRE. 



The Boston Massacre, which occurred 
March 5, 1770, may be regarded as the first 
act in the drama ot the American Revolution. 
The presence of the British soldiers in King 
St excited the patriotic indignation of the 
people. Led by Crispus Attucks, the mulatto 
slave, they rushed to King St and were fired 
upon by Captain Preston's company. Crispus 
Attucks was the first to fall; be and Samuel 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



69 



Gray and Jonas Caldwell were killed on the 
spot. Samuel Maverick and Patrick Carr 
were mortally wounded. 



Where shall we seek for a hero, and 
where shall we find a story? 

Our laurels are wreathed for conquest, 
our songs for completed glory. 

But we honor a shrine unfinished, a col- 
umn uncapped with pride, 

If we sing the deed that was sown like 
seed when Crispus Attucks died. 

Shall we take for a sign this Negro slave 

with unfamiliar name — 
With his poor companions, nameless too, 

till their lives leaped forth in 

flame? 
Yea, surely, the verdict is not for us, to 

render or deny; 
We can only interpret the symbol; God 

chose these men to die — 
As teachers and types, that to humble 

lives may chief award be made ; 
That from lowly ones, and rejected 

stones, the temple's base is laid I 

When the bullets leaped from the British 
guns, no chance decreed their aim ; 

Men see what the royal hirelings saw — a 
multitude and a flame ; 

But beyond the flame, a mystery ; five dy- 
ing men in the street, 

While the streams of severed races in the 
well of a nation meet ! 

O, blood of the people! changeless tide, 

through century, creed and race! 
Still one as the sweet salt sea is one, 

though tempered by sun and place ; 
The same in the ocean currents, and the 

same in the sheltered seas ; 
Forever the fountain of common hopes 

and kindly sympathies; 
Indian and Negro, Saxon and Celt, Teu- 
ton and Latin and Gaul — 
Mere surface shadow and sunshine; 

while the sounding unifies all ! 
One love, one hope, one duty theirs ! No 

matter the time or ken. 
There never was separate heart-beat in 

all the races of men! 
But alien is one — of class, not race — ^he 

has drawn the line for himself ; 
His roots drink life from inhuman soil, 

from garbage 0/ pomp and pelf ; 



His heart beats not with the common 
beat, he has changed his life- 
stream's hue; 

He deems his flesh to be finer flesh, he 
boasts that his blood is blue; 

Patrician, aristocrat, Tory — whatever his 

age or name, 
To the people's rights and liberties, a 

traitor ever the same. 
The natural crowd is a mob to him, their 

prayer a vulgar rhyme; 
The freeman's speech is sedition, and the 

patriot's deed a crime. 
Wherever the race, the law, the land, — 

whatever the time or throne. 
The Tory is always a traitor to every 

class but his own. 

Thank God for a land where pride is 

clipped, where arrogance stalks 

apart; 
Where law and song and loathing of 

wrong are words of the common 

heart; 
Where the masses honor straightforward 

strength, and know, when veins 

are bled, 
That the bluest blood is putrid blood — 

that the people's blood is red ! 

And honor to Crispus Attucks, who was 

leader and voice that day; 
The first to defy, and the first to die, 

with Maverick, Carr and Gray. 
Call it riot or revolution, his hand first 

clenched at the crown ; 
His feet were first in perilous place to 

pull the king's flag down; 
His breast was the first one rent apart 

that liberty's stream might flow; 
For our freedom now and forever, his 

head was the first laid low. 
—From "Crispus Attucks." 
John Boyle O'Reilly, 



flDarcb 6. 



THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO. 



The Alamo was a mission building founded 
in 1744 at San Antonio, Texas. Until 1708 
it was used as a church and subsequently as 
a fort, being surrounded by strociq^ HnkU&« \»k. 



;o 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



"February, 1886, it was occupied by Col. W. B. 
Travis with about 160 men in revolt against 
the government of Mexico. After withstand* 
ing a terrible siege it was taken by assault on 
March 0th, and the garrison, including Col. 
Bowie and David Crockett killed. One man 
had previously made his escape. 



Santa Ana came storming, as a storm 
might come; 
There was rumble of cannon; there 
was rattle of blade; 
There was cavalry, infantry, bugle, and 
drum, — 
Full seven thousand, in pomp and pa- 
rade. 
The chivalry, flower of Mexico ; 
And a gaunt two hundred in the Ala- 
mo! 

And thirty lay sick, and some were shot 
through ; 
For the siege had been bitter, and 
bloody, and long. 
••Surrender, or die!" — ^"Men, what will 
you do?" 
And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, 
quick and strong; 
Drew a line at his feet . . . "Will you 
come? Will you go? 
/ die with my wounded, in the Alamo." 

The Bowie gasped, "Lead me over that 
line !" 
Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, 
one hand to his gun. 
Crossed with him ; then never a word or 
a sign 
Till all, sick or well, all, all save but 
one, 
One man. Then a woman stopped, pray- 
ing, and lo 
Took her place to die in the Alamo. 

Then that one coward fled, in the night, 
in that night; — 
When all men silently prayed and 
thought 
Of home ; of to-morrow ; of God and the 
right. 
Till dawn; then Travis and cannon 
shot. 
In answer to insolent Mexico, 
From the old bell tower of the Alamo. 

Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of 
£amel 



Then the red escalade: then the fight 
hand to hand; 
Such an unequal fight as never had name 
Since the Persian hordes butchered 
that doomed Spartan band 
All day ! and all night ! and the morning 
so slow. 
Through battle smoke mantling the 
Alamo. 

Then silence ! Such silence ! Two thou- 
sand lay dead 
In a crescent outside! And within? 
Not a breath 
Save the gasp of a woman, with gory 
gashed head. 
All alone, all alone there, waiting for 
death ; 
And she but a nurse. Yet when shall 
we know 
Another like this of the Alamo? 

Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!" 
I say 'tis not always for the hosts to 
win; 
I say that the victory, sudden or slow 
Is given the hero who grapples with 
sin. 
Or legion or single; just asking to know 
When duty fronts death in his Alamo. 

— Joaquin Miller, 



LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 



Died March 0, 1888. — In Memoriam. 



As the wind at play with a spark 

Of fire that glows through the night, 
As the speed of the soaring lark 

That wings to the sky his flight, 
So swiftly thy soul has sped 

On its upward, wonderful way. 
Like the lark when the dawn is red. 

In search of the shining day. 

Thou art not with the frozen dead 
Whom earth in the earth we lay. 
While the bearers softly tread. 

And the mourners kneel and pray; 
From thy semblance, dumb and stark 
. The soul has taken its flight — 
Out of the finite dark, 
Into the Infinite Light. 

— Louise Chandler Moulton. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



71 



MICHAEL ANGELO BUONAROTTI. 



Born March 6, 1476. 



This is the rugged face 
Of him who won a place 

Above all kings and lords; 
Whose various skill and power 
Left Italy a dower 
No numbers can compute, no tongue 
translate in words. 

Patient to train and school 
His genius to the rule 

Art's sternest laws required; 
Yet, by no custom chained, 
His daring hand disdained 
The academic forms by tamer souls ad- 
mired 

In his interior light 
' Awoke those shapes of might. 
Once known, that never die ; 
Forms of Titanic birth, 
The elder brood of earth, 
That fill the mind more grandly than 
they charm the eye. 

Yet when the master chose. 
Ideal graces rose 

Like flowers on gnarled boughs; 
For he was nursed and fed 
At Beauty's fountain-head, 
And to the goddess pledged his earliest, 
warmest vows. 

Entranced in thoughts whose vast 
Imaginations passed 

Into his facile hand, 
By adverse fate unfoiled, 
Through long, long years he toiled ; 
Undimed the eyes that saw, unworn the 
brain that planned. 

A soul the Church's bars. 
The State's disastrous wars 

Kept closer to his youth. 
Though rough the winds and sharp. 
They could not bend or warp 
His soul's ideal forms of beauty and of 
truth. 

Like some cathedral spire 
That takes the earliest fire 
. Of mom, he towered sublime 
O'er names and fames of mark 



Whose lights to his were dark ; 
Facing the east, he caught a glow be- 
yond his time. 

Whether he drew, or sung. 
Or wrought in stone, or hung 

The Pantheon in the air ; 
Whether he gave to Rome 
Her Sistine walls or dome. 
Or laid the ponderous beams, or lightly 
wound the stair; 

Whether he planned defence 
On Tuscan battlements, 

Fired with the patriot's zeal. 
Where San Miniato's glow 
Smiled down upon the foe. 
Till Treason won the gates that mocked 
the invader's steel; 

Whether in lonely nights 
With Poesy's delights 

He cheered his solitude ; 
In sculptured sonnets wrought 
His firm and graceful thought. 
Like marble altars in some dark and 
mystic wood, — 

Still, proudly poised, he stepped 
The way his vision swept. 

And scorned the narrower view. 
He touched with ^lory all 
That pope or cardmal, 
With lower aims than his, allotted him to 
do. 

A heaven of larger zone — 

Not theirs, but his — ^was thrown 

O'er old and wonted themes. 
The fires within his soul 
Shone like an aureole 
Around the prophets old and sibyls of his 
dreams. 

Thus self-contained and bold. 
His glowing thoughts he told 

On canvas or on stone. 
He needed not to seek 
His themes from Jew or Greek; 
His soul enlarged their forms, his style 
was all his own. 

Ennobled by his hand, 
Florence and Rome shall stand 
Stamped with the signet-ring 
He wore, whei^ VLm%*& c^^^\ 



i 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The laws the artisis made. 
Art was his world, and he was Art's 
anointed king. 

So stood this Angelo 
Four hundred years ago ; 

So grandly still he stands, 
Mid lesser worlds of Art, 
Colossal and apart. 
Like Memnon breathing songs across thi 
desert sands. 

— C. P. Cratieh. 



fDarcb 7. 

ICHABOD. 

Daniel Wcbsler was an ardent lover of the 

length to preserve it. In his "Seventh of 
Uarch" ipeech. IBGO, he lupported Guy's 
compromiK measure*, ta the great grief and 
indignation of bia Koitbern ^ieods. It hu 
also bfrn BiipposTd that his deiirt to be nomi- 



So fallen I so losll the light withdrawn 

Which once he wore ! 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 



Revile him not— the Tempt 


r hath 


A snare for all! 






] and wrath 


Befit his falll 





1 dumh be passion's stormy rage. 

When he who might 
Have lighted up and led his age, 

Falls back in night. 

Scorn 1 Would the angels laugh, to marl 

A bright soul driven, 
Fiend'goaded, down the endless dark. 

From hope and Heaven? 

X«t not the land, once proud of him, 

Insult him now ; 
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 

Dishonored brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead. 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead, 
Jn xadaess make. 



Of all we loved and honored, naught 

Save power remains — 
A fallen angel's pride of thought. 

Still strong in chains. 

AU else is gone; from those great eyes 

The soul has fled; 
When faith is lost, when honor dies. 

The man is dead ! 



Then, pay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame ; 
Walk badcward, with averted gaze, 

And hide the shame 1 

—John Creenteaf (Vhitlier. 



Commander of the Randolph Frigate. 



ship Yarmoutb, on March 7, 1778. 

What distant thunders rend the skies, 
What clouds of smoke in volumes rise, 

What means this dreadful roar! 
Is from his base Vesavitts thrown. 
Is sky-topl Atlas tumbled down. 

Or Etna's self no more I 



Shock after shock ti 

And lo ! two hostile ships appear, 

Red lightnings round them glow : 
The Yarmoutk boasts of sixty-four, 
The Randolph thirty-two — no more— 

And will she fight this foe 1 



The Randolph soon od Stygian 
Shall coast along the land of dreams, 

The islands of the dead! 
But fate, that parts them on the deep, 
Shall save the Briton, still to weep 

His ancient honors fled. 

Say, who commands that dismal blaze. 
Where yonder starry streamer plays; 

Does Mars with Jove engage I 
'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires. 
Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires 

With more than mortal rage. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



73 



> •■ 



Tremendous flash ! and hark, the ball 
Drives through old Yarmouth, flames 
and all; 

Her bravest sons expire; 
Did Mars himself approach so nigh, 
Even Mars, without disgrace, might fl> 

The Randolph's fiercer fire. 

The Briton views his mangled crew, 
"And shall we strike to thirty-two/* 

(Said Hector, stained with gore;) 
"Shall Britain's flag to these descend — 
Rise, and the glorious conflict end, 

Britons, I ask no more !" 

He spoke — they ckarged their cannon 

round, 
Again the vaulted heavens resound, 

The Randolph bore it all. 
Then fixed her pointed cannons true — 
Away the unwieldly vengeance flew; 

Britain, the warriors fall. 

The Yarmouth saw, with dire dismay. 
Her wounded hull, shrouds shot away. 

Her boldest heroes dead — 
She saw amidst her floating slain 
The conquering Randolph stem the 
main — 

She saw, she turned, and fled! 

That hour, blest chief, had she been 

thine. 
Dear Biddle, had the powers divine 

Been kind as thou wert brave; 
But fate, who doomed thee to expire, 
Prepared an arrow tipped with fire. 

And marked a watery grave, 

And in that hour when conquest came 
Winged at his ship a pointed fiame 

That not even he could shun — 
The conquest ceased, the Yarmouth fled, 
The bursting Randolph ruin spread. 

And lost what honor won. 

—Philip Freneau. 



fDarcb 8. 



JUDAS THE SECOND. 



General Bemadotte was one of Napoleon's 
marshals. He was elected Crown Prince of 
Sweden, and in that capacity led the "army 



of the North*' against Napoleon in 1818. He 
died on March 8« 1844. 



His Christ came unto him, and from the 
pain 
And dismal sloughs of misery and care 
Raised him with friendship saintly and 
most rare, 
Saying, "Be thou my friend, my friend 
remain." 

His Christ did more: He let his hand 
attain 
Honors he dared not humbly beg in 

prayer ; 
His sinful past in mercy he did spare. 
And to uplift him to a throne did deign ! 

Then, with the liberal laurels on his 

brows. 

The gift of one immortal, noble heart, 

Who made irradiant his disgraceful 

lot, 

He, traitor to his country and his vows. 

Betrayed that Master with a devil's 

art; 
And hell doth know him now as Ber- 
nadotte! 

— Francis Saltus Saltus, 



THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. 



The battle of Alexandria was fouffht by the 
British against the French on March 8, 1801, 
and resulted in a victory for the former. 



Harp of Mennon ! sweetly strung 
To the music of the spheres; 

While the hero's dirge is sung, 
Breathe enchantment to our ears. 

As the sun's descending beams, 
Glancing o'er thy feeling wire, 

Kindle every chord that gleams. 
Like a ray of heavenly fire. 

Let thy numbers, soft and slow, 
O'er the plain with carnage spread. 

Soothe the dying while they flow 
To the memory of the dead. 

Bright as Beauty, newly bom, 
Blushing at her maiden charms; 

Fresh from ocean rose the Mom, 
When the trumpet blew to arm&« 



74 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Terrible soon grew the light 
On the Egyptian battle-plain. 

As the darkness of that night 
When the eldest bom was slain. 

Lashed to madness by the wind, 
As the Red Sea surges roar, 

Leave a gloomy gulf behind. 
And d^our the shrinking shore; 

Thus, with overwhelming pride, 
Gallia's brightest, boldest boast, 

In a deep and dreadful tide, 
Rolled upon the British host 

Dauntless these their station held. 
Though with unextinguished ire 

Gallia's legions thrice repelled, 
Thrice returned through blood and 
fire. 

Thus, above the storms of time. 
Towering to the sacred spheres. 

Stand the Pyramids sublime, — 
Rocks amid the floods of years. 

Now the veteran chief drew nigh ; 

Conquest towering on his crest. 
Valour beaming from his eye. 

Pity bleeding in his breast 

Britain saw him thus advance 
In her guardian angel's form ; 

But he lowered on hostile France, 
Like the demon of the storm. 

On the whirlwind of the war 
High he rode in vengeance dire; 

To his friends a leading star. 
To his foes consuming fire. 

Then the mighty poured their breath, 
Slaughter feasted on the brave! 

'Twas the carnival of death; 
'Twas the vintage of the grave. 

Charged with Abercrombie's doom. 
Lightning winged a cruel ball; 

'Twas the herald of the tomb. 
And the hero felt the call, — 

Felt, and raised his arm on high ; 

Victory well the signal knew, 
Darted from his awful eye, 

And the force of France o'er threw. 



But the horrors of that fight 
Were the weeping muse to tell, 

Oh, 'twould cleave the womb of night. 
And awake the dead that fell! 

Gashed with honourable scars. 
Low in Glory's lap they lie; 

Though they fell, they fell like stars. 
Streaming splendour through the sky. 

— James Montgomery, 



flDarcb 9* 



WILHELM I., EMPEROR OF GER- 
MANY. 



March 22, 1797. — ^January 2, 1861. — ^January 
18, 1871.— March 9, 1888. 

These four dates in the life of the Emperor 
William I represent his birth, his succession 
to the Prussian throne, his elevation to the 
imperial throne of Germany and his death, 
which occurred on March 9, 1888. 



When the gray Emperor at the Gates of 

Death 
Stood silent, up from Earth there came 

the sound 
Of mourning and dismay; man's futile 

breath 
Vexed the still air around. 

But silent stood the Emperor and alone 
Before the ever silent gates of stone 
That open and close at either end of 
life; 
As who, having fought his fight. 
Stands, overtaken of night, 
And hears afar the receding sound of 
strife. 
Wide open swing the gates : 

Hail, Hohensollem, hail to thee!, . 
// thou he he 

For whom each hero waits. 
Hail, hail to thee! 

So rings 

The chorus of the Kings. 

This is the House, of Death, the Hall of 

Fame, 
Lit, its vast length, by torches' flickering 

flame; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



75 



And, with their faces by the torch-fires 
lit, 

Around the board the expectant mon- 
archs sit. 

Filled are their drink-horns with the im- 
mortals* wine — 

They wait for him, the latest of their 
line. 

Under the flags they sit, beneath 
The which the keen sword spumed its 

sheath. 
Under the flags that first were woven 

To bring the fire to stranger eyes ; 
That now, at cost of corselets cloven, 

In lines of tattered trophies rise. 
To greet the newly come they wait — 
The heroes of the German State: 

His father, unto whom the west wind 

blew 
The echo of the guns of Waterloo : 
That greater Frederick, with the lust of 
power 
Still smouldering in his eyes, his 
troubled heart 
Impatient with the briefness of his hour 

That altered Europe's chart : 
And he, the great Elector, he who first 
Sounded to Poland's King a nation's 
word: 

And he who earlier, by Rome accursed, 
The trumpet-tone of Martin Luther 
heard — 

So the long line of faces grim 
Grows faint and dim. 
And at the farther end, where lights 
burn low. 
Where, through a misty glow. 
Heroes of German song and story rise 

Gods to our eyes, 
Great Hermann rises, father of a race, 
To give the Emperor his place. 
"Come to the table's head. 
Among the ennobled dead!" 
He cries: "Nor none shall ask me of 
thy right." 
Then speaks he to the board : 
"Bow down in one accord. 
To him whose strength is Majesty, not 
Might. 

"Emperor and King he comes; his peo- 
ple's cry 
Pierces our distant sky; 



Emperor and King he comes, whose 

mighty hand 
Gathered in one the kingdoms of the 
land. 
Yet greater far the tale shall be 
That G[ains him immortality: 
To his high task no selfish thought, 
No coward hesitance he brought; 
All that it was to be a King 

He was, nor counted of the cost. 
He rounds our circle — Time may bring 
The day when Earth shall need no 
King- 
All that Kings were, in him Earth 
lost." 

"Hail, HohenMollern, hail!" cried the 

heroes dead; 
And the gray Emperor sat at the table's 

head. 

— H, C Bunner, 



THE MURDER OF RICCIO. 



Riccio was the Italian secretary and favoritt 
of Marv Queen of Scots, and his murder by 
Darnley 8 orders on March 9, 1666, was one of 
the many acts that led to Darnle/s tragical 
death not long afterward. 



Twas night — mirk night — the sleet beat 
on. 

The wind, as now, was rude, 
And I was lonely in my room 

In dreary Holy rood. 
I heard a cry, a tramp of men, 

A clash of steel below, 
And from my window, in the court 

I saw the torches glow. 
More common were such sounds to me 

Than hum of evening hymn ; 
I caught my sword, and hurried out 

Along the passage dim. 
But O, the shriek that thrilled me then— 

The accents of despair, 
The man's imploring agony. 

The woman's frantic prayer! 
"O, for the love of God and Christ, 

Have mercy — mercy — 1 1 
O mistress— Queen — protect me yet, 

I am not fit to die!" 
"O God ! stand bv me, Darnley — ^you — 

My husband! will you see 
Black murder in my presence herel 

O God! he turns from met 



76 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Back — villains, back! you shall not 
strike, 

Unless you slay me too. 
O help I help ! help ! they kill the Queen I 

Help! help! O nobles — you — 
O Ruthven — Douglas — as you trust 

For mercy in your need, 
For Christ's dear sake, be satisfied — 

Do not this monstrous deed ! 
I'll yield— O yes! I'U break with 
France, 

Do anything you will, 
But spare him — spare him — ^spare him, 
friends ! 

Why should you seek to kill? 

God ! unloose me, Damley ! shame I 
Let go my arm, thou knave ! 

To me — to me — ^all Scottish hearts — 
Help! Murder! Come and save!'' 

A door flew wide. I saw them there — 

Ruthven in mail complete, 
George Douglas, Ker of Fawdonside, 

And Riccio at their feet. 
With rapiers drawn and pistols bent, 

They seized their wretched prey; 
They wrenched her garments from his 
grasp, 

They stabbed him where he lay. 

1 saw George Douglas raise his arm, 
I saw his dagger gleam ; 

And then I heard the dying yell, 

And Mary's piteous scream. 
I saw her writhe in Darnle/s arms 

As in a serpent's fold — 
The coward! he was pale as death. 

But would not loose his hold! 
And then the torches waved and shook. 

And louder grew the din. 
And up the stair, and through the doors 

The rest came trooping in. 
What could I do ? No time was that 

To listen or to wait; 
Thronged were the rooms with furious 
men. 

And close beset the gate. 
Morton and Lindsay kept the court. 

With many a deadly foe; 
And swords are swift to do their work 

When blood begins to flow. 
Darkling I traced the passage back 

As swiftly as I came. 
For through the din that rose without 

I heard them shout my name. 
Enough!— that night one victim died 

Beiore Queen Mary's face. 



And in my heart, I doomed that night 

Another in his place. 
Not that I cared for Riccio's life. 

They might have worked their will; 
Though base it was in men so high 

A helpless wretch to kill. 
But I had seen my Queen profaned, 

Outraged before my face. 
By him, the dastard, heartless boy. 

The land's and our disgrace. 
'Twas he devised the felon plot — 

'Twas he that planned the crime — 
He led the murderers to her room — 

And — God — ^at what a time! 



I was a witness on that night 

Of all his shame and guilt; 
I saw his outrage on the Queen, 

I saw the blood he spilt; 
And, ere the day had dawned, I swore. 

Whilst spurring through the sand, 
I would avenge that treachery, 

And slay him with my hand — 
Or, in the preachers' cherished phrase. 

Would purge him from the land! 

— W, E, Aytoun, 



THE DEATH OF CARDINAL 
MAZARIN. 



Cardinal Mazarin was a French statesman of 
Italian descent. He succeeded Richelieu as 
prime minister and was retained in that capa* 
city by Anne of Austria when she became 
regent on the death of Louis XIII. He died 
on March 9, 1661. 



"Two months" the questioned healer 
said, 

And turned him from the place. 
While every tint of color fled 

That dark Italian face, — 
Heart-struck was he, whom France 
obeyed. 

Peasant, and prince, and peer, 
And with the clank of fetters made 

Rich music for his ear. 

Proud Anne of Austria lowest bent 

With subjugated soul. 
And Ludovicus Magnus scarce 

Withstood his stem control. 
While distant nations feared the man 

Who ruled in court and bower; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



77 



u 



€€ 



Yet those slight words dissolved the 
spell 
Of all his pomp and power. 

Before him passed his portioned line, 

Mancini's haughty race, 
Jewels and coronets they wore, 

With cold and thankless grace; 
And for a payment poor as this, 

Had he his conscience grieved? 
And marred with perjured hand the 
cross 

His priestly vow received? 

Beside him strode a spectral form. 

Still whispering in his ear, 
Make restitution!" Fearful sound, 
That none besides might hear ; 
Make restitution!" But the spoil 
From earth and ocean wrung, 
By countless chains and wreathed bands. 
Around his spirit clung. 

"Two months! two months!** these 
frightful words 

Could all his peace destroy. 
And poison the enamelled cup 

Where sparkled every joy. 
They met him in the courtly hall. 

They silenced song and tale. 
Like those dead fingers on the wall 

That turned Belshazzar pale. 

Once in his velvet chair he dreamed. 

But rocking to and fro, 
His restless form and heaving breast 

Betrayed a rankling wo ; 
"Two months! two months!" he mur- 
mured deep. 

Those fatal words were there, 
To grave upon his broken sleep 

The image of despair. 

Uncounted wealth his coffers told. 

From rifled king and clime. 
His flashing gems might empires buy, 

But not an hour of time. 
No! not a moment, inch by inch, 

Where'er he bent his way, 
That grim pursuer steadfast gained 

Upon the shrinking prey. 

His pulseless hand a casket clutched. 
Though Death was near his side, 

And 'neath the pillow lurked a scroll 
He might no longer hide: 



While buried heaps of hoarded gain 

In rust and darkness laid. 
Bore witness to the Omniscient Eye 

Like an accusing shade. 

But on the King of Terrors came 

With strong relentless hold. 
And shook the shuddering miser loose 

From all his idol gold. 
And poorer than the peasant hind 

That humbly ploughs the sod. 
Went forth that disembodied mind 

To stand before its God. 

— Mrs, Sigoumey. 



nDarcb 10* 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 



The Prince of Wales was married to Princess 
Alexandra of Denmark, on March 10, 1868. 



Sea-king's daughter from over the sea, 

Alexandra I 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we. 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of 

thee, 

Alexandra I 
Welcome her, thunders of fort and of 

fleet! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the 

street ! 
Welcome her, all things youthful and 

sweet, 
Scatter the blossom under her feet! 
Break, happy land, into earlier flowers! 
Make music, O bird, in the new-budded 

bowers ! 
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and 

prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is 

ours! 
Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and tow- 
ers! 
Flames, on the windy headland flare! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air! 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and 

higher 
Melt into stars for the land's desire! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 



1 



78 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the 

strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the 

land. 
And welcome her, welcome the land's 

desire, 
The sea-king's daughter as happy as fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the 

sea, — 
O joy to the people, and joy to the 

throne. 
Come to us, love us and make us your 

own: 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 
We are each all Dane in our welcome of 

thee, 

Alexandra ! 
— Alfred Tennyson, 



ON THE MONUMENT ERECTED 
TO MAZZINI AT GENOA. 



Giuseppe Mazzini was an Italian patriot and 
revolutionist. He was a strong republican and 
took part in many plots for uie establishment 
of a republic in Italy. He was one of the 
triumvirate in the short-lived republic in Rome, 
in 1848, but was driven into exile on the 
restoration of the Papal power in 1849. Un- 
willing to take the oath of allegiance to a 
monarchy, he remained abroad. In 1870 he 
took part in an insurrection at Palermo, dur- 
ing which he was captured. He was released 
during the general amnesty published by the 
Italian government after the occupation of 
Rome. Much of his time was spent in exile. 
He died on March 10, 1878. 



Italia, mother of the souls of men. 

Mother divine. 
Of all that served thee best with sword 
or pen. 
All sons of thine, 

Thou knowest that here the likeness of 
the best 

Before thee stands: 
The head most high, the heart found 
faithfulest. 
The purest hands. 

Above the fume and foam of time that 
flits. 

The soul, we know, 
Now sits on high where Alighieri sits 

With Angelo. 



Nor his own heavenly tongue hath heav- 
enly speech 
Enough to say 
What this man was, whose praise no 
thought may readi. 
No words can weigh. 

Since man's first mother brought to mor- 
tal birth 

Her first-bom son. 
Such grace befell not ever man on earth 

As crowns this One. 

Of God nor man was ever this thing 
said; 
That he could give 
Life back to her who gave him, that his 
dead 
Mother might live. 

But this man found his mother dead and 
slain. 

With fast-sealed eyes. 
And bade the dead rise up and live again. 

And she did rise: 

And all the world was bright with her 
through him: 
But dark with strife, 
Like heaven's own sun that storming 
clouds bedim. 
Was all his life. 

Life and the clouds are vanished; hate 
and fear 

Have had their span 
Of time to hurt and are not : He is here 

The sunlike man. 

City superb, that hadst Columbus first 

For sovereign son. 
Be prouder that thy breast hath later 
nurst 
This mightier One. 

Glory be his forever, while this land 

Lives and is free, 
As with controlling breath and sovereign 
hand 
He bade her be. 

Earth shows to heaven the names by 
thousands told 
That crown her fame; 
But highest of all that heaven and earth 
behold 
Mazzini 's name. 

— Algernon C, Swinburne. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



79 



flDarcb ih 



TASSO. 



Born March 11» 1644. 



Love gilds thy laurel, — love was found 

thy blame; 
Yet, brightest in the dungeon shone thy 

Muse. 
Not Este, no, nor Italy, might refuse 
Thy due — the poet's wreath, the death- 
less name. 
Thine honor lustres in thy tyrant's 

shame; 
The cold cell's damps were Inspiration's 

dews; 
The world hath won through what thy 

hope did lose. 
Oh, Tasso, king of hearts, and heir of 

fame! 

Ferrara's court, by that impassioned 
dream 

Honored and blest, grew envious and in- 
grate; 

O, knightliest bard! Rinaldo's hero- 
gleam 

Is thine, thrice glorified; thy proud 
estate. 

The Lyre, the Sword, and Love — in each 
supreme ; 

Life's splendid offering at the throne of 
Fate! 

— Craven L. Beits, 



nDarcb 12. 



THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS. 



The last poem of Henry W. Longfellow, 
written March 12, 1882. 



What say the Bells of San Bias 
To the ships that southward pass 

From the harbor of Mazatlan? 
To them it is nothing more 
Than the sound of surf on the shore, 

Nothing more to master or man. 

But to me, a dreamer of dreams. 
To whom what is and what seems 
Are often one and the same, — 



The bells of San Bias to me 
Have a strange, wild melody. 

And are something more than a 
name. 

For bells are the voice of the church; 
They have tones that touch and search 

The hearts of young and old ; 
One sound to all, yet each 
Lends a meaning to their speech. 

And the meaning is manifold. 

They are the voice of the Past, 
Of an age that is fading fast. 

Of a power austere and gn^nd; 
When the flag of Spain unfurled 
Its folds o'er this western world, 

And the Priest was lord of the land. 

The chapel that once looked down 
On the little seaport town 

Has crumbled into the dust; 
And on oaken beams below 
The bells swing to and fro, 

And are green with mould and rust 



M 



Is, then, the old faith dead," 
They say, "and in its stead 

Is some new faith proclaimed. 
That we are forced to remain 
Naked to sun and rain. 

Unsheltered and ashamed? 

••Once in our tower aloof 
We rang over wall and roof 

Our warnings and our complaints ; 
And round about us there 
The white doves filled the air, 

Like the white souls of the saints. 

"The saints ! Ah, have they grown 
Forgetful of their own ? 

Are they asleep, or dead. 
That open to the sky 
Their ruined Missions lie. 

No longer tenanted? 

**0h, bring us back once more 
The vanished days of yore, 

When the world with faith was 
filled ; 
Bring back the fervid zeal, 
The hearts of fire and steel, 

The hands that believe and build. 



8o 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



"Then from our tower again 
We will send over land and main 

Our voices of command, 
Like exiled kings who return 
To their thrones, and the people learn 

That the Priest is lord of the land !" 

O Bells of San Bias, in vain 
Ye call back the Past again! 

The Past is deaf to your prayer: 
Out of the shadows of night 
The world rolls into light; 

It is daybreak everywhere. 



fl>arcb 13. 



BALLADE TO BANVILLE. 



A modem French poet, celebrated for hii 
•tyle. He was a follower of Victor Hugo and 
de Musset He died on March IS, 1801. 



One ballade more before we say good- 
night, 
O dying Muse, one mournful ballade 
more! 
Then let the new men fall to their de- 
light. 
The Impressionist, the Decadent, a 

score 
Of other fresh fanatics, who adore 
Quaint demons, and disdain thy golden 

shrine ; 
Ah! faded goddess, thou wert held di- 
vine 
When we were young ! But now each 
laurelled head 
Has fallen, and fallen the ancient glori- 
ous line; 
The last is gone, since Banville too is 
dead. 

Peace, peace a moment, dolorous Ibsen- 
itel 
Pale Tolstoist, moaning from the 
Euxine shore! 
Psychology, to dreamland take thy flight ! 
And, fell Heredity, forbear to pour 
Drop after drop thy dose of hellebore. 
For we look back to-night to ruddier 

wine 
And gayer singing than these moans of 
thine ! 



Our skies were azure once, our roses 
red, 
Our poets once were crowned with eglan- 
tine; 
The last is gone, since Banville too is 
dead. 

With flutes and lyres and many a lovely 
rite 
Through the mad woodland of our 
youth they bore 
Verse, like pure ichor in a chrysolite, 
Secret yet splendid, and the world for- 
swore. 
For one brief space, the mocking mask 
it wore. 

Then failed, then fell those children of 

the vine, — 
Sons of the sun, — and sank in slow de- 
cline ; 
Pulse after pulse their radiant lives 
were shed; 
To silence we their vocal names consign ; 
The last is gone, since Banville too is 
dead. 

ENVOI. 

Prince-Jeweller, whose facet-rhymes 

combine 
All hues that glow, all rays that shift and 
shine, 
Farewell ! thy song is sung, thy splen- 
dor fled ! 
No bards to Aganippe's wave incline; 
The last is gone, since Banville too is 
dead. 

— Edmund Gosse, 



ALEXANDER H. 



Assassinated by the Nihilists in St Petert- 
burg on March 18, 1881. 



From him did forty million serfs, en- 
dowed 
Each with six feet of death-due soil, 

receive 
Rich freebom lifelong land, whereon 
to sheave 

Their country's harvest. These to-day 
aloud 

Demand of Heaven a Father's blood, — 
sore bowed 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



8i 



With tears and thrilled with wrath; 

who, while they grieve, 
On every guilty head would fain 
achieve 
All torment by his edicts disallowed. 

He stayed the knout's red-ravening 
fangs; and first 
Of Russian traitors, his own murderers 

go 
White to the tomb. While he,— laid 

foully low 
With limbs red-rent, with festering 

brain which erst 
Killed kingly freedom, — 'gainst the deed 
accurst 
To God bears witness of his people's 
woe. 

— D. G. Rossetti. 



FOR A PORTRAIT OF FELICE 
ORSINI. 



Felice Orsici was an Italian patriot and 
revolutionist He attempted, in company with 
others, to assassinate Napoleon III, and was 
executed, March 18« 1858. 



Steadfast as sorrow, fiery sad, and sweet 
With underthoughts of love and faith, 

more strong 
Than doubt and hate and all ill 
thoughts which throng. 
Haply, round hope's or fear's world- 
wandering feet 
That find no rest from wandering till 
they meet 
Death, bearing palms in hand and 

crowns of song; 
His face, who thought to vanquish 
wrong with wrong, 
Erring, and make rage and redemption 

meet. 
Havoc and freedom ; weaving in one weft 
Good with his right hand, evil with his 
left; 
But all a hero lived and erred and 
died ; 
Looked thus upon the living world he 
left 
So bravely that with pity less than 

pride 
Men hfiil him Patriot and Tyrannicide. 

— Anonymous, 



nDarcb 14. 



BENJAMIN HARRISON. 

Died March 14. 1901. 



Full on his forehead fell the expiring 
light 
Of old wreathed altars where his fath- 
ers died. 
While at his back the dull devouring 
night 
Poured its advancing tide. 

He would the ancient light relume, 
would fain 
The dear old faith keep still without a 
blot. 
The flag he fought for scathless of a 
stain. 
The shield without a spot. 

He sided with the weak and ceaseless 
strove 
With failing hands against the tyran- 
nous strong; 
Here was no place for him where un- 
armed Love 
Is strangled by old Wrong. 

Here was no place for him where Force 
and Greed 
Upon the sacred fillets lay their hands 
Red from the spoil of stricken souls that 
bleed 
And wrecks of ruined lands. 

He has won peace at last — ^the peace that 
knows 
In dreamless tides no hint of hate or 
tears, 
And falls where once his dauntless voice 
arose 
The silence of the years. 

And men walk by and gaze, and wonder- 
ing ask, 
Now that the white clear-visioned soul 
is fied. 
Where is the hand to seize the torch and 
task 
New fallen from the dead? 

Was all in vain ? Is any word of worth. 
Though winged with truth and shot 
home to the mark, 



82 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



If all the answer is this silent earth 
And lost voice in the dark? 

But lost is never living word nor deed. 
As toward great waves unseen the rip- 
ple flows, 
As hour by hour, unguessed, the fervent 
seed 
Up to the sunlight grows. 

The true man's word, though sown in 
fallow soil 
And fruitless lying many a day and 
night, 
In its own way, beyond the sower's toil, 
Bursts into deathless light. 

— Charles E, Russell... 



IVRY. 



At the battle of Ivry, fought on March 14, 
1690, the Protestants under Henry IV de- 
feated the Catholic League under the Duke of 
Mayenne. 



Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from 

whom all glories are! 
And glory to our sovereign liege. King 

Henry of Navarre I 
Now let there be the merry sound of 

music and of dance, 
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny 

vines, O pleasant land of France I 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, 

proud city of the waters. 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy 

mourning daughters; 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joy- 
ous in our joy; 
For cold and stiff and still are they who 

wrought thy walls annoy. 
Hurrah I Hurrah! a single field hath 

turned the chance of war! 
Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry 

of Navarre. 

Ol how our hearts were beating, when, 

at the dawn of day. 
We saw the army of the League drawn 

out in long array; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its 

rebel peers. 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and £g- 

mont's Flemish spears. 



There rode the brood of false Lorraine, 
the curses of our land ; 

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a 
truncheon in his hand; 

And, as we looked on them, we thought 
of Seine's empurpled flood. 

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dab- 
bled with his blood; 

And we cried unto the living God, who 
rules the fate of war, 

To fight for His own holy name, and 
Henry of Navarre. 



The King is come to marshal us, in all 

his armor drest; 
And he has bound a snow-white plume 

upon his i?allant crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear 

was in his eye; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his 

glance was stem and his:h. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as 

rolled from wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout: 

God save our lord the King ! 
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall 

full well he may — 
For never I saw promise yet of such a 

bloody fray — 
Press where ye see my white plume shine 

amidst the ranks of war. 
And be your oriflamme to-day the hel- 
met of Navarre." 



Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to 

the mingled din. 
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, 

and roaring culverin. 
The fiery duke is pricking fast across 

Saint Andre's plain. 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders 

and Almayne. 
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair 

gentlemen of France, 
Charge for the golden lilies — upon them 

with the lance! 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a 

thousand spears in rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close be- 
hind the snow-white crest ; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, 

while, like a guiding star, 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the 

helmet of Navarre. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



83 



Now, God be praised, the day is ours: 

Mayenne bath turned his rein ; 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the 

Flemish count is slain; 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds 

before a Biscay gale; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, 

and flags, and cloven mail. 
And then we thought on vengeance, and. 

Remember Saint Bartholomew! was 

passed from man to man. 
But out spake gentle Henry— "No 

Frendunan is my foe: 
Down, down, with every foreigner, but 

let your brethren go" — 
01 was there ever such a knight, in 

friendship of in war. 
As our sovereign lord. King Henry, th« 

soldier ol Navarre? 



Right well fouKht all the Frenchmen whu 

fought for France to-day; 
And many a lordly banner God gave 

them for a prey. 
But we of the religion have borne us 

best in fight ; 
And the good Lord of Rosny bath ta'en 

the comet white — 
Our own true Maximilian the comet 

white batb ta'en, 
The comet white with crosses black, the 

flag of false Lorraine. 
Up with it high; unfurl it wide — that all 

the host may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house 

which wrought his church such 

Then on the ground, while trumpets 
sound their loudest point of war. 

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for 
Henry of Navarre. 



Hot maidens of Vienna; Hot 
of Lucerne — 

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those 
who never shall return. 

Hot Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexi- 
can pistoles, 

That Antwerp monks may sing a masa 
(or thy poor spearmen's souls, 

Ho I gallant nobles of the League, look 
that your arms be bright; 

Ho 1 burghers of St. Genevieve, keep 
watch and ward to-night; 



For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our 

God hath nlised the slave. 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and 

the valor of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from 

whom alt glories are ; 
And glory to our sovereign lord. King 

Henry of Navarre 1 

— Tkomat Babington Macaulay. 



flDarcb 15. 

THE DEATH OF JXJLIUS C-ESAR. 

Auuuuted in Rmac, March it, 44 B. C 
The followinf i* tbe apeech of Uirc Antony 
to the Roman people. 

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me 

your ears ; 
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do lives after them ; 
The good is oft interred with their 

So let it be with Osar. The noble 

Brutus 
Hath told you Csesar was ambitious : 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault, 
And grievously hath Qesar answer'd it 
Here, under leave of Brutus and the 

rest— 
For Brutus is an honourable man; 
So are they all, all honourable men — 
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 
He was my friend, faithful and just to 

But Brutus says he was ambitious; 
And Brutus is an honourable man. 
He hath brought many captives home to 

Whose ransoms did the general coffers 

fill: 
Did this in Oesar seem ambitious? 
When that the poor have cried, Cxsar 

hath wept: 
Ambition should be made of sterner 

stuff: 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; 
And Brutus is an honourable maa 
You all did see that on the Lupercal 
I thrice presented him a kingly crown. 
Which he did thrice refuse: was this 



84 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; 
And, sure, he is an honourable man. 
I speak not to disprove what Brutus 

spoke, 
But here I am to speak what I do know. 
You all did love him once, not without 

cause : 
What cause withholds you then, to 

mourn for him? 
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish 

beasts, 
And men have lost their reason. Bear 

with mc; 
My heart is in the coffin there with 

Caesar, 
And I must pause till it come back, to me. 

But yesterday the word of Caesar might 
Have stood against the world; now lies 

he there, 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

masters, if I were disposed to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and 

rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius 

wrong, 
Who, you all know, are honourable men : 
I will not do them wrong; I rather 

choose 
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and 

you. 
Than I will wrong such honorable men. 
But here's a parchment with the seal of 

Caesar ; 
I found it in his closet, 'tis his will: 
Let but the commons hear this testa- 
ment — 
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to 

read — 
And they would go and kiss dead Cae^ 

sar's wounds 
And dip their napkins in his sacred 

blood. 
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 
And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
Bequeathing it as a rich legacy 
Unto their issue. 

Have patience, gentle friends, I must not 

read it; 
It is not meet you know how Caesar loved 

you. 
You are not wood, you are not stones, 

but men; 
And, being men, hearing the will of 

Ctesar, 



It will inflame you, it will make you 

mad: 
Tis good you know not that you are his 

heirs ; 
For, if you should, O, what would come 

of it! 

You will compel me then to read the 

will? 
Then make a ring about the corpse of 

Caesar, 
And let me show you him that made the 

will. 
Shall I descend? and will you give me 

leave? 

If you have tears, prepare to shed them 

now. 
You all do know this mantle: I remem- 
ber 
The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 
*Twas on a summer's evening, in his 

tent. 
That day he overcame the Nervii: 
Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger 

through : 
See what a rent the envious Casca made : 
Through this the well-beloved Brutus 

stabb'd ; 
And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, 
Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it, 
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved 
If Brutus so unkmdly knock'd, or no; 
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's 

angel : 
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar 

loved him! 
This was the most unkindest cut of all ; 
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' 

arms. 
Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his 

mighty heart; 
And, in his mantle muffling up his fac^ 
Even at the base of Pompey's statue. 
Which all the while ran blood, great 

Casar fell. 
O, what a fall was there, my country- 
men! 
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down. 
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. 
O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you 

feel 
The dint of pity: these are gracious 

drops. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



85 



Kind souls, what, weep you when you but 

behold 
Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look 

you here. 
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with 
traitors. 
Julius Casar. Act III. Scene 2. 

— Shakespeare, 



AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE. 



On March 16, 1889, a hurricane visited the 
harbor of Apia in the Samoan islands, de- 
stroking the American men-of-war Vandalia 
and Trenton, and tv^o German men-of-v^ar, 
With r.ever^l merchant veascls. 



We were ordered to Samoa from the 
coast of Panama, 
And for two long months we sailed the 
unequal sea, 
Till we made the horseshoe harbor with 
its curving coral bar, 
Smelt the good green smell of grass 
and shrub and tree. 
We had barely room for swinging with 
the tide- 
There were many of us crowded in 
the bay: 
Three Germans, and the English ship, 
beside 
Our three — and from the Trenton, 
where she lay. 
Through the sunset calms and after. 
We could hear the shrill, sweet laughter 
Of the children's voices on the shore 
at play. 

We all knew a storm was coming, but, 
dear God! no man could dream 
Of the furious hell-horrors of that 
day: 
Through the roar of winds and waters 
we could hear wild voices scream — 
See the rocking masts reel by us 
through the spray. 
In the gale we drove and drifted help- 
lessly. 
With our rudder gone, our engine- 
fires drowned. 
And none might hope another hour to 
see; 
For all the air was desperate with the 
sound 
Of the brave ships rent asunder — 
Of the shrieking souls sucked under, 
'Neath the waves, where many a good 
man's grave was found. 



<r 



About noon, upon our quarter, from the 
deeper gloom afar 
Came the English man-of-war Cal- 
liope : 
We have lost our anchors, comrades, 
and, though small the chances are. 
We must steer for safety and the open 
sea." 
Then we climbed aloft to cheer her as 
she passed 
Through the tempest and the blackness 
and the foam : 
"Now God speed you, though the shout 
should be our last. 
Through the channel where the mad- 
dened breakers comb, 
Through the wild sea's hill and hollow, 
On the path we cannot follow. 
To your women and your children and 
your home." 

Oh! remember it, good brothers. We 
two people speak one tongue. 
And your native land was mother to 
our land; 
But the head, perhaps, is hasty when the 
nation's heart is young, 
And we prate of things we do not 
understand. 
But the day when we stood face to face 
with death, 
(Upon whose face few men may look 
and tell). 
As long as you could hear, or we had 
breath. 
Four hundred voices cheered you out 
of hell. 
By the will of that stem chorus. 
By the motherland which bore us, 
Judge if we do not love each other 
well 

— Caroline T. Duer, 



fDarcb 16* 



DESTINY. 



The French Prince Imperial, only son of 
Louis Napoleon, born March 16, 1866. 



Paris, from throats of iron, silver, brass, 
Joy-thundering cannon, blent with chim- 
ing bells. 
And martial strains, the full-voiced 
paean swells. 



86 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The air is starred with flags, the chanted 

mass 
Throngs all the churches, yet the broad 

streets swarm 
With glad-eyed groups who chatter, 

laugh, and pass. 
In holiday confusion, class with class. 
And over all the spring, the sun-floods 

warm! 
In the Imperial palace that March morn, 
The beautiful young mother lay and 

smiled ; 
For by her side just breathed the Prince, 

her child. 
Heir to an empire, to the purple bom. 
Crowned with the Titan's name that 

stirs the heart 
Like a blown clarion— one more Bona- 
parte. 

— Emma Lasarus, 



ON THE DEATH OF BURBAGE. 



Richard Burbaee was a noted 
actor of Elizabeth 8 time. He seems 
been the original Hamlet, Lear, and 
and acted in the same company as 
peare. He was highly esteemed by 
and the public He died on March 16, 



English 
to have 
Othello. 
Shakes- 
authors 
1619. 



Astronomers and star-gazers this year, 
Write but of four eclipses — five appear; 
Death interposing Burbage, and there 

staying. 
Hath made a visible eclipse of playing. 

—Thomas Middleton. 



flDarcb 17* 



ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLE- 
MAN. 



Oh I St. Patrick was a gentleman, 

Who came of decent people; 
He built a church in Dublin town. 

And on it put a steeple. 
His father was a Gallagher; 

His mother was a Brady ; 
His aunt was an O'Shaughnessy, 

His uncle an O'Grady. 
So, success attend St. Patrick's fist, 

For he's a saint so clever; 
Ot he gave the snakes and toads a twist. 

And bothered them forever! 






The Wicklow hills are very high. 

And so's the Hill of Howth, sir; 
But there's a hill, much bigger still. 

Much higher nor them both, sir. 
Twas on the top of this high hill 

St. Patrick preached his sarmint 
That drove the frogs into the bogs. 

And banished all the varmint. 
5*0, success attend St. Patrick's fist, 

For he's a saint so clever; 
01 he gave the snakes and toads a twist, 

And bothered them forever! 

There 's not a mile in Ireland's isle 

Where dirty varmin musters, 
But there he put his dear fore-foot. 

And murdered them in clusters. 
The toads went pop, the frogs went hop. 

Slap-dash into the water; 
And the snakes committed suicide 

To save themselves from slaughter. 
So, success attend St. Patrick's fist. 

For he's a saint so clever; 
O! he gave the snakes and toads a twist. 

And bothered them forever! 

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue 

He charmed with sweet discourses, 
And dined on them at Killaloe 

In soups and second courses. 
Where blind worms crawling in the grass 

Disgusted all the nation, 
He gave them a rise, which opened their 
eyes 

To a sense of their situation. 
So, success attend St. Patrick's fist. 

For he's a saint so clever; 
O! he gave the snakes and toads a twist. 

And bothered them forever! 

No wonder that those Irish lads 

Should be so gay and frisky. 
For sure St. Pat. he taught them that. 

As well as making whiskey; 
No wonder that the saint himself 

Should understand distilling. 
Since his mother kept a shebeen shop 

In the town of Enniskillen. 
So, success attend St. Patrick's fist. 

For he's a saint so clever; 
O! he gave the snakes and toads a twist. 

And bothered them forever! 

O! was I but so fortunate 

As to be back in Munster, 
Tis I'd be bound that from that ground 

I never more would once stir. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



87 



For there St Patrick planted turf, 

And plenty of the praties, 
With pigs galore, ma gra, ma 'store. 

And cabbages — and ladies! 
Then my blessing on St. Patrick's fist. 

Far he's the darling saint 01 
Ot he gave the snakes and toads a twist; 

He's a beauty without paint 01 

— Henry Bennett. 



WANTED— SAINT PATRICK. 



I. 



When Irish hills were fair and green. 
And Irish fields were white with 
daisies. 
And harvests, golden and serene, 
Slept in the lazy summer hazes; 
When bards went singing through the 
land 
Their grand old songs of knightly 
story, 
And hearts were found in every hand. 
And all was peace, and love, and 
glory, 
'Twas in those happy, happy days 

When every peasant lived in clover. 
And in the pleasant woodland ways 
One never met the begging rover ; 
When all was honest, large and true 

And naught was hollow or theatric; — 
'Twas in those days of golden hue 
That Erin knew the great Saint Pat- 
rick. 



II. 



He came among the rustics rude 

With shining robes and splendid cro- 
sier 
And swayed the listening multitude 

As breezes sway the beds of ozier. 
He preached the love of man for man. 

And moved the unlettered Celt with 
wonder. 
Till through the simple crowd there ran 

A murmur like repeated thunder. 
He preached the ^and Incarnate Word 

By rock and rum, hill and hollow, 
Till warring princes dropped the sword 

And left the fields of blood to follow. 



For never yet did bardic song, 
Though g^ced with harp and poet's 
diction. 
With such strange charm enchain the 
throng 
As that sad tale of crucifixion. 



III. 

Though fair the isle and brave the men, 

Yet still a blight the land infested; 
Green vipers darted through each glen 
And snakes within the woodlands 
nested. 
And 'mid the banks where violets blew 
And on the slopes where bloomed the 

primrose. 
Lurked spotted toads of loathsome 

hue. 
And coiling, poisonous serpents grim 
rose. 
Saint Patrick said: "The reptile race 

Are types of human degradation ; 
From other ills I've cleansed the place. 
And now of these I'll rid the nation." 
He waved his crosier o'er his head. 
And lo ! each venomed thing took mo- 
tion. 
And toads and snakes and vipers fled 
In terror to the circling ocean. 



IV. 



Why is Saint Patrick dead? or why 

Does he not seek this soil to aid us? 
To wave his mystic crook on high, 

And rout the vermin that degrade us? 
Our land is fertile, broad, and fair, 

And should be fairer yet and broader ; 
But noxious reptiles taint the air, 

And poison peace, and law, and order. 
For murder stalks along eadi street. 

And theft goes lurking through our al- 
leys,— 
What reptiles worse does traveller meet 

On India's hills, in Java's valleys? 
And when we see this ^mbling host. 

That 'mongst us practice this and that 
trick. 
One knows not which would serve us 
most. 

The Goddess Justice or Saint Patrick! 

—Fits James O'Brien. 



88 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



THE DEAD CANNONEER. 



General Pelham, C S. A., killed at Kelly*t 
Ford, Va., March 17. 1808. 



Just as the spring came laughing through 
the strife, 

With all its gorgeous cheer, 
In the bright April of historic life. 

Fell the great cannoneer. 

The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath 

His bleeding country weeps ; 
Hushed in the alabaster arms of Death, 

Our young Marcellus sleeps. 

Nobler and grander than the Child of 
Rome 

Curbing his chariot steeds, 
The Imightly scion of a Southern home 

Dazzled the land with deeds. 

Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt, 

The champion of the truth. 
He bore his banner to the very front 

Of our immortal youth. 

A clang of sabres 'mid Virginian snow, 

The fiery pang of shells, — 
And there's a wail of immemorial woe 

In Alabama dells. 

The pennon drops that led the sacred 
band 
Along the crimson field; 
The meteor blade sinks from the nerve- 
less hand 
Over the spotless shield. 

We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous 
face ; 
While round the lips and eyes, 
Couched in their marble slumber, flashed 
the grace 
Of a divine surprise. 

O mother of a blessed soul on high! 

Thy tears may soon be shed; 
Think of thy boy with princes of the sky, 

Among the Southern dead ! 

How must he smile on this dull world 
beneath, 
Fevered with swift renown, — 
He, with the martyr's amaranthine 
wreath 
Twining the victor's crown I 

— James R, Randall, 



THE BAND IN THE PINES. 



Heard after Pelham died. 



Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease ! 

Cease with your splendid call ; 
The living are brave and noble. 

But the dead were bravest of all t 

They throng to the martial summons, 
To the loud triumphant strain ; 

And the dear bright eyes of long-dead 
friends 
Come to the heart again 1 

They come with the ringing bugle. 
And the deep drum's mellow roar; 

Till the soul is faint with longing 
For the hands we clasp no more ! 

Oh, band in the pine-wood, cease t 
Or the heart will melt in tears. 

For the gallant eyes and the smiling lips, 
And the voices of old years ! 

— John Esten Cooke. 



THE MEN OF MONOMOY. 



Dedicated to the Memory of the Life- 
Savers of Monomoy on Cape Cod, who were 
lost Monday, March 17, 1902. 



Tell ye the story far and wide, 
Ring out ye bells with mournful toll 

For the valiant crew of Monomoy 
Who sleep on Handkerchief Shoal. 

Brave were the men of Monomoy 
Who went with a willing hand 

To bring their storm-wrecked fellow- 
men 
Through the angry seas to land. 

For the gale blew fierce, and the seas ran 
wild. 
And the crew were all but lost. 
But the boat sped on through the angry 
deep 
Like a shell on the breakers tost. 

True were the men of Monomoy, 

Each true to his duty's call ; 
No thought of self, no dread of death. 

Eyes seaward, and that was all. 

And the wreck was made, and the boat 
turned back, 
When a monster wave swept o'er 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



89 



And swallowed the boat of Monomoy, 
And the crew were seen no more. 

Dead are the men of Monomoy, 
They sleep in a watery grave; 

They rest upon the treach'rous shoal 
With the men they sought to save. 

And the storms sweep down, and the 
seas roll in, 

And the ships their course pursue, 
But the sea holds fast to its noble sons, 

For it loves strong hearts and true. 

Great are the men of Monomoy, 
Men whose names shall never fade; 

No soldiers on the battlefield 
E'er nobler sacrifice made. 

And proud are the wives of Monomoy, 
Sons proud of their valiant dead ; 

And proud is the world of souls like 
theirs. 
Whose glory shall ever spread. 

Tell ye the story far and wide, 
Ring out ye bells with mournful toll 

For the z/aliant sons of Monomoy 
Who sleep on Handkerchief ShoaL 

— Joe Cone, 



flDarcb 18. 



ON LAURENCE STERNE. 



Died March 18. 1768. 



Shall pride a heap of sculptured marble 

raise. 
Some worthless, unmourned titled fool 

to praise; 
And shall we not by one poor gravestone 

learn 
Where genius, wit, and humour sleep 

with Sterne! 



fl>arcb t9. 



THE RACE OF THE "OREGON." 



At the outbreak of the Spanish war the 
Oregon was at San Francisco, and on being 
ordered to the east coast she left San Fran- 
Cisco on March 19th and reached Key West 



on May 20, 1898. An examination of her 
machinery after this unprecedented race of 
14,700 miles showed that not a rivet was out 
of place — a triumph for naval construction. 



Lights out t And a prow turned toward 

the South, 
And a canvas hiding each cannon's 

mouth, 
And a ship like a silent ghost released 
Is seeking her sister ships in the East. 

A rush of water, a foaming trail, 
An ocean hound in a coat of mail, 
A deck long-lined with the lines of fate, 
She roars good-bye at the Golden Gate. 

On I On ! Alone without gong or bell. 
But a burning fire, like the fire of hell, 
Till the lookout starts as his glasses 

show 
The white cathedral of Callao. 

A moment's halt 'neath the slender spire ; 
Food, food for the men, and food for 

the fire. 
Then out in the sea to rest no more 
Till her keel is grounded on Chile's 

shore. 

South ! South ! God guard through the 

unknown wave. 
Where chart nor compass may help or 

save, 
Where the hissing wraiths of the sea 

abide 
And few may pass through the stormy 

tide. 

North ! North I For a harbor far away. 
For another breath in the burning day ; 
For a moment's shelter from speed and 

pain, 
And a prow to the tropic sea again. 

Home! Home! With the mother fleet 

to sleep 
Till the call shall rise o'er the awful 

deep; 
And the bell shall clang for the battle 

there. 
And the voice of guns is the voice of 

prayer I 

One more to the songs of the bold and 

free. 
When your children gather about your 

knee; 



90 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



When the Goths and Vandals come down 

in might 
As they came to the walls of Rome one 

night ; 
When the lordly William of Deloraine 
Shall ride by the Scottish lake again; 
When the Hessian spectres shall flit in 

air 
As Washington crosses the Delaware; 
When the eyes of babes shall be closed 

in dread 
As the story of Paul Revere is read; 
When your boys shall ask what the guns 

are for. 
Then tell them the tale of the Spanish 

War, 
And the breathless millions that looked 

upon 
The matchless race of the Oregon. 

— John James Meehan. 



BATTLE-SONG OF THE OREGON. 



The billowy headlands swiftly fly 

The crested path I keep, 
My ribboned smoke stains many a sky. 

My embers dye the deep; 
A continent has hardly space — 

Mid-ocean little more, 
Wherein to trace my eager race 

While clang the alarums of war. 

/ come, the warship Oregon, 

My wake a whitening world, 
My cannon shotted, thundering on 

With battle-Hags unfurled. 
My land knows no successful foe — 

Behold, to sink or save, 
From stoker's Aame to gunner's aim 

The race that rules the wave! 

A nation's prayers my bulwark are 

Though ne'er so wild the sea; 
Flow time or tide, come storm or star, 

Throbs my madiinery. 
Lands Spain has lost forever peer 

From every lengthening coast. 
Till rings the cheer that proves me near 

The nag of Columbia's host 

Defiantly I have held my way 

From the vigorous shore where Drake 
Dreamed a New Albion in the day 

He left New Spain a-quake; 



His shining coarse retraced, I fight 
The self-same foe he fought, 

All earth to light with signs of might 
Which God our Captain wrought 

Made mad, from Santiago's mouth 

Spain's ships-of-battle dart: 
My bulk comes broadening from the 
south, 

A hurricane at heart; 
Its desperate armories blaze and boom. 

Its ardent engines beat; 
And fiery doom finds root and bloom 

Aboard of the Spanish fleet . . . 

The hundredweight of the Golden Hind 

With me are ponderous tons. 
The ordnance great her deck that lined 

Would feed my ravening guns, 
Her spacious reach in months and years 

I've shrunk to nights and days; 
Yet in my ears are ringing cheers 

Sir Frank himself would raise ; 

For conquereth not mine engines' breath 

Nor sides steel-clad and strong. 
Nor bulk, nor rifles red with dea£: 

To Spain, too, these belong ; 
What made that old Armada break 

This newer victory won: 
Jehovah spake by the sons of Drake 

At each incessant gun. 

/ come, the warship Oregon, 

My wake a whitening world. 
My cannon shotted, thundering on 

With battle-Hags unfurled. 
My land knows no successful foe~~ 

Behold, to sink or save, 
From stoker's Aame to gunner's aim 

The race that rules the wave! 

— Wallace Rice, 



flDarcb 20. 

TO LOUIS KOSSUTH. 



Kouttth was a great Hungarian orator and 
patriot and leader of the Hungarian insurrec- 
tion of 1848-0. He lived in exile for many 
years, visited America in 1861-2, where he was 
^eeted with the greatest enthusiasm, and died 
m Turin, on March 20, 1804. 



Light of our fathers' eyes, and in our 
own 
Star of the unsetting sunset! for thy 
name 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



That on the front of noon was as a 

In the great year nigh twenty years 

When all the heavens of Europe shook 
and shone 
With stormy wind and lightning, keeps 

And bears its witness all day through 
the same; 
Not for past days and great deeds past 

Kossuth, we praise thee as our Landor 

praised. 
But that now too we know thy voice up- 

Thy voice, the trumpet of the truth of 
God, 
Thine hand, the thunder-bearer's, raised 

As with heaven's lightning for a 
sword and rod 
Men's heads ahased before the Musco - 



JOHN MITCHEL. 



. New Yprk in 



'»nd lived in the Uniied ~St*la ooui 
when he retomed to Ireland. He <lied 



Dead, with his harness on him; 

Rigid and cold and white. 
Marking the place of the vanguard 

Still in the andent fight. 

The climber dead on the hill-side. 

Before the height is won : 
The workman dead on the building. 

Before the work is done 1 

O, for a tongue to utter 
The words that should be said — 
Of his worth that was silver, living. 
That is gold and jasper, dead I 

Dead — but the death was fitting: 
His life to the latest breath, 

Was poured like wax on the chart of 
right. 
And is sealed by the stamp of Death ! 



Dead — but the end was fitting: 

First in the ranks he led; 
And he marks the height of his □ 



fDarcb 2t. 



EPITAPH ON SIR ISAAC 
NEWTON. 



r-sssj 



lag Quetn Marj'i reign he 
bereiy. He wu condemned 
the gtslie an March tl, IG6S, ai 
hiitoriani declare that bia b( 
intict after hii aenience had b 



Outstretching flameward his upbraided 

hand 
(O God of mercy, may no earthly Seat 
Of judgment such presumptuous doom 

repeat I) 
Amid the shuddering throng doth Cran- 

mer stand; 
Firm as the stake to which with iron 

His frame i> tied; firm from the naked 
feet 

To the bare head. The victory is com- 
plete; 

The shrouded Body to the Soul's com- 

Answers with more than Indian forti- 
tude. 
Through all her nerves with finer sense 

endured, 
Till breath departs in blissful aspiration: 
Then, 'mid the ghastly ruins of the fire. 
Behold the unalterable heart entire. 
Emblem of faith untouched, miraculoui 
■)nl 
- WitUam Wontiwortk. 



9^ 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY. 



Died March 21. 1848. 



Not the last struggles of the Sun, 
Precipitated from his golden throne, 
Hold darkling mortals in sublime sus- 
pense ; 
But the calm exod of a man 
Nearer, tho* far above, who ran 
The race we run, when Heaven recalls 
him hence. 
Thus, O thou pure of earthly taint! 
Thus, O my Southey! poet, sage and 
saint ! 
Thou, after saddest silence, art removed. 
What voice in anguish can we raise. 
Or would we? Need we, dare we, 
praise? 
God now does that, the God thy whole 
heart loved. 

— Walter Savage Landor, 



THE DEATH OF THE DUKE 
D'ENGHIEN. 



The Duke d'Knghien was a Bourbon prince 
who was arrested in Baden on a charge of con* 
spiring against Napoleon's hfe. He was tried 
before a military tribunal on the night of 
March 20th, and although no evidence was 
taken, he was shot at Vmcennes at daybreak 
the following morning. Napoleon has been 
strongly condemned for this act, thoot^ later 
historians consider that he was bj no means 
without excuse for it. 



What means yon trampling? what that 
light 
That glimmers in the inmost wood; 
As though beneath the felon night. 
It marked some deed of blood? 
Behold yon figures, dim descried 
In dark array; they speechless glide. 
The forest moans; the raven's scream 
Swells slowly o'er the moated stream, 
As from the castle's topmost tower, 

It chants its boding song alone: 
A song, that at this awful hour 
Bears dismal tidings in its funeral 
tone ; 
Tidings, that in some grey domestic's 

ear 
Will on his wakeful bed strike deep 
mysterious fear. 



And, hark, that loud report! 'tis done; 
There's murder couched in yonder 
gloom ; 
'Tis done, 'tis done I the prize is won. 

Another rival meets his doom. 
The tyrant smiles, — with fell delight 

He dwells upon the 

The tyrant smiles ; from terror freed. 
Exulting in the foul misdeed, 
And sternly in his secret breast 
Marks out the victims next to fall. 
His purpose fixed; their moments fly no 
more. 
He points, — the poniard knows its 
own; 
Unseen it strikes, — ^unseen they die. 
Foul midnight only hears, and shud- 
ders at the groan. 
But justice yet shall lift her arm on high, 
And Bourbon's blood no more ask ven- 
geance from the sky. 

— Henry Kirke White. 



nDarcb 22- 



DEATH OF GOETHE. 



Died March 22. 1832. 



When Goethe's death was told, we 
said: 
Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. 
Physician of the iron age, 
Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 
He took the suffering human race, 
He read each wound, each weakness 

clear ; 
And struck his finger on the place. 
And said : "Thou ailest here and here !" 
He looked on Europe's dying hour 
Of fitful dream and feverish power; 
His eye plunged down the weltering 

strife, 
The turmoil of expiring life — 
He said: "The end is everywhere. 
Art still has truth, take refuge there !" 
And he was happy, if to know 
Causes of things, and far below 
His feet to see the lurid flow 
Of terror, and insane distress. 
And headlong fate, be happiness. 

-^Matthew Arnold, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



93 



ON THE DEATH OF DECATUR. 



Stephen Decatur, the second of the name, 
waSp like his father, an American naval officer. 
He served with great distinction in the war of 
1812, and commanded in 1815 the expedition 
against the Dey of Algiers, whereby that 
potentate was compelled to renounce all 
claims to tribute from the United States. He 
was killed in a duel on March 22, 1820. 



Sweet scented flowers on beauty's grave 
We strew — but, for the honored brave, 
The fallen conqueror of the wave — 
Let ocean's flags adorn the bier. 
And be the Pall of Glory there ! 

Britannia I — noble-hearted foe — 
Hast thou no funeral flowers of woe 
To grace his sepulchre — who ne'er again 
Shall meet thy warriors on the purple 

main. 
His pride to conquer — and his joy to 

save — 
In triumph generous, as in battle brave — 
Heroic — ^ardent — when a captive — great! 
Feeling, as valiant — ^thou deplorest his 

fate. 
And these thy sons who met him in the 

fray. 
Shall weep with manly tears the hero 

passed away. 

And thou, my country! young, but ripe 

in grief! 
Who shall console thee for the fallen 

chief I 
Thou envied land, whom frequent foes 

assail. 
Too often called to bleed or to prevail; 
Doomed to deplore the gallant sons that 

save. 
And follow from the triumph — ^to the 

grave. 

Thou starry streamer! symbol of the 
brave. 

Shining by day and night, on land and 
wave ; 

Sometimes obscured in battle, ne'er in 
shame, 

The guide — ^the boast — ^the arbitress of 
fame! 

Still wave in grateful admiration near, 

And beam for ever on Decatur's bicr; 

And ye, blest stars of Heaven! respon- 
sive shed 

Your pensive lustre on his lowly bed. 

^William Crafts. 



flDarcb 23* 



OCCUPATION OF NAPLES BY 
THE AUSTRIANS. 



An attempt was made by the Neapolitans in 
1821 to establish constitutional government, 
but it was suppressed by the intervention of 
Austria, whose troops entered Naples on 
March 28, 1821. 



Ay — down to the dust with them, slaves 
as they are — 
From this hour, let the blood in their 
dastardly veins, 
That shrunk at the first touch of Liber- 
ty's war, 
Be sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate 
in chains! 

On, on, like a cloud, through their beau- 
tiful vales. 
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them 
o'er — 
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye 
sails 
From each slave-mart of Europe, and 
poison their shore! 

Let their fate be a mock-word — let men 
of all lands 
Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring 
to the poles. 
When each sword that the cowards let 
fall from their hands 
Shall be forged into fetters to enter 
their souls 1 

And deep and more deep as the iron is 
driven, 
Base slaves! may the whet of their 
agony be. 
To think — ^as the damned haply think of 
that heaven 
They had once in their reach — that 
they might have been free! 

Shame, shame, when there was not a 
bosom, whose heat, 

Ever rose o'er the Zero of *s heart, 

That did not, like echo, your war-hymn 
repeat. 
And send all its prayers with your lib- 
erty's start 



94 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



When the world stood in hope — when a 
spirit, that breathed 
The fresh air of the olden time, whis- 
pered about, 
And the swords of all Italy half-way un- 
sheathed, 
But waited one conquering cry to flash 
out! 



When around you, the shades of your 
mighty in fame, 
Filicajas and Petrarchs, seemed burst- 
ing to view, 
And their words and their warnings — 
like tongues of bright flame 
Over Freedom's apostles — fell kindling 
on you! 

Good God ! that in such a proud moment 
of life. 
Worth the history of ages — ^when, had 
you but hurled 
One bolt at your bloody invader, that 
strife 
Between freemen and tyrants had 
spread through the world — 

That then — oh disgrace upon manhood! 
even then. 
You should falter, should cling to 
your pitiful breath. 
Cower down into beasts, when you might 
have stood men. 
And prefer the slave's life of damna- 
tion to death ! 

It is strange — it is dreadful — shout, ty- 
ranny, shout. 
Through your dungeons and palaces, 
"Freedom is o'er !"— 
If there lingers one spark of her light, 
tread it out, 
And return to your empire of dark- 
ness once more. 

For, if such are the braggarts that claim 
to be free. 
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let 
me kiss — 
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of 
thee. 
Than to sully even chains by a struggle 
like this. 

— Thomas Moore. 



flDarcb 24. 



THE LOSS OF THE EURYDICE 



March 24, 1878. 



Tired with the toils that know no end. 

On wintry seas long doomed to roam. 
They smiled to think that March could 
lend 
Such radiant winds to waft them 
home; 
Long perils overpast. 
They stood for port at last, 
Qose by the fair familiar water-way. 
And on their sunlit lee 
All hearts were glad to see 
The crags of Culver through the shining 
day; 
While every white-winged bird. 
Whose joyous cry they heard. 
Seemed wild to shout the welcome that 
it bore 
Of love from friends on shore. 



Ahl brief their joy, as days are brief 
In March that loves not joy or sun ; 
O bitter to the heart of grief 
The port that never shall be won; 
Fair ship, with all sail set. 
Didst thou perchance forget 
The changing times and treacherous 
winds of Spring? 
And could those headlands gray 
Rehearse no tale to-day, 
Oi wrecks they have seen, and many a 
grievous thing? 
Thy towering cliff, Dunnose, 
Full many a secret knows, — 
Cry out in warning voice ! too much they 
dare; 
Death gathers in the air. 

A wind blew sharp out of the north. 

And o'er the island ridges rose 
A sound of tempest going forth, 
Aud murmur of approaching snows. 
Then through the sunlit air 
Streamed dark the lifted hair 
Of storm-cloud, gathering for the light's 
eclipse, 
And fiercely rose and fell 
And shriek of waves, the kneU 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



95 



Of seamen, and the doom of wandering 
ships ; 
As with an eagle's cry 
The mighty storm rushed by, 
Trailing its robe of snow across the 
wave. 
And gulfed them like a graye. 

It passed; it fell; and all was still; 
But, homebound wanderers, where 
were they? 
The wind went down behind the hill. 
The sunset gilded half the bay. 
Ah! loud bewildered sea. 
Vain, vain our trust in thee 
To bring our kinsfolk home, through 
storm and tide! 
So sharp and swift the blow. 
Thyself dost hardly know 
Where now they rest whom thou didst 
bear and guide; 
Our human hearts may break, 
Cold Ocean, for thy sake, — 
Thou not the less canst paint in colors 
fair 
The eve of our despair. 

Not hard for heroes is the death 
That greets them from the cannon's 
lips, 
When heaven is red with flaming breath. 
And shakes with roar of sundering 
ships : 
When through the thunder-cloud 
Sounds to them, clear and loud. 
The voice of England calling them by 
name; 
And as their eyes grow dim 
They hear the nation's hymn. 
And know the prelude of immortal fame ; 
But sad indeed is this 
The meed of war to miss, 
And die for England, but in dying know 
They leave no name but woe. 

They cannot rest through coming years, 

In any ground that Englrnd owns. 
And billows Salter than our tears 
Wash over their unhonored bones; 
Yet in our hearts they rest 
Not less revered and blest 
Than those, their brothers, who in fight- 
ing fell ; 
Nor shall our children hear 
Their names pronounced less dear, 
When England's roll of gallant dead we 
tell; 



For ever shall our ships, 
There, at the Solent's lips. 
Pass out to ^lory over their still bed. 
And praise the silent dead. 

— Edmund Gosse, 



flDarcb 25. 



THE ANNUNCIATION. 



a 



Fiat!" — ^The flaming word 
Flashed, as the brooding Bird 
Uttered the doom far heard 
Of Death and Night 

"Fiat!" — A cloistered womb— 
A sealed, untainted tomb — 
Wakes to the birth and bloom 
Of Life and Light 

^Father Tabb. 



ON THE UNION. 



The Union of Scotland and England by act 
of King Tames I of England and Vl of Scot- 
land. March 26. lOOS. 



When was there contract better driven 

by Fate, 
Or celebrated with more truth of state? 
The world the temple was, the priest a 

king, 
The spoused pair two realms, the sea the 

ring. 

— Ben Jonson. 



nDarcb 26. 



BEETHOVEN. 



Died March 26. 1827. 



I came to a great city. Palaces 

Rose glittering, mile on mile. Here 
dwells the King, 

The Emperor and King ; here lived, here 
ruled 

How many mountainous far-looming 
fames ; 

Here is the crown of shadowy Char- 
lemagne. 



96 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



What housing of what glorious dignities ! 
Yet in a narrow street, unfrequented, 
No palace near — one name upon a wall, 
And all these majesties seem small and 

shrunk : 
For here untp the bitter end abode 
He who from pain wrought noble joy 

for men, 
He who from silence gave the world to 

song ; 
For in his mind an awful music rose 
As when, in darkness of the under-seas, 
Currents tremendous over currents pour. 
He heard the soundless tone, its voice he 

was, 
And he of vast humanity the voice. 
And his the empire of the human soul. 

— Richard Watson Gilder. 



CECIL RHODES. 



Died March 26, 1002. 



When that great Kings return to clay, 

or Emperors in their pride. 
Grief of a day shall fill a day because its 

creature died. 
But we — ^we reckon not with those whom 

the mere Fates ordain 
This Power that wrought on us, and 

goes back to the Power again. 

Dreamer devout, by vision led beyond 

our guess or reach, 
The travail of his spirit bred cities in 

place of speech: 
So huge the all-mastering thought that 

drove; so brief the term allowed. 
Nations, not words, he linked to prove 

his faith before the crowd. 

It is his will that he look forth across 

the lands he won: — 
The granite of the Ancient North, great 

spaces washed with sun. 
There shall he patient make his seat, 

(as when the death he dared,) 
And there await a people's feet in the 

paths that he prepared. 

There till the vision he foresaw splendid 

and whole arise. 
And unimagined empires draw to council 

'neath his skies, 



The immense and brooding Spirit still 
shall quicken and control. 

Living, he was the latid, and dead, his 
soul shall be her soul. 

— Rudyard Kipling, 



ON SIR JOHN VANBRUGH— POET 
AND ARCHITECT. 



Sir John Vanbrugh was an architect, whose 
heavy and cumbrous style gave rise to thia 
epitaph. He died on March 26, 1726. 



Lie heavy on him, earth! for he 
Laid many a heavy load on thee. 

— Dr. Evans, 



fl)arcb 27. 



BOIS TON SANG, BEAUMANOIR. 



A fight between thirty Bretons and thirty 
Englishmen, pitted against each other by Jean 
de Beaumanoir and Bemborough, an English- 
man, to decide a contest. The contest is said 
to have taken place between the castles of 
Josselin and Ploermel on March 27, 1861, in 
France. The English were beaten. 



Fierce raged the combat — the foemen 

pressed nigh, 
When from young Beaumanoir rose the 

wild cry, 
Beaumanoir, midst them all, bravest and 

first, 
"Give me to drink, for I perish of 

thirst!" 
Hark! at his side, in the deep tones of 

ire, 
"Bois ton sang Beaumanoir!" shouted 

his sire! 

Deep had it pierced him — the foeman's 

swift sword — 
Deeper his soul felt the wound of that 

word! 
Back to the battle, with forehead all 

flushed. 
Stung to wild fury the noble youth 

rushed I 
Scorn in his dark eyes — his spirit on 

fire — 
Deeds were his answer that day to his 

sire. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



97 



Still where triumphant the young hero 

came. 
Glory's bright garland encircled his 

name; 
But in her bower, to beauty a slave, 
Dearer the guerdon his lady-love gave, 
While on his shield that no shame had 

defaced, 
^'Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir!" proudly 

she traced! 

-^Francis S, Osgood, 



flDarcb 28. 



ANTON SEIDL. 



Died March 28. 1808. 



Not from his throat there came 
A magic sequence of melodious sound, 

Like tongues of living flame 
That fire the sense and soul and all 

around 
Shed gleams from heaven. The sway he 
wielded long 
Was not the power of song. 

Not with the plaintive reed, 
Beloved of Pan and sylven deities. 

Nor with the hopes that plead 
Through strings that quiver into har- 
monies, 
Hath he his triumphs won; not his that 
sign 
Of mastery divine. 

Not from creative thought 
Into the faded festival of Time 
Hath he fresh wonders brought 
No glorious ode nor symphony sublime 
Sprang from his brain: the mystery of 
Art 
He felt but in his heart. 

And from that heart there fell 
On others' hands and voices and the soul 

Of the great world a spell 
That the decrees of fate could not con- 
trol 
Nor the wild events of life : the misery 

Ceased for a while to be. 

The Masters came again. 
Back rolled the ages : care and folly fled 



Immortal Beauty's reign, 
O, not in vain in him that now lies dead 
Was born that mighty spirit at whose 
breath 
Genius awakes from death ! 

— John Hall Ingham, 



IN MEMORIAM PRINCE 
LEOPOLD. 



Son of Queen Victoria. Died March 28, 
1884. 



The lightning rends the goodly tree. 
Whereon the sunbeams loved to play; 
Through which the starbeams found 
their way; 

But who may read God's dark decree? 

He spares the tree of lowly form. 
Through years that seem without an 

end, — 
In every wind to sway and bend. 

No mark for lightning or for storm. 

Through toilsome years, on scanty fare. 
The artist and the poet seem 
Dimly to live within their dream; 

Time leaves them with their pleasant 
care. 

Time brings into a perfect grace 
The marvel of the stream and hills; 
And Time the perfect volume fills 

With words that thrill the human race. 

Time! that didst shape the cedar fair. 
Wilt thou not bring to her who grieves 
More than the glory of its leaves, 

A people's love and grief and prayer? 

We are but shadows one and all: 
The solid earth on which we move 
Is nothing, seen by saints above; 

So small, — but still man is not small. 

His days are written in thy sight. 
Who rulest days and rulest men; 
And in Thy will he finds Thy when, 

And knows that all he finds is right 

Thy Royal student's days were led 
In ways that make the day a year. 
Fulfilled with intellectual cheer 

Whereon all noble minds are i^ 



98 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



So shall we say his life was life, 

Extended to a noble span ; 

A life that was a life for man. 
Worthy of mother and of wife. 

— H. Halloran. 



flDarcb 29. 



BATTLE OF TOWTON. 



Potu^t near the Yorkshire villa||e of Tow- 
ton, Idarch 20. 1461, between the Yorkists un- 
der Edward IV. and the Umcastrians nnder 
Henrv VI. and Margaret. This battle estab- 
lishef Edward IV. on the throne of England. 



Enter Clifford, wounded. — (Speaks.) 
Here bums my candle out; ay, here it 

dies, 
Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry 

light. 
O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow 
More than my body's parting with my 

soul! 
My love and fear glued many friends to 

thee; 
And, now I fall, thy tough commixture 

melts. 
Impairing Henry, strengthening mis- 
proud York, 
The common people swarm like sunmier 

flies; 
And whither fly the gnats but to the sun? 
And who shines now but Henry's 

enemies ? 

Phoebus, hadst thou never given con- 

sent 

That Phaethon should check thy fiery 
steeds. 

Thy burning car never had scorch'd the 
earth! 

And, Henry, hadst thou swa/d as kings 
should do, 

Or as thy father and his father did, 

Giving no ground unto the house of 
York, 

They never then had sprung like sum- 
mer flies; 

1 and ten thousand in this luckless realm 
Had left no mourning widows for our 

death ; 
And thou this day hadst kept thy chair 
ii7 peace. 



For what doth cherish weeds but gentle 

air? 
And what makes robbers bold but too 

much lenity? 
Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my 

wounds ; 
No way to fly, nor strength to hold out 

flight : 
The foe is merciless, and will not pity ; 
For at their hands I have deserved no 

pity. 
The air hath got into my deadly wounds. 
And much effuse of blood doth make me 

faint. 
Come, York and Richard, Warwick and 

the rest; 
I stabb'd your father's bosoms, split my 

breast. 
— Henry VI, Part z^d, Act II, Scene 6, 

— Shakespeare. 



flDarcb 30. 



GUNS OF PEACK 



Sunday night, March 80, 1856.— Close of 
the Crimean War. 



Ghosts of dead soldiers in the battle 

slain, 
Ghosts of dead heroes dying nobler far 
In the long patience of inglorious war, 
Of famine, cold, heat, pestilence and 

pain, — 
All ye whose loss makes up our vigorous 

gain— 
This quiet night, as sounds the cannon's 

tongue, 
Do ye look down the trembling stars 

among, 
Viewing our peace and war with like dis- 
dain? 
Or, wiser grown since reaching those 

new spheres. 
Smile ye on those poor bones ye sow'd 

as seed 
For this our harvest, nor regret the 

deed? 
Yet lift one cry with us to Heavenly 

ears — 
"Strike with Thy bolt the next red flag 

unfurl'd, 
And make all wars to cease throughout 

the world." 

— Dinah Maria Craik. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



flDarcb 31. 



HA WORTH CHURCHYARD. 

In ownMiT of Cbulotle Bronte. Died 
Kttdi », IStC 

How shall we honour the young, 
The ardent, the gifted? how mourn? 
Console we cannot ; her ear 
Is deaf. Far northward from here. 
In a churchyard high mid the moors 
Of Yorkshire, a little earth 
Stops it for ever to praise. 

Where, behind Keighly, the road 
Up to the heart of the moors 
Beneath heath-clad showery bills 
Runs, and colliers carts 
Poach the deep ways coming down. 
And a rough, grim'd race have tnci 



There, on its slope, is built 

The moorland town. But the church 

Stands on the crest of the hill. 

Lonely and bleak; at its side 

The parsonage house and the graves. 

See ! in the desolate house 
The children's father. Alas — 
Age, whom the most of us chide. 
Chide, and put back, and delay — 
Come, unupbraided for once I 
Lay thy benumbing hand. 
Gratefully cold on this brow t 
Shut out the grief, the despair! 
Weaken the sense of his loss I 
Deaden the infinite pain I 

Another grief I see, 
Younger: but this the Muse, 
In pity, with silent awe 
Reverinfc what she cannot sooth. 
With veil'd face and bow'd head. 
Salutes, and passes by. 

Strew with roses the grave 
Of the early-dying. Alas! 
Early she goes on the path 
To the Silent Country, and leaves 

Half his laurels unwon. 
Dying too soon ; yet green 
Laurels she had, and a course 
Short, yet redoubled by Fame. 

—Maltheut Arnold. 



CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 

Not any of earth's happiness she knew. 
But only dull, gray days of sordid 

care. 
And yet there grew within her, itroog 
and fair. 
The flower and fruit of comprehension. 

And vital as the northern wind that blew 
Across her native moorlands i grief 

swept bare 
The beauty of the joys she might not 

And gave her power to tell life's won- 
ders through. 
Repressed and patient, each slow year 






lain 



Too close her heart to wither— all the 
glad. 
Warm slrei^h of living, as each leaf 

unfurled. 
Denied to her, was blossomed for the 
world I 

—Charhae Becker. 



bj Jame* I. He d 



n March SI, 18S1. 



Brief was the reign of pure poetic truth; 
' ace of thinkers next, with rhymes un- 
couth. 
And fancies fashioned tn laborious 

Made verses heavy as o'erloaded wains. 
Love was their theme, but love that 

dwelt in stones, 
Or charmed the stars in their concentric 

Love that did erst the nuptial rites con- 

'Twixt immaterial form and matter 

Love that was riddled, sphered, trans- 
acted, spelt, 
Sublimed, projected, everything but felt. 
Or if in age, m ox4m%, ot "^^i <2mSir^ 



(^ A-\ ccvcv K 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Thty damned all loving as a beathen 

Tbey changed their topic, but in style 

the same, 
Adored their maker as they wooed their 

Thus DoN»E, not first, but greatest of 

Of stubborn thoughts a garland thought 

To his fair Maid brought cabalistic 

And sung quaint ditties of metempsycho- 
sis; 
"Twists iron pokers into true love- 

Cnning hard words, not found in poly- 
glots. 

—Hartley CoUridgt. 



Son of Gcorce II uid father of George IIL 

Here lies Fred, 

Who was alive and is dea± 

Had it been his father, 

I bad much rather : 

Had it been his brother. 

Still better than another : 

Had it been his sister 

No one would have missed her: 

Had it been the whole generation. 

So much the better for the nation. 

But since 'tis only Fred, 

Who was alive and is dead, 

Why there's no more to be said 

— Alton. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



lOI 



Bpril I 



THE FIRST OF APRIL. 



Now, if to be an April-fool 

Is to delight in the song of the thrush, 
To long for the swallow in air's blue hol- 
low, 
And the nightingale's riotous music- 
gush, 
And to paint a vision of cities Elysian 

Out away in the sunset-flush — 
Then I grasp my flagon and swear there- 
by. 
We are April-fools, my Love and I. 

And if to be an April-fool 

Is to feel contempt for iron and gold. 
For the shallow fame at which most men 
aim — 
And to turn from worldlingsf cruel and 
cold 
To God in His splendor, loving and ten- 
der, 
And to bask in His presence mani- 
fold- 
Then by all the stars in His infinite sky, 
We are April-fools, my Love and I. 

— Mortimer Collins. 



MADCAP APRIL. 



Unmannered March hath many a prank 
With buffetings, but yet is frank 
Who deals with Mars expects but blows ; 
And waxing old he milder grows. 

A roguish sprite of Fickle mind 
Young April comes ; for she doth bind 
Her scanty flowers in posies sweet 
To throw them slyly at our feet 

Then as we think to seize the prize, 

It vanishes before our eyes; 

And April's fools, thus lured with flow- 
ers. 

Are sprinkled with quick, mocking show- 
ers. — Tudor Jenks. 



1878, and over five hundred people were 
drowned. 



THE LOSS OF THE EMIGRANTS. 



The White Star steamer "Atlantic" went 
down o£F the coast of Nova Scotia on April 1, 



For months and years, with penury and 
want 
And heart-sore envy did they dare to 
cope; 
And mite by mite was saved from earn- 
ings scant, 
To buy, some future day, the God-sent 
hope. 

They trod the crowded streete of hoary 
towns, 
Or tilled from year to year the wearied 
fields. 
And in the shadow of the golden crowns 
They gasped for sunshine and the 
health it yields. 

They turned from hom^s all cheerless, 
child and man. 
With kindly feelings only for the soil, 
And for the kindred faces, pinched and 
wan, 
That prayed, and stayed, unwilling, at 
their toil 

They lifted up their faces to the Lord, 
And read His answer in the westering 
sun 
That called them ever as a shining word» 
And beckoned seaward as the rivert 
run. 

They looked their last, wet-eyed, on 
Swedish hills, 
On German villages and English dales ; 
Like brooks that grow from many moun- 
tain rills 
The peasant stream flowed out from 
Irish vales. 

Their grief at parting was not all a grie^ 
But blended sweetly with the joy to 
come. 
When from full store they spared the 
rich relief 
To gladden all the dear ones left at 
home. 

"We thank thee, God !" they cried ; *Thc 
cruel gate 
That barred our lives has swung be- 
neath Thy hand; 
Behind our ship now frowns the cruel 
fate. 
Before her smiles the teeming 
Promised Landt" 



102 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Alas ! when shown in mercy or in wrath, 

How weak we are to read God's awful 

lorel 

His breath protected on the stormy path, 

And dashed them lifeless on the 

promised shore 1 

His hand sustained them in the parting 

woe. 
And gave bright vision to the heart of 

each 
His waters bore them where they wished 

to go. 
Then swept them seaward from the 

very beach! 

Their home is reached, their fetters now 
are riven, 
Their humble toil is o'er, — their rest 
has come; 
A land was promised and a land was 
given, — 
But, oh I God help the waiting ones at 
homel 

^John Boyle O'Reitty. 



Bpdl2» 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 



A Tictory gained by Nelson over the Danish 
fleet on April 2, 1801. 

Of Nelson and the North 
Sing the glorious day's renown. 
When to battle fierce came forth 
AH the might of Denmark's crown, 
-And her arms along the deep proudly 

shone ; 
By each gun the lighted brand 
In a bold determined hand. 
And the Prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat 
Lav their bulwarks on the brine; 
While the sign of battle flew 
On the lofty British line- 
It was ten of April mom by the chime. 
As they drifted on their path 
There was silence deep as death; 
And the boldest held his breath 
J^r a time. 



But the might of England flushed 
To anticipate the scene; 
And her van the fleeter rushed 
O'er the deadly space between. 
"Hearts of oakr' our captain cried; 

when each gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships. 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again! again! again! 

And the havock did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us bade ; 

Their shots along the deep slowly 

boom — 
Then ceased — and all is wail. 
As they strike the shattered sail. 
Or, in conflagration pale, 
Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hailed them o'er the wave : 

"Ye are brothers! ye are men! 

And we conquer but to save ; 

So peace instead of death let us bring; 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 

With the crews, at England's feet. 

And make submission meet 

To our king." 

Then Denmark blessed our chief. 
That he gave her wounds repose; 
And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her people wildly rose. 
As death withdrew his shades from the 

day. 
While the sun looked smiling bright 
O'er a wide and woeful sight. 
Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, Old England, raise! 

For the tidings of thy might, 

By the festal cities blaze, 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; 

And yeL amidst that joy and uproar. 

Let us think of them that ^leep 

Full many a fathom deep, 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore ! 

Brave hearts! to Britains pride 
Once so faithful and so true, 
On the deck of fame that died, 
With die gallant good Riou — 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



103 



Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their 

grave! 
While the billow mournful rolls. 
And the mermaid's song condoles, 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave 1 

— Thomas Campbell 



MIRABEAU DYING. 



Mirabeau was the greatest orator of the 
French Revolution. His ability in that line 
made him president of the Jacobin Club and 
later of the National Assembly. Hia course 
of life undermined his constitution, and he 
died on April 2, 1701, at the age of forty* 
three. 



Why do ye wonder at my wish? 

Despite my tiger-face. 
Have ye ne'er felt that in my heart 

There was a gentle place? 
Bears not the storm-cloud in his breast 

The power of giving birth 
To rainbows, at the sun's command. 

For tempest-shaken earth? 

Then gently lift my window up. 

And let the summer breeze 
Waft blessings on my changing brow. 

From yonder mumuiring trees; 
And set some flowers upon the sill. 

And round me pour perfume ; 
And sing the tenderest song ye know, 

In death's fast-gathering gloom. 

A rainbow from the breaking storm 

Is brightly springing, see 
Its glories twine beneath the sun 

Of Immortality! 
O thus ! O thus with music, flowers. 

To the Unknown I go; 
Peace, Peace at last is on the brow 

Of storm-souled Mirabeau. 

— William Ross Wallace, 



Hpril 3. 



DEATH OF PRINCE ARTHUR. 



Arthur was the son of Geoffry, Richard 
Coeur de Lion's next brother, and should 
have succeeded to the English throne on the 
death of that king. He was murdered on 



April 8, 1208 by the order of his uncle John, 
who then became king. 



Scene III. Before the castle. 

Enter Arthur, on the walls. 

Arthur: The wall is high, and yet 

will I leap down: 

Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not ! 

There's few or none do know me : if they 

did. 
This ship-boy's semblance hath disguised 

me quite. 
I am afraid ; and yet I'll venture it. 
If I get down, and do not break my 

limbs, 
I'll find a thousand shifts to get away; 
As good to die and go, as die and stay. 

[Leaps down, 
O me! my uncle's spirit is in these 

stones : 
Heaven take my soul, and England keep 
my bones I [Dies, 

— King John, Act IV, Scene 3. 

Shakespeare. 



Hpril 4. 



PETER COOPER. 



An American inventor and philanthropitt 
He is chiefly remembered by his founding and 
endowment of Cooper Union, designed to oene- 
fit the working classes. He died on April 4, 
1888. 



Give honor and love for evermore 
To this great man gone to rest; 
Peace on the dim Plutonian shore, 
Rest in the land of the blest. 

I reckon him greater than any man 
That ever drew sword in war; 
I reckon him nobler than king or khan, 
Braver and better by far. 

And wisest he in this whole wide land 
Of hoarding till bent and gray; 
For all you can hold in your cold dead 

hand 
Is what you have given away. 

So whether to wander the stars or to 
rest 
Forever hushed and dumb. 
He gave with a zest and he gave his 
best — 
Give him the best to come. 

Joaquin MiUer, 



104 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Hpril 3. 



THE LOST LEADER. 



Wordsworth had always been a Whig in 
politics until he was appointed Laureate on 
April 6, 1848, which necessitated a change of 
views. Browning has denied that he had 
Wordsworth in mind when writing "The Lost 
Leader/' but the idea that it was intended for 
the Laureate still prevails. 



Just for a handful of silver he left us. 
Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune be- 
reft us, 
Lost all the others she lets us devote, 
They, with the gold to give, doled him 
out silver, 
So much was their's who so little al- 
lowed : 
How all our copper had gone for his ser- 
vice! 
Rags — were they purple, his heart had 
been proud ! 

We that had loved him so, followed him, 
honored him. 
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
Learned his great language, caught his 
clear accents. 
Made him our pattern to live and to 
die! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for 
us. 
Bums, Shelley, were with us, — they 
watch from their graves! 
He alone breaks from the van and the 
freemen^ 
He alone smks to the rear and the 
slaves I 

We shall march prospering, — not thro* 
his presence. 
Songs may inspirit us, — not from his 
lyre ; 
Deeds will be done, — ^while he boasts his 
quiescence. 
Still bidding crouch whom the rest 
bade aspire: 
Blot out his name, then, — record one lost 
soul more. 
One task more declined, one more 
footpath untrod. 
One more triumph for devils, and sor- 
row for angels, 



One wrong more to man, one more in- 
sult to God! 
Life's night begins: let him never come 
back to us! 
There would be doubt, hesitation and 
pain. 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer 
of twilight. 
Never glad confident morning again! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him, — 
strike gallantly, 
Aim at our heart ere we pierce through 
his own; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge 
and wait us. 
Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the 
throne ! 

— Robert Browning, 



THE SIXTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY 
OF SWINBURNE. 



Bom April 6, 18S7. 



Prophet, whose straining eyes 
Watch ever eastward while the slow 

stars fade, 
Hast thou beheld the hope-tinged morn- 
ing rise 
Far off on alien seas, in other skies? 
Or hast thou from thy sky-bound sta- 
tion made 
On lonely peak-tops far away, aloft. 
The footsteps heard that oft 
Have sounded in thy visions soft 
And distant, but as clear 
As woodman's stroke across the dying 
year? 

For thou through all thy days 
Hast been as one for man's sake set 

apart. 
Beyond the clash of meaner things and 

ways. 
Since first the touch of strong sun- 
splendid rays 
Was laid on singing lips and tender 

heart. 
First of the sons of song, with upturned 
brow, 
Orphean prophet thou. 
Tell us what light breaks on thee now ; 
For in the vale we grope, 
Hearing thy words but cheerless of thy 
hope. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



105 



Singer, whose song's high flight 
Wings steadfast on, serene, from star to 

star. 
Melodious, molten, fledged with golden 

light 
As from a mountain summit glitters 

bright 
When noontide's stern unclouded glo- 
ries are. 
Hast thy great soul a new more re- 
sonant sound, 
Fit for this season, found. 
That gave us thee while April bound 
With passion flowers thy head 
And music's purest effluence round thee 
shed? 

For thou in all thy singing 
Hast been as one in scorn of Time and 

Change ; 
Years that make thin the weaker voices, 

clinging 
Like echoes where they once rose clear 

and ringing. 
Thy voice make only still more sweet 

and strange. 
Therefore we pray thee of thy great 
song's fire! 
Strike from thy golden lyre, 
O minstrel of the world's desire, 
Those notes that wake again 
Our hearts with preludes of thy might- 
iest strain. 

Captain, in whose firm hand. 
Far forward where the battle trumpets 

blow, 
Has shone for us thy word, a burnished 

brand. 
Drawn without doubt wherever Right 

makes stand. 
Drawn without fear where fires the 

fiercest gloWj 
What old oppression whereto cowards 
kneel. 
What tyrant, now shall feel 
The swift stroke of thy keen-edged 
steel ? 
Before what buttressed shame 
Thunder the wrath of thy consuming 
flame? 

For thou in all these years 
That crown thee now as with a crown 

of flowers, 
Hast been too great of heart for any 

fears. 



Dauntless, immovable for aught save 

tears. 
Supernal sign of strength for us and 

ours. 
Therefore, we pray thee, on before and 
lead! 
For never had more need 
Of such as thou in word and deed 
The world that dark with wrong 
Waits for such light as lightens from 
thy song. 

Master, while at thy feet 
Like rose leaves red and yellow and 

pale 
The song leaves flutter, still more fresh 

and sweet. 
Of singers of thy great fame not unmeet 
With sound of many voices crying 

"Hail !" 
A quavering voice upon that great 
throng's brim, 
Unheard and harsh and dim. 
Sings to itself a tuneless hymn 
In praise of thee— O more 
Than cloud and fire across this desert's 
floor. 

For thou art life to those 
That hear thy spirit, master of tone and 

• tune. 
Whose echoes breathe in every wind that 

blows. 
In dawn and sunset, quiet star that 

glows 
At midnight and the stainless depths of 

noon. 
With all sounds glorious, from great 
ocean's swell 
To drone of murmuring shell 
And far-heard chime of evening bell; 
As if, O music's king, 
Thy hand then strayed upon the heav- 
enly string. 

--Charles E, Russell. 



Hpril 6. 



THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 



Scio is an island in the iEgean sea belong* 
ing to Turkey. It was said to be the hvt^* 



io6 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



place of Homer. It was the scene of a ter- 
rible massacre by the Turks, on April 6, 1822. 



Weep not for Scio's children slain; 

Their blood, by Turkish falchions 
shed, 
Sends not its cry to heaven in vain 

For vengeance on the murderer's head. 

Though high the warm red torrent ran 
Between the flames that lit the sky, 

Yet, for each drop, an armed man 
Shall rise, to free the land, or die. 

And for each corpse, that in the sea 
Was thrown to feast the scaly herds, 

A hundred of the foe shall be 
A banquet for the mountain birds. 

Stem rites and sad, shall Greece ordain 
To keep that day along her shore. 

Till the last link of slavery's chain 
Is shivered, to be worn no more. 

— IVilliam Cullen Bryant. 



FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN. 



Fits James O'Brien was born in Ireland, 
but spent the latter part of his life in this 
country. He wrote stories something after the 
manner of Kdgar Poe. He enlisted in the 
army, was wounded in battle, and died on 
April 6, 1862. 



This was our poet— one who strode 
These streets in ante-bellum ages. 

And smoked on street-car steps, and 
rode 
Down Broadway on the tops of stages. 

A Dublin gownsman, London rake, 
For grim romance, pathetic ditty; 

No color from 'cross seas he'd take. 
But loved, and learned, and wrote our 
city. 

'Twas here he sowed each splendid crop 
Of fecund wind — here did he reap 

Fine whirlwinds. From the base or top 
His path was lighter, being steep. 

He swayed the sceptre, felt the lash. 
Wrought starving nights — ^by sated 
days 
Petted his trooper's brown moustache. 
And sought and strolled life's sunny 
ways. 



From here he sallied forth to crown 
A flaring life with flaming deadt 

God rest him! There outside the town 
He waits the Doomsday trumpet's 
breath. 

Poor Fitz! they say— yet when I'm dead 

I'll ask no pity, if a line 
Of all I've writ in some one's head 

Shall run as some of his in mine. 

— A. E, Watrous, 



ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON. 



At the battle of Shiloh or Pittsburgh Land- 
ing, April 6, 1862, the Federals, under Grant, 
were surprised by the Confederates under A. 
S. Johnston and forced back to the river. 

Johnston was killed and Beauregard succeeded 
im. On the next day Grant, reinforced by 
Buell's army, drove the Confederates from the 
battlefield. 



I hear again the tread of war go thund' 

ering through the land. 
And Puritan and Cavalier are clinching 

neck and hand. 
Round Shiloh church the furious foes 

have met to thrust and slay, 
Where erst the peaceful sons of Christ 

were wont to kneel and pray. 

The wrestling of the ages shakes the 

hills of Tennessee, 
With all their echoing mounts a-throb 

with war's wild minstrelsy; 
A galaxy of stars new-bom round the 

shield of Mars, 
And set against the Stars and Stripes 

the flashing Stars and Bars. 

'Twas Albert Sidney Johnston led the 

columns of the Gray, 
Like Hector on the plains of Troy his 

presence fired the fray; 
And dashing horse and gleaming sword 

spake out his royal will 
As on the slopes of Shiloh field the 

blasts of war blew shrill. 

"Down with the base invaders," the 
Gray shout forth the cry, 

"Death to presumptous rebels," the Blue 
ring out reply; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



107 



All day the conflict rages and yet again 

all day, 
Though Grant is on the Union side he 

cannot stem nor stay. 

They are a royal race of men, these 

brothers face to face, 
Their fuiy speaking through their guns, 

their frenzy in their pace ; 
The sweeping onset of the Gray bears 

down the sturdy Blue, 
Though Sherman and his legions are 

heroes through and through. 

Though Prentiss and his gallant men 

are forcing scaur and crag. 
They fall like sheaves before the scythes 

of Hardee and of Bragg; 
Ah, who shall tell the victor's tale when 

all the strife is past. 
When man and man in one great mould 

the men who strive are cast. 

As when the Trojan hero came from 

that fair city's gates, 
With tossing mane and flaming crest to 

scorn the scowling fates, 
His legions gather round him and madly 

charge and cheer, 
And fill the besieging armies with wild 

disheveled fear; 

Then bares his breast unto the dart the 

daring spearsman sends. 
And dying hears his cheering foes, the 

wailing of his friends. 
So Albert Sidney Johnston, the chief of 

belt and scar. 
Lay down to die at Shiloh and turned 

the scales of war. 

Now five and twenty years are gone, and 

lo, to-day they come, 
The Blue and Gray in proud array with 

throbbing fife and drum; 
But not as rivals, not as foes, as brothers 

reconciled, 
To twine love's fragrant roses where the 

thorns of hate grew wild. 

They tell the hero of three wars, the 
lion-hearted man, 

Who wore his valor like a star— un- 
crowned American; 

Above his heart serene and still the 
folded Stars and Bars, 

Above his head like mother-wings, the 
sheltering Stripes and Stars. 



Aye, five and twenty years, and lo, the 

manhood of the South 
Has held its valor staunch and strong 

as at the cannon's mouth, 
With patient heart and silent tongue has 

kept its true parole, 
And in the conquests bom of peace has 

crowned its battle roll 

But ever while we sing of war, of cour- 
age tried and true. 

Of heroes wed to gallant deeds, or be it 
Gray or Blue, 

Then Albert Sidney Johnston's name 
shall flash before our sight 

Like some resplendent meteor across the 
sombre night. 

America, thy sons are knit with sinews 

wrought of steel. 
They will not bend, they will not break, 

beneath the tyrant's heel; 
But in the white-hot flame of love, to 

silken cobwebs spun. 
They whirl the engines of the world, all 

keeping time as one. 

To-day they stand abreast and strong, 

who stood as foes of yore, 
The world leaps up to bless their feet, 

heaven scatters blessings o'er; 
Their robes are wrought of gleaming 

gold, their wings are freedom's 

own. 
The trampling of their conquering hosts 

shakes pinnacle and throne. 

O, veterans of the Blue and Gray, who 
fought on Shiloh field. 

The purposes of God are true. His judg- 
ment stands revealed; 

The pangs of war have rent the veil, and 
lo, His high decree: 

One heart, one hope, one destiny, one 
flag from sea to sea. 

— Kate Brownlee Sherwood. 



GENERAL ALBERT SIDNEY 
JOHNSTON. 



In thickest fight triumphantly he fell. 

While into victory's arms he led us on ; 
A death so glorious our grief should 
quell: 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



We mourn him, yet his battle-crown is 



No slanderous tongue can vex riis spirit 

No bitter tatints can stain his blood- 
bought fame; 
Immortal honor rests upon his brow. 
And noble memories cluster round his 



For hearts shall thrill and eyes grow 
dim with tears, 
To read the story of his touching fate ; 
How in his death the gallant soldier 



Ye people t guard his memory— sacred 
keep 
The garlands green above his hero- 
grave; 

Yet weep, for praise can never wake his 

To tell him he is shrined among the 
brave I 

— Mary /ervey. 



Hprti 7. 

WORDSWOKTH. 

Next comes the dull disciple of thy 

school. 
That mild apostate from poetic rule. 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a 

lay 
As soft as evening in his favorite May, 
Who warns his friend "to shake off toil 

and trouble. 
And quit his books for fear of growing 

Who, both by precept and example, 

That prose is verse, and verse is merely 

prose; 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain. 
Poetic souis delight in prose insane; 



And Christmas stories tortured into 

Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
Thus, when he tells the tale of Bet^ 

Foy, 
The idiot mother of "an idiot boy," 
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his 

And, like his bard, confounded night 

with day. 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells. 
And each adventure so sublimely tells. 
That all who view the "idiot in his 

glory," 
Conceive the hard the hero of the story. 
From "Engiuh Bards and Seoiek Re- 
viewers." 

— Lord Byron. 



THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTON 
HARBOR. 



ISGS, but after ■ terrific bombardment of two 
bouis tliey withdrew. 

Two hours, or more, beyond the prime o£ 
a blithe April day, 

The Northmen's mailed "Invicibles" 
steamed up fair Charleston Bay ; 

They came in sullen file, and slow, low- 
breasted on the wave. 

Black as a midnight front of storra, and 
silent as the grave. 

A thousand warrior- hearts beat high as 

these dread monsters drew 
More closely to the game of death across 

the breezeless blue, 
And twice ten thousand hearts of those 

who watch the scene afar, 
Thrill in the awful hush that bides the 

battle's broadening star. 

Each gunner, moveless by his gun, with 

rigid aspect stands, 
The reedy linstocks firmly grasped in 

bold, un trembling hands, 
So moveless in their marble calm, their 

stem, heroic guise, 
They look like forms of statued stone 

with burning human eyes I 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



109 



Our banners on the outmost walls, with 

stately rustling fold, 
Flash back from arch and parapet the 

sunlight's ruddy gold — 
They mount to the deep roll of drums, 

and widely echoing cheers, 
And then once more, dark, breathless, 

hushed, wait the grim cannoneers. 

Onward, in sullen file, and slow, low- 
glooming on the wave. 

Near, nearer still, the haughty fleet 
glides silent as the grave, 

When shivering the portentous calm, o'er 
startled flood and shore. 

Broke from the sacred Island Fort the 
thunder wrath of yore I 

The storm has burst! and while we 
speak, more furious, wilder, 
higher. 

Dart from the circling batteries a hun- 
dred tongues of fire; 

The waves gleam red, the lurid vault of 
heaven seems rent above — 

Fight on, oh knightly gentlemen! for 
faith, and home, and love ! 

There's not, in all that line of flame, one 

soul that would not rise, 
To seize the victor's wreath of blood, 

though death must give the prize; 
There's not, in all this anxious crowd 

that throngs the ancient town, 
A maid who does not yearn for power 

to strike one foeman down ! 

The conflict deepens! ship by ship the 
proud Armada sweeps. 

Where fierce from Sumter's raging 
breast the volleyed lightning leaps. 

And ship by ship, raked, overborne, ere 
burned the sunset light. 

Crawls in the gloom of baffled hate be- 
yond the field of fight! 

— Paul H. Hayne. 



Hpril 8. 

ON CAPTAIN BARNEY'S VICTORY 
OVER THE SHIP GEN- 
ERAL MONK. 



One of the closins: actions of the Revo1u> 
tion. On the 8th of April, 1782, off Cape May, 



the Hyder Ali, under Lieutenant Barney cap* 
tured the General Monk, under Captain 
Rodgers. 



O'er the waste of waters cruising;, 

Long the General Monk had reigned; 
All subduing, all reducing. 

None her lawless rage restrained: 
Many a brave and hearty fellow 

Yielding to this warlike foe, 
When her guns began to bellow 

Struck his humbled colours low. 

But grown bold with long successes, 

Leaving the wide watery way. 
She, a stranger to distresses. 

Came to cruise within Cape May: 
"Now we soon" (said Captain Rogers) 

"Shall their men of commerce meet ; 
In our hold we'll have them lodgers, 

We shall capture half their fleet. 

*'Lol I see their van appearing — 

Bade our topsails to the mast — 
They toward us full are steering 

With a gentle western blast : 
I've a list of all their cargoes, 

All their guns, and all their men : 
.1 am sure these modem Argos 

Can't escape us one in ten: 

"Yonder comes the Charming Sally 

Sailing with the General Greene — 
First we'll fight the Hyder Ally, 

Taking her is taking them; 
She intends to give us battle. 

Bearing down with all her sail- 
Now boys, let our cannon rattle I 

To take her we cannot fail. 

"Our eighteen guns, each a nine-pounder, 

Soon shall terrify this foe; 
We shall maul her, we shall wound her. 

Bringing rebel colours low." — 
While he thus anticipated 

Conquests that he could not gain, 
He in the Cape May channel waited 

For the ship that caused his pain. 

Captain Barney then preparing. 

Thus addressed his gallant crew — 
''Now brave lads, be bold and daring. 

Let your hearts be firm and true ; 
This is a proud English cruiser. 

Roving up and down the main. 
We must fight her — must reduce her. 

Though our decks be strewed with 
slain. 



no 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Tet who will be the survivor. 

We must conquer or must die, 
We must take her up the river. 

Whatever comes of you or I. 
Tho' she shows most formidable 

With her eighteen pointed nines. 
And her quarters clad in sable. 

Let us baulk her proud designs. 

'^ith four nine pounders, and twelve 
sixes 

We will face that daring band; 
Let no dangers damp your courage. 

Nothing can the brave withstand. 
Fighting for your country's honour. 

Now to gallant deeds aspire; 
Helmsman, bear us down upon her. 

Gunner, give the word to fire I" 

Then yard arm and srard arm meeting. 

Strait began the dismal fray. 
Cannon mouths, each other greeting. 

Belched their smoky flames away: 
Soon the language, grape and chain shot. 

That from Barney's cannons flew, 
Swept the Monk, and cleared each round 
top, 

Killed and wounded half her crew. 

Captain Rogers strove to rally 

His men, from their quarters fled, 
While the roaring Hyder Ally 

Covered o'er his decks with dead. 
When from their tops their dead men 
tumbled. 

And the streams of blood did flow, 
Then their proudest hopes were humbled 

By their brave inferior foe. 

All aghast, and all confounded, 

They beheld their champions fall, 
And their captain, sorely wounded, 

Bade them quick for quarters call. 
Then the Monk's proud flag descended. 

And her cannon ceased to roar; 
By her crew no more defended, 

She confessed the contest o'er. 

Come brave boys, and fill your glasses, 

You have humbled one proud foe. 
No brave action this surpasses. 

Fame shall tell the nations so — 
Thus be Britain's woes completed, 

Thus abridged her cruel reign. 
Till she ever, thus defeated. 

Yields the sceptre of the main. 

'^Philip Freneau. 



EASTER EVEN. 



The tempest over and gone, the calm 
begun, 
Lo^ ''it is finished," and the Strong 
Man sleeps: 
All stars keep vigil watching for the sun. 
The moon her vigil keeps. 

A garden full of silence and of dew, 
Beside a virgin cave and entrance 
stone : 

Surely a garden full of Angels too. 
Wondering, on watch, alone. 

They who cry 'Tloly, Holy, Holy," stiU 
Veiling their faces round God's throne 
above. 

May well keep vigil on this heavenly hill 
And cry their cry of love. 

Adoring God in His new mystery 
Of Love more deep than hell, more 
strong than death; 
Until the day break and the shadows flee. 
The Shaking and the Breath. 

— Christina G, Rossettu 



Bpril 9. 



EASTER MORNING. 



Easter is a movable feast in the Church 
Calendar, but April 9 has been accepted as 
the date of the Resurrection. 



Most glorious Lord of life, that on this 

day 
Didst make thy triumph over death and 

sin. 
And, having harrowed hell, didst bring 

away 
Captivity thence captive, us tO win ; 
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy 

begin. 
And grant that we, for whom thou didst 

die, 
Being with thy dear blood clean washed 

from sin, 
May live for ever in felicity : 
And that thy love we weighing worthily 
May likewise love Thee for the same 

again: 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Ill 



And for thy sake, that all like dear didst 

buy, 
With love may one another entertain. 
So let us love, dear Love, like as we 

ought; 
Love is the lesson which the Lord us 

taught 

— Edmund Spenser, 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTL 



Died April 0, 1888. 



AH pomps and gorgeous rites, all visions 
old, 
Nursed by the ancient Spouse of 
Christ serene 
Within the solemn precincts of her fold, 
To him were dear, as angel-wings once 
seen 
Across a ruined minster's spires of gold 
To some old priest in exile might have 
been. 

The gloom, the splendor of the apse, the 
cloud 
Of streaming incense swung aloft the 
choir, 
The murmuring organ, muffled now, now 
loud. 
The great rose-window like a flower 
on fire. 
The choral shout, the countless faces 
bowed, — 
These were the plectrum and his soul 
the lyre. 

In leaving these he wrought his instinct 
wrong, — 
He sprang from no protesting ances- 
try; 
Those ancient signs of worship waked 
his song, 
And though a pagan he might feign to 
be. 
In Arcady he never wandered long, 
Nor truly loved the goddess of the sea. 

His mighty spirit was an outlaw yet 
In this bright garish modem life of 

ours; 
His statue should with gothic kings' be 

set, 



Engarlanded with saints and carven 
flowers. 
Or on some dim Italian altar, wet 
With votive tears and sprinkled hys- 
sop-showers. 

He is made one with all the Easter fires, 
With all the perfume and the rainbow- 
light. 
His voice is mingled with the ascending 
choir's, 
Broken and spent through traceries in- 
finite ; 
Above the rich triforium, past the 
spires. 
The answering music melts into the 
night 

Farewell I though time hath vanquished 
our desire. 
We shall not be as though he had not 
been; 
Some love of mystic thought in strange 
attire. 
Of things unseen reflected in the seen. 
Of heights towards which the sons of 
flesh aspire. 
Shall haunt us with a yearning close 
and keen. 

Farewell! upon the marble of his tomb 
Let some great sculptor carve a knight 
in prayer. 
Who dreams he sees the holy vision 
come. 
Now let the night-wind pass across 
his hair; 
Him can no more vain backward hope 
consume, 
Nor the world vex him with her wast- 
ing care. 

— Edmund Gosse, 



PEACE. 



The surrender of General Lee at Appomat- 
tox C H., brought the Civil War to a close, 
April 9, 1865. 



O Land, of every land the best — 
O Land, whose glory shall increase; 

Now in your whitest raiment drest 
For the great festival of peace: 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Take from your flag its fold of gloom, 

And let it float undimmed abovE, 
Till over all our vales shall bloom 

The sacred colors that we love. 
On mountain high, in valley low. 

Set Freedom's living fires to bum; 
Until the midnight sky shall show 

A redder pathway than the mom. 
Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride. 

Your veterans from the war-path's 
track; 
You gave your boys, untrained, untried; 

You bring them men and heroes back I 



And shed i 



, though think you 



With sorrow of the martyred band; 
Not even for him whose hallowed dust 

Has made our prairies holy land. 
Though by the places where they fell. 

The places tlut are sacred ground. 
Death, like a sullen sentinel, 

Paces his everlasting round. 
Yet when they set their country free 

And gave her traitors fitting doom, 
They left their last great enemy, 

Baffled, beside an empty tomb. 
Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go 

Where all the paths are sweet with 
flowers; 
They fought to give us peace, and 1o! 

They gained a better peace than ours. 
— Phoebe Cary. 



THE CONQUERED BANNER. 

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary, 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; 

Furl it, fold it— it is best ; 
For there's not a man to wave it. 
And there's not a sword to save it. 
And there not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it. 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 

Furl it, hide it— let it rest! 

Take the Banner down I 'tis tattered ; 
Broken is its staff and shattered. 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it, 
Hard to think there's none to hold it, 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sight 



Furl that Banner— furl it sadly; 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly. 
And ten thousands wildly, madly 

Swore it should forever wave — 
Swore that foemen's sword could never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
And that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom, or their gravel 

Furl it I for the hands that grasped it. 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it. 

Cold and dead are tying low ; 
And the Banner — it is trailing. 
While around it sounds the wailing. 

Of its people in their woe; 

For though conquered, they adore it- 
Love the cold dead hands that bore it. 
Weep for those who fell before it. 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it; 
And, oh, wildly they deplore it. 
Now to furl and fold it SO I 

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, 
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. 
And 'twill live in song and story 

Though its folds are in the dust ! 
For its fame on brightest pages. 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down the ages — 

Furl its folds though now we must! 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly; 
Treat it gently — it is holy, 

For it droops above the dead; 
Touch it not — unfold it never; 
Let it droop there, furled forever, — 

For its people's hopes are fled. 

—A. J. Ryan. 



"STACK ARMS !" 



"Slack Arms I" I've gladly heard the cry 

When, weary with the dusty tread 
Of marching troops, as night drew nigh, 

I sank upon my soldier bed. 
And calmly slept ; the starry dome 

Of heavcn'.i blue arch my canopy. 
And mingled with my dreams of home 

The thoughts of Peace and Liberty. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



"3 



"Stack Arms!" I've heard it when the 
shout 
Exulting ran along our line, 

Of foes hurled back in bloody rout. 
Captured, dispersed; its tones divine 

Then came to mine enraptured ear, 
Guerdon of duty nobly done. 
And glistened on my cheek the tear 
Of grateful joy for victory won. 

"Stack Arms!" In faltering accents, 
slow 
And sad, it creeps from tongue to 
tongue, 
A broken, murmuring wail of woe, 

From manly hearts by anguish wrung. 
Like victims of a midnight dream, 

We move, we know not how nor why ; 
For life and hope like phantoms seem. 
And it would be relief — to die I 

— Joseph Blynth Alston, 



IN THE LAND WHERE WE WERE 
DREAMING. 



Fair were our visions I Oh, they were 

as grand 
As ever floated out of faerie land; 
Children were we in single faith. 
But God-like children, whom nor 
death 
Nor threat nor danger drove from 
honor's path, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

Proud were our men, as pride of birth 

could render; 
As violets, our women pure and tender; 
And when they spoke, their voices did 

thrill 
Until at eve the whip-poor-will. 
At mom the mocking-bird, were mute 
and still, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

And we had graves that covered more of 

glory 
Than ever tracked tradition's ancient 
story; 
And in our dream we wove the thread 
Of principles for which had bled 
And suffered long our own immortal 
dead. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 



Though in our land we had both bond 

and free. 
Both were content ; and so God let them 
be; — 
Till envy coveted our land. 
And those fair fields our valor won ; 
But little recked we, for we still slept on. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

Our sleep grew troubled and our dreams 

grew wild — 
Red meteors flashed across our heaven's 
field; 
Crimson the moon ; between the Twins 
Barbed arrows fly, and then begins 
Such strife as when disorder's Chaos 
reigns, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

Down from her sun-lit heights smiled 

Liberty 
And waved her cap in sign of Victory — 
The world approved, and everywhere, 
Except where growled the Russian 
bear. 
The good, the brave, the just gave us 
their prayer 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

We fancied that a Government was 

ours — 
We challenged place among the world's 
great powers; 
We talked in sleep of Rank, Commis- 
sion, 
Until so life-like gfew our vision 
That he who dared to doubt but met de- 
rision, 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

We looked on high : a banner there was 

seen. 
Whose field was blanched and spotless 
in its sheen — 
Chivalry's cross its Union bears. 
And veterans swearing by their scars 
Vowed they would bear it through a 
hundred wars. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

A hero came amongst us as we slept; 
At first he lowly knelt — then rose and 
wept; 
Then gathering up a thousand spears 
He swept across the field of Mars; 
Then bowed farewell and walked beyond 
the stars. 
In the land where we were dx^^Tcccew^ 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



will- 
Full of grandeur, clothed with power, 
Self-poised, erect, he ruled the hour 
With stem, majestic sway— of strength 

In the land where we were dreaming. 

As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder 

God, 
Gazed eastward from the Forum where 
he stood, 
Rome felt herself secure and free, 
So, "Richmond's safe," we said, while 



As wakes the soldier when the alarum 

calls— 
As wakes the mother when the infant 
falls— 
As starts the traveller when around 
His sleeping couch the fire-bells 

So woke our nation with a single bound. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 

Woe I woe is me! the startled mother 

While we have slept our noble sons have 
diedl 
Woet woe is me I how strange and 



sad 



sfled, 



That all 
And left us nothing real but the dead. 
In the land where we were dreaming. 
— Daniel B. LtKot. 



Bprfl to. 

CHARTIST SONG. 

Commsnorating the great Chartilt demon- 
Hntkm in Loodon, April 10, la(B. 

The time shall come when wrong shall 

When peasant to peer no more shall 

bend; 
When the lordly few shall lose their 

And the Many no more their frown 
dixy; 



Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is 
Till the struggle is o'er and the Cbar- 



The time shall come when the artisan 
Shall homage no more the titled man; 
When the workingmen who delve the 

By mammon's decree no more shall pine. 
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is 

Till the struggle is o'er and the Char- 
ter won. 

The time shall come when the weaver's 

Shall hunger no more in their falher- 

When the factory child can sleep till 

And smile while It dreams of sport and 
play. 

Toil, brothers, toil, tilt the work is 
done. 

Till the struggle is o'er and the Char- 
ter won. 

The time shall come when man shall 

hold 
His brother more dear than sordid gold; 
When the negro's stain his freebom 

Shall sever no more from human kind. 
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is 

free. 
Till Justice and Love hold jubilee! 

The time shall come when Kingly crown 
And mitre for toys of the past are 

shown ; 
When the fierce and false alike shall fall. 
And mercy and truth encircle all. 
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is 



e and Love hold jubilee! 



free. 
Till Justt. 

The time shall come when earth shall be 
A garden of joy, from sea to sea. 
When the slaughterous sword is dravm 

no more. 
And goodness exults from shore to 

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is 

free. 
Till goodness shall hold high jubileet 
—Thomas Cooper, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



"5 



Hpril ll^ 



THE PROTESTANTS' JOY. 



Coronation of William and liiary, April 11, 
1M9. 



Let Protestants freely allow 

Their spirits a happy good cheer, 
The Eleventh of April now. 

Has proved the best day in the year: 
Brave boys let us merrily sing. 

Whilst smiling full bumpers go round, 
Here's joyful good tidings I bring, 

King William and Mary is crowned. 

That power that blest the design, 

A£Ford them a prosperous reisrn. 
We ne'er shall have cause to repine. 

Our liberties they will maintain: 
Some villains that would us destroy, 

In strong iron fetters lie bound. 
Whilst we are transported with joy, 

That William and Mary is crowned. 



The3r'll root out the relics of Rome, 

And make this a flourishing isle. 
And truth in its glory shall bloom. 

Which Romans did envy a while : 
The Mass and the Rosary too. 

Was all but a mere empty sound, 
The Paoists look pitiful blue. 

Now William and Mary is crowned. 

But every Protestant soul. 

Was sensible of their relief. 
Therefore in a full flowing bowl. 

They drown all the relics of grief: 
And drink their good Majesties' health. 

With reverend knees to the ground. 
And wishing them honour and wealth 

Who is with a diadem crowned. 

We'll tender our lives at his feet. 

Who stood for the Protestant cause, 
And made the proud Romans retreat, 

Defending religion and laws : 
We'll conquer or fight till we die. 

To make our monarch renowned. 
Now thanks to Heaven on high, 

Ttiat William and Mary is crowned. 



DEATH OF CARDINAL BEAU- 
FORT. 



Cardinal Beaufort was the natural ton of 
John of Gaunt, the fourth ton of Edward IIL 
He was president of the court which sentenced 
Joan of Arc to the stake. During the min- 
ority of Henry VI he was involved in a long 
contest for the ascendancy with his nephew, 
the Duke of Gloucester. He died on Ainil iJL» 
1447. 



Scene— i4 bedchamber. 

Enter the King, Salisbury, Warwick, to 
the Cardinal in bed. 

King, How fares my lord? speak, 

Beaufort, to thy sovereign. 
Car. If thou be'st death, 111 give thee 
England's treasure, 
Enough to purchase such another island, 
So thou wilt let me livef and feel no 
pain. 
King. Ah, what a sign it is of evil 
life, 
Where death's approach is seen so terri- 
ble! 
War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign 

speaks to thee. 
Car. Bring me unto my trial when 
you will. 
Died he not in his bed? where should 

he die? 
Can I make men live, whether they will 

or no? 
O, torture me no more! I will confess. 
Alive again ? then show me where he is : 
ril give a thousand pound to look upon 

him. 
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded 

them. 
Comb down his hair; look, look! it 

stands upright. 
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged 

soul. 
Give me some drink ; and bid the apoth- 
ecary 
Bring the strong poison that I bought 
of him. 
King. O thou eternal Mover of the 
heavens, 
Look with a gentle eye upon this 

wretch ! 
O, beat away the busy meddling fiend 
That lays strong siege unto this wretch's 

soul 
And from his bosom pur^e this blaq|( 
despair [ 



Ii6 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



War. Sec, bow the pangs of deatli do 

make him grin ! 
SaL Disturb him not; let him pass 

peaceably. 
King. Peace to his soul, if God's good 
pleasure be I 
Lord cardinal, if thou think'st on heav- 

en's bliss. 
Hold up thy band, make signal of thy 

hope. 
He dies, and makes no sign. O God, 
forgive him I 
IVar. So bad a death argues a mon- 
strous life. 
King. Forbear to judge, for we are 
sinners all. 
Close up his eves and draw the curtain 



up his 
close ; 



And let us all to meditation. lExeunt. 

King Henry VI., Port 2nd, Act. III., 

Scene 3- 

— Shakespeare. 



ABDICATION OF NAPOLEON. 

After fail detcit by the Altiu at the battli 
of Lcipuc. NapoleoQ wu conipelled hj then 

to >bdiate. hV »u aUced to reum tl.. 
title of Emperor, ud received the Island o 
Elba u ■ principality, with an aanual incoin< 
of two million frsno. His abdication toi] 



"Our warrior was conquer'd at last ; 

They bade him his crown to resign; 
To fate and his country he yielded 

The rights of himself and his line. 

"He came, and among us he stood. 

Around him we press'd in a throng: 
We could not regard him for weeping, 

Who had led us and loved us so long. 
1 have led you for twenty long years,' 

Napoleon said ere he went; 
'Wherever was honor I found you. 

And with you, my sons, am content. 

" 'Though Europe against me was arm'd. 

Your chiefs and my people are true ; 
I still might have struggled with for- 

And baffled all Europe with you. 
'"But France would have suffer'd the 

'Tis best that I suffer alone; 
I go to my place of exile, 
To '■ ' ■' - '-"- - 



e oS the deeds we have done. 



'Be true to the king that they give you. 
We may not embrace ere we part; 



We may not embrace ere we par 

But, General, reach me your hand. 

And press ""• T nrav. tn vnnr \r 



"He call'd for our battle sUndard; 

One kiss to the eagle he gave. 
'Dear eagle I' he said, 'may this kiss 

Long sound in the hearts of the brave 1' 
'Twas thus that Napoleon left us; ' 

Our people were weeping and mute. 
As he passed through the lines of his 

And our drums beat the notes of sa- 
lute." 
From "The Chronicles of the Drum." 
—William Makepeace Thackeray. 



On the Uth of April, 1881, Foit Snmtet, In 
ChailcBtoD Harbor, South Carolina, nrrinned 
by United Statea troopt, ww bombarded by the 
Confederate forcet. aad, after reiiitini for 

Ihirty-four haurs. capitulated. Thii wai the 
firal battle of the war. 

Came the morning of that day 
When the God to whom we pray 
Gave the soul of Henry Clay 

To the land; 
How we loved him, living, dying! 
But his birthday banners flying 
Saw us asking and replying 

HanJ to hand. 

For we knew that far away. 
Round the fort in Charleston Bay, 
Hung the dark impending fray, 

Soon to fall; 
And that Sumter's brave defender 
Had the summons to surrender 
Seventy loyal hearts and tender — 

(Those were all!) 

And we knew the April sun 
Lit the length of many a gun- 
Hosts of batteries to the one 

Island crag ; 
Guns and mortars grimly frowning, 
Johnson, Moultrie, Pinekney, crownins, 
And ten thousand men disownit^ 

The old flag. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



117 



Oh, the fury of the fight 

Even then was at its height ! 

Yet no breath, from noon till night. 

Reached us here ; 
We had almost ceased to wonder. 
And the day had faded under. 
When the echo of the thunder 

Filled each ear! 

Then our hearts more fiercely beat. 
As we crowded on the street. 
Hot to gather and repeat 

All the tele; 
All the doubtful chances turning, 
Till our souls with shame were burning, 
As if twice our bitter yearning 

Could avail ! 

Who had fired the earliest gun? 
Was the fort by traitors won? 
Was there succor? What was done 

Who could know? 
And once more our thoughts would 

wander 
To the gallant lone commander, 
On his battered ramparts grander 
Than the foe. 

Not too long the brave shall wait; 
On their own heads be their fate. 
Who against the hallowed Stete 

Dare begin; 
Flag defied and compact riven! 
In the record of high Heaven 
How shall Southern men be shriven 

For the sin! 

— Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



Hpril 13. 



MEN OF THE NORTH AND WEST. 



Inspired by the ittrrender of Fort Sumter, 
April 18, 1861. 



Men of the North and West, 

Wake in your might. 
Prepare, as the rebels have done. 

For the fight ! 
You cannot shrink from the test ; 
I Men of the North and West ! 



They have torn down your banner of 
sters; 

They have trampled the laws; 
They have stifled the freedom they hate. 

For no cause ! 
Do you love it or slavery best? 
Speak ! Men of the North and West 

They strike at the life of the Stete : 

Shall the murder be done? 
They cry : "We are two I" And you ? 

"We are one !" 
You must meet them, then, breast to 

breast ; 
On ! Men of the North and West ! 

Not with words; they laugh them to 
scorn. 
And tears they despise; 
But with swords in your hands, and 
death 
In your eyes! 
Strike home! leave to God all the rest; 
Strike ! Men of the North and West. 

-—Richard Henry Stoddard. 



Hpril 14. 



BATTLE OF BARNET. 



The battle of Bamet was gained by the 
Yorkists under Edward IV over the Laacas- 
trians under Warwick on April 14, 1471. The 
latter was slain and Edward IV re-established 
upon the throne. 






Scene III. Another part of the Held, 

Flourish. Enter King Edward in tri- 
umph; zvith Gloucester^ Clarence, 
and the rest. 

K. Edw. Thus far our fortune keeps 
an upward dourse, 
And we are graced with wreaths of vic- 
tory. 
But, in the midst of this bright-shining 

day, 
I spy a black, suspicious, threatening 

cloud, 
That will encounter with our glorious 

sun. 
Ere he attain his easeful western bed: 
I mean, my lords, those powers that the 
queen 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



tbtk raised in Gallia have arrived our 

And, u we bear, march on to fight with 

Clar. A little gale will soon dispene 
that cloud 

Aad Uow it to the wurce from whence 
it came: 

The very beams will dry those vapours 
up. 

For every cloud engenders not a storm. 
GU>. The queen is valued thirty thou- 
sand strong, 

And Somerset, vtiih Oxford, fled to her: 

If she have time to breathe, be well as- 

Her Action will be full as ttrong as 

ours. 
K. Edw. We are advertised by our 

loving friends 
That they do hold their course toward 

Tewksbury : 
We, having now the best at Bamet field, 
Will thither straight, for willingness 

rids way; 
And, as we march, our strength will be 



In every 
Strike up the 

•"^y- [Extunl. 

Henry VI., Pari 3. Act V,. Scene 3. 
— Shakespeare. 



HprtttS. 

THE RfiVEILLE. 

The all tot TS.OOO TOluntccn, April IS, 1S«1. 

Hark I I hear the tramp of thousands. 

And of arm^d men the hum; 

Lo t a nation's hosts have gathered 

Round the quick alarming drum — 

Saying, "Csme, 

Freemen, come I 

Ere your heritage be wasted." said the 

quick alarming drum. 
*X«t me of my heart take counsel: 

War is not of life the sum ; 
Who shall stay and reap the harvest 
When the autumn days shall come?" 
But the drum 
Echoed, "Come I 
IXeatA ahtJI reap the braver harvest,' 
said the soleam-aoaading drum. 



"But when won the coming battle. 

What of profit springs therefrom? 
What if conquest, subjugation. 
Even greater ills become?" 
But the dram 
Answered, "Cornel 
You must do the sum to prove it," said 
the Yankee-answering drum. 

"What if, 'mid the cannon's thunder. 
Whistling shot and bursting bomb. 
When my brothers fall around me. 
Should my heart grow cold and 
numb ?" 
But the drum 
Answered, "Gomel 
Better there in death united than in life 
I" 



Thus they answered — hoping, fearing. 
Some in faith, and doubting some. 
Till a triumph-voice proclaiming, 
Said, "My chosen people, cornel" 
Then the drum, 
Lo I was dumb ; 
For the great heart of the nation, throb- 
bing, answered, "Lord, we comel" 
—Bret HarU. 



S^iAit- 



FATHER DAMIEN. 

Father Dimien ww a Romut Calholie 
lioDUT who dnotcd hi* life to tt ' 
iie (overnment hotpital on the iilii 
141, Hivtik He fetl ■ victim to ue oneMa 
K he aatieiiiatei] on April tG, ISSB. 

O God, the cleanest offering 

Of tainted earth below. 
Unblushing to thy feet we brings 

"A leper white as snow t" 

—Father Tabb. 



HOW WE BECAME A NATION. 

The dab-uctioD of tbe tern in Boitoa Bubor 
vouei) much iDdignation in Eacland. ind the 
rcault WM the paumi of the BoMan Pott Bill 
on April IS, 1771. By thii Bctjhe harbor of 
Boeton wm leplly dosed, 1" 
lemoTcd to Saleni and ail Ij 
-■ -i« of . ■ - ■ 



forUdden 



idins, UdiDK, and 
L Boaton BariMf 

the town oved it* proiperit; 

. thia meant distreu aoa ruin 



When George the King would punish 
folk 
Who dared resist his angry will — 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



119 



Resist him with their hearts of oak 
That neither King nor G)uncil broke — 
He told Lord North to mend his quill, 
And sent his Parliament a Bill. 

The Boston Port Bill was the thing 
He flourished in his royal hand; 
A subtle lash with scorpion sting, 
Across the seas he made it swing, 
And with its cruel thong he planned 
To quell the disobedient land. 

His minions heard it sing, and bare 
The port of Boston felt his wrath; 
They let no ship cast anchor there, 
They summoned Hunger and Despair, — 
And curses in an aftermath 
Followed their desolating path. 

No coal might enter there, nor wood. 
Nor Holland flax, nor silk from 
France; 
No drugs for dying pangs, no food 
For any mother's little brood. 
"Now," said the King, "we have our 

chance. 
We'll lead the haughty knaves a 
dance." 

No other flags lit up the bay, 
Like full-blown blossoms in the air, 

Than where the British war-ships lay; 

The wharves were idle; all the day 
The idle men, grown gaunt and spare. 
Saw trouble, pall-like, everywhere. 

Then in across the meadow land. 

From lonely farm and hunter's tent. 
From fertile field and fallow strand, 
Pouring it out with lavish hand. 
The neighboring burghs their bounty 

sent. 
And laughed at King and Parliament. 

To bring them succor, Marblehead 

Joyous her deep-sea fishing sought. 
Her trees, with ringing stroke and tread, 
Old many-rivered Newbury sped. 
And Groton in her granaries wrought, 
And generous flocks old Windham 
brought 

Rice from the Carolinas came. 

Iron from Pennsylvania's forge, 
And, with a spirit all aflame, 
Tobacco-leaf and com and game 
The Midlands sent ; and in his gorge 
The Colonies defied King George 1 



And Hartford hung, in black arrav. 
Her town-house, and at half-mast 
there 

The flags flowed, and the bells all day 

Tolled heavily; and far away 
In great Virginia's solemn air 
The House of Burgesses held prayer. 

Down long glades of the forest floor 
The same thrill ran through every 
vein. 
And down the long Atlantic's shore; 
Its heat the tyrant's fetters tore 
And welded them through stress and 

strain 
Of long years to a mightier chain. 

That mighty chain with links of steel 
Bound all the Old Thirteen at last. 
Through one electric pulse to feel 
The common woe, the common weal. 
And that great day the Port Bill 

passed 
Made us a nation hard and fast. 
— Harriet Prescott SpofFord. 



O CAPTAIN ! MY CAPTAIN I 



Abraham Lincoln was shot in Ford's Thea- 
ter, Washington, by John Wilkes Booth on 
April 16. 1806. 



O Captain ! my Captain f our fearful trip 

is done; 
The ship has weather'd 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 keet^ the 
vessel grim and daring: 
But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 
O the bleeding drop 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 vou the shores a-crowding; 
For you they call, the swaying mass, 
their eager faces turning; 
Here Captain ! dear father ! 
This arm beneath you head ; 
It is some dream that on the deck 
You've fallen cold and dead. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



My Captain does not answer, his lips are 

pate and siill ; 
My father does not feel my am, be has 

no pulse nor will: 
The ship IS anchor'J safe and sound, its 

voyage closed and done; 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes 
in with object won: 
Exult, O shores, and ring, bells t 
But I, with mournful tread, 
Walk the deck my Captain lies. 
Fallen cold and dead. 

—Walt Whitman. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

A HoralUn Ode. 

Not as when some great Captain falls, 
In battle, when his country calls. 
Beyond (he struggling lines 
That push his dread designs 

To doom, by some stray ball struck dead : 
Or, in the last charge, at the head 

Of his determined men. 

Who mtui be victors then. 

Nor as when sink the civic great. 

The safer pillars of the State, 
Whose calm, mature, wise words 
Suppress the need of swords. 

With no such tears as e'er were shed 
Above the noblest of our dead 

Do we to-day deplore 

The Man that is no more. 

Our sorrow hath a wider scope, 
Too strange for fear, too vast for hope, 
A wonder, blind and dumb. 
That waits — what is to come ! 

Not more astounded had we been 
If Madness, that dark night, unseen. 
Had in our chambers crept, 
And murdered while we slept. 

We woke to find a mourning earth, 
Our Lares shivered on the hearth, 

The roof-tree fallen, all 

That could affright, appall ! 

Such thunderbolts, in other lands. 
Have smitten the rod from royal hands, 
But spared, with us, till now, 
Each laurelled Caesar's brow. 



No Csesar he whom we lament, 
A Man without a precedent, 

Sent, it would seem, to do 

His work, and perish, too. 

Not by the weary cares of State, 

The endless tasks, which will not wait. 

Which, often done in vain, 

Must yet be done again: 

Not in the dark, wild tide of war. 
Which rose so high, and rolled so far, 

Sweeping from sea to sea 

In awful anarchy: 

Four fateful years of mortal strife, 
Which slowly drained the nation's life, 
(Yet for each drop that ran 
There sprang an armid manl) 

Not then; but when, by measures mee^ 

By victory, and b)[ defeat. 
By courage, patience, skill. 
The Eeople's fixed "We will!" 

Had pierced, had crashed Rebellion dead, 

dead. 
Without a hand, without a head, 
At last, when all was well, 
He fell, O how he fell ! 

The time, the place, the stealing shape. 
The coward shot, the swift escape, 

The wife, the widow's scream,— 

It is a hideous Dream 1 

A dream? What means this pageant, 
then? 

These multitudes of solemn men. 
Who speak not when they meet. 
But throng the silent street? 

The flags half-mast that late so high 
Flaunted at each new victory? 

(The stars no brightness shed. 

But bloody looks the redl) 

The black festoons that stretch for miles, 
And turn the streets to funeral aisles? 
(No house too poor to show 
The nation's badge of woe.) 

The cannon's sudden, sullen boom. 
The bells that toll of death and doom. 
The rolling of the drums. 
The dreadful car that comes? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Peace ! Let the long procession come, 
For hark, the mournful muffled drum. 

The trumpet's wail afar. 

And see, the awful carl 

Peace! Let the sad procession go. 
While cannon boom and bells toll slow. 

And go, thou sacred car. 

Bearing our woe afar! 

Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait 

To honor all they can 

The dust of that good man. 

Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
As greatest kings might die to gain 

The just, the wise, the brave. 

Attend thee to the grave. 

And you, the soldiers of our wars. 
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, 
Salute him once again, 
Your late commander — slain! 



Beside the lorge — the plough. 

(When Justice shall unsheathe her 

If Mercy may not stay her hand. 
Nor would we have it so. 
She must direct the blow.) 

And you, amid the master-race, 
Who seem so strangely out of place. 

Know ye who cometh? He 

Who hath declared ye free. 

Bow while the body passes — nay. 
Fall on your knees, and weep, and pray! 
Weep, weep — I would ye might — 
Your poor black faces white I 

And, children, you must come in bands, 
With garlands in your little hands. 

Of blue and white and red. 

To strew before the dead. 

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 
The Fallen to his last repose. 

Beneath no mighty dome. 

But in his modest home; 



The churchyard where his children rest. 
The quiet spot that suits him best, 
There shall his grave be made. 
And there his bones be laid. 

And there his countrymen shall come. 
With memory proud, with pity dumb. 
And strangers far and near. 
For many and many a year. 

For many a year and many an age. 
While History on her ample page 

The virtues shall enroll 

Of that Paternal SouL 

—Richard Henry Stoddard. 



ABRAHAM UNCOLN. 
You lay_ a wreath on murdered Lincoln's 

You, who, with mocking pencil, wont 
to trace. 
Broad for the self-complacent British 



His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, 
bristling hair. 
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at 



You, whose smart pen backed up the 
pencil's laugh, 
Judging each step as though the way 
were plain; 
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph 
Of chief's perplexity or people's paia 
Beside this corpse, that bears for wind- 
ing sheet 
The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear 

Between the mourners at his head and 
feet. 
Say, scurril jester, is there room for 
you? 

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



To make me own this hind of Princes 
peer. 
This rail-splitter a true-born king of 
men. 



. height he 

How his quaint wit made home truth 
seem more true, 
How, iron-like, his temper grew by 
blows. 



How bumble, yet how hopeful, be could 
be; 
How, ia good fortune and in ill, the 
same; 
Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, 
Thristy for gold, nor feverish for 
fame. 



He went about his work—such work as 

Ever had laid on bead and heart and 

band- 
As one who knows, where there's a task 

to do. 
Man's honest will must Heaven's good 

grace command i 



Who trusts the strength will with the 
burden grow. 
That God makes instruments to work 
His will. 
If but that will we can arrive to know. 
Nor tamper with the weights of good 
and 111. 



So he went forth to battle, on the side 
l^t he felt clear was Liberty's and 
Right's, 
As in his peasant boyhood he had plied 
His warfare with rude Nature's 
thwarting might— 



The rapid, that o'erbears the boatman's 



Such were the needs that helped his 

youth to train: 
Rough culture— but such trees large 

fruit may bear. 
If but their stocks be of right girth 

and grain. 

So he grew up, a destined work to do. 
And lived to do it: four loi^-suSering 
year's 
Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived 
through. 
And then he heard the hisses changed 
to cheers. 



Till, as he came on light, from darkling 
days. 
And seemed to touch the goal from 
where be stood, 

A felon hand, between the goal and him. 
Reached from behind his back, a trig- 
ger prest— 
And those perplexed and patient eyes 
were dim. 
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were 
Uid to restl 



Forgiveness in his heart and on 1 

When this vile murderer brought swift 

To thoughts of peace on earth, good 



The Old World and the New, from sea 
to sea, 
Utter one voice of sympathy and 
shame I 
Sore heart, so stopped when it at lait 
beat high; 
Sad life, cut short just as its triumphs 



A deed accurst I Strokes have been 
struck before 
By the assassin's hand, whereof men 
doubt 
If more of horror or disgrace they bore; 
But thy foul crime, like Cain's stands 
darkljr oitt. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



123 



VUt hand, that brandest murder on a 
strife, 
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and 
nobly striven; 
And with the martyr's crown, crownest 
a life 
With much to praise, little to be for- 
given. 

— rom Taylor in London Punch. 



Bpril td. 

CHARLES EDWARD AT 
VERSAILLES. 



On the Anniversary of Culloden. 
Wilh the defeat of tbe Yonng Pretender by 
tkc Duke of Cumberland at Culloden on 
April 18, 1746» tbe hopes of tbe Jacobites 
perished forever. This was tbe last battle 
fought on British soil. 



Take away that star and garter — 

Hide them from my aching sight: 
Neither king nor prince shall tempt me 

From my lonely room this night; 
Fitting for the throneless exile 

Is the atmosphere of pall, 
And the gusty winds that shiver 

'Neath the tapestry on the wall 
When the taper faintly dwindles 

Like the pulse within the vein, 
That to gay and merry measure 

Ne'er may hope to bound again. 
Let the shadows ^ther round me 

While I sit in silence here, 
Broken-hearted, as an orphan 

Watching by his father's bier. 
Let me hold my still communion 

Far from every earthly sound — 
Day of penance---day of passion — 

Ever, as the year comes round : 
Fatal day, whereon the latest 

Die was cast for me and mine — 
Cruel day, that quelled the fortunes 

Of the hapless Stuart line! 
Phantom-like, as in a mirror. 

Rise the grisly scenes of death — 
There before me, in its wildness. 

Stretches bare Culloden's heath: 
There the broken clans are scattered. 

Gaunt as wolves, and feimine-eyed. 



Hunger gnawing at their vitals, 
Hope abandoned, all but pride- 
Pride, and that supreme devotion 
Which the Southron never knew, 
And the hatred, deeply rankling, 

'Gainst the Hanoverian crew. 
Oh, my God-I are these the remnants, 

These the wrecks of the array 
That around the royal standard 

Gathered on the glorious day. 
When, in deep Glenfimian's valley. 

Thousands, on their bended knees, 
Saw once more that stately ensign 

Waving in the northern breeze. 
When the noble Tullibardine 

Stood beneath its weltering fold. 
With the Ruddy Lion ramping 

In the field of treasured gold. 
When the mighty heart of Scotland, 

All too big to slumber more. 
Burst in wrath and exultation. 

Like a huge volcano's roar? 
There they stand, the battered colunms. 

Underneath the murl^ sky, 
In the hush of desperation. 

Not to conquer, but to die. 
Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing: 

Not the pibroch loud and shrill, 
That, with hope of bloody banquet. 

Lured the ravens from the, hill. 
But a dirge both low and solemn. 

Fit for ears of dying men. 
Marshalled for their latest battle. 

Never more to fight again. 
Madness— madness I Why this shrink- 
ing? 

Were we less inured to war 
When our reapers swept the harvest 

From the field of red Dunbar? 
Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet! 

Call the riders of Fitz- James : 
Let Lord Lewis head the column! 

Valiant chiefs of mighty names — 
Trusty Keppoch, stout Glengarry, 

Gallant Gordon, wise Lochiel — 
Bid the clansmen hold together. 

Fast, and fell, and firm as steel. 
Elcho, never look so gloomy — 

What avails a saddened brow? 
Heart, man, heart! we need it sorely. 

Never half so much as now. 
Had we but a thousand troopers, 

Had we but a thousand more! 
Noble Perth, I hear them coming ! — 

Hark! the English cannons' roar. 
God! how awful sounds that volley. 

Bellowing througji tlait. xclVsX "vqA iidsdX 



Z24 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Was not that the Highland slogan? 
. Let me hear that shout again 1 
Oh, for prophet eyes to witness 

How the desperate battle goes I 
Cumberland ! I would not fear thee, 

G>uld my Camerons see their foes. 
Sound, I say, the charge at venture — 

'Tis not naked steel we fear; 
Better perish in the mel^e 

Than be shot like driven deer; 
Hold! the mist begins to scatter! 

There in front 'tis rent asunder. 
And the cloudy bastion crumbles 

Underneath the deafening thunder; 
There I see the scarlet gleaming! 

Now, Macdonald — now or never! — 
Woe is me, the clans are broken ! 

Father, thou are lost for ever ! 
Chief and vassal, lord and yoeman, 

There they lie in heaps together. 
Smitten by the deadly volley, 

Rolled in blood upon the heather; 
And the Hanoverian horsemen. 

Fiercely riding to and fro, 
Deal their murderous strokes at ran- 
dom — 

Ah, my God! where am I now? 

— William E. Aytoun. 



Hpril n. 

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN 
PIEDMONT. 



The inhabitants of certain Piedmontese val- 
leys had long held tenets and forms of wor- 
ship very like those favored by the German 
reformers. In January, 1665, a sudden deter- 
mination was taken by the Turin government 
to make them conform to another form of wor- 
ship and belief or to quit the country, under 
pain of death. They sent a humble remon- 
strance to the Court of Turin, the remon- 
strance was unheeded, and on April 17, 1665. 
the soldiers were let loos* upon the peaceful 
population, whom they massacred with every 
circumstance of brutaht:. 



Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, 

whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains 

cold; 
Even them, who kept thy truth so pure 

of old. 



When all our fathers worshipped stocks 

and stones. 
Forget not: in thy book record their 

groans. 
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient 

fold 
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that 

rolled 
Mother with infant down the rocks; 

their moans 
The vales redoubled to the hills, and 

they 
To heaven. Their martyred blood and 

ashes sow 
O'er all the Italian fields, where still 

doth sway 
The triple tyrant; that from these may 

grow 
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy 

way. 
Early may ny the Babylonian woe. 

— John Milton, 



THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF 
BUCKINGHAM. 



George Villiers, second Duke of Boddnf* 
ham, was a prominent courtier in the reigns 
of Charles II and James IL He organiied 
the minbtry called the *'Cabal/' and was 
satirized by Dryden in his "Absalom and 
Achitophel/' After squandering great wealth, 
died at the house of one of his tenants in 
Yorkshire under the cirqunstances descnbe<L 
on April 17, 1688. ^ 



In the worst inn's room, with mat half- 

hung. 
The floors of plaster, and the walls of 

dung, 
On once a flock-bed, but repaired with 

straw. 
With tape-tied curtains never meant to 

draw, 
The George and Garter dangling from 

that bed 
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty 

red. 
Great Villiers lies — alasl how changed 

from him, 
That life of pleasure, and that soul of 

whim! 
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's prond al- 
cove. 
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and 

love; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Or just as gay at council, in a ring 
Of mimic stateimen and their merry 

King, 
No wit to flatter left of all his store I 
No fool to laugh at, which he valued 

more. 
There, victor of his health, of fortune. 

And fame, Uiis lord of useless thousands 
ends. ^AUxander Pope. 



CHARACTER OF ZIMRI. 

Uader wbich nunc tbc Duke of Budcing- 

"A man so various, that he seemed to be 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome : 
Stiff in opinions, always in the wron^; 
Was cverrthing by starts, and nothmg 

long; 
But, in the course' of one revolving 

moon. 
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman and 

buffoon." —John Drydtn. 



Thus, some tall tree that long bath stood 
The glory of its native wood. 
By storms destroyed, or length of years. 
Demands the tribute of our tears. 

The pile, that took long time to raise. 
To dust returns by slow decays; 
But, when its destined years are o'er. 
We must regret the loss the more. 

So long accustomed to your aid, 
Tbe world laments your exit made ; 
So long befriended by your art. 
Philosopher, 'tis hard to part! — 

When monarchs tumble to the ground 

Successors easily are found; 

But, matchless Franklin I what a. few 

Can hope to rival such as you. 

Who seized from kings their sceptred 

pride. 
And turned tbe lightning's darts aside 1 
—Philip FreneoH. 



Bpril 18. 

SIR SIDNEY SMITH. 

Sir Sidner Smith wu ■ noted English ad- 
miral. During the war with France he waa 
captured on April 18. ITOS, in ihe Harbor ol 
Havre de Grace and sent to Puii. He after- 
ward escaped and croaaed tbe ctaaimel in a 



Gentlefolks, In my time, I've made many 

But the song I now trouble you with. 
Lays some claim to applause, and you'll 

grant it, because 
The subject's Sir Sidney Smith, it is. 

The subject's Sir Sidney Smith. 

We all know Sir Sidney, a man of such 

He'd fight eveiy foe he could meet ; 
Give him one ship for two, and without 

more ado. 
He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he 
would. 
He'd eng^fe if he met a whole fleet. 

Thus he took every day, all that came in 
his way. 
Till fortune, that changeable elf. 
Ordered accidents, so, that while taking 

the foe. 
Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did. 
Sir Sidney got taken himself. 

His captors right glad of the prize they 
now had. 
Rejected each offer we bid. 
And swore he should stay locked up till 
doomsday ; 

But he swore he'd be d d if he did, 

he did; 
But he swore he'd be hanged if he did. 

So Sir Sid got away, and his jailor next 

Cried "sacre, diable, morbleu, 
Mon prisonnier 'scape ; I av got in von 

scrape. 
And I fear I must run away too, I must, 

1 fear I must run away too I" 

If Sir Sidney was wrong, why then 
blackball my song, 
E'en his foes he would scorn to de- 



124 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Was not that the Highland slogan? 

Let me hear that shout again 1 
Oh, for prophet eyes to witness 

How the desperate battle goes! 
Ctsmberland ! I would not fear thee. 

Could my Camerons see their foes. 
Sound, I say, the charge at venture — 

Tis not naked steel we fear; 
Better perish in the mel6e 

Than be shot like driven deer; 
Hold! the mist begins to scatter! 

There in front ^is rent asunder. 
And the cloudy bastion crumbles 

Underneath the deafening thunder; 
There I see the scarlet gleaming! 

Now, Macdonald — ^now or never! — 
Woe is me, the clans are broken ! 

Father, thou are lost for ever ! 
Chief and vassal, lord and yoeman, 

There they lie in heaps together. 
Smitten by the deadly volley, 

Rolled in blood upon the heather; 
And the Hanoverian horsemen. 

Fiercely riding to and fro, 
Deal their murderous strokes at ran- 
dom — 

Ah, my God! where am I now? 

— William E. Aytoun, 



Hpril n. 

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN 
PIEDMONT 



The inbabitantfl of certain Piedmontese val- 
leys had long held tenets and forms of wor- 
ship very like those favored by the Gemum 
reformers. In January, 1665, a sudden deter- 
mination was taken by the Turin government 
to make them conform to another form of wor- 
ship and belief or to quit the country, under 
pain of death. They sent a humble remon- 
strance to the Court of Turin, the remon- 
strance was unheeded, and on April 17, 1665. 
the soldiers were let loos* upon the peaceful 
population, whom they massacred with every 
circumstance of brutalit:. 



Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, 

whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains 

cold ; 
Even them, who kept thy truth so pure 

oi old. 



When all our fathers worshipped stocks 

and stones. 
Forget not: in thy book record their 

groans. 
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient 

fold 
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that 

rolled 
Mother with in^t down the rocks; 

their moans 
The vales redoubled to the hills, and 

they 
To heaven. Their martyred blood and 

ashes sow 
O'er all the Italian fields, where still 

doth sway 
The triple tjrrant; that from these may 

grow 
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy 

way, 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

— John Milton, 



THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF 
BUCKINGHAM. 



George Villiers, second Duke of Bncking- 
ham, was a prominent courtier in the reigns 
of Charles II and James II. He organiied 
the ministry called the "Cabal." and was 
satirized by Dry den in his "Absalom and 
Achitophel. After squandering great wealth, 
died at the house of one of his tenants in 
Yorkshire under the circumstances descnbed, 
on April 17, 1688. 



In the worst inn's room, with mat half- 
hung, 

The floors of plaster, and the walls of 
dung, 

On once a flock-bed, but repaired with 
straw, 

With tape-tied curtains never meant to 
draw. 

The George and Garter dangling from 
that bed 

Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty 
red, 

Great Villiers lies — alas! how changed 
from him, 

That life of pleasure, and that soul of 
whim! 

Gallant and gay, in Qiveden's proud al- 
cove. 

The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and 
love; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



125 



Or just as gay at council, in a ring 
Of mimic statesmen and their merry 

King, 
No wit to flatter left of all his store! 
No fool to laugh at, which he valued 

more. 
There, victor of his health, of fortune, 

friends, 
And fame, this lord of useless thousands 

ends. —Alexander Pope. 



CHARACTER OF ZIMRI. 



Under which name the Duke of Bucking- 
bam ia satirized. 



"A man so various, that he seemed to be 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome: 
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; 
Was everything by starts, and nothing 

long; 
But, in the course* of one revolving 

moon. 
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman and 



buffoon. 



— John Dryden, 



ON THE DEATH OF BENJAMIN 
FRANKLIN. 



April 17, 1700. 



Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood 
The glory of its native wood. 
By storms destroyed, or length of years, 
Demands the tribute of our tears. 

The pile, that took long time to raise. 
To dust returns by slow decays; 
But, when its destined years are o'er. 
We must regret the loss the more. 

So long accustomed to your aid, 
The world laments your exit made; 
So long befriended by your art. 
Philosopher, 'tis hard to part! — 

When monarchs tumble to the ground 

Successors easily are found; 

But, matchless Franklin ! what a few 

Can hope to rival such as you, 

Who seized from kings their sceptred 

pride. 
And turned the lightning's darts aside! 

—Philip Freneau. 



Bprll 18. 



SIR SIDNEY SMITH. 



Sir Sidney Smith was a noted English ad> 
miral. During the war with France he was 
captured on April 18, 1798, in the Harbor of 
Havre de Grace and sent to Paris. He after- 
ward escaped and crossed the channel in a 
skiff. 



Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many 
a rhyme. 
But the song I now trouble you with. 
Lays some claim to applause, and you'll 

grant it, because 
The subject's Sir Sidney Smith, it is. 
The subject's Sir Sidney Smith. 

We all know Sir Sidney, a man of such 
kidney. 
He'd fight every foe he could meet ; 
Give him one ship for two, and without 

more ado. 
He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he 
would. 
He'd engage if he met a whole fleet. 

Thus he took every day, all that came in 
his way. 
Till fortune, that changeable elf. 
Ordered accidents, so, that while taking 

the foe. 
Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did. 
Sir Sidney got taken himself. 

His captors right glad of the prize they 
now had. 
Rejected each offer we bid, 
And swore he should stay locked up till 
doomsday ; 

But he swore he'd be d d if he did, 

he did; 
But he swore he'd be hanged if he did. 

So Sir Sid got away, and his jailor next 
day 
Cried "sacre, diable, morbleu, 
Mon prisonnier 'scape; I av got in von 

scrape. 
And I fear I must run away too, I must, 
I fear I must run away too!" 

If Sir Sidney was wrong, why then 
blackball my song. 
E'en his foes he would scorn to de* 
ceive ; 



126 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



His escape was but just, and confess it 

you must. 
For it only was taking French leave, you 

know. 
It only was taking French leave. 

— Thomas Dtbditk 



Hpril t9. 



AT HIS GRAVE. 



Lord Beaconsfield died at Hughenden, Aortl 
10, 1881. 



Leave me a little while alone, 
Here at his grave that still is strown 

With crumbling flower and wreath; 
The laughing rivulet leaps and falls, 
The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls, 

And he lies hushed beneath. 

With myrtle cross and crown of rose. 
And every lowlier flower that blows. 

His new-made couch is dressed; 
Primrose and cowslip, hyacinth wild. 
Gathered by monarch, peasant, child, 

A nation's grief attest 

I stood not with the mournful crowd 
That hither came when round his shroud 

Pious farewells were said. 
In the famed city that he saved. 
By minaret crowned, by billow laved, 

I heard that he was dead. 

Now o'er his tomb at last I bend, 
No greeting get, no greeting tend. 

Who never came before 
Unto presence, but I took. 
From word or gesture, tone or look. 

Some wisdom from his door. 

And must I now unanswered wait. 
And, though a suppliant at the gate, 

No sound my ears rejoice? 
Listen! Yes, even as I stand, 
I feel the pressure of his hand. 

The comfort of his voice. 

How poor were Fame, did grief confess 
That death can make a great life less, 

Or end the help it gave! 
Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may 

wane, 
But his well-ripened deeds remain. 

Untouched, above his grave. 



Let this, too, soothe our widowed 

minds ; 
Silenced are the opprobrious winds 

Whene'er the sun goes down; 
And free henceforth from noonday 

noise. 
He at a tranquil height enjoys 
The starlight of renown. 

Thus hence we something more may take 
Than sterile grief, than formless ache. 

Or vaguely uttered vow; 
Death hath bestowed what life withheld 
And he round whom detraction swelled 

Hath peace with honour now. 

The open jeer, the covert taunt. 

The falsehood coined in factious haunt. 

These loving gifts reprove. 
They never were but thwarted sound 
Of ebbing waves that bluster round 

A rock that will not move. 

And now the idle roar rolls off. 
Hushed is the gibe and shamed the scoff. 

Repressed the envious gird; 
Since death, the looking-glass of life. 
Cleared of the misty breath of strife. 

Reflects his face unblurred. 

From callow youth to mellow age. 
Men turn the leaf and scan the page. 

And note, with smart of loss. 
How wit to wisdom did mature. 
How duty burned ambition pure. 

And purged away the dross. 

Youth is self-love; our manhood lends 
Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends. 

So that when age steals nigh. 
How few find any worthier aim 
Than to protract a flickering flame. 

Whose oil hath long run dry! 

Now in an English grave he lies : 
With flowers that tell of English skies 

And mind of English air, 
A grateful sovereign decks his bed. 
And hither long with pilgrim tread 

Will English feet repair. 

Yet not beside his grave alone 

We seek the glance, the touch, the tone; 

His home is nigh, — ^but there, 
See from the hearth his figure fled. 
The pen unraised, the page unread, 
' Untenanted the chair I 



7 .H 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



127 - 



Vainly the beechen boughs have made 
A fresh green canopy of shade. 

Vainly the p^cocks stray; 
While Carlo, with despondent gait, 
Wonders how long affairs of State 

Will keep his lord away. 

Here most we miss the guide, the freind ; 
Back to the churchyard let me wend, 

And, by the posied mound, 
Lingering where late stood worthier feet. 
Wish that some voice, more strong, more 
sweety 

A loftier dirge would sound. 

At least I bring not tardy flowers: 
Votive to him life's budding powers. 

Such as they were, I gave — 
He not rejecting, so I may 
Perhaps these poor faint spices lay, 

Undiidden, on his gravel 

— Alfred Austin, 



THROUGH BALTIMORE. 



As the Sixth Massachusetts and the Seventh 
Pennsylvania regiments were on their way to 
Washington on April 10. 1861, they were 
attadcM by a mob in the streets of Baltimore. 

Twas Friday mom : the train drew near 

The city and the shore. 
Far through the sunshine, soft and clear, 
We saw the dear old flag appear. 
And in our hearts arose a cheer 

For Baltimore. 

Across the broad Patapsco's wave, 

Old Fort McHenry bore 
The starry banner of the brave. 
As when our fathers went to save, 
Or in the trenches find a grave 

At Baltimore. 

Before us, pillared in the sky. 

We saw the statue soar 
Of Washington, serene and high: — 
Could traitors view that form, nor fly? 
Could patriots see, nor gladly die 

For Baltimore? 

"O city of our country's song! 

By that swift aid we bore 
When sorely pressed, receive the throng 
Who go to shield our flag from wrong, 
And give us welcome, warm and strong, 

Id Baltimore I" 



We had no arms; as friends we came 

As brothers evermore, 
To rally round one sacred name — 
The charter of our power and fame: 
We never dreamed of guilt and shame 

In Baltimore. 

The coward mob upon us fell: 

McHenry's flag they tore: 
Surprised, borne backward by the swell. 
Beat down with mad, inhuman yell. 
Before us yawned, a traitorous hell 

In Baltimore! 

The streets our soldier-fathers trod 

Blushed with their children's gore: 
We saw the craven rulers nod, 
And dip in blood the civic rod — 
Shall such things be, O righteous God, 
In Baltimore? 

No, never 1 By that outrage black, 

A solemn oath we swore, 
To bring the Keystone's thousand back. 
Strike down the dastards who attack. 
And leave a red and fiery track 

Through Baltimore! 

Bow down, in haste, thy guilty head ! 

God's wrath is swift and sore: 
The sl^ with gathering bolts is red — 
Cleanse from thy skirts the slaughter 

shed, 
Or make thyself an ashen bed, 
O, Baltimore! 

— Bayard Taylor, 



APOCALYPSE. 



Written in memory of Private Luther C. 
Ladd, killed b^ a mob, which attacked his 
regiment, the Sixth Massachusetts, while pass- 
ing through Baltimore on the way to Washius- 
ton, April 10, 1861. His was the first life 
lost in the war. 



Straight to his heart the bullet crushed; 
Down from his breast the red blood 

gushed. 
And o'er his face a glory rushed. 

A sudden spasm shook his frame. 
And in his ears there went and came 
A sound as of devouring flame, 

Which in a moment ceased, and then 
The great light clasped his brows again. 
So that they shone like Stephen's when 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Saul stood apart a little space 

And shook with shuddering awe to trace 

God's splendors settling o'er hia face. 

Thus, like a king, erect in pride. 
Raising clean hands toward heaven, he 

"All hail the Star and Stripes I" and 
died— 

Died grandly. But before he fell, 
(O blessedness ineffablel) 
Viuon apocalyptical 

Was granted to him, and his eyes 
All radiant with glad surprise 
Looked forward through the centuries. 

And saw the seeds which sages cast 
In the world's soil in cycles past 
Spring up and blossom at the last. 



Qear space for Ijberty's white throne. 

Saw how, bf sorrow tried and proved. 
The blackening stains had been removed 
Forever from the land he loved. 

Saw Treason crushed and Freedom 

crowned. 
And clamorous Faction, gagged and 

Gasping its life out on the ground. 

Saw how. across his country's slopes. 
Walked swarming troops of cheerful 

Which evermore to broader scopes 

Increased, with power that comprehends 
The world's weal in its own, and bends 
Self -needs to large, unselfish ends. 

Saw how, throughout the vast extents 
Of Earth's most populous continents. 
She dropped such rare heart affluence 

That from beyond the utmost seas. 
The wondering peoples thronged to seize 
Her proffered pure benignities. 

Saw how, of all her trebled host 

Of widening empires, none might boast 

Whose love were best or strength were 



Because they grew so equal there . 
Beneath the flag which, debonaire, 
Waved joyous in the cleansed aJr. 

With far-off vision gazing dear 
Beyond this gloomy atmosphere 
Which shuts us in with doubt and fear. 

He — marking how here high increase 
Ran greatenmg in perpetual lease 
Through balmy years of odorous 

peace- 
Greeted, in one transcendent cry 
Of intense passionate ecstasy. 
The sight which thrilled him utterly. 

Saluting with most proud disdain 
Of murder and of mortal paii^ 
The vision which shall be agami 

So, lifted with prophetic pride. 
Raised conquering hands toward heaven 

and cried, 
"All hail the Star and Stripes t" and 

died —Riehard Realf. 



.mpldi 



: CoDcvrd 



MoDumcnl, April 1 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood. 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood. 
And fired the shot heard round the 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 
We set to-day a votive stone; 

That memory may their deed redeem. 
When, like our sires, our sons are 
gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, or leave their children free. 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 
— Ralpk Waldo Emerson. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



129 



THE MINUTE MEN OF NORTH- 
BORO'. 



1778. 4iid on the same day 1 

belonging to this town wu coll«ling at the 
Rer. Mr.' Whitney. Tbey were directed, witb- 



hoiue, whence— the Rev. Mr. Whitney 
protection of the God of Armirft— the) 



Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with 

slender-shadowed bud; 
"Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks 
scarce hold his flood; 
When down the road from Marlboro' 

we hear a sound of speed — 
A cracking whip and clanking hoofs — 
a case of crying need I 
And there a dusty rider hastes to tell 
of flowing blood, 
Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and 
many a desperate deed 



The Minute Men of Northboro' were 
gathering that day 
To hear the Parson talk of God, of 
Freedom and the State ; 
Tbey throng about the horseman, drink- 
ing in all he should say, 
Beride the perfumed lilacs blooming 
by the Parson's gate. 



•TTie British inarch from Boston 

through the night to Lexington ; 
"Revere alarms the countryside to meet 
them ere the sun; 
"Upon the common, in the dawn, the 

redcoat butchers slay ; 

"On Concord march, and there again 

pursue their murderous way; 

"We drive them back; we follow on; 

they have begun to run: 

"All Middlesex and Worcester's up: 

Pray God, ours is the day I" 



The Minute Men of Northboro' let nut 

the standing plow. 
The seed may wait, the fertile ground 

upsRiiling to the spring. 
They seize their guns and powder-horns; 

there is no halting now. 
At thought of homes made fatherless 

by order of the King. 



The pewter- ware is melted into bullets- 
long past due. 
The flints are picked, the powder's dry, 
the rifles shine like new. 
Within their Captain's yard enrankcd 

they hear the Parson's prayer 
Unto the God of armies for the battlei 
they must share; 
He asks that to their Fathers and their 
Altars they be true, 
For Country and for Liberty unswerv- 
ingly to dare. 



The Minute Men of Northboro' set out 
with drum and fife; 
With shining eyes they've blest their 
babes and bid their wives good-by. 
The hands that here release the plow 
have taken up a strife 
That shall not end until all earth has 
beard the battle-cry. 



At every town new streams of men join 

in the mighty flow ; 
At every crossroad comes the message 
of a fleeing foe: 
The British force, though trebled, faili 

against the advancing tide. 
Our rifles speak from fence and tree — 
in front, on every side. 
The British fall r the Minute Men have 
mixed with bitterest woe 
Their late vainglorious vaunting and 
their military pride. 



The Minute Men of Northboro' they 
boast no martial air; 
No uniforms gleam in the sun where 
on and on they plod ; 
But generations yet unborn their valor 
shall declare; 
They strike for Massachusetts Bay; 
they serve New EneVa.wi'i Oa^ 



I30 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The hirelings who would make us slaves 

themselves are backward hurled, 
On Worcester and on Middlesex their 
flag's forever furled. 
Theirs was the glinting pomp of war; 

ours is the victor's prize: 
That day of bourgeoning has seen a 
race of freemen rise. 
A Nation bom in fearlessness stands 
forth before the world 
With God her shield, the Right her 
sword, and Freedom in her eyet. 

The Minute Men of Nortbboro' sit down 

by Boston town ; 

They fight and bleed at Bunker Hill; 

they cheer for Washington. 

In thankfulness they speed their bolt 

against the British Crown ; 

And take the plow again in peace, 

their warrior's duty done. 

—IVallace Rice. 



BYRON. 

Died April 16, ISIl. 

O Fame, thy laurels graced a blighted 

pall I 
Twaa Death's and Fortune's pact with 

envious Time. 
The vine-wreathed TiUn, clothed with 

power sublime, 
Almost accomplished Heaven; deling 

all. 
He braved the levin and the thunder- 
Scaling the cliffs of Song; his rebel 
Pelion on Ossa planted; then with 

Transcendent on his lips reeled down 
the wall. 

He fell, hard-fighting; dire the clash and 

clang 
Earth heard through all her limits— then 

sleek jays 
Piped chattering funeral, and the char- 

nel kites 
Fed on the warm, proud heart; but wide 

outrang, 
Sweet Poesy, thy plaint along the ways. 
Nor, Time, shalt thou withhold him 

tribute rites t 

— Craven L. Belts, 



SPAIN'S HOUR OF DOOM. 



Spain's hour haa struck. No more her 
flag 

Shall float o'er Cuba's fateful isle. 

Her reign of treacheiy and guile 
Is o'er. No more shall vengeance lag. 

Back to their ^unt Iberian crag 
Her desolatmg legions hurl. 
Or let the wild Atlantic's swtrl 

Their souls and bodies bellward drag. 

Ay, let her new annada flee 

Westward her tyranny to maintain. 
We will, in memory of the Maine, 

Meet it and sink it in the sea. 

Out of the Western Hemisphere 
Spain's yellow banner soon shall fade. 
No more by her shall graves be made 
Where grain should grow and fruits ftp- 
No more her fiends with sword and fire 
The Cuban's homes shall devastate. 
Slay sons, and daughters violate 
Before their mother and their sire. 

The infamy of Spain shall loom 
Black over the devoted isle 
No longer. Not by force or wile 

Can she put back the hour of doom. 

That hour has struck. From Morro'a 

Haul down her old dishonored flag. 
While back to her Hierian crag, 
She takes her ignominious flight. 

—Albert Rowland Haven. 



TO SPAIN— A LAST WORD. 

Iberian! palter no more! By thine 
hands, thine alone, they were 

Oh, 'twas a deed in the dark- 
Yet mark! 
We will show you a way — only one-^-hj 
which ye may blot out the stain I 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Build them a monument whom to death- 
sleep, in their sleep, ye betrayed t 
Proud and stem let it be — 

Cuba freet 
So^ only, the stain shall be razed — so, 
<nily, the great debt be paid! 

—Edith M. Thomas. 



Bprll 20. 

THE SUDBURY FIGHT. 



BoMoo and ■ 



To Ceorgiuu Rice. 

Ye sons of Massachusetts, all who love 

that honored name. 
Ye children of New England, holdii^ 

dear your fathers' fame, 
Hear tell of Sudbury's battle through a 

day of death and Same I 

The painted Wampanoags, Philip's hate- 
ful warriors, creep 
Upon the town at springtide when 
the skies dented us rain. 

We see their shadows lurking in the 
forest's dusky deep. 
And speed the sorry tidings past dry 
field and rustling lane : 

Come hastily or never wihen tht wUd 
beast lusts for gore 

And tend your best and bravest if you 
wish to see us morel 

The Commonwealth is quiet now, and 
peace her measure fills, 

Content in homes and farmsteads, busy 
marts and buzzing mills 

From the Atlantic's roaring to the tran- 
quil Berkshire hills. 

But through that day our fathers, whis- 
pering their breathless words, 
Their wives and babes in safety, toil 
to save their little all ; 
Tbey fetch their slender food- stores, 
drive indoors their scanty herds. 
They clean the be 11 -mouthed musket, 
melt the lead and mould the hall; 



Please God they'll keep their battle till 
their countrymen shall haste 

With succor from the eastward, iron- 
hearted, flinty- faced. 

A hundred draggii^ twelvemonths ere 

the welcome joy-belb rin^ 
The dawn of Independence did King 



wolves a- ravening. 

The morning lifts in fury as they come 

with torch in han^ 
And howl about the houses in the 

little frontier town ; 
Our garrisons hold steady while the 

flames by breezes fanned 
Disclose the painted demons, fierce 

and cunning, lithe and brown; 
At every loophole firing, women near at 

hand to load. 
The children bringing bullets, thus the 

Sudbury men abode. 

By night, through generations, have the 

eager children come 
Beside their grandsire's settle, listening 

to the droning hum 
Of this old tale, with backward glances, 

open-mouthed and dumb. 

The burning hours stretch slowly— then 

a welcome sight appears I 
Along the tawny upland where stout 

Haynes keeps faithful guard 
From Watertown comes Mason, young 

in everything but years — 
Our men rush down to meet him; 

then, together, swift and hard. 
They force the Indians backvrard to the 

Musketaqutd's side. 
And slaying, ever slaying, drive them 

o'er the reddened tide. 

There stand stout Haynes and Mason 
by the bridge upon the flood ; 

In vain the braves attack them, thick 
as saplings in the wood. 

Praise God for men so valiant, who 
have such a foe withstood I 

But Green Hill looks with anguish 

down upon the painted horde 

Their stealthy ambush keeping *a tJoK, 

Concotd m^ itvn tv«m. 



132 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



To dart with hideous noises as they 

reach Ihe lower ford, 
A thousand 'gainst a dozen; but their 

every life costs dear 
As, sinking 'neath such numbers, one by 

one our neighbors fail — 
One sole survivor in his blood brings on 

the dreadful tale. 



Through sun and evening shadow, 
through the night till weary mom. 

Speeds Wadsworth with his soldiers. 
forth from Boston, spent and 

And Brocklebank at Marlboro' joins that 
little hope forlorn. 

They hear the muskets snap afar, they 
hear the savage whoop — 
All weariness forgotten, on they has- 
ten in relief; 

They see the braves before them— with 
a cheer the little group 
Bends down and charges forward ; 
from above the cunning chief 

His wild-cat eyes dilating, sees his 
bushes bloom with fire. 

The tree-trunks at his bidding blaze 
with fiendish lust and ire. 



A thousand warriors lurk there and a 
thousand warriors shout, 

Exulting, aiming, flaming, happy in our 
coming rout ; 

But Wadsworth never pauses, every 
musket ringing out. 

He gains the lifting hillside, and his 
sixscore win their way 
Defiant through the coppice till upon 
the summit placed ; 

With every bullet counting, there they 
load and aim and slay. 
Against all comers warring, iron- 
hearted, flinty-faced ; 

Hold Philip as for scorning, drive him 
down the bloodstained slope. 

And stand there, firm and dauntless, 
steadfast in their faith and hope. 

With Mason at the river. Wadsworth 

staunch upon the hill, 
The certain reinforcements, and black 

night the foe to chill, 
An hour or less and hideous Death 

might have been baffled stilL 



But in that droughty woodland Philip 

fires the leaves and grass: 
The flames dance up the hillside, in 

their rear less savage foes. 
No courage can avail us, down the slope 

the English pass — 
A day in name beginning lights with 

hell its awful close. 
As swifter, louder, fiercer o'er the crest 

the reek runs past 
And headlong hurls bold Wadsworth, 

conquered by the cruel blast. 

Ye men of Massachusetts, weep the aw- 
ful slaughter there ! 

The panther heart of Philip drives the 
English to despair. 

As scalping-knife and tomahawk gleam 
in th' affrighted glare. 

There Wadsworth yields his spirit, 

Brocklebank must meet his doom; 
Within the stone mill's shelter fights 

the remnant of their force; 
When swift upon the foemen, rushing 

through the gathering gloom, 
Cheer Crowell's men from Brookiield, 

gallant Prentice with his horse! 
And Mason from the river, and Haynes 

join in the fight, 
Till Philip's host is routed, hurled on 

shrieking through the night 
Defeated, cursing, weeping, flees King 

Philip to his den; 
Our speedy vengeance glutted on the 

flower of his men; 
In pomp and pride the Wampanoags 

ne'er shall march again. 
We mourn our stricken Captains, but 

not vainly did they fall : 
The King of Pocanoket has received 

their stern command; 
Their lives were laid down gladly at 

their country's trumpet-call. 
And on their savage foemen have they 

set the heavier hand; 
Against our day-long valor was the red 

man's fortune spent 
And that one day at Sudbury has saved 

a continent. 
In graves adown the hemisphere, in 

graves across the seas. 
The sons of Massachusetts sleep, as here 

beneath her trees. 
Nor Brocklebank nor Wadsworth is tkt 

first or last of these. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Oh, blue hills of New Englaad, slanting 

to the rooming beams, 
Where suns and clouds of April have 

their balmy power spedi 
Oh, greening woods and meadows, 

pleasant ponds and babbling 

streams, 
And clematis soft-blooming where 

War once his banners led; 
How hungers many an exile for that 

homeland far away. 
And all the happy dreaming of a bygone 

April day] 

Wherever speaks New England, where- 
soever spreads her shade. 

We praise our fathers' valor, and our 
fathers' prayer is prayed, 

Th>t, fearing God's Wrath only, firm 
may stand the State they made. 
—Wallace Rice. 



Hpril 21. 

THE FIGHT AT SAN JACINTO. 

Tfae bailie of San Jacinto wai fought on 

Hoiut 
otTtjas. 



isse. bel« 

Sanu Amu wai defealcd and csp- 
Thia battle decided the independence 



"Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!" 
Said Harman, big and droll. 

As he coaxed his flint and steel for a 
light. 
And puffed at his cold clay bowl ; 

"For we are a skulking lot," says he, 
"Of land- thieves hereabout. 

And the bold senores, two to one. 
Have come to smoke us out." 

Santa Anna and Castrillon, 

Almonte brave and gay, 
Portilla red from Goliad, 

And Cos with his smart array. 
Dulces and cigaritos, 

And the light guitar, ting-lum! 
Sant' Anna courts siesta — 

And Sam Houston taps bis drum. 

The buck stands still in the timber — 
"Is the patter of nuts that fall?" 

The foal of the wild mare whinnies — 
"Did he hear the Comanche call?" 



In the brake by the crawling bayou 
The slinking she-wolves howl. 

And the mustang's snort in the river 
sedge 
Has startled the paddling fowl. 

A soft low tap, and a mufHed tap. 

And a roll not loud nor long — 
We would not break Sant' Anna's nap. 

Nor spoil Almonte's song. 
Saddles and knives and rifles I 

Lordl but the men were glad 
When Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo 1" 

And Karnes hissed "Goliad!" 

The drummer tucked his slides in his 

belt. 

And the fifer gripped his gun. 
Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell. 

And we took the slope in a run ! 
But never a shout nor a shot we spent. 

Nor an oath nor a prayer that day. 
Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye. 

And then we blazed away. 

Then we knew the rapture of Ben 

Milam, 
And the glory that Travis made. 
With Bowie's lunge and Crockett's shot, 

And Fannin's dancing blade ; 
And the heart of the fighter, bounding 
free 
In his joy so hot and mad — 
When Millard charged for Alamo, 
r for Goliad. 

Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking 

Into the shock and rout : 
'I've hacked and burned the bayou 
bridge. 

There's no sneak's back-way out I" 
Muzzle or butt for Goliad, 

Pistol and blade and fist! 
Oh, for the knife that never glanced. 

And the gun that never missed ! 

Dulces and dgaritos. 

Song and the mandolin! 
That gory swamp was a gruesome grove 

To dance fan(hkngos in. 
We bridged the bog with the sprawling 
herd 

That fell in that frantic rout; 
We slew and slew till the sun set red. 

And the Texan star flashed out 

— John IVilliamsoti Palmer. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Bprtl 22. 



Kapolnn and tbe " >^chduke 

Baiiria on April It, — 

■futii'tnli ceded to Aia 



You know we French stonned R&tisbon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound. Napoleon 

Stood on our stonnuig-day ; 
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow. 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall, 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy. 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So light he kept his lips compressedl. 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's 
grace 
We've got you Ratisbon! 

The marshal's in the market-place. 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag- bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire. 
Perched him !" The chief's eye flashed ; 

Soared up again like fire. 

The chief's eye Hashed ; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A him the mother eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes: 
"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's 



Smiling, the boy fell dead. 

—Robert Browning. 



aprfl23. 



AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIR- 
ABLE DRAMATIC POET, W. 
SHAKESPEARE. 



What needs my Shakespeare for his 

honored bones — 
The labor of an age in piled stones? 
Or that his hallowed reliques should be 

hid 

Under a starry-pointing pyramid? 
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame. 
What need'st thou such weak witness of 



For whilst to th' shame of slow-en- 
deavoring art 

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each 
heart 

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued 

Those Delphic lines with deep impres- 

Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving. 
Dost make us marble with too much 

And, 



3 sepulchred, in such pomp dost 



The figure that thou here seest put. 
It was for gentle SHAKESPEARE cut. 
Wherein the graver had a strife 
With nature, to out-do the life: 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



135 



O could he have but drawn his wit 
As well in brass, as he has hit 
His lace ; the print would then surpass 
All that was ever writ in brass: 
But since he cannot, reader, look 
Not on his picture, but his book. 

Ben JonsotL 



CERVANTES. 



Died at Madrid. April 28, 1616. 



As o'er the laughter-moving page 
Thy readers, oh, Cervantes, bend. 

What shouts of mirth, through age on 
age, 
From every clime of earth ascend! 

For not in thy fair Spain alone, 
But in the sunny tropic isles, 

And far, to either frozen zone, 
Thy memory lives embalmed in smiles. 

Dark woods, when thou didst hold the 
pen. 
Clothed this great land from sea to 
sea, 
Where millions of the sons of men 
Now take delight in honoring thee. 

To thy renown the centuries bring 
No shadow of a coming night. 

The keen, bright shafts which thou didst 
fling 
At folly still are keen and bright. 

— William Cullen Bryant, 



WORDSWORTH. 



Died April 23, 1850. 



The presences of woods informed his 

soul ; 
His Muse was taught of winds and 

murmuring streams; 
Across his vision broke Love's rarest 

gleams, 
And English faith held o'er him proud 

control. 
He was Truth's eremite with beechen 

bowl ; 
The wayside life and legend shaped his 

themes. 



Borne softly through his mountain realm 

of dreams. 
But round those heights rang Freedom's 

trumpet-roll. 

Prophet and priest and bard — the 

humble throng 
He loved and voiced, from the great 

Mother drew 
His litanies and choruses; the blue 
Of Heaven and green of Earth illumed 

his song. 
The Joshua, he, of Israel's chosen few, 
And of his peers the Godfrey chaste and 

strong. 

Craven L. Betts, 



Hpril 24. 



THE "VARUNA." 



The Vanina was a gunboat, one of the fleet 
under the command of Farragut, which waa 
sunk on April 24, 1861, while attempting the 

Kning of the forts below New Orleans. She 
d previously sunk five of the enemy. 



Who has not heard of the dauntless 
VARUNA ? 
Who has not heard of the deeds she 
has done? 
Who shall not hear, while the Brown 
Mississippi 
Rushes along from the snow to the 
sun? 

Crippled and leaking she enters the 
battle, 
Sinking and burning she fought 
through the fray; 
Crushed were her sides and the waves 

ran across her, 
Ere, like a death wounded lion at bay. 
Sternly she closed in the last fatal 
grapple. 
Then in her triumph moved grandly 
away. 
Five of the rebels, like satellites round 
her. 
Burned in her orbit of splendor and 
fear; 
One, like the pleiad of mystical story. 
Shot, terror-stricken, beyond her dread 
sphere. 



■36 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



We who are waiting with crowns for 

the victors. 
Though we should offer the wealth of 

our store, 
Load the VARUNA from deck down to 

Still would be niggard, such tribute to 

pour 
On courage so boundless. It beggars 

possession, — 
It knocks for just payment at heaven's 

bright door! 

Gierish the heroes who fought the 
Vanina ; 
Treat them as kings if they honor 
your way ; 
Succor and comfort the sick and the 
wounded ; 
Oh I for the dead let us all kneel to 
pray I 

— George H. Boker. 



HprtI 25. 

COWPER'S GRAVE. 

Died April £6, 1800. 
1 will iovhe Ih«. from Ihy envioiu faeirH 
To riK and 'bout tbe world thj beuni to 

That ws mmy ttt tbcie'i brigbtoeu in tbe 
dead. 

— Huriapon. 

It is a place where poets crowned 

May feel the heart's decaying — 
It is a place where happy saints 

May weep amid their praying; 
Yet let the grief and humbleness. 

As low as silence, languish — 
Earth surely now may give her calm 

To whom she gave her anguish. 

O poets I from a maniac's tongue 

Was poured the deathless singing! 
O Christians! at your cross of hope 

A hopeless hand was clinging! 
O men I this man, in brotherhood, 

Your wary paths beguiling, 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace. 

And died while ye were smilingl 

And now, what time ye all may read 
Through dimming tears his story- 
How discord on the music fell. 
And darkness on the gloiT— 



And how, when one by one, sweet 
sounds 

And wandering lights departed. 
He wore no less a loving face. 

Because so broken-hearted — 
He shall be strong to sanctify 

The poet's high vocation. 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

In meeker adoration; 
Nor ever shall he be in praise 

By wise or good forsaken — 
Named softly, as the household name 

Of one whom God bath taken ! 

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, 

1 learn to think upon him ; 
With meekness that is gratefulness. 

On God whose heaven hath won him — 
Who suffered once the madness-doud 

Toward his love to blind him; 
But gently led the blind along 

Where breath and bird could find him ; 
And wrought within his shattered brain 

Such quick poetic senses 
As hills have language for, and stars 

Harmonious influences! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass. 

His own did calmly number; 
And silent shadow from the trees 

Fell o'er him like a slumber. 

The very world, by God's constraint, 

From falsehood's chill removing. 
Its women and its men became, 

Beside him, true and loving ! — 
And timid hares were drawn from 
woods 

To share his home- caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes 

With sylvan tendernesses. 
But while in blindness he remained 

Unconscious of the guiding, 
And things provided came without 

The sweet sense of providing. 
He testified this solemn truth. 

Though frenzy desolated — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy. 

When only God created ! 

Like a sick child that knoweth not 

His mother while she blesses. 
And droppeth on his burning brow 

The coolness of her kisses; 
That turns his fevered eyes around— 

"My mother! where's my mother?" — 
As if such tender words and looks 

Could come from anv other — 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The fever gone, with leaps of heart 

He sees her bending o er him ; 
Her face all pale from watchful love, 

Th' unweary love she bore him ! 
Thus woke the poet from the dream 

His life's long fever gave him. 
Beneath these deep pathetic eyes 

Which closed in death to save html 

Thus I 0, not thusl no type of earth 

Could image that awaking. 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant 

Of seraphs, round him breaking— 
Or felt the new immortal throb 

Of soul from body parted; 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew 

"My Saviour I not deserted I" 

Deserted I who hath dreamt that when 
The cross in darkness rested, 

Upon the victim's hidden face 
No love was m^i ni tested ? 

What frantic hands outstretched have 

Th' atoning drops averted — 
What tears have washed them from the 

That one should be deserted? 

Deserted ! God could separate 

From His own essence rather; 
And Adam's sins have swept between 

The righteous Son and Father — 
Yea! once, Immanuel's orphaned cry 

His universe hath shaken — 
It went up single, echoless, 

"My God, I am forsaken 1" 

It went up from the Holy lips 

Amid His lost creation, 
That of the lost no son should use 

Those words of desolation; 
That earth's worst frenzies, marring 

Should mar not hope's fruition; 
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see 
His rapture, m a vision I 

ElUabeth Barrett Browning. 



TASSO. 

Died April SS, IBftG. 

o Torquato's injured shadel 't 



Aim'd with her poison'd arrows; but to 

Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modem songl 
Each year brings forth its milhons; bnt 

how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on. 
And not the whole combined and count- 
less throng 
Compose a mind like thine I though all 

Condensed their scatter'd rays, they 
would not form a sun. 
— From "Childe Harold" Lord Byron. 



aprfl 26. 

FAREWELL TO SALVINL 



Ivial. the Italian tragedian, 
icceuful lour in America, waa 
I fwewrll dinner in New York 



Although a curtain of the salt sea-mist 
May fall between the actor and our 

Although he change for dear and soft- 

These that the sun has yet but coyly 

kissed— 
Although the voice to which we loved to 

l.st 
Fail ere the thunder of our plaudits 

Although he parts from us in gracious 

With grateful memory left his eulogist — 
His best is with us still. 

His perfect art 
Has held us 'twixt a heart-throb and a 

Cheating our souls to passionate belief. 

And in his greatness we have now some 
We have been courtiers of the crown- 
And partners in Othello's mighty 



gnef 



—H. C. Banner, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Hpril 27> 

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 



"«"«' he ^^« 



Hijti in 1TBI he took I 

undiipatfd muter of ih> — — 

GnillT lubdued br ■ force leiil by Napoleon, 
ud Uken to France, where be died in im- 

pTiununent ■ year later, on April 27, ISO!. 

Toussaint, the most unhappy nun of 

Whether the whistling rustic tend his 
ploug" 
lin thy 

O miserable chieftain! where and when 
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; 

do thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful 

Though fallen thyself, never to rise 

again, 

Live and take comfort. Thou hast left 

behind 
Powers that will work for thee — air, 

earth, and skies. 

There's not a breathing of the common 

That will forget thee. Thou hast great 

Thy friends are exultations, agonies. 
And love, and man's unconquerable 
mind. —ivm. Wordtworlh. 

GRANT AT REST. 

The remaiiu of Geoeral Gtani were placed 
in the lomb on Riverude Drive, April X7, 



Not like the tombs where sleep Egyptian 
kings. 
Raised up by bondmen driven from 

Is thy last home ; a song of glory rings 
Above the cannon of forgotten war. 

Gone are the steeds of strife and battle 

Furled are the flags that billowed over 

Folded the hands and quiescent the brow 
That faced their call and knew their 
requiem. 



ird by the shore, 
_ ss that rises from 

Where men that are shall falter never- 
more, 
And slaves that were uplift free hands 
to God! 

—fames J. Meehan. 



Hprll28. 

THE LAUNCHING OF CORTEZ' 
SHIPS. 



America wu a fleet of iBiall boau b . .. _. 
Cartel and Uunched on the waters of Lake 
TeiciKO on April E8, 1SS1, in Mexico. 

The morning of the launch was fair and 

And all the army hailed it with delight 
To Cortez 'twas a solemn, great event — 
First of its kind upon the continent — 
And in its celebration Mass was said. 
While banners to the winds were gayly 

And on the air the cannon loudly 

boomed, 
As if to say that Mexico was doomed. 
Then, one by one, before rejoicing eyes — 
Amid a chorus of exulting cries — 
The stately vessels glided towards the 

lake. 
With silver ripples sparkling in their 

Down the canal, for half a league, they 

Ere they were to the lake's broad waters 

wed. 
Then, with expanded wings, to catch the 

They sailed as proudly as if on the seas. 
With music, and with musketry, and 

Resounding in a hundred thousand ears. 

Twas then that Spanish breasts with 
rapture swelled, 

And Cortez conquest, in his fleet, be- 
held, 

And all an anthem sang with one ac- 

The grand Te Deam — glory to the Lord. 
— From "The Conquest of Mexico," 
Kitu^n Comwallu. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



139 



Hpril20. 



THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. 



1««S tbe Confcderaie leaden O'Brien and 
Uemgbcr propooed to make a lour of tbe chief 

pe&len. Tbe tour begaD it Limenck, where 
■ toirie wu held od April iS, hut the pres- 
ence lunone the guest) of .[oho Uitcliel. who 
bad recenirjf given offence by an atl*cli on the 
memoir ot CPCoonell. inffanied the mnb, and 
to the frir which ensued O'Brien was itnicli 
bj ■ man who had failed lo lecogniie bim. 

Ye Genii of the nation, 

Who look with veneration. 
And Ireland's desoUtion onsaysii^ly de- 
plore ; 

Ye sons of General Jackson, 

Who thrample on the Saxon, 
Attend to Ihe thransaction upon Sban- 

When William, Duke of Schumbug, 
A tyrant and a hutnbug. 

With cantion and with thunder on our 
city bore, 
Our fortitude and valliance 
Insthructed his battalions 

To rispict the galtiant Irish upon Shan- 
Si nee that capitulation. 
No city in this nation 

So grand a reputation could boast be- 
As Limerick prodigious, 
That stands with quays and bridges. 

And the ships up to the windies of the 
Shannon shore. 

A chief of ancient line. 

'Tis William Smith O'Brine, 
Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten 
years or more : 

O the Saxons can't endure 

To see him on the flure, 
And thrimble at the Cicero from Shan- 

This valiant son of Mars 
Had been to visit Par's 
Tbat land of Revolution, that grows the 
tricolor ; 
And to welcome his returm 
From pilgrimages furren. 
We invited him to tay on the Shamion 
■bore! 



Then we summoned to our board 
Young Meagher of the Sword; 
'TIS he will sheathe that battle-axe in 
Saxon gore: 
And Mitcbil of Belfast 
We bade to our repast, 
To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shan- 
non shore. 

Convaniently to hould 
These patriots so bould. 
We tuck the opportunity ofTimDoolan's 

And with ornamints and banners 
(As becomes glntale good manners) 
We made the lovliest tay- room upon 
Shannon shore. 

'T would binifit your sowls, 
To see the butthered rowls, 
The sugar-tongs and sangwidgea and 
Claim galyore. 
And the muffins and the crumpets. 
And the band of harps and thrumpets, 
To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon 
shore. 

Sure the Imperor of Bohay 
Would be proud to dthrink the tay 
That Misthress Biddy Rooney for 
O'Brine did pour. 
And, since the days of Strongbow, 
There never was such Congo — 
Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it — by 
Shannon shore. 

But Clamdon and Corry 
Connellan beheld this sworry 
With rage and imulation in their black 

And they hired a gang of rufiins 
To interrupt the muffins 
And the fragrance of the Congo on the 
Shannon shore. 

When full of tay and cake, 
O'Brine began to spake; 
But juice a one could hear him, for 3 
sudden roar 
Of a ragamuffin rout 
Began to yell and shout. 
And frighten the propriety of Shannon 
shore. 

As Smith O'Brine harangued. 
They batthered and they banned ; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



They smashed the lovely windies 
(Hung with muslin from the Indies), 
Purshuing of iheir shindies upon Shan- 
non shore. 

With throwing of brickbats, 
Drowned puppies and dead rats. 
These rutfin democrats themselves did 

Tin kettles, rotten eggs. 
Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, 
They flung among the patriots of Shan- 
non Shore. 

O the girls began to scrame 
And upset the milk and crame ; 
And the honourable gintlemeo, they 
cursed and swore: 
And Mitchil of Belfast, 
'Twas he that looked aghast, 
When they roasted him in effigy by 
Shannon shore. 

O the lovely tay was spilt 
On that day of Ireland's guilt; 

Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt I Boys, 
Where's the back door? 
Tis a national disgrace: 
Let me go and veil me face;" 

And he boulted with quick pace from the 
Shannon shore. 
"Cut down the bloody horde !" 
Says Meagher of the Sword, 

"This conduct would disgrace any black- 
But the best use Tommy made 
Of his famous battle blade 

Was to cut his own stick from the Shan- 
Immortal Smith O'Brine 
Was raging like a line; 

'T would have done your sowl good to 
have heard him roar; 
In his glory he arose, 
And he rush'd upon his foes, 

But they hit him on the nose by the 
Shannon shore- 
Then the Futt and the Dthragoons 
In squadthrons and platoons, 

With their music playing chunes, down 
upon us bore; 
And they bate the rattatoo. 
But the Peelers came in view. 

And ended the shaloo on the Shanon 

— IVilliam Makepeace Thackeray. 



Bprtl 30. 



In manory of Jama Lorimer Graham. Died 
April to, ISTfl. 

Life may give for love to death 
Little; what are life's gifts worth 
To the dead wrapt round with earth 

Yet from lips of living breath 

Sighs or words we are fain to give. 
All that jret, while yet we live. 

Life may give for love to death. 

Dead so long before his day. 
Passed out of the Italian sun 
To the dark where all is done. 

Fallen upon the verge of May, 
Here at life's and April's end 
How should song salute my friend 

Dead so long before his day? 

Not a kindlier life or sweeter 
Time, that lights and quenches men, 
Mow may quench or light again. 

Mingling with the mystic metre 
Woven of all men's lives with his 
Mot a clearer note that this, 

Not a kindlier life or sweeter. 

In this heavenliest part of earth 
He that living loved the light. 
Light and song, may rest aright. 

One in death if strange in birth, 
With the deathless dead that make 
Life the lovelier for their sake 

In this heavenliest part of earth. 

Light, and song, and sleep at last — 
Struggling hands and suppliant knee) 
Get no goodlier gift than these. 

Song that holds remembrance fast, 
Light that lightens death, attend 
Round their graves who have to friend 

Light and song, and sleep at last. 

— Algernon C. SwiuburHe. 



THE DEATH OF LIVINGSTONE. 



miEt^lJ-'lnT^pfo,: 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



141 



The cold bands call upon abysmal 
Strange frondage murmers in a darkling 



Orphaned men cowed round the fires 
forlorn ; 

Nile shrouds his fountains: the dim liv- 
ing tomb 

Of Africa still closed. Death's blank- 
eyed doom — 

No face beloved, no land where he was 

Guerdons the warrior! No prayed-for 
Of home-love crowns him ere the year 
But while faint eyes look far away with 

Death spurns the soul's quenched altar 

in the dust I 
... Is all, then, failure? Lives no 

Father there? 
Do living hearts but supplicate dead air? 
Is this the end of the Promethean 
Indomitable, all-enduring man? 

Who calls it failure? 

God fulfils the prayer: 
He is at home; he rests; the work is 

done. 
He hath not failed, who fails like Living- 
Radiant diadems all conquerors wear 
Pale before his magnificent despair; 
And whatsoever kingdoms men have 

He triumphs dead, defeated, and alone, 
Who learned sublimely to endure and 
darel 



For holy labour is the veiy end, 

Duty man's crown, and his eternal 

Reason from Qiaos wards the world's 

grand whole; 
All Nature hath Love's martyrdom for 

goal. 
Who nobly toils, though none be nigh to 

see, 
He only lives — he lives eternally. 

—Roden NoeL 



FOR THE PICTURE. 



the IsUnd ot Si. Vincnt, April SO, ISIS. 

Thf Vincentian Soufnerr but« forth in 
all iu iury in 1811, opening a circular ehaani 

feel deep- Sa awful w the discharge from 
that MupendouB mouth thai even Barbadoei, ■ 
hundred miles away, was thickly covered with 
the volcanic duit. But toon, after wreck and 
horror. St. Vincent laughed again in all ita 



A Tklure*™/' the m 



There in stupendous horror gre" 

The red volcano to the view, 

And shook in thunders of its own, 

While the blazed hill in lightnings shone, 

Scatt'ring thin arrows round. 
As down its sides of liquid flame 
The devastating cataract came. 
With melting rocks and crackling woods. 
And mingled roar of boiling floods, 

And rolled along the ground 1 

— /. M. W. Turner. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR 



MANILA BAY. 

The SpKiuih fleet wu dntroyed id Hioib 
Bay on U» 1, IBftS, bv Admiral Dewer- Tbii 



And -,, 

1$ there aught of the lesson now left 
untaught 
By the fight of Manila Bay? 

Two by two were the Spanish ships 
Formed in their battle line ; 

Their flags at the taffrail, peak and 

fore. 
And batt'ries ready upon the shore, 
Silently biding their time. 

Into their presence sailed our fleet, — 
The harbor was fully mined, — 
With shotted guns and open ports 
Up to their ships, — ay, — up to their 
forts ; 
For Dewey is danger-blind. 

Signalled the flagship, "Open fire." 
And the guns belched forth their 
death. 
"At closer range," was the order 

shown ; 
Then each ship sprang to claim her 

And to lick her fiery breath. 

Served were our squadron's heavy guns. 
With gunners stripped to the waist, 
And the blinding, swirling, sulph- 

Enveloped the ships, as each gun 

In its furious, fearful haste. 

Sunk and destroyed were the Spanish 

Hulled by our heavy shot, 
For the Yankee spirit is just the 

And the Yankee grit and the Yan- 
kee aim. 
And their courage which faileth not. 



The first great fight of the war is fought, 

And who is victor, — say, — 
Is there aught of the lesson now lefF 
untaught 
By the fight of Manila Bay ? 

- H. E. IV.. Jr. 



DEWEY IN MANILA BAY. 

He took a thousand islands and he didn't 
lose a man— 
(Raise your heads and cheer him as he 
goes I) 
He licked the sneaky Spaniard till the 
feljow cut and ran, 
For fighting's part of what a Yankee 

He fought 'em and he licked 'em, and 

he didn't give a d 

(It was only his profession for to 

win). 

He sank their boats beneath 'em, and 

he spared 'em as they swam. 

And then he sent his ambulances in. 

He had no word to cheer him and had 
no bands to play, 

He had no crowds to make his duty 

But he risked the deep torpedoes at the 
breaking of the day, 
For he knew he had our self-respect to 



He flew the angry signal crying justice 
for the Maine, 
He fiew it from his flagship as he 
fought. 
He drove the tardy vengeance in the 
very teeth of Spain. 
And he did it just because he thought 
he ought. 

He busted up their batteries, and sank 

eleven ships 
(He knew what he was doing, every 
bit): 
He set the Maxims going like a hun- 
dred cracking whips. 
And every shot that crackled was a 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



He broke 'em and he drove 'em, and he 
didn't care at all. 
He only liked to do as he was bid; 
He crumpled no their souadron and their 
batteries and ail, — 
He knew he had to lick 'em, and he 
did 

And when the thing was finished and 

they flew the frightened flag. 
He slung his guns and sent his foot 

And he gathered in their wounded, and 
he quite forgot to brag, 
For he thought he did his duty, noth- 
ing more. 

Oh, be took a thousand islands and he 
didn't lose A man — 
(Raise your heads and cheer him as 



he ( 



m!) 



He licked the sneaky Spaniard till the 
fellow cut and ran. 
For fighting's part of what a Yankee 
knows! 

—R. V. RUUy. 



KITCHEN MAY-DAY SONG. 



Remember us poor Mayers all! 

And thus do we begin 
To lead our lives in righteousness. 

Or else we die in sin. 

We have been rambling all the night. 

And almost all the day, 
And now returned back again, 

We have brought you a branch of 
May. 

The life of roan is but a span, 

It flourishes like a flower. 
We are here to-day and gone tc 

And we are dead in an hour. 



The moon shines bright and the stars 
give a light, 
A little before it is day; 
So God bless you all, both great and 

And send you a joyful May I 

—Old BaUad. 



Br ■ Gentleinan of the Foot-Cuai 

Prince Arthui wu the thiid lo] 

Victaru. He wu born on May 1 

day of the Duke of WclUngtos 



'ith Steady step and slow. 
All huppandawnd of Ranelagh Street; 
Ran'lagh St Pimlico. 

While marching huppandownd 

Upon that fair May mom, 
Beold (he booming cannings sound, 

A royal child is bomt 

The Ministers of Sute 

Then presnly I sor. 
They gallops to the Pallis gate. 

In carriages and for. 

With anxious looks intent. 

Before the gate they stop, 
There cornea the good Lord President, 

And there the Arch bis hopp. 

Lord .Tohn he next elights ; 

And who comes here in haste? 
'Tis the ero of one underd fights. 

The caudle for to taste. 

Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss, 
Towards them steps with joy; 

Says the brave old Duke, "Come tell to 
us. 
Is it a gal or a boy?" 

Says Mrs. L. to the Duke. 

"Your Grace, it is a Prince." 
And at that nuss's bold rebuke 

He did both laugh and wince. 

He vews with pleasant look 

This pooty flower of May, 

Then says the wenerable Duke, 

"Egad, it's my bath day." 

By memory baekards borne, 
Peraps his thoughts did stray 

To that old place where he was bom 
Upon the first of May. 

Perhaps he did recall 
The ancient towers of Trim ; 

And County Meath and Dangan Hall 
They did rewbit him. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



His good old thoughts employin'; 
Fourscore years and one ago 
Beside the flow in' Boyne. 

His father praps he sees. 
Most muside of Lords, 

A playing maddrigles and glees 
Upon the Arpiacords. 

Jest phansy this old Ero 
Upon his mother's kneel 

Did ever lady in this land 
Ave greater sons than she? 

And I shouldn be surprize 
While this was in his mind, 

If a drop there twinkled in his eyet 
Of unfamiliar brind. 



To Hapsly Ouse next day 

Drives up a Broosh and for, 
A gracious prince sits in that Shay 
n him with Hor!). 



TTiey ring upon the bell, 
The Porter shows his Ed, 

(He fought at Vaterloo as veil. 
And years a Veskit red). 

To see that carriage come, 
The people round it press: 

"And is the galliant Duke at ome?" 
"Your Royal Ighness, yes," 

He stepps from out the Broosh 

And in the gate is gone; 
And X, although the people push. 

Says wery kind, "Move hon." 

The Royal Prince unto 
The galliant Duke did say, 

TJear Duke, my little son and you 
Was born the self-same day. 

"The Lady of the land, 
My wife and Sovring dear. 

It is by her horgust command 
I wait upon you here. 

"That lady is as well 

As can expected be; 
And to your Grace she bid me tell 

TTiJs gracious message free. 



"That offspring of our race. 
Whom yesterday you see. 

To show our honour for your Grace, 
Prince Arthur he shall be. 

"That name it rhymes to fame ; 

All Europe knows the sound: 
And I couldn't find a better name 

If you'd give me twenty pound. 

"King Arthur had his knights 

That girt his table round. 
But you have won a hundred fights. 

Will match 'em, I'll be bound. 



That Prince his leave was took, 
His hinterview was done, 

So let us give the good old Duke 
Good luck of his god-son. 

And wish him years of joy 
In this our time of Schism. 

And hope he'll hear the Royal boy 
His little catechism. 

And my pooty little Prince 
That's come our arts to cheer. 

Let me my loyal powers ewince 
A wclcomin of you ere. 

And the Poit-Lau real's crownd, 

I think, in some respex, 
Eestremely shootable might be found 

For honest Pleaseman X. 

— iyUliam Makepeace Thackeray. 



HOOKER'S ACROSS. 



"Fighting Joe" Ho. 



! of ChancelloTivillc bj 
cr is commemotaied in 



Hooker's across I Hooker's across t 

Standards and guidons and lance-pen- 
nons toss 

Over the land where he points with his 
blade. 

Bristle the hill-top, and fill up the glade, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



145 



Who would nol follow a leader whose 

Has swelled, like our own, the battle's 

red flood? 
Who bore what we suffered, our wound 

and our pain, — 
Bore them with patience, and dares them 

again ? 

Hooker's across I 



each 



Out of jour channel 

Over whose body your dark billows roll ; 

Up from your borders we summon the 
dead, 

From valleys and hills where they strug- 
gled and bled. 

To joy in the vengeance the traitors shall 
feel 

At the roar of our guns and the rush of 
our steel I 

Hooker's across! 



Moving together, straight on, with one 

breath, 
Down to the outburst of passion and 

death. 
O, in the depths of our spirits we know 
If we fail now in the face of the foe, 
Flee from the Aeld with our flag soiled 

and dim, 
We may return, but 'twill not be with 

him I 

Hooker's across I 
—George H. Boker. 



if>a^ 2. 

KEENAN'S CHARGE. 

At the battle of Chi 
whkfa was /ought on 
federate! under Ue 
onder Hooker. 



[ar Z, isas. tEe Cou- 
lefeaied the Fedenli 

am of the western 



Brave Keenan looked in Pleasanton's 

For an instant — clear, and cool, and still; 
Then, with a smile, he said : "I will" 
"Cavalry, charge I" Not a man of them 

shrank ; 
Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on 

Rose joyously, with a willing breath — 

Rose like a greeting hail to death. 

Then forward they sprang, and spurred, 
and clashed; 

Shouted the oflicers, crimson-sashed; 

Rode well the men, each brave as his 
fellow. 

In their faded coats of the blue and yel- 
low; 

And above in the air, with an instinct 
true. 

Like a bird of war their pennon flew. 

With clank of scaUmrds and thunder of 

And blades that shine like sunlit reeds. 
And strong brown faces bravely pale. 
For fear their proud attempt shall fail, 
Three hundred Pennsylvania close 
On twice ten thousand gallant foes. 

Line after line the troopers came 

To the edge of the wood that was ring'd 

with flame; 
Rode in and sabred and shot— and fell: 
Nor came one back his wounds to teU. 
And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall 
In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his 

fall. 
While the circle-stroke of his sabre, 

swung 
'Round his head, like a halo there, lum- 
inous hung. 
Line after line, ay, whole platoons. 
Struck dead in their saddles, of brave 



By the maddened horses were onward 

borne 
And into the vortex flung, trampled and 

torn; 
As Keenan fought with his men, side toF 

side. 
So they rode, till there were no more to 

ride. 

But over them lying there, shattered and 

mute. 
What deep echo rolls? Tis a death 



146 



EVERY DAY IN THE YFAR. 



From the cannon in place; for, heroes, 

you braved 
Your fate not in vain: the army was 

saved I 
Over them now — year following year — 
Over their graves the pine-cones fall, 
And the whippoorwill chants his spectre- 
call; 
But they stir not again; they raise no 

cheer: 
They have ceased. But their glory shall 

never cease, 
Nor their light be quenched in the light 

of peace. 
The rush of their charge is resounding 

still. 
That saved the army at Chancellorsville. 
--George Parsons Lathrop. 



THE BRIER-WOOD PIPE. 



This poem commemorates the passage of the 
Fh-e Zouaves through Washington, May 2, 
1861. 



Ha ! Bully for me, again, when my turn 
for picket is over; 

And now for a smoke, as I lie, with the 
moonlight, out in the clover. 

My pipe, it's only a knot from the root 
of the brier-wood tree; 

But it turns my heart to the northward — 
Harry gave it to me. 

And Fm but a rough, at best — ^bred up in 
the row and the riot, 

But a softness comes over my heart when 
all are asleep and quiet. 

For many a time in the night strange 
things appear to my eye. 

As the breath from my brier-wood pipe 
sails up between me and the sky. 

Last night a beautiful spirit arose with 
the wisping smoke; 

O, I shook, but my heart felt good as it 
spread out its hands and spoke, 

Saying, "I am the soul of the brier; we 
grew at the root of a tree, 

Where lovers would come in the twi- 
light, two ever, for company ; 

Where lovers would come in the morn- 
ing, ever but two together; 

When the flowers were full in their blow, 
the birds in their song and feather; 

Where lovers would come in the noon- 
time, loitering, never but two: 



Looking in each other's eyes, like the 

pigeons that kiss and coo. 
And O, the honeyed words that came 

when the lips were parted. 
And the passion that glowed in eyes, and 

the lightning looks that darted. 
Enough : love dwells in the pipe, so ever 

it glows with fire! 
I am the soul of the bush, and spirits 

call me 'sweet-brier'." 
That's what the brier-wood said, as nigh 

as my tongue can tell; 
And the words went straight to my 

heart, like the stroke of the fire bell ! 
To-night I lie in the clover watching the 

blossoming smoke; 
I'm glad the boys are asleep, for I ain't 

in the humor to joke. 
I lie in the hefty clover : between me and 

the moon 
The smoke from my pipe arises: my 

heart will be quiet soon. 
My thoughts are back in the city. I'm 

everything I've been. 
I hear the bell from the tower, I run 

with the swift machine. 
I see the red shirts crowding around 

the engine-house door; 
The foreman's hail through the trumpet 

comes with a sullen roar. 
The reel in the Bowery dance-house, the 

row in the beer saloon. 
When I put in my licks at Big Paul, 

come between me and the moon. 
I hear the drum and the bugle, the tramp 

of the cowskin boots; 
We are marching to the capital, the Fire 

Zouave recruits ! 
White handkerchiefs move before me: 

O, but the sight is pretty ! 
On the white marble steps, as we march 

through the heart of the city, 
Bright eyes and clasping arms, and lips 

that bid us good hap, 
And the splendid lady who gave me the 

havelock for my cap. 
O, up from my pipe-cloud rises, between 

me and the moon, 
A beautiful white-robed lady: my heart 

will be quiet soon. 
The lovely golden-haired lady ever in 

dreams I see, 
Who gave me the snow-white havelock 

— but what does she care for me? 
Look at my grimy features: mountains 

between us stand — 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



I with my sledge-hammer knuckles, she 

with her jewelled handl 
What care I? The day that's dawning 

may see me, when all is over, 
With the red stream of my life-blood 

staining the hefty clover. 
Hark I the reveille sounding out on the 

morning air! 
Devils are we for the battle— will fhere 

be angels there? 
Kiss me again, sweet-brier t The touch 

of your lips to mine 
Brings back the white-robed lady, with 

hair like the golden wine ! 

—CharUt Dawso» Shanly. 



fDa? 3. 

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF 
THOMAS HOOD. 



ridee of Sigtu" a 



Take back into thy bosom, Earth, 

This joyous. May-eyed morrow. 
The gentlest child that ever Mirth 

Gave to be reared by Sorrow I 
'Tis hard — while rays halt green, half 
gold. 

Through vernal bowers are burning, 
And streams their diamond- mirrors hold 

To Summer's face returning — 
To s - - 

Shafl .. 
In whose sweet -tongucd companionship 

Stream, bower, and beam grew 
brighter I 

n. 

But all the more intensely true 

His soul gave out each feature 
Of elemental love — each hue 

And grace of golden Nature — 
The deeper still beneath it all 

Lurked the keen jags of anguish; 
The more the laurels clasped his brow 

Their poison made it languish. 
Seemed it that like the nightingale 

Of bis own mournful singing. 



The tenderer would bis song prevail 
While most the thorn was stinging. 



So never to the desert-wora 

Did fount bring freshness deeper. 
Than that his placid rest this mom 

Has brought the shrouded sleeper. 
That rest may lap his weary head 

Where charnels choke the city. 
Or where, mid woodlands, by his bed 

The wren shall wake its ditty; 
But near or far, while evening's star 

Is dear to hearts regretting, 
Around that spot admiring Thought 

Shall hover, unforgetting. 



And if this sentient, seething world 

Is, after all, ideal. 
Or in the Immaterial furled 

Alone resides the real. 
Freed one! there's a wail for thee this 
hour 

Through thy loved Elves' dominions; 
Hushed is each tiny trumpet-flower, 

And droopeth Ariel's pinions; 
Even Puck, dejected, leaves his swing. 

To plan, with fond endeavor. 
What pretty buds and dews shall keep 

Thy pillow bright for ever. 

T. 

And higher, if, less happy, tribes — 

The race of early childhood — 
Shall miss thy whims of frolic wit. 

That in the sumnier wild- wood, 
Or by the Christmas hearth, were hailed. 

And hoarded as a treasure 
Of undecaying merriment 

And ever-changing pleasure. 
Things from thy lavish humor flung 

Profuse as scents, are flying 
This kindling morn, when bloom* are 

As fast as blooms are dying. 



Sublimer Art owned thy control — 
The minstrel's mightiest magic, 

With sadness to subdue the soul. 
Or thrill it with the tragic 

Now listening Aram's fearful dreanti 
We see beneath the '«\V\qm 



148 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



That dreadful Thing, or watch him steal. 

Guilt -hgh ted, to his pillow. 
Now with thee roaming ancient groves. 

We watch the woodman felling 
The funeral elm, while through its 

The ghostly wind comes knelling. 



Dear worshipper of Dian's face 

In solitary places, 
Shalt thou no,more steal, as of yore. 

To meet her white embraces? 
Is there no purple in the rose 

Henceforward to thy senses? 
For thee have dawn and daylight's close 

Lost their sweet influences? 
Not— by the mental night untamed 

Thou took'st to Death's dark porul. 
The joy o( the wide universe 

Is now to thee immortal I 

How fierce contrasts the city's roar 

With thy new-conquered quiet ! — 
This stunning hell of wheels that pour 
I With princes to their riot ! 
Loud clash the crowds — the busy clouds 

With thunder-noise are shaken, 
While pale, and mute, and cold, afar 

Thou liest, men-forsaken. 
Hot life reeks on, nor recks that one 

— The playful, human -hearted — 
Who lent its clay less earlhiness, 

Is just from earth depbrted. 

— B. Simmoiu. 



BATTLE OF ST. ALBANS. 



riclory for tb< Y«1i- 



S(±NE, Ficldt near St. ^Iban's. 

j4larum. Retreat. Enter Yokk, Richard, 
Wabwick, and Soldiers, tiiith drui^ and 
colours. 
York. Of Salisbury, who can report 

That winter lion, who. in rage forgets 
jifed eoatusions and all brush of time, 



And, like a gallant in the brow of youth, 
Repairs him with occasion? This happy 

Is not itself, nor have we won one foot, 
If Salisbury be losL 

Rick. My noble father. 

Three times to-day I holp him to bU 

Three times bestrid him; thrice I led 

him off. 
Persuaded him fiom any further act; 
But still, where flanger was, still there I 

And like rich hangings in a homely 

So was his will in his old feeble body. 
But, noble as he is, look where he comes. 

Enter Sausbury. 

Sal Now. by my sword, well hast 
thou fought to-day; 
By the mass, so did we all. I thank you, 
Richard : 

God knows how long it is I have to live; 
And it hath pleased him that three times 

You have defended me from imminent 

death. 
Well, lords, we have not got that which 

'Tis not enough our foes are this timt 

fled, 
Being opposites of such repairing nature. 
York. 1 know our safely is to follow 

them; 
For, as I hear, the king is (led to Lon- 

To call a present court of parliament. 
Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth. 
What says Lord Warwick ? shall wc 

after them? 
War. After them ! nay, before them, 

if we can. 
Now, by my faith, lords, 'twas a glorious 

Saint Alban's battle won by famous 

York 
Shall be eternized ig all age to come. 
Sound drums and trumpets, and to Lon* 

don all: 
And more such days as these to us be- 
fall 1 

[Exeunt. 
Henry VI. Faxt II. Act V. Sc. 3. 
Shakespeare. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



BATTLE OF TEWKSBURY. 

In ibis bittle. fought on W&y 4, IITI. the 
Vorkiiti under Edward IV complete] r de- 
(Mted the Lancastrian, under Henry VI. 
Tbii Mcnied the throne to Edward IV. 



Margaret. Great lords, wise men ne'er 
sit and wail their loss, 
But cheerly seek how to redress their 

What though the mast be now blown 

overboard. 
The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, 
And half our sailors swallow'd in the 

flood? 
Yet lives our pilot still. Is't meet that he 
Should leave the helm and like a fearful 

lad 
With tearful eyes add water to the sea 
And give more strength to that which 

hath too much, 
Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on 

the rock, 
Which industry and courage might have 

Ah, what a shame I ah, what a fault were 

this! 
Say Warwick was our anchor; what of 

that? 
And Montague our topmast; what of 

him? 
Our slaughtcr'd friends the tackles; what 

of these? 
Why, is not Oxford here another an- 

And Somerset another goodly mast? 
The friends of France our shrouds and 

tacklings ? 
And, though unskilful, why not Ned and 

I 
For once allow'd the skilful pilot's 

charge? 
Wc will not from the helm to sit and 

But keep our course, though the rough 

wind say no. 
From shelves and rocks that threaten us 

with wreck. 



As good to chide the waves as speak 
them fair. 

And what is Edward but a ruthless sea? 

What Clarence but a quicksand of de- 
ceit? 

And Richard but a ragged fatal rock? 

All these the enemies to our poor bark. 

Say you can swim; alas, 'tis but a while I 

Tread on the sand ; why, there you 
quickly sink: 

Bestride the rock : the tide will wash you 
off. 

Or else you famish; that's a threefold 
death. 

This speak I, lords, to let you under- 
stand. 

In case some one of you would tly from 

That there's no hoped-for mercy with 

the brothers 
More than with ruthless waves, with 

sands and rocks. 
Why courage then ! what cannot be 

avoided 
'Twere childish weakness to lament or 

fear. 
Prince. Methinks a woman of this 

valiant spirit 
Should, if a coward heard her speak 

these words, 
Infuse his breast with magnanimity 
And make him, naked, foil a man at 

I speak not this as doubting any here; 
For did I but suspect a fearful man. 
He should have leave to go away be- 

Lest in our need he might infect another 

And make him of like spirit to himself. 

If any such be here — as God forbid I — 

Let him depart before we need his help. 
Oxf. Women and children of so high 
a courage, 

And warriors faint t why, 'twere perpet- 
ual shame. 

O brave young prince I thy famous 
grandfather 

Doth live again in thee: long mayst thou 

To bear his image and renew his glories ! 
Henry VI. Part III. Act V. Sc. 4. 
— SlM\tctbeM«. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



n>a? 5. 

DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 

poleoD Bonaparte died at St Helena, ISmy 



Wild was the night, yet a wilder night 
Hung round the soldier's pillow; 

In his bosom there waged a fiercer 6ght 
Than the fight on the wrathful billow. 



A few fond 
The few that his stem heart cher- 

They knew by his glazed and unearthly 
eye 
That life had nearly perished. 

They knew by his awful and kingly look. 

By the order hastily spoken. 
That he dreamed of days when the na- 
tions shook, 

And the nations' hosts were broken. 



He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword 
still slew, 
And triumphed the Frenchman's 
"Eagle;" 
And the struggling Austrian tied anew, 
Like the hare before the beagle. 

The bearded Russian he scourged again, 
The Prussian's camp was routed. 

And again on the hills of haughty Spain 
His mighty armies shouted. 






Over Egypt's sands, 
At the Pyramids, 
Where the wave of the lordly Danube 

And by the Italian fountain; 
On the snowy clifTs, where 



Dash by the Switzcr's dwelling, 
He Jed again, in his dying dreams, 
JI/s hosts, the broad &rth quelling. 



Again Marengo's field was won, 

And Jena's bloody battle; 
Again the world was overrun. 

Made pale at his cannon's rattle. 

He died at the close of that darksome 

A day that shall live in story ; 
In the rocky land they placed his clay, 
"And left him alone with bis glory.'* 
— Isaac MacLtlUiH. 



What! alive and so bold, O Earth? 
Art thou not over-bold? 

What 1 leapest thou forth as of old 

In the light of thy morning mirth, 
The last of the flock of the starry fold? 
Ha! leapest thou forth as of old? 
Are not the limbs stiU when the ghost 

is fled? 
And canst thou more, Napoleon being 

dead? 

How! is not thy quick heart cold? 

What spark is alive on thy hearth? 
Howl is not his death-knell knolled? 

And livest thou still, Mother Earth? 
Thou wert warming Ihy finKers old 
O'er the embers covered and cold 
Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled— 
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is 

"Who has known me of old," replied 

Earth, 
"Or who has my story told? 
It is thou who art over-bold." 
And the lightening of scorn laughed 

forth 
As she sung, ''To my bosom I fold 
AH my sons when their knell is knolled, 
And so with living motion all are fed, 
And the quick spring like weeds out of 

the dead. 

"Still alive and still bold," shouted 
Earth, 
"1 grow bolder, and still more bold. 
The dead fill me ten thousandfold 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



15* 



Fuller of speed, and splendour, and 

mirth ; 
I was cloudy, and aullen, and cold. 
Like a frozen chaos uprolled. 
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead 
My heart grew warm. I feed on whom 

I fel 

"Ay, alive and still bold," muttered 

Earth, 
"Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled, 
In terror, and blood, and gold, 
A torrent of ruin to death from his 
birth. 
Leave the millions who follow to mould 
The metal before it is cold, 
And weave into his shame, which like 

the dead 
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his 
glory fled." 

— Percy Bytsht ShtlUy. 



POPULAR RECOLLECTIONS OF 
BONAPARTE. 

After Berufer. 

They'll talk of him for years to come 

In cottage chronicle and tale; 
When for aught else renown is dumb. 

His legend shall prevail I 
Then in the hamlet's honored chair 

Shall sit some aged dame. 
Teaching to lowly clown and villager 

That narrative of fame. 
Tia true, they'll say, his gorgeous 
throne 
France Wed to raise; 

But he was all our ownl 
Mother, say something in his praise — 

Oh speak of him always ! 



My children he could boast 
A train of conquered kings 1 

And when he came this road, 
'Twas on my bridal day, 

He wore — for near to him I stood — 
Cocked hat and surcoat gray. 



I Itluslied ; he said, 'Be of good cheer t 
Courage, my dearl' 

That was his very word." — 
■Mother I oh then this really occurred. 

And you his voice <could hear ! 

"A year rolled on ; When next at Paris I, 
Lone woman that I am, 
Saw him pass by. 
Girt with his peers, to kneel at Notre 

T knew by merry chime and signal gun, 
Xkid granted him a son. 
And oh! I wept for joyl 
For Why not weep when Warrior-men 

did, 
Who gazed upon that fii^ht SO Splendid, 

And blessed the imperial boy? 
Never did noonday sun shine out SO 
bright 1 
Oh, what a sight I"— 
Mother 1 for you that must have been 
A glorious scene! 

"But when all Europe's gathered 

strength 
Burst o'er the French frontier at lei^h, 

'Twill scarcely be believed 
What wonders, single-handed, he 
achieved. 
Such genera] never lived I 
One evening on my threshold stood 
A guest — 'twas he ! Of warriors few 

He hid a toil- worn retinue. 

He flung himself into this chair of wood. 

Muttering, meantime, with fearful air, 

■Quelle guerre! oh, quelle guerre 1'" 

Mother, and did our emperor sit there. 

Upon that very chair? 

"He said, 'Give me some food.' 
Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine, 
And made the kindling fire-blodca 

To dry his cloak, with wet bedewed. 
Soon by the bonnie blaze he slept; 
Then waking, chid me (for I wept) : 
'Courage!' he cried, 'I'll strike for all 
Under the sacred wall 
Of France's noble capital I' 
Those were his words: I've treasured 
up 
With pride that same wine-cup. 
And for its weight in gold 
It neocx «\i%& ^M w&i^ 



IS2 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Mother! an that proud relic let us gaze— 

Oh keep that cup always! 
"But, through some fatal witchery. 
He whom a Pope had crowned and 
blessed. 
Perished, my sons, by foulest Ireach- 

Cast on an isle far in the lonely West. 
Long time sad rumors were afloat — 

The fatal tidings we would spurn. 
Still hoping from that isle remote 

Once more our hrro would return. 
But when the dark aiuouncement drew 

Tears from the virtuous and the 

When the sad whisper proved too true, 

A flood of grief I to his memory gave. 

Peace to the glorious dead!" — 

Mother! may God His fullest blessing 

abed 

Upon your aged head ! 

— Father Prout. 
(Fronds Mahony.) 



NAPOLEON. 

A soul inhuman? No, not human all, 
If human is each passion man has 

known: 
Scorn, hate, and love; the lust of em- 
pire, grown 
To such a height as did the world ap- 
pal :- 
If the same human soul may soar and 

As soared his and as crawled; if to 

atone 
For fame consummate by colossal 



fall:- 



That fed them; if througk gnawing 

Vengeance, and space to breathe the un- 
fettered air- 
No alien from his kiad but very man 
Slow perished on that island of At- 
tpair. 

—Rkhard Watson CUder. 



CCt9^ 6. 



AN UNINSCRIBED MONUMENT 
ON ONE OF THE BATTLE- 
FIELDS OF THE WILDER- 
NESS. 



Tbe battle of <hc Wildernen luted three 
dlTI ind wu fought in Virir[nii bawrat tfa; 
Fcderali under Gran 
under Lee. Tbe reiult ot tbe Ml 
decided, and it wu fnllowed aii 
dsjra br the Iptile of Spottarlvan 



: Conledeialei 



of Cen 



■al Crai 



fe, "I propose to fight i 
It takei ^aummer'' 



Silence and Solitude may hint 
(Wiiose home is in yon piny wood) 

What I, thougji tableted, could never 
tell— 

The din which here befell, 
And striving of the multitude. 

The iron cones and spheres of death 
Set round me in their rust,— 
These two if just 

Shall speak with more than animated 
breath- 
Show who beholdest, if thy thought, 

Not narrowed down to personal cheer. 

Take in the import of the quiet here — 
The after-quiet— the calm full fraught I 

Thou too wilt silent stand, — 

Silent as I, and lonesome as the land. 
Herman MelvilU. 



THOREAU'S FLUTE. 



Henry David Thare; 






We sighing said, "Our Pan is dead; 

His pipe hangs mute beside the river; 

Around it wistful sunbeams quiver. 
But Music's airy voice is fled. 
Spring mourns as for untimely frost; 

The bluebird chants a requiem ; 

The willow-blossom waits for him; — 
The Genius of the wood is lost," 

Then from the flute, untouched by 

Tliere came a low, harmonious breath : 
"For such as he there is no death; — 
His life the eternal life commands; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Above man's aims his nature rose. 
The wisdom oE a just content 
Made one small spot a continent, 

And tuned to poetry hfe'a prose. 

"Haunting the hills, the streams, the 

Swallow and aster, lake and pine. 
To him grew human or divine, — 

Fit mates for this large-hearted child. 

Such homage Nature ne'er forgets, 
And yearly on the coverlid 
'Nealh which her darling lieth hid 

Will write his name in violets. 

"To him no vain regrets belong 
Whose soul, that finer instrument, 
Gave to the world no poor lament. 

But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. 

lonely friend! he still will be 
A potent presence, though unseen, — 
Steadfast, sagacious, and serene; 

Seek not for him — he is with thee." 
— Louisa M. Alcott. 



flDa? 7. 

TO ROBERT BROWNING. 

Born Ma; T, 1S12. 

There is delight in singing, tho' none 

Beside the singer; and there is delight 
In praising, tho' the pratser sit alone 
And see the prais'd far off him, far 

Shakespeare is not our poet, but the 

Therefore on him no speech ! and brief 

Browning I Since Giaucer was alive and 

hale. 
No man hath walkt along our roads with 



Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: 

the brecie 
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, 

borne on 
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 
The Siren waits thee, singing song for 

•ong. — Walter Savage Landor. 



HDai? 8. 



RELIEF OF ORLEANS. 



relierint force u 
1*29. 



ini by the Ensliih bcsui 
1 wu fiaalty raised by a 
Jdui of Ate. on Hay S, 



La Pucelle, Advance our waving col- 
ours on the walls; 
Rescued is Orleans from the English: 
Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform'd her 

Charles. Divinest creature, Astrsa'a 
daughter, 

How shall I honour thee for this suc- 
cess? 

Thy promises are like Adonis' gardens 

That one day bloom'd and fruitful were 
the next. 

France, triumph in thy glorious prophet- 

Recover'd is the town of Orleans ; 
More blessed hap did ne'er befall our 

state. 
Reignier. Why ring not out the bells 

aloud throughout the town? 
Dauphin, command the citizens make 

bcmfires 
And feast and banquet in the open 

streets. 
To celebrate the joy that God hath given 

AlencoH. All France will be replete 

with mirth and joy. 
When they shall hear how we have 

play'd the men. 
Char, 'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the 

day is won ; . 
For which I will divide my crown with 

her, 
And all the priests and friars in my 

realm 
Shall in procession sing her endless 

praise. 
A statlier pyramis to her I'll rear 
Than Hhodope's or Memphis' ever was: 
In memory of her when she is dead. 
Her ashes, in an urn more precious 
Then the rich-jewel'd coffer of Dariui, 
Transported shall be at high festivals 
Before the ktni^ and queens of France. 
No longer on Saint Denis will we cry. 
But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's 



154 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Come in, and let us banquet royally. 
After this golden day of victory. 

[Flourish, Exeunt. 
—Henry VI.. Port ist. Act. I., Scene 6. 
Shakespeare. 



fDa^ a 



THE DEATH OF SCHILLER. 

Johann von Scbillcr, tbe famoiu Gcna 
poet and dramatitt. died Har ■■ 1808. 

Tit said, when Schiller's death drew 



Of every floating zephyr came pleasant 

sounds of spring, — 
Of robins in the orchards, brooks run* 

ning clear and warm. 
Or chanticleer's shrill challenge from 

busy farm to farm. 

Bot, ranged in serried order, attent on 

sterner noise. 
Stood stalwart Ethan Allen and his 

"Green Mountain Boys," — 
Two hundred patriots listening, as with 



Then strayed the poet, in his dreams. 

By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves; 
Went up the New World's forest 

Stood in the Hindoo's teropleoves; 

Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and 
sUrk, 

The sallow Tartar, midst his herds. 
The peering Chinese, and the dark 

False Malay uttering gentle words. 

How could he rest? even then he trod 
The threshold of the world unknown ; 

Already, from the seat of God, 
A ray upon his garments shone;— 



Till, freed by death, his soul of fire 
Spratig to a fairer, ampler sphere. 
—William Culten Bryant. 



the ( 






"My comrades,"— thus the leader spake 
to his gallant band, — 

"The key of all the Canadas is in King 
George's hand, 

Yet, while his careless -ivarders our slen- 
der armies mock. 

Good Yankee swords— God willing — may 
pick his rusty lock I" 

At every pass a sentinel was set to guard 

the way. 
Lest the secret of their purpose some fdle 

lip betray, 
As on the rocky highway they marched 

with steady feet 
To the rhythm of the brave hearts that 

in their bosoms beat. 

The curtain of the darkness dosed 
'round them like a tent. 

When, travel-worn and -weary, yet not 
with courage spent, 

They halted on the border of slumber- 
ing Champlain, 

And «aw the watch lights glimmer acroai 
the glassy plain. 



tats^ 10. 



u luiprised and captured bi 

nder Etbati Allen on Uty to, 

'ird Ukeo by Burgoyne. 



Well might your quiet garrison have 
trembled where they lay, 

And, dreaming, grasped their sabres 
against the dawn of day I 

In silence and in shadow the boats were 

pushed from shore, 
Strong hands laid down the musket to 

ply the muffled oar; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



155 



The startled ripoles whitened and whis- 
pered in their wake. 

Then sank again, reposing, upon the 
peaceful lake. 

Fourscore and three they landed, just as 
the morning gray, 

Gave warning on the hilltops to rest not 
or delay ; 

Behind, their comrades waited, the fort- 
ress frowned before. 

And the voice of Ethan Allen was in 
their ears once more: 

"Soldiers, so long united — dread scourge 

of lawless power! 
Our country, torn and bleeding, calls to 

ihis desperate hour. 
One choice alone is left us, who hear 

that high behest— 
To quit our claims to valor, or put them 



o the t< 



They swarm before the barracks — the 

quaking guards take flight. 
And such a shout resultant resounds 

along the height. 
As rang from shore and headland scarce 

twenty years ago. 
When brave Montcalm's defenders 

charged on a British foe I 



"I lead the storming column up yonder 

fateful hill, 
Yet not a man shall follow save at his 

ready will ! 
There leads no pathway backward — 't is 

death or vicloryl 
Poise each his trusty firelock, ye that 

will come with mel" 

From man to man a tremor ran at their 

captain's word, — 
(Like the "going" in the mulberry-trees 

that once King David heard), — 
While his eagle glances sweeping adown 

the triple hne. 
Saw, in the glowing twilight, each even 

barrel shine I 

"Right face, my men, and forward I" 
Low-spoken, swift-obeyed ! 

They mount the slope unfaltering — they 
gain the esplanade I 

A single drowsy sentry beside the wick- 
t-gate. 



Leaps from his bed tn terror the ill- 
starred De lap lace, 

To meet across his threshold a wall he 
may not pass ! 

The bayonets' lightning flashes athwart 
his dazzled eyes, 

And, in tones of sudden thunder, "Sur- 
render I" Allen cries. 

"Then in whose name the summons?" 

the ashen lips reply. 
The mountaineer's stem visage turns 

proudly to the sky, — 
"In the name of great Jehovah!" he 

speaks with lifted sword, 
"And the Continental Congress, who 

wait upon his wordl" 

Light clouds, like crimson banners, 
trailed bright across the east. 

As the great sun rose in splendor above a 
conflict ceased, 

Gilding the bloodless triumph for equal 
rights and laws. 

As with the smile of heaven upon a holy 



Where o 



e heroes mustered froi 



men of common guise. 
And still, on Freedom's roster, through 

all her glorious years. 
Shine the names of Ethan Allen and his 

bold volunteers! 

— Mary A. P. Stantbury. 



StoDcwilI Jsckson ■ 



irille < 



Mar S. 



He died 



What ar« the thoughts that are stirring 
his breast? 

What is the mystical vision he sees? 
—"Let us pass over the river, and rest 

Under the shade of the trees." 

Has he grown sick of his toils and his 
Sighs the worn spirit for respite or 



156 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



la it the gurgle of waters whose flow 
Ofttime has come to him, borne on the 

Memory listens to, lapsing so low, 
Under the shade of the trees? 

Nay — though the rasp of the flesh was 

Faith, that had yearnings far keener 

than these. 
Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward 

Under the shade of the trees; — 

Caught the high psalms of ecstatic de- 
light- 
Heard the harps harping, like sound- 
ings of seas- 
Watched earth's assoiled ones walking in 

Under the shade of the trees. 

Oh, was it strange he should pine for 

Touched lo the soul with such trans- 
ports as these, — 
He who so needed the balsam of peace. 
Under the shade of the trees? 

Yes, it was nohlesl for him — it was best 

(Questioning naught of our Father's 
decrees). 
There to pass over the river and rest 
Under the shade of the trees! 

— Margaret J. Preston. 



Not 'mid the lightning of the stormy 
fight, 
Not in the rush upon the vandal foe. 
Did kingly Death, with his resistless 
might. 
Lay the great leader low. 

His warrior soul its earthly shackles 
broke 
In the full sunshine of a peaceful 

When all the storm was hushed, the 
lru«y oak 
That propped our cause went down. 



Though his alone the blood that flecks 
the ground. 
Recording all bis grand, heroic deeds. 
Freedom herself is writhing with the 
wound, 
And all the country bleeds. 

He entered not the Nation's Promised 

At the red belching of the cannon's 

mouth ; 
But brcJte the House of Bondage with 

his hand— 
The Moses of the South I 

gracious God I not gainless is the 

A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest 

And while his country staggers with the 

He rises with the Crown. 

— Harry L. Flash. 



THE DYING WORDS OF STONE- 
WALL JACKSON. 



"Order A. P. Hill to prepare 
"Tell Major Ha%vk> lo advanc. 



The stars of Night contain the glitl 

ing Day 
And rain his glory down with s 

grace 
Upon the dark World's grand, enchanted 

face— 
All loth to turn away. 
And so the Day. about to yield his 

Utters the stars unto the listening Night, 
To stand for burning fare -thee- we Us of 
light 

Said on the verge of death. 



And stood and shone above the gloomy 
When the hero-life was done t 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



157 



The phantoms of a battle came to dwell 
r the fitful vision of his dying eyes — 
Yet even in battle-dreams, he sends sup- 
plies 
To those he loved so well 
His army stands in battle-line arrayed; 
His couriers fly: all's done: now God 

decide ! 
— And not till then saw he the Other 
Side 
Or would accept the shade. 

Thou Land whose sun is gone, thy stars 

remain ! 
Still shine the words that miniature his 

deeds. 
O thrice-beloved, where'er thy great 

heart bleeds, 
Solace hast thou for pain ! 

— Sidney Lanier, 



STONEWALL JACKSON. 



The Man who fiercest charged in fight, 
Whose sword and prayer were long — 
Stonewall ! 

Even him who stoutly stood for Wrong, 

How can we praise? Yet coming days 
Shall not for(3:et him with this song. 

Dead is the Man whose Cause is dead. 
Vainly he died and set his seal — 
Stonewall I 

Earnest in error, as we feel; 

True to the thing he deemed was due, 

True as John Brown or steel. 

Relentlessly he routed us ; 
But we relent, for he is low — 
Stonewall ! 
Justly his fame we outlaw ; so 
We drop a tear on the bold Virginian's 
bier. 
Because no wreath we owe. 

— Herman Melville, 



STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY. 



These verses, says Mr. William Gilmore 
Simms, "were found, stained with blood, in 
the breast of a dead soldier of the old Stone- 
wall brigade, after one of Jackson's battles in 
the Shenandoah Valle^r." Though widely 
copied and justly adourcd, their 9uth«rship 



long remained a well-kept secret. Thev were 
unouestionably written by Dr. J. W. Palmer, 
of Maryland. 



Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the 
rails. 

Stir up the camp-fire bright; 
No growling if the canteen fails. 

We'll make a roaring night. 
Here Shenandoah brawls along. 
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong. 
To swell the Brigade's rousing song 

Of "Stonewall Jackson's way." 

We see him now — ^the queer slouched 
hat 
Cocked o'er his eye askew ; 
The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so 
pat. 
So calm, so blunt, so true. 
The "Blue-Light Elder" knows 'em well ; 
Says he, "That's Banks — he's fond of 

shell ; 
Lord save his soul! we'll give him — " 
well! 
That's "Stonewall Jackson's way." 

Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps 
off! 

Old Massa's goin' to pray. 
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! 

Attention! it's his way. 
Appealing from his native sod. 
In forma pauperis to God: 
"Lay bare Thine arm ; stretch forth Thy 
rod! 

Amen!" That's "Stonewall's way.' 



f> 



He's in the saddle now. Fall in! 

Steady ! the whole brigade ! 
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win 

His way out, ball and blade! 
What matter if our shoes are worn? 
What matter if our feet are torn? 
"Quick step! we're with him before 
mom !" 

That's "Stonewall Jackson's way.' 



t» 



The sun's bright lances rout the mists 

Of morning, and, by George! 
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the 
lists. 
Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 
Pope and his Dutchmen, whipped be- 
fore; 
"Ba/nets and grape!" hear Stonewall 



roar; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



"Chaiiie, Sluart I Pay off Ashbr's 
In "Stonewall Jackson's way." 

Ahl Maiden, wait and watch and yearn 
For news of Stonewall's band ! 

Ahl Widow, read, with eyes that burn, 
That ring upon thy hand. 

Ah I Wife, sew on, pray on, hope on ; 

Thy life shall not be all forlorn ; 

The foe had better ne'er been born 
That gets in "Stonewall's way." 

— /. IV. Palmer. 



fl>at! tt. 



FONTENOY. 

A oilluc in Belgium. Hrrc, on MiT 11. 
]T4fi, the Trench under Manhal Sue defeated 
the ilUed Kngliah, Dutch and Hsnoviriani 
undCT the DuEe of Cumberland. The Iriib 

flory. 

Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the En- 

ghsh column failed. 
And twice the lines of St. Antoine the 

Dutch in vain assailed; 
For town and slo^e were guarded with 

fort and artillery. 
And well they swept the English ranks 

and Dutch auxiliary. 
As vainly through De Barri's wood the 

British sold-?rs burst. 
The French artilifery drove them back, 

diminished and dispersed. 
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld 

with anxious eye. 
And ordered up his last reserve, his lat- 
est chance to try. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his 

generals ride I 
And mustering come his chosen troops, 

like clouds at eventide. 
Six thousand English veterans in stately 

column tread. 
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, 

Lord Hay is at their head; 
Steady they step a-down the slope — 

steady they climb the hill — 
Steady^ they load— steady they fire, mov- 
ing right onward still 



Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as 

though a furnace blast, 
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, 

and bullets showering fast ; 
And on the open plain above they rose, 

and kept their course. 
With ready 6 re and steadiness, that 

mocked at hostile force. 
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while 

thinner grow their ranks, 
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee 

through Holland's ocean banks. 



More idly than the summer flies French 

tirailleurs rush round; 
As stubble to the lava tide, French 

squadrons strew the ground ; 
Bombshell, and grape, and round shot 

tore, still on they marched and 

Fast from each volley grenadier and 

voltigeur retired. 
"Push on, my household avalry," King 

Louis madly cried: 
To death they rush, but rude their shock 

—not unavenged they died. 
On through the camp the column trod — 

King Louis turns his rein ; 
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, 

"the Irish troops remain ;" 
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had 

been a Waterloo, 
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, 

vehement, and true. 

"Lord Oare," he says, "you have your 

wish — there are your Saxon foes;" 
The marshal almost smiles to see, so 

furiously he goes I 
How fierce the look these exiles wear, 

who're wont to be so gay! 
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are 

in their hearts to-day — 
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 

'twas writ could dry. 
Their plundered homes, their ruined 

shrines, their women's parting cry. 
Their priesthood hunted down like 

wolves, their country over- 
thrown — 
Each looks as if revenge for all rested 

on him alone. 
On Fontenoy on Fontenoy, nor ever yet 

elsewhere, 
Rushed on to light a nobler band than 

these proud exiles were. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



159 



O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, 

halting, he commands, 
"Fix bayonets — charge." Like mountain 

storms rush on these fiery bands 1 
Thin is the English column now, and 

faint their volleys grow, 
Yet, mustering all the strength they 

have, they make a gallant show. 
They dress their ranks upon the hill to 

face that battle-wind — 
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like 

rocks, the men behind I 
One volley crashes from their line, when, 

through the surging smokd. 
With empty guns clutched in their 

hands, the headlong Irish broke. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that 

fierce huzzah! 
"Revenge! remember Limerick! dash 

down the Sassenach." 
Like lions leaping at a fold when mad 

with hunger's pang. 
Right up against the English line the 

Irish exiles sprang. 
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, 

their guns are filled with gore; 
Through shattered ranks, and severed 

files, and trampled Rags they tore. 
The English strove with desperate 

strength, paused, rallied, stag- 
gered, fled — 
The green hill-side is matted close with 

dying and with dead. 
Across the plain and far away passed on 

that hideous wrack, 
While cavalier and fantassin dash in 

upon their track, 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles 

in the sun. 
With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the 

field is fought and won I 

— Thomas Davis. 



LORD CHATHAM. 



Died on May 11, 1778. 



In him Demosthenes was heard again; 
Liberty taught him her Athenian strain; 
She clothed him with authority and awe. 
Spoke from his lips, and in his looks 

gave law. 
His speech, his form, his action full of 

grace, 



And all his country beaming in his face, 
He stood as some inimitable hand 
Would strive to make a Paul or TuUy 

stand. 
No sycophant or slave, that dared op- 
pose 
Her sacred cause, but trembled when he 

rose; 
And every venal stickler for the yoke 
Felt himself crushed at the first word he 
spoke. 

— William Cowper, 



ONE COUNTRY— ONE SACRIFICE. 



Ensign Worth Baglev was killed at the 

battle of Cardenas on May 11, 1898, and was 

the first of our naval officers killed in the 
war with Spain. 



In one rich drop of blood, ah, what a 
sea 
Of healing! Thou, sweet boy, wert 

first to fall 
In our new war ; and thou wert south- 
ron all! 
There is no North, no South — remem- 
bering thee. 

— Richard Watson Gilder. 



TO DR. JOHN BROWN. 



The author of "Rab and His Friends." He 
died May 11, 1882. 



Beyond the north wina lay the land of 
old 
Where men dwelt blithe and blameless, 

clothed and fed 
With joy's bright raiment and with 
love's sweet bread. 
The whitest flock of earth's maternal 

fold. 
None there might wear about his brows 
enrolled 
A light of lovelier fame than rings 

your head. 
Whose lovesome love of children and 
the dead 
All men give thanks for: I far off be- 
hold 
A dear dead hand that links us, and a 
light 



i6o 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The blithest and benignest of the night. 

The night of death's sweet sleep, 

wherein may be 

A star to show your spirit in present 

sight 

Some happier island in the Elysian sea 

Where Rab may lick the hand of Mar- 

— Algernon C. Swinbume- 



Spenccr Petcetal, at that time Primt Hin- 
iater, wu ihot in the lobby of the Houk of 
Cooimaai on Mijr 11, leis, by ■ nun lumed 
Belliailuin who appcari to bavc been morcd 
br prTvale motive*, > cequot of hii b>inik| 
been iliihtcd bj the Government 

In the dirge we sung o'er him no cen- 

Unembitlered and free did the tear- 
drop descend ; 
We forgot in that hour how the states- 
man had erred, 

And wept for the husband, the father 
and friend. 

Oh! proud was the meed his integrity 

And generous indeed were the tears 

that we shed, 
When in grief we forgot all the ill he 

had done, 
And, though wronged by him living, 

bewailed him when dead. 

Even now, if one harsher emotion in- 

Tis to wish he had chosen some low- 
lier state — 
Had known what he was, and content to 



Had r 



r for 



great. 

So, left through their own little orbit to 
His years might have rolled inoffen- 

His children might still have been 
blessed with his love, 
And England would ne'er have been 
cursed with his sway. 

— Thomat Moore. 



flDai? 12. 



OBSEQUIES OF STUART. 



General f. E. B. Stuan 



the famout chief 



We could not pause, while yet the n 
tide air 
Shook with tbe cannonade's 
pealing. 

The funeral pageant fitly to prepare— 
A nation's grief revealing. 

The smoke, above the glimmering wood- 
land wide 
That skirts our southward border in its 

Marked where our heroes stood and 
fought and died 
For love and faith and duty. 

And still, what time the doubtful strife 
We might not find expression for our 

We could but lay our dear dumb war- 
And gird us for the r 



One 



weary year agone, when came a 
lull 

the conflict's stormy 



With victory i; 

When the glad Spring, all flushed and 

beautiful, 
First mocked us with her roses, 

With dirge and bell and minute-gun, we 
Some few poor rites— an inexpressive 

Of a great people's pain— to Jackson's 

In agony unspoken. 

No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell. 

No cannon, save the battle's boom 

receding. 

When Stuart to the grave we bore, might 

tell, 

With hearts all crushed and bleeding. 

The crisis suited not with pomp, and 



E\'1:RY day IX TIIR YMXR. 



iC 



I 



» 

r 



I 

; 



Whose anguish bears the seal of conse- 
cration 
Had wished his Christian obsequies 
should be 
Thus void of ostentation. 

Only the maidens came, sweet flowers to 
twine 
Above his form so still and cold and 
painless. 
Whose deeds upon our brightest records 
shine, 
Whose life and sword were stainless. 

They well remembered how he loved to 

dash 
Into the fight, festooned from summer 

bowers ; 
How like a fountain's spray his sabre's 

flash 
Leaped from a mass of flowers. 

And so we carried to his place of rest 
All that of our great Paladin was 
mortal : 
The cross, and not the sabre, on his 
breast, 
That opes the heavenly portal. 

No more of tribute might to us remain ; 

But there will still come a time when 
Freedom's martyrs 
A richer guerdon of renown shall gain 

Than gleams in stars and garters. 

I hear from out that sunlit land which 
lies 
Beyond these clouds that gather dark- 
ly o'er us. 
The happy sounds of industry arise 
In swelling peaceful chorus. 

And mingling with these sounds, the 
glad acclaim 
Of millions undisturbed by war's af- 
flictions, 
Crowning each martyr's never dying 
name 
With grateful benedictions. 

In some fair future garden of delights, 
Where flowers shall bloom and song- 
birds sweetly warble, 

Art shall erect the statues of our knights 
In living bronze and marble. 



And none of all that bright heroic tiiror 
Shall wear to far-off time a semblan* 
grander. 
Shall still be decked with fresher wreatl 
of song. 
Than this beloved commander. 

The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid 
That after death he rode, erect, S( 
dately. 

Along his lines, even as in life he did. 
In presence yet more stately ; 

And thus our Stuart, at this momen 
seems 
To ride out of our dark and trouble 
story 
Into the region of romance and dream 
A realm of light and glory; 

And sometimes, when the silver bugl< 
blow, 
That ghostly form, in battle reappeai 
ing, 
Shall lead his horsemen headlong on tl: 
foe. 
In victory careering ! 

— John R, Thompson. 



TO KING CHARLES AND QUEE] 
MARY, FOR THE LOSS OF 
THEIR FIRST-BORN. AN 
EPIGRAM CONSOLATORY. 



Died May 13, 1620. 



Who dares deny, that all first-fruits ai 

due 
To God, denies the Godhead to be true 
Who doubts those fruits God can wit 

gain restore. 
Doth by his doubt distrust his promij 

more. 
He can, He will, and with large interea 

pay 
What, at his liking. He will take awa; 
Then, royal Charles and Mary, do n< 

grutch 
That the Almighty's h«\VV \3Ci i^>\ \^ %^< 



l62 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



But thank His greatness and His good- 
ness too * 
And think all still the best that He will 

do. 
That thought shall make. He will this 

loss supply 
With a long, large and blest posterity : 
For God, whose essence is so infinite, 
Cannot but heap that grace He will re- 
flaite. — B#fi Jontoik 



Pba^ 14. 



HENRY IV. 



Henry the Fourth, better known at King 
Henry of Navarre, was assasiinated May 14, 
1810, by a fanatic named Ravaillac. 



"hong live our king, good Harry of 
Navarre 1" 
Shouted the soldiery through Ivry's 

heat; 
Thou led'st them on to victory com- 
plete. 
Proud in the glamor of thy Huguenot 
star! 

Good king, thy glorious deeds immortal 
are; 
France, old in years, thy memory still 

doth greet, 
And peasants love thy great name to 
repeat, 
Sapient jn council, valorous in war. 

I see thy Beam face as histories tell, 

Frank, open, winning, resolutely free; 

I see thee armed with helmet and poitreL 

And then again, in thy broad Tuilerie, 

I hear thy jovous oath "Ventre-saint- 

Gres," 

And see thee kiss thy swan-necked 

Gabrielle ! 

— Francis Saltiu Saltus, 



(iiwi 15* 



DANIEL O'CONNELL. 



Daniel O'Connell. one of the most famous 
and powerful of Irish agitators and orators. 



was a leader of the agitation in favor of 
Catholic emancii>ation. In 1848 he was ar- 
rested and convicted of sedition and con* 
piracy, but the sentence was afterwards re- 
versed. He died May 15, 1847. 



Great men grow greater by the lapse of 
time: 
We know those least whom we have 
seen the latest; 
And they, 'mongst those whose names 
have grown sublime, 
Who worked for Human Liberty, are 
greatest 

And now for one who allied will to 
work. 
And thought to act, and burning speech 
to thought; 
Who gained the prizes that were seen by 
Burke — 
Burke felt the wrong — O'Connell felt, 
and fought 

Ever the same — from boyhood up to 
death: 
His race was crushed — his people were 
defamed ; 
He found the spark, and fanned it with 
his breath, 
And fed the fire, till all the nation 
flamed ! 

He roused the farms — ^he made the serf 
a yeoman; 
He drilled his millions and he faced 
the foe; 
But not with lead or steel he struck the 
foeman : 
Reason the sword — and human right 
the blow. 

He fought for home — but no land-limit 
bounded 
O'Conneirs faith, nor curbed his 
sympathies ; 
All wrong to liberty must be confound- 
ed, 
Till men were chainless as the winds 
and seas. 

He fought for faith — ^but with no nar- 
row spirit; 
With ceaseless hand the bigot laws he 
smote ; 

One chart, he said, all mankind should 
inherit, — 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR, 



163 



The right to worship and the right to 
vote. 

Always the same— but yet a glintiiig 
prism: 
In wit, lawy statecraft, still a master* 
hsmd; 
An •'uncrowned king," whose people's 
love was chrism; 
His title— Liberator of his Land! 

^is heart's in Rome, his spirit is in 
heaven" — 
So runs the old song that his people 
sing; 
A tall Round Tower they builded in 
Glasnevin — 
Fit Irish headstone for an Irish long! 
From "A Nation's Test," 

^John Boyle (TReiUy. 



MISS NIGHTINGALE. 



An English lady who went out to the 
Crimea during the war there and organiicd 
the hospital service. She was bom on May 
16, 1820. 



How must the soldier's tearful heart ex- 
pand. 
Who from a long and obscure dream of 

pain, — 
His foeman's frown imprinted on his 

brain, — 
Wakes to thy healing face and dewy 

hand! 
When this great noise hath rolled from 

off the land. 
When all those fallen Englishmen of 

ours 
Have bloomed and faded in Crimean 

flowers, 
Thy perfect charity unsoiled shall stand. 
Some pitying student of a nobler age, 
Lingering o'er this year's half-forgotten 

page. 
Shall see its beauty smiling ever there; 
Surprised to tears his beating heart he 

stills, 
Like one who finds among Athenian hills 
A Temple like a lily white and fair. 

— Alexander Smith, 



MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

After the battle of LanssidOp Mary Qnecn 
of Scots fled to England, landing in Dcrwcnt 
on May 18, 166S, and took the fatal step of 
confiding herself to the protection of Qtiecn 
ElixabetL 



Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces 

vowed. 
The Queen drew back the wimple that 

she wore ; 
And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian 

shore 
Her landing hailed, how toucfaingly she 

bowed! 
And like a Star (that from a heavy 

cloud 
Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth 

darts. 
When a soft summer pie at even parts 
The gloom that did its loveliness en- 
shroud) 
She smiled ; but Time, the old Satumian 

seer, 
Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed 

the strand, 
With step prelusive to a long array 
Of woes and degredations hand in 

hand — 
Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
Stilled by the ensanguined block of 
Fotheringay I 

^William Wordsworth, 



MRS. HEMANS. 



Died May 16, 18S6. 



Queen of the lute and lay! whose song 
of yore 
Swept o'er the earth in music many- 
toned, 
Bearing along tales of historic lore. 
With triple immortality enzoned; 
Where dwells thy spirit in that brighter 
world. 
With the innumerous dead of other 
days? 
In what bright orb hast thou thy pinions 
furied? 
What star of beauty trembles to thy 
lays? 



i64 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Thine was a lofty strain; thy lyre gave 
hack 
The voice of God in ever-glowing 
song 
Melodiously, as o'er its fairy track 

Swept the full tide of harmony along — 
Thy spirit's purity breathed on thy lyre, 
Bathing its music in seraphic fire. 

— B. Hallock. 



BATTLE OF ALBUERA. 



A battle in the Peninstila War where on 
May 16, 1811, the Anglo-Spaniah-Portugucse 
army under Beresford defeated the French un- 
do* Soult. 



O Albuera, glorious field ot grief! 

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his 

steed. 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so 

brief, 
A scene where mingling foes should 

boast and bleed! 
Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's 

meed 
And tears of triumph their reward pro- 
long! 
Till others fall where other chieftains 

lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping 

thronj?, 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme 

of transient song. 

From Childe Harold, 
— Lord Byron, 



ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL 
WORTH. 



General Worth had a fine record all through 
the Mexican war. Later he commanded in 
Texas, where he died at San Antonio on May 
17, 1840. 



Now let the solemn minute gun 

Arouse the morning ray, 
And only with the setting sun 

In echoes die away. 
The muffled drum, the wailing fife. 



Ah! let them murmur low, 
O'er him who was their breath of life. 
The solemn notes of woe! 

At Chippewa and Lundy's Lane, 

On Polaklaba's field. 
Around him fell the crimson rain. 

The battle-thunder pealed; 
But proudly did the soldier gaze 

Upon his daring form. 
When charging o er the cannon's blaze 

Amid the sulphur storm. 

Upon the heights of Monterey 

Again his flag unrolled. 
And when the grape-shot rent away 

Its latest starry fold. 
His plumed cap above his head 

He waved upon the air, 
And cheered the gallant troops he led 

To glorious victory there. 

But ah ! the dreadful seal is broke — 

In darkness walks abroad 
The pestilence, whose silent stroke 

Is like the doom of God I 
And the hero by its fell decree 

In death is sleeping now. 
With the laurel wreath of victory 

Still green upon his brow! 

— George W. Cutter, 



A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN 
FRANKLIN. 



The celebrated Arctic explorer. Thirty>nine 
relief expeditions, public and private, were sent 
out from England and America in ten years to 
search for Sir John. By one of these expedi- 
tions, sent by Lady Franklin^ traces of the 
missing ship were found and its fate decided. 
He started on his last voyage on May 18, 1846. 



"The ice was here, the ice was there. 
The ice was all around." 

— Coleridge, 



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. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



165 



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 be right; 

Bear off to westward then. 

O, whither sail you, brave Englishman? 

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 sail of Sir John was 
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 I 

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 staid, the yards were 
manned. 
And furled the useless sail 

The summer's gone, the winter's com^— 

We sail not on 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 — 

My 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 was 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 as 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 over 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. 



i66 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR, 



And oi>en 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 you not the noise of guns ? 

And there, and there, again? 
'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar. 

As he turns in the frozen main. 

Hurra! hurra! 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 arc 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. 

O! when shall I see my orphan child? 

My Mary waits for me. 
01 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 w«lf and bear. 
More patient than before. 

O ! 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 or home. 
To starve and freeze on this lonely sea; 
I ween, the Lords of the Admiralty 

Would rather send than oome. 



O! 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 ! 

— George H. Boker, 



flDai? 19. 



WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE 



Died May 10, 1898. 



Some in the promise of an early prime. 
Ere yet the first assault is dared and 
won. 
Death takes with envious hand before 
their time. 
Leaving the task undone. 

Some, ripe in manhood, at their army's 
head. 
As even now they touched the topmost 
tower. 
With shining harness on have fallen 
dead. 
In victory's crowning hour. 

But you, O veteran of a thousand fights. 
Whose toil had long attained its per- 
fect end — 
Death calls you not as one that claims 
his rights. 
But gently as a friend. 

For though that matchless energy of 
mind 
Was firm to fr«nt the menace of de- 
cay. 
Your b«dily strength on such a loss de- 
clined 
As only Death could stay. 

So then with you 'tis well, who after 
pain. 
After long pain, have reached your rest 
at last; 
But we — ah when shall England mould 
again 
This type of splendour past? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



167 



Noble in triumph, noble in defeat. 
Leader of hopes that others held for- 
lorn, 
Strong in the faith that looks afar to 
meet 
The flush of Freedom's mom — 

Could we, Her own, forget you to our 
shame, 
Lands that have lived to see Her risen 
sun 
Remembering much should witness how 
your name 
And Freedom's name are one. 

But we shall not forget, nor Time erase 
Your record deep in English annals 
set: 
What severance marred your labour's 
closing days 
Alone we shall forget. 

And now, with all your armour laid 
aside, 
Swift eloquence your sword, and, for 
your shield. 
The indomitable courage that defied 
The fortune of the field — 

As in the noontide of your high com- 
mand, 
So in the final hour when darkness 
fell. 
Submissive still to that untiring Hand 
That orders all things well — 

We bear you to your resting-place apart 
Between the ranks where ancient foe 
and friend. 
Kin by a common sorrow at the heart, 
Silent together bend. 

— London Punch. 



LAMENT OF ANNE BOLEYN ON 
THE EVE OF HER EXECUTION. 



Second wife of Henry VIII. 
headed on May 10, 1536. 



She was be- 



Defiled is my name full sore. 

Through cruel spite and false report. 
That I may say, for evermore, 

Farewell my joy! adieu comfort! 
For wrongfully ye judge of me, 



Unto my fame a mortal wound; 
Say what ye list, it will not be, 
Ye seek for that cannot be found. 

death ! rock me on sleep ! 
Bring me a quiet rest; 

Let pass my very guiltless ghost 

Out of my careful breast; 
Toll on the passing bell, 
Ring out the doleful knell. 
Let the sound my death tell. 

For I must die. 

There is no remedy, 

For now I die. 

My pains who can express? 

Alas ! they are so strong 
My dolour will not suffer strength 

My life for to prolong. 

Alone in prison strong, 

I wail my destiny. 
No worth this cruel hap that I 

Should taste this misery. 

Farewell my pleasures past. 
Welcome my present pain; 

1 feel my torments so increase, 
That life cannot remain. 

Cease now the passing bell. 

Rung is my doleful knell, 

F«r the sound my death doth tell; 

Death doth draw nigh, 

Sound my end dolefully. 

For now I die. 

— Anne BoUyn. 



flDai? 20. 



I AM I YET WHAT I AM. 



John Clare was an English poet, son of a 
poor laborer, and was called ''The Northampton- 
shire Peasant Poet." His poems treated princi* 
pally of rural topics. He died May 20, 18M. 



I Am! yet what I am who cares, or 

knows? 
My friends forsake me, like a memory 

lost. 
I am the self-consumer of my woes, 
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host. 



i68 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. 
And yet I am — ^I live — though I am 
toss'd 

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, 
Into the living sea of waking dream, 
Where there is neither sense of life, nor 

joys. 
But the huge shipwreck of my own es- 
teem 
And all that's dear. Even those I loved 

the best 
Are strange — nay, they are stranger than 
the rest. 

I long for scenes where man has never 

trod— 
For scenes where woman never smiled or 

wept — 
There to abide with my Creator, God, 
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, 
Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let 

me lie, 
The grass below ; above, the vaulted sky. 

— John Clare, 



flDai? 21. 



THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE, 



A noted Scottish statesman and soldier. He 
served in the Presb]rterian anny at first but 
afterward joined the kins. In 1650 he con- 
ducted an abortive Rovanst descent on Scot- 
land, was captured and executed on May 21, 
1050. 



He is coming! he is coming! 

Like a bridegroom from his room. 
Came the hero from his prison 

To the scaffold and the doom. 
There was glory on his forehead. 

There was lustre in his eye. 
And he never walked to battle 

More proudly than to die: 
There was colour in his visage. 

Though the cheeks of all were wan, 
And they marvelled as they saw him 
pass, 

That great and goodly man ! 

He mounted up the scaffold. 
And he turned him to the crowd ; 

But they dared not trust the people, 
So he might not speak aloud. 



But he looked upon the heavens, 

And they were clear and blue, 
And in the liquid ether 

The eye of God shone through: 
Yet a black and murlqr battlement 

Lay resting on the hill, 
As though the thunder slept within — 

All else was calm and stilL 

The grim Geneva ministers 

With anxious scowl drew near. 
As you have seen the ravens Hock 

Around the dying deer. 
He would not deign them word nor sign. 

But alone he bent the knee; 
And veiled his face for Christ's dear 
grace 

Beneath the gallows-tree. 
Then radiant and serene he rose. 

And cast his cloak away; 
For he had ta'en his latest look 

Of earth, and sun, and day. 

A beam of light fell o'er him. 

Like a glory round the shriven. 
And he climbed the lofty ladder 

As it were the path to heaven. 
Then came a flash from out the cloud. 

And a stuunning thunder roll. 
And no man dared to look aloft. 

For fear was on every soul. 
There was another heavy sound, 

A hush and then a groan; 
And darkness swept across the sky — 

The work of death was done! 

From "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers." 

— William E. Aytoun. 



(i^a^ 22. 



THE DEATH OF KING BOMBA. 



"Boniba*' was a nickname ^ven in Italy to 
Ferdinand II. of the Two Sicilies from his 
bombardment of Messina and other cities dur- 
died on Mav 22, 1869, after a reign that was 
characterized by inordinate cruelty. 



Could I pass those lounging sentries, 
Through the aloe-bordered entries, 

Up the sweep of squalid stair, 
On through chamber after chamber. 
Where the sunshine's gold and amber 

Turn decay to beauty rare, — 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



169 



I should reach a guarded portal. 
Where, for strife of issue mortal, 

Face to face two kings are met : 
One the grisly King of Terrors; 
One a Bourbon, with his errors. 

Late to conscience-clearing set 

Well his fevered pulse may flutter, 
And the priests their mass may mutter 

With such fervor as they may; 
Cross and chrism and genuflection. 
Mop and mow and interjection. 

Will not frighten Death away. 
By the dying despot sitting, 
At the hard heart's portals hitting, 

Shocking the dull brain to work. 
Death makes clear what life has hidden. 
Chides what life has left unchidden. 

Quickens truth life tried to burke. 

He but ruled within his borders 
After Holy Church's orders, 
Did what Austria bade him do, — 
By their guidance flogged and tortured. 
High-born men, and gently nurtured 

Chained with crime's felonious crew. 
What if summer fevers gripped them, 
What if winter freezings nipped them, 

Till they rotted in their chains? 
He had word of Pope and Kaiser — 
None could holier be or wiser; 

Theirs the counsel, his the reins. 

So he pleads excuses eager. 
Clutching with his fingers meagre 

At the bed-clothes as he speaks: 
But King Death sits grimly grinning 
At the Bourbon's cobweb-spinning. 

As each cobweb-cable breaks. 
And the poor soul from life's islet, 
Rudderless, without a pilot, 
Drifteth slowly down the dark; 
While 'mid rolling incense vapor. 
Chanted dirge, and flaring taper. 

Lies the body, stiff and stark. 

— Anonymous, 



VICTOR HUGO. 



Died on May 22, 1885. 



Michael, awful angel of the world's last 
session, 
Once on earth, like him, with fire of 
suffering tried, 



Thine it were, if man's it were, without 
transgression, 
Thine alone, to take this toil upon thy 
pride. 
Thine, whose heart was great against 
the worlds oppression. 
Even as his whose word is lamp and 
staff and guide : 
Advocate for man, untired of interces- 
sion, 
Pleads his voice for slaves whose lords 
nis voice defied. 

Sun, that hast not seen a loftier head 
wax hoary. 
Earth, which hast not shown the sun a 
nobler birth. 
Time, that hast not on thy scroll defiled 
and gory 
One man's name writ brighter in its 
whole wide girth. 
Witness, till the final years fulfil their 
story. 
Till the stars break off the music of 
their mirth. 
What among the sons of men was this 
man's glory. 
What the vesture of his soul revealed 
on earth. ; 

— Algernon C. Swinburne. 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 



Thomas Hood was born on May 28, 1798. 



I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn; 
He never came a wink too soon, 
Nor brought too long a day; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away ! 

I remember, I remember 
The roses, red and white. 
The violets, and the lily-cups — 
Those fiowers made of light ! 

The lilacs where the robin built. 
And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birth-day, — 
The tree is living yet ! 



170 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow I 

I remember, I remember ^ 

The fir-trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky. 

It vras a childish i^orance. 

But now 'tis little joy. 

To know I'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

— Thomas Hood, 



DEATH OF SAVONAROLA. 



An Italian political and religious reformer. 
He brought about a religious revival in Flor- 
ence by nis denunciation of the vice and cor- 
ruption in Church and State. He was executed 
in I'lorence on May 23, 1408, by order of Pope 
Alexander VI., whose enmity he had incurred. 



'Tis true that when the dust of death 
has choked 
A great man's voice, the common 
words he said 
Turn oracles, — the meanings which he 
yoked 
Like horses, draw like griffins! — this 
is true 
And acceptable. Also I desire, 
When men make record, with the flow 
ers they strew, 
"Savonarola's soul went out in fire 
Upon our Grand-duke's piazza, and 
burned through 
A moment first, or ere he did expire. 
The veil betwixt the right and wrong, 
and showed 
How near God sate and judged the 
judges there, — 
Desire, upon the pavement over- 
strewed, 
To cast my violets with as reverent care. 
And prove that all the winters which 
have snowed 
Cannot snow out the scent, from stones 
and air, 
Of a sincere man's virtues. This was 



Savonarola, who, while Peter sank 
With his whole boat-load, called 
courageously 
"Wake Christ, wake Christ !" — ^who, hav- 
ing tried the tank 
Of the church-waters used for bap- 
tistry 
Ere Luther lived to spill them, said they 
stank I 
Who also, by a princely deathbed, cried 
'Toose Florence, or God will not loose 
thy soul," 
While the Magnificent fell back and 
died 
Beneath the star-looks, shooting from the 
cowl. 
Which turned to wormwood bitterness 
the wide 
Deep sea of his ambitions. It were foul 

To grudge Savonarola and the rest 
Their violets I rather pay them quick and 
fresh I 
The emphasis of death makes manifest 
The eloquence of action in our flesh; 
And men who, living, were but dimly 
guessed. 
When once free from their life's en- 
tangled mesh, 
Show tneir full length in graves, or 
even indeed 
Exaggerate their stature, in the fiat, 

To noble admirations which exceed 
Nobly, nor sin in such excess. For that 
Is wise and righteous. We, who are 
the seed 
Of buried creatures, if we turned and 
spate 
Upon our antecedents, we were vile. 
Bring violets rather! If these had not 
walked 
Their furlong, could we hope to walk 
our mile ? 

Therefore bring violets ! Yet if we, self- 
baulked. 
Stand still a- strewing violets all the 
while. 
These had as well not moved, ourselves 
not talked 
Of these. So rise up with a cheerful 
smile. 
And, having strewn the violets, reap the 
corn, 
And, having reaped and garnered, 
bring the plough 
And draw new furrows 'neath the 
healthy mom. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



171 



And plant the great Hereafter in this 
Now. 

From Casa Guidi Windows, 
— Elisabeth Barrett Browning, 



SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND 

ARMY. 



At the dose of the Cml War on May 84, 
1866, the united armies of Grant and Sherman, 
SOO.OOO strong, were reviewed in Washington 
by the President and his cabinet. 



I read last night of the Grand Review 

In Washington's chieftest avenue — 
Two Hundred Thousand men in blue, 

I diink they said was the number, — 
Till I seemed to hear their trampling 

feet, 
The bugle blast and the drum's quick 

beat. 
The clatter of hoofs in the stony street. 
The cheers of people who came to greet, 
And the thousand details that to repeat 

Would only my verse encumber, — 
Till I fell in a revery, sad and sweet. 

And then to a fitful slumber. 
When, lo I in a vision I seemed to stand 
In the lonely Capitol. On each hand 
Far stretched the portico ; dim and grand 
Its columns ranged, like a martial band 
Of sheeted spectres whom some com- 
mand 

Had called to a last reviewing. 

And the streets of the city were white 

and bare. 
No footfall echoed across the square; 
But out of the misty midnight air 
I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, 
And the wandering night-winds seemed 

to bear 
The sound of a far tattooing. 

Then I held my breath with fear and 

dread; 
For into the square, with a brazen tread. 
There rode a figure whose stately head 

O'erlooked the review that morning. 
That never bowed from its firm-set seat 
When the living column passed its feet. 
Yet now rode steadily up the street 

To the phantom bugle's warning: 

Till it reached the Capitol square, and 
wheeled. 



And there in the moonlight stood re- 
vealed 
A well-known form that in state and field 

Had led our patriot sires; 
Whose face was turned to the sleeping 

camp. 
Afar through the river's fog and damp. 
That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp. 
Nor wasted bivouac fires. 

And I saw a phantom army come. 
With never a sound of fife or drum. 
But keeping time to a throbbing hum 

Of wailing and lamentation : 
The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, 
Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, 
The men whose wasted figures fill 

The patriot graves of the nation. 

And there came the nameless dead, — ^the 
men 

Who perished in fever-swamp and fen. 

The slowly-starved of the prison-pen ; 
And, marching beside the others, 

Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's 
fight, 

With limbs enfranchised and bearing 
bright : 

I thought — perhaps 'twas the pale moon- 
light- 
They looked as white as their broth- 
ers! 

And so all night marched the Nation's 

dead, 
With never a banner above them spread. 
Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished ; 
No mark — save the bare uncovered head 

Of the silent bronze Reviewer; 
With never an arch save the vaulted sky; 
With never a flower save those that lie 
On the distant graves — for love could 
buy 

No gift that was purer or truer. 

So all night long swept the strange ar- 
ray; 

So all night long, till the morning gray, 

I watch'd for one who had passed away. 
With a reverent awe and wonder, — 

Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening 
line. 

And I knew that one who was kin of 
mine 

Had come; and I spake — and lo! that 
sign 
Awakened me from my slumber. 

— Bret Harte. 



172 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



TO THE QUEEN. 



Born May 24, 1819. 



Revered, beloved — O you that hold 

A nobler office upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that utter'd nothing base; 

And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 
And thro' wild March the throstle 

calls. 
Where all about your palace walls 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
For tho* the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long. 

And leave us rulers of your blood 

As noble till the latest day! 

May children of our children say, 
"She wrought her people lasting good; 

"Her court was pure, her life serene ; 

God gave her peace ; her land reposed ; 

A thousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife and Queen; 

"And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

The bounds of freedom wider yet 

"By shaping some august decree, 
Which kept her throne unshaken still. 
Broad-based upon her people's will, 

And compass'd by the inviolate sea." 

— Alfred Tennyson, 



flDai? 25. 



EMERSON. 



Ralph Waldo Emerson waa bom on May 25, 
1808. 



Voice of the deeps thou art! But not 
the wild, 

Ungovemed mouthing of the wind-lashed 
waves ; 

Nor yet the dirge of billows over graves, 

But crooning, like a mother o'er her 
child. 

Through thee gross earth with heaven is 
reconciled. 

Thy songs, like anthems through cathe- 
dral naves 

Dispel confusing passion; never raves 

The storm along thy cloister undefiled. 

Light of the deeps thou art! as forth I 
glide. 

From rock and whirlpool far, and tem- 
pest's roar, 

Sudden there looms an ever verdurous 
shore. 

Whose towers in the still wave stand 
glorified. 

Where thou, the Virgil, who hast been 
my guide, 

Lead'st mc and Icav'st me rapt, at 
Heaven's door! 

— Craven L, Belts. 



fl>ai? 26. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



Francois de Bonnivard was a distinguished 
Genevan prelate and politician. He was a 
conspicuous opponent of Charles Duke of 
Savoy, who endeavored to obtain control of 
Geneva. Bonnivard was arrested by him on 
May 26, 15S0, and confined in the Castle of 
Chillon. 



Eternal spirit of the chainless mind! 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou 

art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can 
bind; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



173 



And when thy sons to fetters are con- 
signed — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's day- 
less gloom — 
Their country conquers with their 
martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on 

every wind. 
ChillonI thy prison is a holy place. 
And thy sad floor an altar — for t was 
trod 
Until his very steps have left a trace, 
Worn as if thy cold pavement were a 
sod. 
By Bonnivard! — May none those marks 

efface ! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 

I. 

My hair is gny, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night. 
As men's have grown from sudden fears ; 
My limbs are bowed, though not with 
toil. 

But rusted with a vile repose ; 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are banned and barred — forbidden fare. 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffered chains and courted death. 
That father perished at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven, who now are one — 

Six in youth, and one in age. 
Finished as they had begun. 

Proud of persecutions rage; 
One in fire, and two in field^ 
Their belief with blood have sealed — 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast. 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

II. 

There are seven pillars, of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old; 
There are seven columns, massy and 

gray. 
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray — 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thidc wall is fallen and left- 



Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp; 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a cham ; 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain. 
With marks that will not wear away 
Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eyes. 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er; 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother drooped and died. 
And I lay living by his side. 

III. 

They chained us each to a column stone ; 
And we were three — ^yet, each alone. 
We could not move a single pace; 
We could not sec each other's face. 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight; 
And thus together, yet apart — 
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart; 
'T was still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech. 
And each turn comforter to each — 
With some new hope, or legend old. 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone. 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 
A grating sound — ^not full and free. 
As they of yore were wont to be ; 
It might be fancy — ^but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

IV. 

I was the eldest of the three; 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do, and did, my best — 

And each did well in his degree. 
The youngest, whom my father loved. 

Because our mother's brow was given 

To him — ^with eyes as blue as heaven — 
For him my soul was sorely moved ; 

And truly might it be distrest 

To see such bird in such a nest ; 

For he was beautiful as day 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free), 
A polar day, which will not see 

A sunset till its summer's gone — 
Its sleepless summer of long light, 



174 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The snow-dad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was, as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay. 
With tears for naught but odier's ills ; 
And then they flowed like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the wo 
Which he abhorred to view below. 

V. 

The other was as pure of mind. 
But formed to combat with his kind; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had 

stood, 
And perished in the foremost rank 

With joy; but not in chains to pine. 
His spirit withered with their dank; 
I saw it silently decline — 
And so. perchance, in sooth, did mine ! 
But yet I forced it on, to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had followed there the deer and 

wolf; 
To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
And fettered feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls. 
A thousand feet in depth below. 
Its massy waters meet and flow; 
Thus much the fathom-line was spent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave enthrals ; 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay; 
We heard it ripple night and day; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knocked. 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when wmds were 

high, 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rocked, 
And I have felt it shake, unshocked ; 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined ; 
I said his mighty heart dedined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 't was coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare. 



And for the like had little care. 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moistened many a thousand years. 
Since man first pent his fellow-men. 
Like brutes, within an iron den. 
But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart or limb; 
My brothers soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold. 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side. 
But why delay the truth? — ^he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead. 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlocked his chain. 
And scooped for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begged them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought ; 
But then within my brain it wrought. 
That even in death his freebom breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laughed, and laid him there, 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love; 
His empty chain above it leant — 
Such murder's fitting monument I 

VIIL 

But he, the favorite and the flower. 

Most cherished since his natal hour. 

His mother's image in fair face. 

The infant love of all his race. 

His martyred father's dearest thought. 

My latest care — for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one da^ free — 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day* 

Was withered on the stalk away. 

O God! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood; 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swollen, convulsive motion ; 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin, delirious with its dread; 

But these were horrors — this was wo 

Unmixed with such — but sure and slow. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



175 



He faded, and so calm and meek. 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender — ^kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a dei>arting rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright. 

And not a word of murmur, not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise; 

For I was sunk in silence — ^lost 

In this last loss, of all the most. 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

I listened, but I could not hear — 

I called, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rushed to him : I found him not. 

I only stirred in this black spot ; 

I only lived — I only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; 

The last, the sole, the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race. 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe. 

I took that hand which lay so still — 

Alas I my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — ^but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

— Lord Byron. 



THE VOICE OF THE OREGON. 



Reached Key West. Fla., May 26, 1898. 
(See note under date of March 19.) 

You have called to me, my brothers, 
from your far-off eastern sea. 

To join with you, my brothers, to set a 
prostrate people free. 



You have called to me, my brothers, to 

join to yours my might. 
The slaughterers of our brethren with 

our armored hands to smite. 

We have never met, my brothers, we 

mailed knights of the sea; 
But there are no strangers, brothers, 

'neath the Banner of the Free; 
And though half a world's between us, 

and ten thousand leagues divide, 
Our souls are intermingled, and our 

hearts are side by side. 
Did you fail to call me, brothers, 'twere a 

fault without atone, 
'Twas but just to me, my brothers, you 

should not strike alone. 
The brethren in the slaughter were no 

more thine than mine. 
And the blows that visit vengeance must 

be mine as well as thine. 

Through days of placid beauty, and 
nights when tempests toss, 

I follow down the billows, my guide the 
Southern Cross; 

Past lands of quiet splendor, where pleas • 
ant waters lave; 

Past lands whose mountain ramparts 
fling back the crashing wave. 

But I see no land of splendor, and I see 

no land of wrath ; 
I see before me only the ocean's heaving 

path. 
And I plunge along that pathway like 

a giant to the iray, 
Who hath no stomach in him for aught 

that might delay. 

I am nearing you, my brothers, for the 

western sea's afar. 
And the ray that lights my course now 

is the gleaming Northern Star. 
I pray you wait, my brothers, for the air 

with war is rife. 
And in courtesy of knighthood I claim to 

share the strife. 

In the winds that blow about me the 
voices of the dead 

Are calling to me, brothers, to urge my 
topmost speed. 

In the foam that's upward flying in 
whirling wreaths of white, 

The wraiths of murdered brothers beck- 
on onward to the fight. 



176 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



I am coming to you, brothers, wait but a 

little while. 
And on the thunders of our greeting 

shall the God of Vengeance smile ; 
And in the flashing and the crashing, the 

universe shall see 
How we pay our debts of honor, we 

mailed knights of the sea. 

— H. /. D. Browne, 



flDai? 21. 



THE BLACK REGIMENT. 



Battle of Port Hudson, May 27, 1868. 
A place in Louisiana which was besieged by 
the Federal forces under Banks on May 27, 
1868. 



Dark as the clouds of even, 
Ranked in the western heaven. 
Waiting the breath that lifts 
All the dead mass, and drifts 
Tempest and falling brand 
Over a ruined land, — 
So still and orderly, 
Arm to arm, knee to knee, 
Waiting the great event. 
Stands the black regiment. 

Down the long dusky line 
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine; 
And the bright bayonet. 
Bristling and firmly set. 
Flashed with a purpose grandi 
Long ere the sharp command 
Of the fierce rolling drum 
Told them their time had come. 
Told them what work was sent 
For the black regiment 

"Now," the flag-sergeant cried, 
"Though death and hell betide. 
Let the whole nation see 
If we are fit to be 
Free in this land ; or bound 
Down, like the whining hound, — 
Bound with red stripes of pain 
In our cold chains again !" 
Oh, what a shout there went 
From the black regiment! 

"Giarge !" trump and drum awoke ; 
Onward the bondsmen broke; 
Bayonet and sabre-stroke 



Vainly opposed their rush. 
Through the wild battle's crush. 
With but one thought aflush, 
Driving their lords like chaff. 
In the gun's mouth they laugh; 
Or at the slippery brands, 
Leaping with open hands. 
Down they tear man and horse, 
Down in their awful course; 
Trampling with bloody heel 
Over the crushing steel, — 
All their eyes forward bent. 
Rushed the black regiment. 

"Freedom !'* their battle-cry, — 
"Freedom ! or leave to die I" 
Ah I and they meant the word, 
Not as with us 't is heard, 
Not a mere party shout; 
They gave their spirits out. 
Trusted the end to God, 
And on the gory sod 
Rolled in triumphant blood. 
Glad to strike one free blow. 
Whether for weal or woe; 
Glad to breathe one free breath, 
Though on the lips of death; 
Praying, — alas ! in vain. 
That they might fall again. 
So they could once more see 
That burst to liberty! 
This was what "freedom" lent 
To the black regiment. 

Hundred on hundreds fell; 
But they are resting well ; 
Scourges, and shackles strong 
Never shall do them wrong. 
Oh, to the living few, 
Soldiers, be just and true! 
Hail them as comrades tried ; 
Fight with them side by side. 
Never, in field or tent. 
Scorn the black regiment ! 

— George H. Boker, 



THOMAS MOORE. 



May 28, 1879. 



A lord of lyric song was born 
A hundred years ago to-day; 

Loved of that race that long has worn 
The shamrock for the bay. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



^77 



He suiiE of wine, and sung of flowers, 
Of woman's smile, and woman's tear, 

light songs that suit our lighter hours, 
But O, how bright and dear I 

Who will maj build the epic verse. 

And, Atlas-like, its weight sustain; 
Or solemn tragedies rehearse 

In high, heroic strain- 
So be it. But when all is done. 

The heart demands for happy days 
The lyrics of Anacreon, 

And Sappho's tender lays. 

Soft souls with these are satisfied. 

He loved them, but exacted more. 
For his the lash that Horace plied, 

The sword Harmodius wore. 

Wbere art thou, Brian, and thy knight , 
So dreaded by the flying Dane ? 

And thou. Con of the Hundred Fights!' 
Vour ipin'ts arc not slain t 

Strike for us, as ye did of yore. 
Be with us, we shall conquer still, 

Though Irish kings are crowned no more 
On Tara's holy hill. 

Perhaps he was not hero bom, 
Like those he sung — Heaven only 

He had the rose without the thorn. 
But he deserved the rose. 

For nndemeath its odorous light 
His heart was warm, his sou) was 
strong; 

He knt his love of Country bright. 
And sung ^^^ sweetest song. 

Therefore her sons have gathered here 
To honor him, as few before. 

And blazon on his hundredth year 
The fame of Thomas Moore. 

— Rickard Henry Stoddard. 



CHARLES THE SECOND. 

Bora M17 t«, lUO. 



With frantic love — his kingdom to re- 

Him Virtue's Nurse, Adversity, in vain 
Received, and fostered in her iron breast; 
For all she taught of hardiest and of 

best. 
Or would have taught, by discipline of 

And long privation, now dissolves amain. 

Or is remembered only to g;ive lest 

To wantonness. — Away, Circean revels I 

But for what gain i if England soon must 

Into a gulf wbidi all distinction levels — 
That bigotry may swallow the good 

And, with that draught, the life-blood: 

misery, shame. 
By Poets loathed ; from which Historians 

shrink ! 

-^Witliom Wordnuortk. 



A LITTLE DEAD PRINCE. 



Over the happy mother's bed 

Gambol three children, loving as gay; 
Ernest, strong, and delicate Fritz, 

Pretty baby Victoria. 
Two little princes, sans sword, sans 

One little princess, infant-sweet. 
In the mother's breast, as rich, as full 

As any mother's in lane or street. 
They grew, three roses, love-rooted 

Filling with perfume all their own. 
The palace air— oft sharp and keen, 
In the lonely heights too near a throne. 

The palace windows stand open wide. 
The harmless windows, and through 
them pass 

May winds, to the palace-children dear. 
As to cottage children upon the grass ; 

Out through the door bold Ernest ruiia. 
The mother follows with 

Fearless of fete, for a minute's space 
Leaving the other two bdiind 



'JS 

Grand on the bed, — « mimic queen, 

Tinj' Victoria gravely sits ; 
While grasping closely his darling toy, 

Up to the window climbs merry Friti; 
It drops— his treasure! He leans and 

Twenty feet down to the stony road- 
Hear ye that shriek from the mother's 
lips? 
Hast thou no mercy, O God, O God? 
One ghastly moment he hangs in air 
Like a fledgling bird from the warm 
nest thrown. 
With innocent eyes of mere surprise- 
Then falls— and the bright young life 



Mother, poor mother, try to see 
Not the skeleton hand that thrust him 
there 

Out of sunshiny life into silent death. 

But the waiting angels in phalanx fair, 
O try to think that the earth's hard 

Was the bosom of God, which took 
him in. 
Safe from the clutch of the years un- 
known 
Full of sorrow, sickness, peril or sin: 
hear far off the low sound of tears 

Dropping from many an eye like mine, 
As we look on our living children sweet, 
And our English mother-hearts bleed 
for thine. 

God comfort thee I Under the robe of 

That hides but heals not wounds throb- 
bing wild, 
Ma/st thou feel the touch of one soft 
dead hand 
The child, that will always remain a 
child. 
And when long years shall have slipped 

When gray hairs come and thy pulse 
beats slow. 
May one little face shine star-like out 
O'er the dim descent that all feet must 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Mother, poor mother ! 'nealh v 



ijur 



Bear to the grave this coffin small ; 
Oft, our children living are children lost. 
But our children dead— yes we keep 
them all 

— Z?. li. Craik. 



A SHORT HYMN UPON THE 
BIRTH OF PRINCE CHARLES. 



Chulci II. of EogUnd bom on Uay t«, lUO. 

You that on stars do look. 
Arrest not there your sight. 

Though Nature's fairest book. 

And signed with propitious tight; 
Our blessing now is more divine 
Than planets that at noon did shine. 

To Thee alone be praise. 
From whom our joy descrads. 

Thou cheerer of our days. 
Of causes first, and last of ends: 

To Thee this May we sing, by whom 

Our roses from the hlies bloom. 

Upon this royal flower. 

Sprung from the chastest bed. 
Thy glorious sweetness shower ; 

And first let myrtles crown his head, 
Then palms and laurels wreathed be- 
But let the cypress late be seen. 

And so succeeding men. 

When they the fulness see 
Of this our joy, shall then 

In consort join, as well as we. 
To celebrate His praise above 
That spreads our land with fruits of love. 
—H. Wotlon. 



flDa^ 30. 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 



Dtcorsi 



1 Day. May SO. 



By the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron had fled. 
Where the blades of the grave-grass 

Asleep are the ranks of the dead, — 
Under the sod and the dew ; 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the one, the Blue; 

Under the other, the Gray. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



179 



These in the robings of glory. 

Those in the gloom of defeat; 
All with the battle-blood gory. 
In the dusk of eternity meet, — 
Under the sod and the dew ; 
Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue; 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go. 
Lovingly laden with flowers, 
Alike for the friend and the foe; 
Under the sod and the dew ; 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the roses, the Blue; 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So, with an equal splendor. 

The morning sun-rays fall. 
With a touch imi>artially tender, 
On the blossoms blooming for all, — 
Under the sod and the dew ; 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Broidcrcd with gold, the Blue; 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth 

On forest, and field of grain. 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain ; 
Under the sod and the dew ; 
Waiting the judgment day; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue ; 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding. 
The generous deed was done; 
In the storm of the years now fading 
No braver battle was won; 

Under the sod and the dew ; 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue ; 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war cry sever. 
Or the winding rivers be red ; 
They banish our anger forever 
When they laurel the graves of our 
dead. 
Under the sod and the dew ; 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Love and tears for the Blue ; 
Tears and love for the Gray. 

— f raifcw M* Finch, 



THE REASON WHY. 



DECORATION DAY, 1872. 

Far in the East by Ganges' tide 
The subtle, brown-faced Hindus toil; 
They cringe before a master's pride, 

They see their land a despot's spoil. 
Their olden temples are despised. 

They cannot reap the fields they till, 
And all sweet things that make life 
prized 
They hold but at a foeman's will. 

And why? They were not bold 

and brave. 
They still contemned the soldier's 

glaive, 
And honored not the soldier's 
gfrave. 

Between the good old German hills 

Far seaward flows the storied Rhine; 
Along the vine-clad banks there thrills 

A nation's triumph half divine. 
Beyond, the hearths and homes are free. 
Life's blessings crown the German 
race; 
And through the world where'er he be, 
llow proudly glows the German's face ! 
And why? They were both wise 

and brave. 
They trusted to the soldier's 

glaive. 
They honored still tbfi soldier's 
grave! 

Far cradled in Atlantic seas. 

There lies a group of little isles. 
Throughout the world in every breeze 

Their flag a proud defiance smiles. 
Far millions feel their ruling hand. 

The orient mines are digged for them ; 
The wealth of many a distant land 
Is garnered for their diadem. 

And why? They have been wise 

and brave. 
Their scepter was the soldier's 

glaive. 
They honored still the soldier's 
grave! 

On sunny France a pall of woe 
Has like a sombre cloud come down, 

She saw her loftiest laid low. 
She saw the smoke of many a town. 

When struggle came her strength gave 
way, 



ido 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Yet look— there's danger in her eyes; 
And nations round her watching say, 
"Beware I The tigress may arise!" 
And why? Though beaten she is 

And still she grips the soldier's 

glaive. 
And honors still the soldier's 

gravel 



Forjn 

" e hold the land < 
The rights of all beneath the law 

We guard within our rich domain. 
We bend to none with slavish awe, 
"Tbe good of all we dare maintain. 
And why? We have been true 

and brave. 
And boldly grasped the soldier's 

glaive. 
And honored still the soldier's 
grave. 



And luscious grapes from thistles 
hang. 
When round the quiet cottage door 
The tigers with the children play, 
When in the heart of man no more 
Man's stormy passions hold their sway. 
We can forget to praise the brave. 
And fling aside the soldier's glaive. 
And honor not the soldier's grave I 
— Anonymoui. 



THE REAR GUARD. 

The guns are hushed. On every field 
once flowing 
With wars red flood May's breath of 
peace is shed, 
And, spring's young grass and gracious 
flowers are growing 
Above the dead. 

Ye gray old men whom we this day arc 
greeting. 
Honor to you, honor and love and 
trust! 
Brave to the brave I Your soldier hands 
are meeting 

Across their dusL 



Bravely they fought who charged when 
flags were flying 
In cannon's crash, in screech and 
scream of shell ; 
Bravely they fell, who lay alone and 
dying 
In battle's helL 

Honor to them ! Far graves to-day are 
flinging 
Up through the soil peace blooms to 
meet the sun. 
And daisied heads to suminer winds are 
singing 
Their long "well done." 

Our vanguard, they. They went with 
hot blood flushing 
At battle's din, at joy of bugle's call. 
They fell with smiles, the flood of young 
life gushing, 
Full brave the falll 

But braver ye who, when the war was 

And bugle's call and wave of flag were 

Could come back home, so long left un- 
defended. 
Your cause unwon. 
And twist the useless sword to hook of 
reaping. 
Rebuild the homes, set back the empty 

And brave a land where waste and want 
were keeping 
Guard everywhere. 
All this you did, your courage strong 
upon you. 
And out of ashes, wreck, a new land 

Through years of war no braver battle 

'Gainst fiercer foes. 
And now to-day a prospered land 19 
cheering 
And lifting up her voice in lusty pride 
For you gray men, who fought and 
wrought, not fearing 
Battle's red tide. 
Our rear guard, ye whose step is slow- 
ing, slowing, 
Whose ranks, earth thinned, are filling 
othenvhere. 
Who wore the gray— the gray, alas I stilt 
showing 
On bleaching hair. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



i8i 



For forty years youVe watched this land 
grow stronger, 
For forty years you've been its bul- 
warl^ stay; 
Tarry awhile; pause yet a little lotiger 
Upon the way. 

And set our feet where there may be no 
turning, 
And set our faces straight on duty's 
track. 
Where there may be for stray, strange 
goods no yearning 
Nor looking back. 

And when for you the last tattoo has 



And on death's silent field you've 
pitched you're tent, 
When, bowed through tears, the arc of 
life has rounded 
To full content. 

We that are left will count it guerdon 

Our heritage no years can take away. 
That we were bora of those, unflinching. 

Who wore the gray. 

— Irene Fowler Brown. 



MEMORIAL DAY. 

Gather the garlands rare today. 

Snow-white roses and roses red; 
Gather the fairest flowers of May, 
Heap them up on the heaps of clay. 
Gladden the graves of the noble dead 

Pile them high as the soldiers were 
Piled on the field where they fought 
and fell ; 
They will rejoice in their new place there 
Today, as they walk where the fragrant 

Is sweet with the scent of the asphodeL 

Many a time, I've heard it said. 
They fell so thick where the battles 

Their hot blood rippled, and, running 

red, 
Ran out like a rill from the drifted dead 
Staining the beath and the daisies 

there. 



This day the friends of the soldiers keep. 
And they will keep it through all the 
years. 
To the silent city where soldiers sleep 
Will come with flowers, to watch and 



DECORATION DAY. 
Kccitcd *t ArliDgloa. 



It is needless I should tell you 
Of the history of Sumter, 
How the chorus of the cannon shook its 

How the scattered navies gathered. 
How the iron-ranked battalions 
Rose responsive to the country's urgent 
catlB. 

It is needless that I tell you. 
For the time is still too recent, 

How was heard the first vindictive can- 
How two brothers stopped debating 
On a sad, unsettled question, 

And referred it to the arbitrating steel 

It is needless that I tell yon 
Of the somber days that followed — 
Stormy days that in such slow succession 

Of Antietam, Chickamauga, 
Gettysburg, and Murfreesboro', 
Or the rocl^, cannon-shaken Rapidan. 

It was not a war of conquest ; 

It was fought to save the Union, 
It w:.s v^ged for an idea of the right; 

And the graves so widely scattered 

Show how fruitful an idea 
In peace, or war, may be in moral might 

Brief indeed the war had lasted 
Had it raged in hope of plunder; 

Briefer still, had glory been its only aim. 
But its long and sad duration 
And the graves it has bequeathed us. 

Other motives, other principles proclaim. 



l83 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Need I mention this idea. 
The invindble idea. 
That seemed to hold and save the Na- 
tion's life; 
That, resiatleas and unblenchin^ 
Undisheartened by disaster. 
Seemed the soul And inspiratioii oE the 
strife? 

This idea was of freedom- 
Was that men should all stand equal, 

That the world was interested in the 
fight; 
That the present and the future 
Were electors who had chosen 

Us to argue and decide the case aright. 

And the theories of freedom 
Those now ailent bugles uttered 
Will reverberate with ever-glowing 

They can never be forgotten, 
But will work among the nations 
Till they sweep the world of shackles 
and of thrones. 

It is meet that we do honor 
To the comrades who have fallen — 
Meet that we the sadly woven garlands 

Where they buried lie is sacred. 
Whether 'neath the Northern marble 
Or beneath the Southern cypress-tree or 

Nations are the same as children — 

Always living in the future. 
Living in tbeir aspirations and their 

Picturing some future greatness. 
Reaching forth for future prizes. 
With a wish for higher aims and grander 

It is better for the people 
That they reach for an ideal. 

That they give their future nations better 
lives ; 
Though the standard be unreal, 
Though the hope meets no fulfillment. 

Though the fact in empty dreams alone 



If the people rest contented 
With the good they have accomplished, 
Then they retrograde and slowly sink 



Give a nation an ideal. 
Some grand, ncJjIe, central project; 
It, like adamant, refuses to decay. 

'Tis the duty of the poet, 
'Tis the duty of the statesman. 
To inspire a nation's life with nobler 

And dishonor will o'ershadow 
Him who dares not, or who falsely 
His immortal-fruited mission mispro- 

—IronquiU. 



A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC. 



Dark Lily without blame. 
Not upon us the shame. 
Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance 
true; 
They, by the Maiden's side. 
Victorious fought and died; 
One stood by thee that fiery torment 
through, 
Till the White Dove from thy pure lips 
had passed. 
And thou wert with thine own St. Cath- 
erine at the last- 
Once only didst thou see. 
In artists imagery, 
Thine own face painted, and that pre- 

Was in an Archer's hand 
From the leal Northern land 

— Andrew Lang. 



fDa^ 31. 

A BALLAD OF THE CONEMAUGH 
FLOOD. 



The windows of Heaven were open wide. 
The storm cloud broke, and the people 

Will Concmaugh dam hold out? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



183 



But the great folks down at Johnstown 

played. 
They ate, they drank, they were nought 

afraid, 
For Conemaugh dam holds Conemaugh 

lake. 
By Conemaugh dam their pleasure they 

take, 
Fine catching are Conemaugh trout 

The four mile lake at the back of its wail 
Is growing to five, and the rains still fall, 

And the flood by night and by day 
Is burrowing deep thro buttress and 

mound. 
Fresh waters spring and spurt from the 

ground ; 
While God is thundering out of His 

cloud 
The fountain voices are crying aloud. 
Away to the hills! away! 

Away to the hills I leave altar and shrine. 

Away to the hills! leave table and wine. 
Away from the trade and your tills ; 

Let the strong man speed with the weak- 
est child. 

And the mother who just on her babe 
has smiled 

Be carried, leave only the dead on their 
biers, 

No time for the tomb, and no time for 
tears ; 
Away, away to the hills ! 

Daniel Periton heard the wail 

Of the waters gathering over the vale, 

With sorrow for city and field, — 
Felt already the mountain quake 
'Twixt living and dead. For the breth- 
ren's sake 
Daniel Periton dared to ride 
Full in front of the threatening tide. 

And what if the dam do yield? 

To a man it is given but once to die, 
Though the flood break forth he will 

raise his cry 
For the thousands there in the town. 
At least, some child may be saved by his 

voice. 
Some lover may still in the sun rejoice. 
Some man that has fled, when he wins 

his breath. 
Shall bless the rider who rode thro' 

death, 
For his fellows' life gave his own. 



He leapt to his horse that was black as 

night. 
He turned not left and he turned not 

right, 
Down to the valley he dashed ; 
He heard behind him a thunderous boom, 
The dam had burst and he knew his 

doom; 
"Fly, fly for your lives!" it was all he 

spoke, 
"Fly, fly, for the Conemaugh dam has 

broke !" 
And the cataract after him crashed. 

They saw a man with the God in his face, 
Pale from the desperate whirlwind pace, 

They heard an angel cry. 
And the steed's black mane was flecked 

as he flew, 
And its flanks were red with the spur's 

red dew. 
Into the city and out of the gate, 
Rider and ridden were racing with fate, 

Wild with one agony. 



"Flash on the news that the dam has 

burst," 
And one looked forth, and she knew the 

worst, 
"My last message !" she said. 
The words at her will flashed on before 
Periton's call and the torrent's roar; 
And not in vain had Periton cried. 
His heart had caught a brave heart to 

his side. 
As bold for the saving he sped. 

The flood came down and its strong 

arms took 
The city, and all together shook, 
Tower and church and street, 
Like a pack of cards that a player may 

crush. 
The houses fell in the whirlpool rush, 
Rose and floated and jammed at the last, 
Then a fierce flame fed by the deluge 

blast 
Wove them a winding sheet. 

God have mercy ! was ever a pyre 
Lit like that of the flood's fierce fire ! 

Cattle and men caught fast. 
Prisoners held between life and death, 
While the flame struck down with its 

sulphurous breath. 
And the flood struck up with its strong, 

cold hand. 



184 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



No hope from the water, no help from 
the land, 
And the torrent thundering past I 



rides, 

The race must be weli-nigh won. 
"Away to the hills!" but the cataract's 

bound 
Has caught and has dashed him from 

saddle to ground, — 
And the man who saw the end of the 

Saw a dark, dead horse, and a pale dead 
face, 
Did they hear Heaven's great "Well 
done?" 
—Hantwiek Dntmmond Rawiuky. 



I. 

Da the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen 
hundred ninety-two, 
Did the English fight the French — woe 
to France I 

And, the thirty-first of May, helter- 
skelter through the blue. 

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a 
shoal of sharks pursue. 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. 
Malo on the Ranee, 

With the English fleet in view. 

H. 

Twas the squadron that escaped, with 
the victor in full chase; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his 

great ship, Damfreville; 
Close on him lied, great and small. 
Twenty-two good shij 
And they signalled 
"Help the winners or a race i 
Get us guidance, give us harbor, take 
us quick — or, quicker still, 
Here's the English can and will I" 

III. 



3 tSe pla^c 



"Why, what hope or chance have ships 

like these to pass?" laughed they: 

"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port ; all 

the passage scarred and scored. 
Shall the 'Formidable' here with her 
twelve and eighty guns 
Think to make the river-moutb by the 
single narrow way. 
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a 
craft of twenty tons. 
And with flow at full beside? 
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Readi the mooring? Rather say. 
While rock stands or water runs^ 
Not a ship will leave the bay 1' 

IV. 

Then was called a council straight 

Brief and bitter the debate: 

"Here's the English at our heels; would 
you have them take in tow 

AH that's left us of the fleet, linked to- 
gether stem and bow. 

For a prize to Plymouth Sound? 

Better run the ships aground 1" 
(Ended Damfreville his speech). 

"Not a minute more to wait I 
Let the caplains all and each 

Shove ashore, then blow up, hum the 
vessels on the beach I 

France must undergo her fate. 



"Give the word I" But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard; 
For up stood, for out stepped, for in 
struck amid all these 
— A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate 
— first, second, third? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete! 
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by 
Tourville for the Heet, 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervi Riel the 
Croisickese. 

VL 

And "What mockery or malice have we 
here?" cries Herv^ Riel: 
"Are you mad. you Malouins? Are 
you cowards, fools, or rogues? 

Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who 
took the soundings, tell 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



■85 



On my fingers every bank, every shallow, 

every swell 

'Twixt the offing here and Giivt 

where the river disembogues? 

Are you bought by English gold? la it 

love the lying's for ? 

Morn and eve, night and day. 

Have I piloted your bay. 

Entered free and anchored fast at the 

foot of Solidor. 

Bum the fleet and rain France? That 

were worse than fifty HoguesI 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! 
Sirs, believe me, there's a way I 
Only let me lead the line, 
Have the biggest ship to steer, 

Get this 'Formidable' dear, 
Make the others follow mine, 
Aad I lead them, most and least, by a 
passage I know well. 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 
And if one ship misbehave, 
— Keel so mucb as grate the ground. 
Why, I've nothing but my life — here's 
my head I" cries Hervi Riel. 

VII. 

Not a minute more to wait. 

"Steer us in, then, small and great I 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the 
squadron!" cried its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 
Still the north-wind, by God's grace! 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound. 
Clears the entry like a hound, 
Keeps the passage as its inch of way 
were the wide sea's profound I 

See, safe through shoal and rock. 

How they follow in a flock. 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel 
that grates the ground. 

Not a spar that comes to grief I 
The peril, see, is past. 
All are harbored to the last. 
And just as Hervi Riel hollas "An- 
chor!" — sure as fate. 
Up the English come— too latel 

VIII. 

So, the storm subsides to calm : 
They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o'erlooking Greve. 



Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 

"Just our rapture to enhance. 
Let the English rake the bay. 

Gnash their teeth and glare askance 
As they cannonade away I 

'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant ridit^ 
on the Ranee!" 

How hope succeeds despair on each Cap- 
Out burst all with one accord, 
"This is Paradise for Helll 
Let France, let France's King 
Thank the man that did the thing I" 

What a shout, and all one word, 
•UtTvi Rieir 

As he stepped in front once more; 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eyes. 

Just the same man as before. 



IX. 

Then said Damfreville, "My friend, 
I must speak out at the end. 

Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips: 
You have saved the King his ships. 

You must name you're own reward. 
'Faith our sun was near eclipse! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 
Ask to heart's content and have ! or my 
name's not Damfreville." 



Then a beam of fun outbroke 

On the bearded mouth that spoke. 

As the honest heart laughed through 

Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 

"Since I needs must say my say. 

Since on board the duty's done. 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic PoJn^ 

what is it but a run? — 
Since 'tis ask and have, I may— 

Since the others go ashore — 
Come! A good whole holiday! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I 
call the Belle Aurore I" 

That he asked and that he got,— noth- 
ing more. 



i86 EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 


XI. 


Go to Paris : rank on rank 




Search the heroes flung pell-mell 


Name and deed alike are lost: 


On the Louvre, face and flank ! 


Not a pillar nor a post 


You shall look long enough ere jou come 


In his Croisic Iceeps alive tke feat as 


to Hervi Kiel. 


it befell; 


So, for better and for worse. 


Not a head in white and black 


Herv* Riel, accept my verse 1 

In my verse, Hervi Riel, do thou once 


On a single fishiog-sraack. 


In memory of the man bat for whom 


more 


had gone to wnick 


Save the iquadron, honor France, love 


All that France saved from the fight 


thy wife the Belle Aurorel 


whence England bore the belL 


—Robert Brouming. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



187 



3une 1. 



THE "SHANNON" AND THE 
"CHESAPEAKE." 



The fight between the American frigate Chei- 
apeake and the Enelish frigate Shannon took 
place jtist outside Boston Harbor on June 1, 
1818, and resulted in a victory for the English 
ship. Captain Lawrence of the Chesapeake was 
mortally wounded and was carried below ex- 
claiming, "Don't give up the ship." 



The captain of the Shannon came sailing 
up the bay, 

A reeling wind flung out behind his pen- 
nons bright and gay; 

His cannon crashed a challenge; the 
smoke that hid the sea 

Was driven hard to windward and 
drifted back to lee. 

The captain of the Shannon sent word 

into the town: 
Was Lawrence there, and would he dare 

to sail his frigate down 
And meet him at the harbor's mouth and 

fight him, gun to gun, 
For honor's sake, with pride at stake, 

until the fight was won? 

Now, long the gallant Lawrence had 

scoured the bitter main ; 
With many a scar and wound of war his 

ship was home again ; 
His crew, relieved from service, were 

scattered far and wide, 
And scarcely one, his duty done, had 

lingered by his side. 

But to refuse the challenge? Could he 

outlive the shame? 
Brave men and true, but deadly few, he 

gathered to his fame. 
Once more the great ship Chesapeake 

prepared her for the fi^ht, — 
I'll bring the foe to town m tow," he 

said, "before to-night !" 

High on the hills of Hingham that over- 
look the shore. 

To watch the fray and hope and pray, 
for they could do no more, 

The children of the country watched the 
children of the sea 

When the smoke drove hard to wind- 
ward and drifted bade to lee. ' 



ujr 



"How can he fight," they whispered, 

"with only half a crew, 
Though they be rare to do and dare, yet 

what can brave men do?" 
But when the Chesapeake came down, 

the Stars and Stripes on high. 
Stilled was each fear, and cheer on 

cheer resounded to the sky. 

The captain of the Shannon, he swore 
both long and loud : 

"This victory, where'er it be, shall make 
two nations proud ! 

Now onward to this victory or down- 
ward to defeat ! 

A sailor's life is sweet with strife, a 
sailor's death as sweet." 

And as when lightnings rend the sky 

and gloomy thunders roar, 
And crashing surge plays devil's dirge 

upon the stricken shore. 
With thunder and with sheets of flame 

the two ships rang with shot. 
And every gun burst forth a sun of iron 

crimson-hot 

And twice they lashed together and twice 

they tore apart, 
And iron balls burst wooden walls and 

pierced each oaken heart. 
Still from the hills of Hingham men 

watched with hopes and fears. 
While all the bay was torn that day with 

shot that rained like tears. 

The tall masts of the Chesapeake went 

groaning by the board ; 
The Shannon^ spars were weak with 

scars when Broke cast down his 

sword ; 
"Now woe," he cried, "to England, and 

shame and woe to me !" 
The smoke drove hard to windward and 

drifted back to lee. 



"Give them one breaking broadside 

more," he cried, "before we 

strike I" 
But one grim ball that ruined all for 

hope and home alike 
Laid Lawrence low in glory, yet from 

his pallid lip 
Rang to the land his last command: 

''Boys, don't give up the shipT 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The wounded wept like women when 

they hauled her ensign down. 
Hen's cheeks were pale as with the tale 

from Hingham to the town 
They hurried in swift silence, while 

toward the eastern night 
The victor bore away from shore and 

vanished out of sight 

Hail to the great ship Chesapeaktl Hail 

to the hero hrave 
Who fought her fast, and loved her last, 

and shared her sudden gravel 
And glory be to those that died for all 

eternity ; 
They lie apart at the inother-heart of 

God's eternal sea. 

--Thomas Tracy Bow/I- 



LOUIS NAPOLEON. 

Zului on 
e Zulu w 

Eagle of Austerlitzl where were thy 

When far away upon a barbarous 

strand. 
In fight unequal, by an obscure hand. 
Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings ! 

Poor boy ) thou wilt not flaunt thy cloak 

Nor ride in state through Paris in the 



Shall on thy dead and crownless fore- 
head place 
The better laurels of a soldier's crown, 
That not dishonoured should thy soul 
go down 
To tell the mighty sire of thy race 

That France hath kissed the mouth of 
Liberty, 
And found it sweeter than his honie<l 

And that the giant wave Democracy 
Breaks on the shores where Kings lay 
crouched at ease. 

-Otcar W\idt. 



DESTINY. 

Bom to the purple, lying stark and dead. 
Transfixed with poisoned spears, be- 
neath the sun 
Of brazen Africa ! Thy grave is one, 
Fore- fated youth (on whom were 

Follies and sins not thine), whereat the 

world. 
Heartless howe'er it be, will pause to 

sii^ 
A diige, to breathe a sigh, a wreath to 

fling 
Of rosemary and rue with bay-leaves 

Enmeshed in toils ambitious, not thine 

Immortal, loved boy-prince, thou tak'st 

thy stand 
With early doomed Don Carlos, hand in 

With mild-browed Arthur, Geoffrey's 

murdered son. 
Louis the Dauphin lifts his thom-ringed 

head. 
And welcomes thee, his brother, 'mongst 

the dead. 

— £Mma LaiarM. 



3une 2. 

THE ROYAL VICTORY OVER THE 
DUTCH. 

Actioi 

■nd the 

Let England, and Ireland, and Scotland 

And render thanksgivings with heart and 

That surly fanatic that now will not sing. 
Is false to the kingdom and foe to the 

King; 

For he that will grutch. 

Our fortune is such. 
Doth deal for the devil as well as the 

Dutch ; 
For why should my nature or conscience 

At taking of his life that fain would have 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



189 



So high a victory we could not command. 
Had it not be gained by an Almighty 

Tbe great 'Lord of Battles did perfect 

this work. 
For God and the King, and the good 

Duke of York, 

Whose courage was such. 

Against the Low Dutch, 
That vapoured and swaggered lik^ 

Lords in a hutch, 
But, let the bold Hollander, bum, sink 

or swim'. 
They have honour enough to be beaten 

—Old BiMad. 



3une 3. 



HOBSON AND HIS MEN. 



1 m the hnibor of SBnliago, Liei 

HoMon propoMd to prevent the Spinii 

i^nce of the harbor. He called far*^| 



Hobson went towards death and hell, 

Hobson and his men, 
Un regarding shot and shell. 
And the rain of fire that fell ; 
Calm, undaunted, tearless, bold. 
Every heart a heart of gold. 
Steadfast, daring, uncontrolled, — 

Hobson and his men. 

Hobson came from death and bell, 

Hobson and his men. 
Shout the tidings, ring the bell. 
Let the pealing anthems swell; 
Back from wreck and raft and wave, 
From the shadow of the grave, 
Every honor to the brave, — 

Hobson and his men. 

— Robert Loveman. 



EIGHT VOLUNTEERS. 



Eight volunteers I on an errand of itathl 
Eight menl Wbogpeak*^ 



Eight men to go where the camton's hot 

breath 
Bums black the cheeks. 
Eight men to man the old Merrimac't 

hulk; 
Eight men to sink the old steamer's black 

bulk. 
Blockade the cbamiel where Spanish 

ships skulk, — 
Eight men I Who speaks? 

"Eight volunteers I" said the Admiral's 
flags I 
Eight men! Who speaks? 
Who will sail under EI Morro's bladt 
crags? — 
Sure death he seeks. 
Who is there willing to offer his life? 
Willing to march to this music of 

strife, — 
Cannon for drum and torpedo for fife? 
Eight men I Who speaks ? 

Eight volunteers I on an errand of death ! 

Eight men I Who speaks? 
Was there a man who in fear held his 
breath? 
With fear-paled cheeks? 
From ev'ry war-ship ascended a cheer I 
From ev'ry sailor's lips burst the word 

"Here !" 
Four thousand heroes their lives volun- 
teer! 
Eight men I Who speaks? 

— Lansing C. BaUey. 



THE MEN OF THE MERRIMAC 

Hail to HobsonI hail to Hobsont hail to 

all the valiant sell 
Clatuen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Mtu- 

phy, Montagu, Chareltct 
Howsoe'er we latid and laurel we shall 

be their debtors yet! 
Shame upon us, shame upon us, should 

the notion e'er forgetl 

Though the talc be worn with telling, let 
the daring deed be sung ! 

Surely never brighter valor, since this 
wheeling world was young, 

Thrilled men's souls to more than won- 
der, till praise leaped from tmy 
tongue t 



igo 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Trapped at laat the Spanish sea-fox in 
the hilMocked harbor la.y; 

Spake the Admiral from bis flagship, 
rocking oS the hidden bay, 

"We must dose yon open portal lest he 
slip by night away I ' 

"Volmiteers !" the signal lifted ; rippling 
through the fleet it ran; 

Was there ever deadlier venture? was 
there ever bolder plan? 

Yet the gallant sailors answered, an- 
swered wellnigh to a man I 

Ere the dawn's first rose-flush kindled, 
swiftly sped the chosen eight 

Toward the batteries grimly frowning 
o'er the harbor's narrow gate 



They had passed the outer portal where 
the guns grinned, tier o'er tier, 

When portentous Morro thundered, and 
Socapa echoed clear, 

And Estreila joined a chorus pande- 

Heroes without hands to waver, heroes 
without hearts to quail, 

There they sank the bulky collier 'mid 
the hurtling Spanish hail; 

Long shall float our starry banner if 
such lads beneath it sail I 

Hail to Hobton! hail to Hobsonl hail to 
all the valiant setl 

Clausen, Kelly, DeigMti, Phillips, Mur- 
phy, Montagu, Charettet 

Howioe'er we laud and laurel we shall 
be their debtors yell 

Shame upon ks, shame upon us, should 
the nation e'er forget! 

— Clinton Scollard. 



SINKING THE MERRIMAC. 

Into the night she steamed away, 

JVhile an awful silence fell ; 
Straight for the monsters dark and grim, 
Glutted with shot and shell. 

Sombre and swift and silent, 
Scarcely a whispered breath; 

On, on towards Santiago. 
On to success or— deata. 



Grim headlands rose in the distance. 
Old Morro guarding the bay ; 

Waiting with limbered Hontorias, 
Waiting for a hated prey. 

They sleep! Then apast the entrance 

Leaving a tell-tale track. 
Into the sharp curved channel 

Swept the bold Merrimac: 

"What's that? The enemy's pidtet? 

A launch — they see us — 'tis bad! 
A shot— three pounder— they're fighting, 

God, is the tmy thing mad?" 

Then a light flashed over the darkness. 
The enemy sprang to their armsj 

The fleet and the forts awakened, 
The night was rent with alarms. 

They tried to swing her crosswise^ 
Her helm she would not obey; 

For the nosing, pursuing picket 
Had shot her rudder away I 

Shot and shell from the fleet at anchor. 
Shot and shell from shore and shore; 

Torpedoes and mines upheaving, 
A deafening, hellish roar; 

A storm of iron hail shrieking, 

Closer the missies fell ; 
Guns flashed, and the darkness opened 

Like gaps in a roaring hell 

Till it seemed as if ship and heroes 
Must be ground beneath the tide. 

But the God of War directed, 
And the angry shots flew wide. 

Fearlessly they worked and quickly, 
Teeth set and brave to a man; 

"On deckl" rang the clear, sharp order, 
"Cut loose the i 



And then the gallant commander. 
When all was well with his crew. 

Accomplished in one hurried moment 
What the enemy failed to do. 

He touched the explosives, and straight' 

With a hot, spasmodic breath. 

The Merrimac heaved in the middle 

And sank to her glorious death. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



191 



A cheer went up from the Spaniards, 
And the firing died away; 

And they found eight floating heroet 
On a raft at break of day- 

Not a. sou] was harmed among them, 
For the God of War had planned. 

And the Prince of the Spanish navy 
Bore them in safety to land. 

Great deeds have been done in battle. 
Of valor there is no lack; 

But none have been greater, braver. 
Than the dash of the Merrimac 

—Joe Cone. 



June 4. 



God works through i 



: hills or 



In man, not men, is the godlike power; 

The man, God's potentate, God fore- 
knows ; 
He sends him strength at the destined 
hour. 

His spirit he breathes into one deep 
heart; 

His cloud he bids from one life depart; 

A Saint ! — and a race is to God re-born t 

A Man I — one man makes a nation's 



A man, and the blind land by slow de- 
grees 
Gains sight! A man, and the deaf 
land hears I 
A man. and the dumb land like waken- 
ing seas 
Thunders low dirges in proud, dull 

One man, and the People, a three days' 

Stands up, and the grave-bands fall off 

One man, and the nation in height a 

To the measure ascends of the perfect 



Thus wept unto God the land of Eire ; 
Yet there rose no man, and her hope 

In the ashes she sat of a bumed-out fire. 
And sackcloth was over her queenly 

head. 
But a man in her latter days arose; 
A deliverer stepped from the cimp of 

her foes; 
He spake ; the great and the proud gave 

And the dawn began which shall end in 
day! 

—Avbrey T. D« Vert. 



June 5. 

SACHEVEREL. 

iilne ^ Tory 

Cadolptain and am 
thi« yeari. Pub 

»t the "^"5 f 'hi. 



ran high 
itretu d! I 



A sudden conflict rises from the swell 
Of a proud slavery met by tenets 

strained 
In Liberty's behalf. Fears, true or 

feigned. 
Spread through all ranks; and lol the 

Sentinel 
Who loudest rang his pulpit 'larum bell. 
Stands at the Bar, absolved by female 

Mingling their glances with grave flat- 
Lavished on Him — that England may 

rebel 
Against her ancient virtue. High and 

Watchwords of Party, on all tongues are 

rife; 
As if a Giurch, though sprung from 

heaven, must owe 
To opposites and fierce extremes her 

IHc- 
Not to the golden mean, and quiet flow 
Of truths that soften hatred temper 

Krife. 

—Wmam Woritworth. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



3unc 6. 

THE RHYMED WILL OF HUNNIS. 

HaDiiii »u ehmpel muter lo Qiwen Elia- 

beth ind wu > rhymailer— ■- -"-• 

• poet — u wrll. According 



Thy efforts to conduct it by 
The racks and reefs thu seem to lie 
Around it everywhere. 

—IronqiiiU. 






trc br himKlf. hi 
:ed the proverbisJ pmenj of thi 
rice. He died June e, 1G97. 



"To God my soul I do bequeathe, be- 
cause it is His own. 
My body to be laid in Brave, where, to 
my friends best known; 
Executors I wiH none niake, thereby 
great strife may grow, 
Because the goods that I shall leave 
will not pay all I owe." 



On hi* 



BLAINE OF MAINE. 

■tion bj tbt Republic! 



,. June . 



n-guarded 



3unc 7. 



3 block 



Lashed to his flagship's t 

Old Farragut, through 

Through fleets of fire, through batteries 

By shot and shell harassed. 
While wreck and ruin seemed 

bis way. 
And splintered spars spread sprinkling 

on the spray, 
Guidine his fleet throughout the frightful 
fray. 
Into the harbor passed; 
And sullen forts grew calm and still 
Beneath the victor's iron will. 
Subdued and crushed at last. 

Blaine 1 amid the glare 
Of party ruin, take the ship of state; 
We bind thee to its mast, thou statesman 
great; 
And thine must be the care 
To guide it on through rocks and reefs 

that vex 
The changing channel with a thousand 

wrecks. 
And though the sur^e shall sweep its 

sacred decks, 
iH% know tbou wUt not spare 



The Actor's dead, and memory alone 
Recalls the genial magic of his tone; 
Marble nor canvas nor the printed page 
Shall tell his genius to another age : 
A memory, doomed to dwindle less and 

less. 
His world-wide hme shrinks to this lit- 
tleness. 
Yet if, a half a century from today, 
A tender smile about our old lips play. 
And if our gcrandchild query whence it 

Well say : "A thought of Brougham."^ 
And that is Fame! 
—H. C. Bunner. 



3une 6. 



Died Jul 



.. D. ess. 



Utter the song, O my soul ! the flight and 

return of Mahomet, 
Prophet and priest, who scattered abroad 

both evil and blessing. 
Huge wasteful empires founded and 

hallowed siow persecution. 
Soul-withering, but crushed the blas- 

phemus rites of Che Pagan 
And idolatrous Christians. — For veiling 

the Gospel of Jesus, 
They, the best corrupting, had made it 

worse than the vilest. 
Wherefore Heaven decreed th' enthusiast 

warrior of Mecca, 
Choosing good from iniquity rather than 

evil from goodness. 
Loud the tumult in Mecca surrounding 

the fane of the idol; — 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



■93 



Naked and prostrate the people were laid 

— the people with mad shouts 
Thundering now, and now with saddest 

ululation 
Flew, as over the channel of rock-stone 

the ruinous river 
Shatters its waters abreast, and in mazy 

uproar bewildered. 
Rushes dividuous all — all rushing impet- 

— S. T. Coleridge. 



IN THE ROUND TOWER AT 
JHANSI. 



A hundred, a thousand to oi 

Not a hope in the world r 
The swarming, howling wretches below 

Gained and gained and gained. 



Close his arm about her now. 

Close her cheek to his. 
Close the pistol to her hrow — 

God forgive them this ! 

"Will it hurt much?"— "No, mine own 
I wish 1 could bear the pang for both.' 

"I wish I could bear the pang alone ; 
Courage, dear, I am not loath," 

Kiss and kiss : "It is not pain 

Thus to kiss and die. 
One kiss more."— "And yet one again."— 

"Good by."— "Good by." 

—Christina Rostett' 



TO ANDREW JACKSON. 

Died Jur.G 8, 1B4E. 

Old lion the Hermitage, again 
The times invoke thee, but thou a 
not here; 



Cannot our peril call thee from thy 
bier? 
France vapors, and the puny ann of 

Is up to strike us; England gives them 

cheer, 
False to the child that in her hour of 

Must be her bulwark and her succor. 

To prop the strength which even now 

doth wane. 
Nor these alone ; intestine broils delight 

The gaping monarch s, and our liberal 

Is rife with traitors. Now, while both 

Europe and treason — I would see once 

Thy dreadful courage lash itself to 

Behold thee shake thy mane, and hear 
thy roar. 

— George H. Boker. 



3une 9. 

SAINT COLUMBA. 

Si. Columba, who died at loni, Scolland, on 
Scotland. ' He bounded the monutry of loni. 

Dead is Columba; the world's arch 
Gleams with a lighting of strange fires. 

They flash and run, they leap and march. 
Signs of a Saint's fulfilled desires. 

Live is Columba; golden crowned, 
Sceptred with Mary lilies, shod 

With angel flames, and girded round 
With white of snow, he goes to God. 

No more the gray eyes long to see 
The oakwootis of their Inisfail ; 

Where the white angels hovering be. 
And, ah, the birds in every vale I 

No more for him thy fierce winds blow, 

lona of the angry seal 
Gone, the white glories of thy snow, 

And white spray flying over thee I 

Now, far ttom ttie gn,^ wa, wA-^ax 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



From seawora rocks and seabird'a 

Colnmba ^ils the morning star, 
That shines in never nighted sides. 

Hi^h in the perfect Land of Mom, 
He listens to the chaunting air; 

The Land, where music is not bom. 
For music ts eternal there. 

Ther^ bent before the burning Throne, 

He lands the Lover of the Gael ; 
Sweet Christ I whom Patrick's children 



DICKENS IN CAMP. 



Died Jane B. IGTO. 

Above the pines the moon was slowlj 
drifting. 

The river sang below; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 

Their minarets of snow. 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, 
painted 
The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drooped 
and fainted 
In the fierce race for wealth: 

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant 
treasure 
A boarded volume drew. 
And cards were dropped from hands of 
listless leisure 
To hear the tale anew. 

And then, while round them shadows 
gathered faster. 
And as the firelight fell, 
He read aloud the book wherein the 
Master 
Had writ of "Little Nell." 



e read, from clustering pine and 
cedar 
A silence seemed to fall; 



The fir-trees, gathering closer in the 
shadows. 
Listened in every spray. 
While the whole camp, with "Nell" on 
English meadows 
Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertakcn 

As by some spell divine — 
Their cares dropped from them like the 
needles shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire: 

And he who wrought that spell?— 
Ah I towering pine and stately Kentish 

Ve have one tale to tell 1 

Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant 

Blend with the breath that thrills 
With bop-vines incense all the pensive 
glory 
That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak 
and holly 
And laurel- wreaths entwine, 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous 
folly,— 
This spray of Western pine ! 

—BrtI Harte. 



3unc 10. 



Blttle of Big Bethel. June 10, lESl. Tbrough 
■ mutaiie Ihc Federal troops fited upon eacb 
other, resulting in great conCuaion Hod dfleat 
by tbe ConfederaleB. Tbe Federal lou in killed 



We mustered at midnight, in darkness 
we formed. 

And the whisper went round of a fort to 
be stormed ; 

But no drum-beat had called us, no trum- 
pet we heard, 

And no voice of command, but onr 
colonel's low word — 
"Column ! Forward 1" 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



And out, through the mist, and the murk 

of the morn, 
From the beaches of Hampton our barges 

were borne; 
And we heard not a sound, mve the 

sweep of the oar. 
Till the word of our colonel came up 

from the shore — 
"Column I Forward!" 

With hearts bounding bravely, and eyes 

all alight, 
Aa ye dance to soft music, so trod we 

that night; 
Through the aisles of tbe greenwood, 

with vines over arched. 
Tossing dew-drops, like gems, from our 

feet, as we marched — 
"Column t Forward!" 

As ye dance with the damsels, to viol and 

flute. 
So we skipped from the shadows, and 

mocked their pursuit ; 
But the soft zephyrs chased us, with 

scents of the mom, 
As we passed by the hay-fields and green 



For the leaves were all laden with frag- 

And the flowers and the foliage with 

sweets were in tune; 
And the air was so calm, and the forest 

That we heard our own heart-beats, like 
taps of a drum — 
''Column I Forward 1" 

Till tbe lull of the lowlands was stirred 

by the bre«e. 
And the buskins of morn brushed the 

tops of the trees. 
And the glintings of glory that slid from 

her track 
By the sheen of our rifles were gayly 
flung back— 
"Column I Forward I" 

And the woodlands grew purple with 
sunshiny mist. 

And the blue-crested hill-tops with rose- 
light were kissed, 

And the earth pave her prayers to the 
sun in perfumes. 



Till we marched as through gardens, and 
trampled on blooms — 
"Column t Forward!" 



Ay, trampled on blossoms, and seared 

the sweet breath 
Of the greenwood with low-brooding 

vapors of death ; 
O'er the flowers and the com we were 

borne like a blast, 
And away to the forefront of battle we 



"Column 1 Forward I" 



For the cannon's hoarse thunder roared 
out from the glades. 

And the sun was like lightning on ban- 
ners and blades. 

When the loiw line of chanting 2^aves, 
like a flood. 

From the green of tbe woodlands roUed, 
crimson as blood — 
"Column I Forward I" 

While the sound of their song, like the 

surge of the seas. 
With the "Star-Spangled Banner" 

swelled over the leas ; 
And the sword of Duryea, like a torch, 

led the way. 
Bearing down on the batteries of Bethel 

"Column 1 Forward !" 

Through green tasselled cornfields our 

columns were thrown, 
And like com by the red scythe of fire 

While the cannon's fierce ploughings 
new-furrowed the plain, 

That our blood might be planted for Lib- 
erty's grain- 
Column I Forward!" 



Oh I the fields of fair June have no lack 

of sweet flowers. 
But their rarest and best breathe no frag- 

lance tike ours; 
And the sunshine of June, sprinkling 

gold on the com. 
Hath no tiarvest that ripeneth lika 

Bethel's red mom — 
"Column! Forward I" 



196 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with 

lips and with breath, 
Drank the first kiss of Danger and 

clasped her in death ; 
And the heart of brave Winthrop grew 

mute with his lyre, 
When the plumes of his genius lay 

moulting in fire — 
''Column ! Forward t" 

Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright 

as his name. 
And the grass where he slept shall be 

green as his fame; 
For the gold of the pen and the steel of 

the sword 
Write his deeds — in his blood— on the 

land he adored — 
"Column ! Forward V 

And the soul of our comrade shall 



And the flowers and the grass-blades his 

memory upbear; 
While the breath of his genius, like music 

With the com-tassels whispers, and sings 
in the sheaves — 
"Column I Forward !" 

—A. J. H. Duganne. 



June II, 

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 



Polar 






Not here 1 the white North has thy 
bones ; and thou 
Heroic sailor- soul, 
Art passing on thine happier voyage now 
Toward no earthly pole. 

— Alfred Tennyson. 



LADY FRANKLIN. 

Fold thy hands, thy work is over; 

Cool thy watching eyes with tears; 
Let thy poor heart, over-wearied, 

Rest iike from hopes and fears, — 



Hopes, that saw with sleepless vision 
One sad picture fading slow ; 

Fears, that followed, vague and nameless. 
Lifting back the veils of snow. 

For thy brave one, for thy lost one, 

Truest heart of woman, weep I 
Owning Still the love that granted 

Unto thy beloved sleep. 

Not for him that hour of terror 
When, the long ice-battle o'er. 

In the sunless day his comrades 
Deathward trod the Polar shore. 

Spared the cruel cold and famine. 

Spared the fainting heart's desnair. 
What but that could mercy grant him? 

What but that has been thy prayer? 

Dear to thee that last memorial 
From the cairn beside the sea; 

Evermore the month of roses 
Shall be sacred time to thee. 

Sad it is the mournful yew-tree 
O'er his slumbers may not wave; 
Sad it is the English daisy 
May not blossom on his grave. 

But his tomb shall storm and winter 
Shape and fashion year by year. 

Pile his mighty mausoleum. 

Block by block, and tier on tier. 

Guardian of its gleaming portal 

Shall his stainless honor be, 
While thy love, a sweet immortal, 

Hovers o'er the winter sea. 

—EliMbeth PVhillitr. 



ON SIR KENELM DIGBY. 



Bom on the day he died, the eleventh of 

And that day bravely fought at Scan- 

deroon. 
How rare that one and the same day 

should be 
His day of birth, of death, and victory. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



d JuDC IS, 1BT3. 

Lot there he lies, our Patriarch Poet, 
dead! 
The solemn angel of eternal peace 
Has waved a wand of mystery o'er his 
head. 
Touched his strong heart, and bade hb 
pulses cease. 

Behold in marble quietude he liest 
Pallid and cold, divorced from earthly 

With tranquil brow, lax hands, and 
dreamless eyes, 
Yet the closed lips would seem to smile 
at death. 

Well may they smile; for death, to such 
as he. 
Brings purer freedom, loftier thought 

And, in grand truce 

Lifts to song's : 

star-like fame 



RUGBY CHAPEL. 



UDODI aa heacfinaalcr of Rugby. He 



O Strong soul, by what shore 

"Tarriest thou now? For that force. 

Surely, has not been left vain. 

Somewhere, surely, afar, 

In the sounding labor-house vast 

Of being, is practised that strength. 

Zealous, beneficent, firm I 

Yes, in some far-shining sphere. 

Conscious or not of the past. 

Still thou performest the word 

Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live, 

Prompt, unwearied, as here! 

Still thou upraisest with zeal 

The humble good from the ground. 

Sternly represseth the bad. 



Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse 
Those who with half-open eyes 
Tread the border- land dim 
'Twixt vice and virtue; revivst, 
Succorest; — this was thy work. 
This was thy life upon earth. 

—Matthew Arnold. 



THE KIDNAPPING OF SIMS. 
Sim! wu a fnptive aUve, retaken June 1 



Souls of the patriot dead 

On Bunker's height who bledl 

The pile, that stands 
On your long-buried bones — 
Those monumental stones — 
Should not suppress the groans 

This day demands. 

For Freedom there ye stood ; 
There gave the earth your blood; 

There found your graves; 
That men of every dime. 
Faith, color, tongue, and time, 

" ough your ■ ' 

; slaves. 

Over your bed, so low. 
Heard ^ e not, long ago, 

A voice of power 
Proclaim to earth and sea. 
That where ye sleep should be 
A home for Liberty 

Till Time's last hour? 

Hear ye the chains of slaves. 
Now clanking round your graves? 

Hear ye the sound 
Of that same voice that calls 
From out our Senate halls, 
"Hunt down those fleeing thralls, 

With iiorse and hound 1" 

That voice your sons hath sw&yedl 
Tis heard, and is obeyed 1 

This gloomy day 
Tells you of cnnine stained. 
Of Justice's name profaned, 
Of a poor bondman chained 

And borne away I 



I9S 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Over Virginia's Springa, 

Her eagles spread their wings, 

Her Blue Ridge towers— 
That voice— once heard with awe — 
Now asks, "Who ever saw. 
Up there, a higher law 
Than this of ours?" 

Must we obey that voice? 
When God or man's the choice, 

Must we postpone 
Him, who from Sinai spoke? 
Must we wear slavery's yoke? 
Bear of her lash the stroke, 

And prop her throne? 

Laahed with her hounds, must we 
Run down the poor who flee 

From slavery^ hell? 
Great Godi when we do this 
Exclude us from thy bliss; 
At us let angels hiss 

From heaven that fell 1 

—John Pier pout. 



3ttne 13. 



sine of Colchnter which, lasclhec with the 
battle of Proton, farmed the culminiting point 
of the royjilijt riiiog of ia48. The town wu 
inveated on June 18th and lurrendered OB 
Auguat STth. The Lord Pairfax here addreMcd 
ia the third of hia uinie, and nujt be dia- 
tinpiiahed ai the great Lord Fairfax. 

Fairfax, whose name in arms through 

Europe rings, 
Filling each mouth with envy or with 

And all her jealous monarchs with 



Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings 
Victory home, though new rebel hons 

Their Hydra heads, and the false North 
displays 

Her broken league to imp their serpent- 
wings. 

O Tct a nobler task awaits thy hand 

(For what can war but endless war still 
breed?) 



Till truth and right from violence be 

freed. 
And public faith cleared from the shame- 

ful brand 
Of public fraud. In vain doth vakiur 

bleet^ 
While avance and rapine share the land. 
— John itilton. 



ON THE DEATH OF LORD HAST- 
INGS. 



"In his mouth nations spake; his tongue 

might be 
Interpreter to Greece, France, Italy. 
His native soil was the four parts o' the 

earth; 
AH Europe was too narrow for his birth. 
A young apostle; and with reverence 

I speak't, inspired with gifts of tongues 

Nature ^ve him, a child, what men in 



Oft 



strive, by art though furthered, tc 
— John Dryden. 



3une 14. 

NASEBY. 



The decisive actioa of the Civil War, The 
pBrliaulInUrianB under Fairfax and CTatnweil 
defeated the R< " - -. . - 



* decidi 



by CTOinwdl'a 



. letS. The battle 
ivalry. 



O! wherefore come ye forth in triumph 
from the North, 

With your hands and your feet, and your 
raiment all red? 

And wherefore do your rout send forth 
a joyous shout? 

And whence are the grapes of the wine- 
press that ye tread? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



O I evil was the root, and bitter was the 

fruit. 
And crimson was the juice of the vintage 

that we trod; 
For we trampled on the throng of the 

haughty and the strong, 
Who sat in the high places and slew the 

saints of God. 

It was about the noon of a glorious day 

of June, 
That we saw their banners dance and 

and their cuirasses shine. 
And the Man of Blood was there, with 

his loi^ essenced hair, 
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and 

Rupert of the Rhine. 

like a servant of the Lord, with his 

Bible and his sword. 
The General rode along us to form us 

for the fight; 
When a murmuring sound broke out, 

and swelled into a shout 
Among the godless horsemen upon the 

tyrant's right. 

And hark t like the roar of the billow on 
the shore. 

The cry of battle riaes along their charg- 
ing line: 

For God I for the Causel for the Church! 
for the Laws I 

For Charles, King of Engkndt and 
Rupert of the Rhine I 

The furious Gennan comes, with bis 

trumpet and his drums. 
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of 

Whitehall ; 
They are bursting on our flanks I Grasp 

your pikesT Oose your ranks ! 
For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, 

or to fall. 

They are here— they rush on— we are 
broken — we are gone — 

Our left is borne before them like stub- 
ble on the blast 

O Lord, put forth thy might I O Lord, 
defend the right I 

Stand back to back, in Gods namel and 
fight it to the lastt 

Stout Skippen hath a wound — the cen- 
tre hath given ground. 
But bark I what means this trampling of 
boriemeo in the rear? 



What banner do I see boys? Tis he I 
thank God! 'tis he, boys I 

Bear up another minute I Brave Oliver 
is here! 

Their heads are stooping low, their pikes 
all in a row: 

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a del- 
uge on the dykes. 

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks 
of the Accurst, 

And at a shock have scattered the forest 
of his pikes. 

Fast, &st, the gallants ride, in some safe 

nook to nide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot 

on Temple Bar. 
And he— be turns I he flies 1 shame to 

those cruel eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare 

not look on war. 

Ho, comrades I scour the plain, and ere 

jt strip the slain. 
First give another stab to make the quest 

Then shake from sleeves and pockets 
their broad pieces and lockets. 

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of 
the poor. 

FoobI your doublets shone with gold, 

and your hearts were gay and bold, 
When you kissed your lily hands to your 

lemans to-day; 
And to-morrow shall the fox from her 

chambers in the rocks 
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above 

the prey. 

Where be your tongues, thablate mocked 

at heaven, and hell and fate? 
And the fingers that once were so busy 

with your blades? 
Your perfumed satin clothes, your 

catches and your oaths? 
Your stagC'pIays and your sonnets? yonr 

diamonds and your spades? 

Down I down I forever down, with the 

mitre and the crown I 
With the Belial of the Court, and the 

Mammon of the Pope 1 
There is woe in Oxford halls, there is 

wail in Durham stalls; 
The Jesuit smites his bosom, the Bishop 

rends his cop& 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn 

her children's ills, 
And tremble when she thinks on the 

edge of England's sword; 
And the Kings of earth in fear shall 

tremble when they hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought for 

the Houses and the Word! 

— Thomoi Babington Macaulay. 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

Adoption of the Atneiicui fl>s, June H, 1TT7. 



When Freedom from her mountain height 

Unfurled her standard to the air. 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there; 
She mingled with lis gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies. 
And striped its pure, celestial white 
With streakings of the morning tight; 
Then from his mansion in the sun 
She called her eagle bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 

II. 
Majestic monarch of the cloud t 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. 
To hear the tern pest-t rump ings loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven — 
Cliild of the sun I to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
■To ward away the battle-stroke, 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war. 
The harbingers of victory I 



Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, 

The sign of hope and triumph high. 
When speaks the signal trumpet tone. 

And the long line comes gleaming on 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. 

Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 

To where thy sky-bom glories burn, 
And, as bis springing steps advance. 



Catch war and vengeance from the 

glance; 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 

Heave in wild wreathes the battle- 
shroud. 
And gory sabres rise and fall. 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall ; 

Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, 
And cowering foes shall sink beneath 

Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 



Flag of the seas I on ocean wave 

Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
When death, careering on the gale. 

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 

Before the broadside's reeling rack. 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 

Shall look at once to heaven and thee. 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 



Flag of the free heart's hope and home. 
By angel hands to valor given ; 

The stars have ht the welkin dome, 
And all thy hues were born in heaven. 

For ever float that standard sheet! 
Where breathes the foe but falls be- 

With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, ^ 
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er 



— Joseph Rodman Drake. 



BETSY'S BATTLE FLAG. 

The United StBlo fUg vss fonnatlr adopted 
by Congre'LS. June H, I77T. The firsl flas w«i 

From dusk till dawn the livelong night 
She kept the tallow dips alight, 
And fast her nimble fingers flew 
To sew the stars upon the blue. 
With weary eyes and aching head 
She stitched the stripes of white and red. 
And when the day came up the stair 
Complete across a carven chair 
Hung Betsy's battle flag. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Like shadows in the evening gray 
'1 be Continentals filed away, 
With broken boots and ragged coats, 
But hoarse detiance in ihuir throats ; 
They bore the marks of want and cold. 
And some were lame and some were old. 
And some with wounds untended bled. 
But floating bravely overhead 
Was Betsy's battle flag. 

When fell the battle's leaden rain. 
The soldier hushed his moans of pain 
And raised his dying head to see 
King George's troopers turn and Aee. 
Their chaining column reeled and 

And vanished in the rolling smoke. 

Before the glory of the ' 

The 



Of 



'v stripes, and scarlet bars 
Betsy s battle flag. 



The simple stone of Betsy Ross 

Is covered now with mpld and moss, 
But slill her deathless banner flies. 
And keeps the color of the skies. 
A nation thrills, a nation bleeds, 
A nation follows where it leads, 
And every man is proud to yield 
His life upon a crimson field 
For Betsy's battle flagl 

— Minna Irving. 



3une 15. 



EVE OF QUATRE BRAS. 

Tbe baltte of Qiutre Bru wu fauihl on 

w"«iloD. Thi Duke*"f \Vdi'i'^W™orMd 
Mar thai Ncy lo rnrut. 

There was a sound of revelry by night. 
And Bdgi urn's capital had gather'd 

then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and 

bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and 

A thousand hearts beat happily; and 

Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which 
spake again. 

And all went merry as a marriage- 
bell; 



Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but 

the wind, 
Or (he car rattling o'er the atony 

On with the dance I let joy be uncon- 

fin'd; 
No sleep till mom, when Youth and 

To chase tbe glowing Hours with fly- 
But, hark I that heavy sound breaks in 



Within a window'd niche of that high 

hall 
Sale Brunswick's fated chieftain; be 

did bear 
That sound the first amidst the fesli- 

And caught its tone with Death's 

prophetic ear; 
And when they smiled because he 

His heart more truly knew that peal 

Which strelch'd his father on a bloody 

And roused the vengeance blood alone 
could quell : 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost 
fighting, fell. 

Ahl then and there was hurrying to 

and fro. 
And gathering tears, and tromblings of 

And cheeks all pale, which but an 

hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own 

And there were sudden partings, such 

as press 
The life from out young hearts, and 

choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated: who 

would guess 
H ever more should meet those mutual 

eyes. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Since upon night so sweet such awftil 
mom could rise! 

And there was mounting in hot haste : 
the steed, 

The mustering squadron, and the clat- 
tering car. 

Went pouring forward with impetuous 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of 
war; 

And the deep thunder peal on peal 
afar; 

And near, the beat of the alarming 
dnun 

Roused up the soldier ere the morning 
star; 

While tnrons'd the citizens with ter- 
ror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips— The 
foe I They come I they come I" 

And wild and high the "Cameron's 

gathering" rose. 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Al- 

byn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her 

Saxon foes : 
How in the noon of night that pibroch 

thriUs 
Savage and shrill! But with the 

breath which fills 
Their mounuin-pipe, so fill the moun- 
taineers 
With the fierce native daring which 

instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand 

years, 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each 

clansman's ears I 



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 unretuming 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 

Of living valor, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hope, shall moul- 
der cold and low. 



Lsst noon beheld them full of lusty 

life. 
Last ere in Beauty's circle proudly 

The midnight brought the signal-sound 

of strife. 
The mom the marshalling in amis, — 

the day 
Battle's magnificently-stero array I 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which 

when rent. 
The earth is cover'd thick with other 

Which her own clay shall cover, 
heap'd and pent. 
Rider and horse — friend, foe — in one red 
burial blent I 

From "Ckilde Harold." 
—Lord Byron. 



FREDERICK III. 

Emperor cf Germany, died June IS, 1SB8. 

There fell a King. Not King alone in 
blood. 
Nor royal throne, by right of which he 

reigned. 
But by the royalty of soul unstained. 
And heart that beat but for bis people's 
good. 



, yet beyond the battlefield 
The larger victories of peace he saw: 
His life a pledge to freedom, progress. 

Host patient suffering divinely sealed. 

There fell a King. Nay, there a king 
arose. 
Stars do not set in night, though night 

goes down ; 
Steadfast they gleam in heaven's eter- 
nal crown. 
Though days in nights, and nights in 
days may close. 

"Lord of himself," — that greatest con- 
No nobler form in all his ro^l house. 
Dead, the imperial crown still sits his 

And past the grave he still is emperor. 
—Ina D. Caolbnth. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



3ttnc 16. 

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. 

m well-known ind beautiful brmi 
!n by Ctrdinil Newman while croaiii 
icranoean, June 16, 188S, !□□■ befo: 
lioD fiom the Engliib Church. 



Lead, kindly Light, amid tb' tncircling 
gloom. 
Lead Thou me on I 
Tb« night is dark, and I am far from 
home. 
Lead Thou me on I 
Keep Thou my feett I do not ask to 

see 
The distant scene; one step enough for 



I was not ever thus, nor prayed that 
Thou 
Should'st lead me on ; 
I loved to choose and see my path; but 

Lead Thou me on: 
I loved the garish day; and, spite of 

Pride ruled my will ; remember not past 
years. 

So long Thy power hath hlest me, sure 



till 

The night is gone : 
And with the mom those angle-faces 

Which I have loved long since, and lost 
awhile. 

— /. H. Neunnim, 



THE DEATH OF MARLBOROUGH. 



The sun shines on the chamber wall. 

The sun shines through the trees. 
Now, though unshaken by the wind. 

The leaves fall ceaselessly; 
The bells from Woodstock's steeple 

Shake Blenheim's fading bough. 
"This day you won Malplaquet," — 

"Ay^ something then, but now I" 



They lead the old man to a chair. 

Wandering, pale and weak; 
His thin lips move — so faint tbe sound 

You scarce can hear him speak. 
They lift a picture from the wall, 

Bold eyes and swelling brow; 
"The day you won Malplaquet," — 

"Aye, something then, but nowl" 

They reach him down a rusty sword. 

In faded velvet sheath : 
The old man drops the heavy blade. 

And mutters 'tween his teeth; 
There's sorrow in his fading eye. 

And pain upon his brow ; 
"With this you won Malplaquet,"— 
"Aye, something then, but now I" 

Another year, a stream of lights 

Flows down the avenue; 
A mile of mourners, sable dad, 

Walk weeping two by two; 
The steward looks into the grare 

With sad and downcast brow; 
"This day he won Malplaquet, — 

Aye, something then, but now I" 

—GeoTgt Waller Thonbwj- 



THE LAY OF THE BRAVE 
CAMERON. 



eye, 
Easer to leap as a mettlesome hound. 
Into the fray with a plunge and a 

But Welliwton, lord of the cool com- 
mand. 
Held the reins with a steady hand, 
Saying, "Cameron, wait, yonll soon have 

enough, 
Give the Frenchmen a taste of your 
stuff, 
When the Cameron men are wanted." 

Now hotter and hotter the battle grew. 
With tramp, and rattle, and wild hal- 
loo. 
And the Frenchmen poured, like a fiery 
flood. 
Right on the ditch where Cameron 



204 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Then Wellington flashed from his stead- 
fast stance 

brave a lightning 



On bis captai 

glance, 
Saying, "Cameron, now have 
boy. 

Take care of the road to Charleroi, 
Where the Cameron men are wanted." 

Brave Cameron shot like a shaft from 

Into the midst of the plunging foe, 
And with him the lads whom he loved, 
like a torrent. 
Sweeping the rocks in its foamy cur- 
rent; 
And he fell the first in the fervid tray. 
Where a deathful shot had shove its 

But his men pushed on where the work 

Giving the Frenchmen a taste of their 



Where the Cameron n 






Brave Cameron then, from the battle's 

His foster-brother stoutly bore. 
His foster-brother with service true. 
Back to the village of Waterloo. 
And they laid him on the soft green 

And he breathed his spirit there to God, 
But not till he heard the loud hurrah 
Of victory billowed from Quatre Bras, 
Where the Cameron men were wanted. 

By the road to Ghent they buried him 

then, 
This noble chief of the Cameron men. 

And not an eye was tearless seen 
That day beside the alley green: 
Wellirglon wept— the iron man ! 
And from every eye in the Cameron 

The big round drop in bittemesa fell. 

As with the pipes he loved so well 

His funeral wail they chanted. 

And now he sleeps (for they bore him 

When the war was done, across the 

Beneath the shadow of Nevis Ben, 
With his sires, the pride of the Cameron 



Three thousand Highlandmen stood 

As they laid him to rest in his native 

ground ; 
The Cameron brave, whose eye never 

Whose heart never sank, and whose 
hand never failed. 
Where a Cameron man was wanted. 
—John Stuart BlackU. 



3unc 17. 

WARREN'S ADDRESS. 

Thu WM the ■mond battle of the Revolution 
lo lake place upon New Kngland soi!. It wa* 
foi^hl in Charleatown, Mau., on June IT, ITTt, 



Will ye give it up in slaves? 
Will ye look for greener graves? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What's the mercy despots feel? 

Hear it in that battle {real I 
Read it on yon bristling steel I 

Ask it, — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill tor hire? 

Will ye to your homes retire? 
Look behind you I — they're afire! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it I From the vale 
On them come!— and will ye quail? 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be ! 
In the God of battles trust t 
Die we may, — and die we must; 
But, oh where can dust to dust 

Be consign'd so well, 
AS where Heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyr'd patriot's bed. 
And the rocks shall raise their head 

Of his deeds to tell? 

—Jolm PietfoHl. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Thou too, art worthy of all praise, whose 
pen, 
"In thoughts that breathe, and words 

that hum," did shed 
A noontide glory over Mihon's head- 
He, "prince of poets" — thou, the prince 
of men: 
Blessings on thee, and on the honored 
dead! 
How dost thou charm for us the touch- 
ing story 
Of the lost children in the gloomy^ 

Haunting dim memory with the early 
glory 
That in youth's golden years our 
hearts imbued. 
From the fine world of olden poetry. 
Lifelike and fresh, thou bringest forth 

again 
The gallant heroes of an earlier rei^, 
And blend them in our minds with 

thoughts of thee. 
Whose name is ever shrined in old-world 
memory. 

— Elisabeth J. Emnes. 



3une 18. 

DEFEAT OF NAPOLEON. 

Tbe battle of Waterloo, by which Napoltuo'* 
power w«« compltttlr broken, j*» _fought on 



There sunk the greatest, nor the worst 

Whose spirit antitheticalljr mixt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness fixt. 
Extreme in all things! hadst thou been 

betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been .thine, or 

never been; 
For daring made thy rise as fall: thou 

Even now to reassume the traperial 



And shake 



of the 



the world, the Thun- 



Conqueror and captive of the earth art 

thou I 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild 

Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds 

than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of 

Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and 

The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou 

A god unto thyself ; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er 
thou didst assert. 

01^ more or less than man — in high or 

Battling with nations, flying from the 
field; 

Now making monarch's necks thy foot- 
stool, now 

More than thy meanest soldier taught 
to yield : 

An empire thou couldst crush, command, 
rebuild. 

But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 

However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 

Look through thine own, nor curb the 
lust of war. 

Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave 
the loftiest star. 

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turn- 
ing tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep 

Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the whole host of hatred stood 

hard by. 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, 

thou hast smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye; — 
When Fortune fled her spoil 'd and 

' favorite child. 
He stood unbow'd oeneath thj ills upon 

him piled. 

Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just* habitual scorn which could 



Men and their thou(^ts; 'twere wise to 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
And spurn the inatnunents thou wert to 

Till they were tura'd onto thine over- 
throw; 
Tis but a worthless world to win or 



a choose. 

From ChUde Harold. 
—Lord Bryron. 



ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT. 

A noted Kngli«b writer on Political Econonjp. 
He died on Tune IS, ISSS. 

O bear him where the rain can £all, 
And where the winds can blow ; 

And let the sun weep o'er his pall 
As to the grave ye go I 

And in some little lone churchyard. 

Beside the growing com. 
Lay gentle Nature's stem prose bard, 

Her mightiest peasant-bom. 

Yes I let the wild-flower wed his grave. 
That bees may murmur near. 

When o'er his last home bend the brave, 
And say — "A man lies here!" 

For Britons honor Cobbett's name. 
Though rashly oft he spoke ; 

And none can scorn, and few will blame, 
The low-laid heart of oak. 

See, o'er his prostrate branches, seel 

E'en factious hate consents 
To reverence, in the fallen tree. 

His British lineaments. 

Though gnarl'd the storm-toss'd boughs 
that brav'd 

The thunder's gather'd scowl. 
Not always through his darkness rav'd 

The itorm- winds of the soul. 

O, nol in hours of golden calm 
Mora met his forehead bold; 

And breezy evening sang her psalm 
Beneath his dew-droop'd gold. 



While many a youngling's songful sire 
His acom'd twiglets shar'd. 

The laric, above sweet tribute paid. 
Where clouds with light were riven; 

And true k>ve sought his bluebell'd 
shade, 
"To bless the hour of heaven." 

E'en when his stormy voice was load, 



Dead oak I thou livest Thjr smitten 

The thunder of thy brow. 
Speak with strange tongues in many 
lands. 
And tyrants hear thee, now I 

Beneath the shadow of thy name, 

Inspir'd by thy renown, 
Shall future patriots rise to fame. 

And many a sun go down. 

—Ebtnestr Elliott. 



3une 19. 



MAXIMILIAN. 



took peraoMl comnand of hia 
batcgcd bjr * republican army, 
bt coun mania) and shot on j 



Not with a craven spirit he 
Submitted to the harsh decree 
That bade him die before his time. 
Cut off in manhood's golden prime,— 
Poor Maximilian I 

And some who marked his noble mien, 
His dauntless heart, his soul serene. 
Have deemed they saw a martyr die. 
And chorused forth the solemn cry, 
"Great Maximilian!" 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



207 



Alait Ambition was his sin; 

He staked his life a throne to win ; 

Counted amiss the fearful cost 

(As chiefs have done before), — and 

lostl 

Rash Maximilian! 

Tis not the victim's tragic fate. 
Nor calm endurance makes him great; 
Mere lust of empire and renown 
Can never claim the martyr's crown. 
Brave Maximilian I 

Alas I it fell, that, in thy aim 

To win a sovereign's power and fame. 

Thy better nature lost its force, 

■ • oval ■ 

King Maximilia 

Alas I what ground for mercy's plea 
In his behalf, whose fell decree 
Gave soldiers unto felons' graves, 
And freemen to the doom of slaves, — 
Fierce Maximilian? 

I loathe the rude, barbaric wrath 
That slew thee in thy vent'rous [ath ; 
But "they who take," thus saith the 

Lord, 
"Shall also perish 1^ the sword," 

Doomed Maximilian! 

But, when I think upon the scene, — 
Thy fearful fate, thy wretched queen,— 
And mark how bravely thou didst die, 
I breathe again the pitying sigh, 
"Poor Maximilian I" 

— John G. 6ajee. 



THE ALABAMA. 



■wuded by the Gcnen Tribunal kht wu 
(unli bf the Kururfe off Cherbourg, Fruce. 
OB June IB, ISBl. 

She has gone to the bottom! the wrath 
of the tide 
Now breaks in vain insolence o'er her; 
No more the rough seas like a queen 
shall she ride, 
While the foe Bies in terror before 
berl 



' exiled, or silent in 
> bravely did man 



Now captive < 
death. 
The forms that s 
her; 

Her deck is untrod, and the gale's stir- 
ring breath 
Flouts DO more the red cross of her 
banner I 

She is down 'neath the waters, but still 
her bright name 
Is in death, as in life, ever glorious. 
And a sceptre all barren the conqueror 
must claim. 
Though he boasts the proud title 
"Victorious," 

Her country's lone champion, she 
shunned not the fight. 
Though unequal in strength, bold and 

And proved in her fate, though not 
matchless in might. 
In daring at least she wai peerless. 

No trophy hung high in the foe's hated 
hall 
Shall speak of her final disaster. 
Nor tell of the danger that could not 

Nor the spirit that nothing could 
master ! 
The death-shot has sped— she has grimly 
gone down, 
But left her destroyer no token. 
And the mythical wand of her tnystic 



For lol ere she settles beneath the dailr 

On her enemies' cheeks spreads a 

As another deck summons the sworda 
of the brave 
To gild a new name with their valor. 

Her phantom will yet haunt the wild 
roaring breeze, 
Causing foemen to start and to shud- 



While their commerce still steals like a 
thief o'er the seas, 
And trembles from bowsprit to rud- 



208 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The spirit that shed on the wave's 
gleaming crest 
The light of a legend romantic 
Shall live while a sail Sutters over the 

Of thy far-bounding billows, Atlantic I 

And as long as one swift keel the strong 

Or "poor Jack" loves his song and his 

Shall shine in tradition the valor of 
Semmes 
And the brave ship that bore him to 
glory 1 

—Maurice Belt. 



3ttne 20. 

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 

Baltimore ij a »mall Maport in Coiiniy Cork, 
Ireland. On the eoih of June, 1831 the cre*i 
of iwo Algcrine galleys landed in the dead o( 
nifhi, lacked the town, and bore ofi mmy of 



1 Uken 






The summer sun is falling soft on Car- 

bery's hundred isles, 
The summer sun is gleaming still 

through Gabriel's rough defiles : 
Old Innisherkin's crumbled fane looks 

like a moulting bird. 
And in a calm and sleepy swell the 

ocean tide is heard: 
The hookers lie upon the beach ; the 

children cease their play; 
The gossips leave the little inn; the 

nouseholds kneel to pray; 
And full of love, and peace, and rest, 

its daily labor o'er. 
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town 

of Baltimore. 

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come 

with midnight there; 
No sound, except that throbbing wave, 

The massive capes and ruined towers 
seem conscious of the calm : 

The fibrous sod and stunLed trees ar<' 
breathing heavy balm. 



So still the night, these two long 

barques round Dunashad that 

glide. 
Must trust their oars, methinks not few, 

gainst the ebbing tide. 
Ob, some sweet mission of true love 

must urge them to the shore I 
Tb^ bring some lover to his bride who 

sighs in Baltimore. 

All, all asleep within each roof along 

that rocky street. 
And these must be the lovers friend's, 

with gently gliding feet — 
A stifled gasp, a dreamy noise I "The 

roof is in a flame I" 
From out their beds and to their doora 

rush maid and sire and dame. 
And meet upon the threshold stone the 

gleaming sabre's fall. 
And o'er each black and bearded face 

the white or crimson shawl. 
The yell of "Allah '." breaks above the 

prayer, and shriek, and roar: 
O blessed God! the Algerine is lord of 

Baltimore ! 

Then flung the youth his naked ^and 

against the shearing sword; 
Then sprung the mother on the brand 

with which her son was gored; 
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, 

his grand-babes clutching wild. 
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and 

nestled with the child: 
But seel von pirate strangled lies, and 

crashed with snlashmg heel. 
While o'er him in an Irish hand there 

sweeps his Syrian steel : 
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, 

and misers yield their store. 
There's one heart well avenged in the 

sack of Baltimore. 

Midsummer morn in woodland nigh the 

birds begin to sing. 
They see not now the milking maids, — 

deserted is the spring ; 
Midsummer day this gallant rides from 

distant Band on "s town. 
These hookers crossed from stormy 

Skull, that skiff from AfFadown; 
They only found the smoking walls 

with neighbors' blood bfsprent. 
And on the strewed and tramnied beach 

awhile they wildly went. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



209 



Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape 
Clear, and saw, five leagues be- 

The pirate-galle]r vanishing that 
ravaged fialtimore. 

Oh, some roust tug the galley's oar, 
and some must tend the steed; 

This boy will bear a Sheik's chilbouk, 
and that a Bey's jerreed. 

Oh, some are for the arsenals by beau- 
teous Dardanelles; 

And some are in the caravan to Mecca's 
sandy dells. 

The maid t' it Bandon gallant sought is 
chosen for the Dey : 

She's safe— ^ne's dead — she stabbed him 
in the midst of his Serai ! 

And when to die a death of fire that 
noble maid they Dore, 

She only smiled, O'Driscoll's child; she 
thought of fialtimore. 

Tis two long years since sunk the town 
beneath that bloody band, 

And all around its trampled hearths a 
larger concourse stand, 

Where high upon a gallows-tree a yell- 
ing wretch is seen: 

Tis Hackett of Dungarvan — he who 
steered the Alfcerine I 

He fell amid a sullen shout with scarce 
a passing prayer. 

For he had slam the kith and kin of 
many a hundred there. 

Some muttered of McMurchadh, who 
brought the Norman o'er; 

Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day 
in Baltimore. 

— Thomas O. Davit 



THE NAMELESS ONE. 



1 im dfink, Afler 



":l,r.,& 



Roll forth, my song, like the rushing 

That sweeps along to the mighty sea; 
God will inspire me while I deliver 
My soul to thee I 



Tell thou the world, when my bones lie 

whitening 
Amid the last homes of youth and eld. 
That there once was one whose veins 

ran lightning 

No eye beheld. 

Tell how his boyhood was one drear 

night-hour. 
How shone for him, through his griefs 

No star of all heaven sends to light our 
Path to the tomb. 

Roll on, my sotig, and to after ages 
Tell how, disdaining all earth can 
give. 

He would have taught men from wis- 
dom's pages 
The way to live. 

And tell how trampled, derided, hated, 
And worn by weakness, disease and 

wrong. 
He fled for shelter to God, who mated 

His soul with song — 

With song which alway, sublime or 
Flowed like a rill in the morning 

Perchance not deep, hut intense and 

rapid— 



Tell how the Nameless, condemned for 
years long 
To herd with demons from hell be- 

Saw things that made him, with groans 



and t 
For e 



n death. 



Go on to tell how, with genius wasted. 
Betrayed in friendship, befooled in 

With spirit shipwrecked, and young 
hopes blasted 
He still, still strove. 

Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for 

And some whose hands should 
have wrought for him 
(If children live not for sires and 
mothers), 
His mind grew dim. 



210 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



And he fell far through Uut pit abys- 
mal, 
The gulf and grave of Maginn and 

And pawned his soul for the devil's dis- 

Slock of returns. 



When death, in hideous and ghastly 
starkness. 
Stood in his path. 

And tell how now, amid wreck and 
sorrow. 
And want, and sickness, and house- 
less nights. 

He bides in calmness the silent morrow 
That no ray lights. 

And lives he sEill then? Yes! Old and 

At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, 
He lives, enduring what future story 
Will never know. 

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, 
Deep in your bosoms 1 There let him 
dwell! 
He, too, had tears for all souls in 

Here and in hell. 

— James Clarence Mangan. 



THE YOUNG QUEEN. 

This awfal feaponiibility a impoitd upon 
mc «0 suddenEy and it bo tmrly ■ period of my 
life, that I should feci mjatXl utterly oppreased 
by the burden, were I nol luatainHl by the 
hope thit Divine Providence, which hu called 
me to this work, will give me tlrcngth for the 
performance of it.— Tki Quten's Diclarnion in 
CoMneil en htr accission to tk, throat of 
Bngland, Jtni to, 1837- 

The shroud is yet unspread 
To wrap our crowned dead; 
His soul hath scarcely hearkened for the 
thrilling word of doom; 
And Death that makes serene 
Ev'n brows where crowns have been, 
Hath scarcely time to meeten his, for 
silence of the tomb. 



St. Paul's king-dirging note 

The city's heart hath smote — 
The city's heart is struck with thought 

more solemn than the tone I 
A shadow sweeps apace 
Before the nation's face, 
' ising in a shapeless blot, the 

sepulchre and throne. 



The palace sounds with wail — 
The courtly dames are pale — 
A widow o'er the purple bows, and 
weeps its splendor dim : 
And we who hold the boon, 
A king for freedom won, 
Do feel eternity rise up between our 
thanks and him. 



And while all things express 
All glory's nothingness, 
A royal maiden treadeth 6rm where 
that departed trod 1 
The deathly scented crown 
Weighs her shining ringlets down; 
But calm she lifts her trusting face, and 
calleth upon God. 

Her thoughts are deep within her: 

No outward pagcanis win her 
From memories that in her soul are 

Her palace walls enring 
The dust that was a king— 
And very cold beneath her feet she feels 
her father's grave. 

And One, as fair as she, 
Can scarce forgotten be, — 
Who clasped a little infant dead, for all 
a kingdom's worth I 
The mourned, blessed One, 
Who views Jehovah's throne. 
Aye smiling to the angels that she lost 
a throne on earth. 

Perhaps our youthful Queen 
Remembers what has been — 
Her childhood's rest by loving heart, 
and sport on grassy sod — 
Alas 1 can others wear 
A mother's heart for her? 
But calm she lifts her trusting face, and 
calleth upon God. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



311 



Yea! on God, thou maiden 
Of spirit nobly laden, 
And leave such tuppy days behind, for 
happy-making yearsl 
A nation looks to thee 
For steadfast sympathy: 
Make room wiihin thy bright clear eyes, 
for all its gathered tears. 

And so the grateful isles 
Shall give thee back their smiles, 
And as thy mother joys in the^ in them 
shalt Ihou rejoice; 
Rejoice to meekly bow 
A somewhat paler brow. 
While the Kinft of Kings shall bless thee 
by the British people's voice I 
— Blitabelh Barrett Browning. 



3une 21. 

THE SUMMER SOLSTICE. 

June II \a the di; of jaz nhtn the i 



In the month of June, when the world is 

green. 
When the dew beads thick on the clover 

spray. 
And the noons are rife with the scent 


And the brook 


hides under a willow 


When the rose is queen, in Love's de- 
mesne. 

Then the time is too sweet and too light 
to stay; 

Whatever the sun and the dial say. 
This is the shortest dayl 

^Editk Thomat. 



TRIAL OF QUEEN KATHERINE. 



Bolejrn, dimaodrd a livorce . ._. . 
of htr having btea his brolhcr's wife. The 
trial taoh place on Juae SI. IGSS. 

Katherine. Sir, I desire you to do me 
right and justice; 
.^d to bestow your pity on me: for 



I am a most poor woman, and a stranger. 

Bom out of your dominions; having 
here 

No judge indifferent, nor no more as- 
surance 

Of equal friendship and proceeding. 
Alas, sir. 

In what have I offended you? what 
cause 

Hath my behaviour given to your dis- 
pleasure. 

That thus you should proceed to put me 
off. 

And take your good grace from me? 
Heaven witness, 

I have been to you a true and humble 
wife. 

At all times to ypur will conformable; 

Ever in fear to kindle your dislike. 

Yea, subject to your countenance, glad 
or sorry 

As I saw it inclined: when was the hour 

I ever contradicted your desire. 

Or made it not mine too? Or which of 
your friends 

Have I not strove to love, although I 
knew 

He were mine enemy? what friend of 

That had to him derived your anger, 

did I 
Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice 
He was from thence discharged? Sir, 

call to niind 
That I have been your wife, in this 

obedience. 
Upward of twenty years, and have been 

blest 
With many children by you: if, in the 

And process of this time, you can re- 
port. 

And prove it, too, against mine honour 
aught, 

My bond to wedlock, or my love and 

Against your sacred person, in God's 
Turn me away ; and let the foul'st con- 
Shut door upon me, and so ^ve me np 
To the sharp's! kind of justice. Please 

The king, your father, was reputed for 
A prince most prudent, of an excelleirt 
And unmatch'd wit and judgment: 
Fcf4ii»;nd, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



My father, king of Spain, was reckon'd 

The wisest prince that there had 

reign'd t^ many 
A year before : it is not to be question'd 
That they had gather'd a wise council 

to them 
Of every realm, that did debate this 



Who deem'd our marriage lawful : 

wherefore I humbly 
Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till 1 may 
Be fay my friends in Spain advised; 

whose counsel 
I will implore: if not i' the name of God, 
Your pleasure be fulfilled! 

Nenry VIII. Act II. Scene IV. 
—Shakespeare. 



« Jur 



June 22. 

THE BATTLE OF MORAT. 

Charlei tbt Bold, Duke of Burmndv. 
defeated in thit battle by th 
S3, 1170. 

Our men fought well at Morat! They 

fought like lions, boy, 
Like lions, that within their lair the 

hunter dares annoy. 
Ah I now I'm old, but I was then a boy 

as you are now, 
And this old tree was nothing but a bit 

of broken bough. 
Tis sixty good long years ago — how fast 

the years go by. 
Since we crushed, that deadly day of 

June, the hosts of Burgundy; 
The morning threatened thick with 

cloud, a weird and solemn gloom 
Hung o'er the town — the empty streets 

were silent as a tomb. 

Save here and there were little groups 

with sad and anitious brow. 
Old men. and boys, and women, were 

gathered talkiiw low, 
Recounting news of Burgundy in words 

of doubt and fear, 
Or tales of our own mountain strength 

their trembling hearts to cheer. 



The slow tears brimmed, the pale mouth 
twitched in secret agony. 

And old men sadly shook their heads, 
while at their mother's side 

Children were pulling at their gowns, 
and asking why they cried? 

Sad o'er us hung the sullen sky, — our 

hearts were dark with gloom, 
When suddenly the cannon's peal, with 

heavy muffled boom. 
Rolled dully smiting on the heart, thU 

for a moment stilled. 
Stopped in the breast, then wildly like 

a hurried drum-beat thrilled. 

Twas then, ere rang their battle-cry, our 

brothers in the Geld 
Bared their stem brows, and on the 

earth to ask God's blessing 

kneeled ; 
And Hans Von Hallwyll lifted, while all 

were silent there. 
Mid the thunder voice of cannon, the 

still, small voice of prayer. 

The heavens hung low and gloomy above 

them lowly bowed. 
But as they prayed the sudden sun 

broke through the shattered cloud 
And flashed across their bended ranks, 

and Hallwyll from his knee. 
Sprang shouting— "Up ! behold, God 

lights the way to victory !" 

Ah, why was I not with them? why was 

I doomed to stay, 
An idle boy to range along the ramparts 

all that day? 
The cannon thrilled my startled blood — 

the Landshom shrilly cried, 
"Flee from old men and women! strike 

for freedom at our side !" 

Alas, I could not flee from themt half 

mad in heart and brain, 
1 watched with them the smoke-cloud 

cling along the distant plain ; 
We strained our eyes in vain, — we 

seemed to hear with nervous ears. 
The battle-cry of Burgundy— the Eidge- 

We fought with them in spirit in the 

tumult of the fight. 
We swung our swords with Hallwyll 

for Liberty and Right, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



With Waldman's band of rugged Swiss 
adown the hill we clove 

Through the shining helms of Burgundy, 
as through some tall pine grove. 

Our avalanches thunder — we crushed 

them to the earth. 
We swept them from the hill-side with 

a wild exultant mirth — 
We slid upon their horsemen, and 

hurled them to the lake 
In terror and confusion^as the land- 

slidden when they break. 






Adown our mountain gorges,- 

of steel and blood. 
And shattered cuirasses and helms, they 

rolled into the flood; 
Their hands that gleamed with diamonds 

in vain they lifted high, 
As the red wave bubbled over them, and 

drowned their fearful cry. 

We rushed with old Von Hertenstein, 
his white hair streaming free, 

Where Hallwyll battled with the pride 
of knightly Burgundy; 

With the mountain force of stout Lu- 
cerne we sheared them from the 
plain. 

And mowed their glittering sheaves of 
spears, like fields of autumn 

What served their orders then to them, 

their proud and knightly blood? 
It stained the grass and lay in pools 

amid the trampled mud; 
Their jewelled chains we scattered — 

and on gleaming breast and brain. 
Our great swords rattling in their ean 

played Liberty's refrain. 
Leap I baftied Duke of Burgundy,— leap 

on thy swiftest steed 1 
The Bear of Berne is after thee— spur 

at thine utmost need I 
Plunge in that reeking, quivering flank, 

thy golden spur, and flee 
Till his nostrils gush with blood and 

steam — Lucerne is hunting thee. 

Leave, leave upon the hillside your 

twenty thousand slain. 
Leave in the lake your heaps of dead, its 

waves with gore to stain. 
Speed I speed I and when night darkens 

down, — blown, beaten, blasted 

stand. 



Such hoiK as this was thrilling us the 

while we leaned and gazeo. 
With dentjiing hands, and young fierce 

eyes, and cheeks that hotly Dlazed; 
But oft the fear of dread defeat, and 

conquest pouring down 
Above our murdered, shattered ranks to 

deluge all the town 

With rapine and with ravage, knocked 
against our hearts with dread; 

We heard the crackling rafters crash 
above our fated head, 

We saw the red flames lick the air and 



the clash of soldiery. . 

At last the distant thunder ceased— and 

as we strained our eyes 
We saw above the road's far ridge a 

little dust-cloud rise; 
And on it came, and on, and on, upon 

the dry white road, 
Until a dark and moving spot like a 

running figure showed 

News from the field I what news, what 

news? — alas, our brothers flyt 
No, no, he waves a branch of lime— that 

tells of Victory. 
He staggers, woundef}, on; he reels, he 

famts beside the gate; 
Speak! speak I — he cannot speak — and 

yet 'tis agony to wait 

We gather round, as through the street 
With reeling, staggermg pace. 

He falls along — and panting, points 
toward the market-place. 

There, while the blood starts from hii 
mouth, he waves the branch on 
high. 

And with a last faint shoot expires, ex- 
claiming "Victory." 

That branch of lime we planted in the 

spot whereon he fell, 
And there it took its root, and throve, 

and spread its branches well. 
And you shall sit beneath its shade, as 

now we sit, when I 
Am dust — and say, "My Grandsire 

brought that branch of Victory." 
— »'. (C. Story. 



214 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



RECESSIONAL. 



On June 22, 1807, Queen Victoria celebrated 
the 00th annivenary of her accession. 



God of our Fathers, known of old — 
Lord of our far fiung battle line — 
Beneath whose awful hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine — 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 
Lest we forget — Lest we forget 

The tumult and the shouting dies, 
The Captains and the Kings depart, 
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 
An humble and a contrite heart. 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 
Lest we forget! l«est we forget 1 

Far called our navies melt away — 
On dune and headland sinks the fire — 
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 

^dge of the nations, spare us yet, 
st we forget — Lest we forget! 

If drunk with sight of power we loose 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe. 
Such boasting as the Gentiles use, 
Or lesser breeds without the law, 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 
Lest we forget! Lest we forget! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard — 
All valiant dust that builds on dust, 
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, 
For frantic boast and foolish word. 
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord ! 

— Rudyard Kipling, 



3nnc 23* 

THE CRADLE TOMB IN WEST- 
MINSTER ABBEY. 



Smoothly the mimic coverlet, 
With royal blazonries bedight. 

Hangs, as by tender fingers set 
And straightened for the last good- 
night 

And traced upon the pillowing stone 
A dent is seen, as if to bless 
. The quiet sleep, some grieving one 
j Had leaned, and left a soft impress. 



It seems no more than yesterday 

Since the sad mother down the stair 
And down the long aisle stole away. 

And left her darling sleeping there. 
But dust upon the cradle lies. 

And those who prized the baby so. 
And laid her down to rest with sighs. 

Were turned to dust long years aga 

Above the peaceful pillowed head 

Three centuries brood, and strangers 
peep 
And wonder at the carven bed, — 

But not unwept the baby's sleep. 
For wistful mother-eyes are blurred 

With sudden mists, as lingerers stay. 
And the old dusts are roused and stirred 

By the warm tear-drops of to-day. 

Soft, furtive hands caress the stone. 

And hearts, o'erleaping pla& and age. 
Melt into memories, and own 

A thrill of common parentage. 
Men die, but sorrow never dies; 

The crowding years divide in vain. 
And the wide world is knit with ties 

Of common brotherhood in pain; 

Of common share in grief and loss, 
And heritage in the immortal bloom 

Of Love, which, flowering round its 
cross, 
Made beautiful a baby's tomb. 

— Susan Coolidge, 



The tomb of Sophia, infant daughter of 
James I. This princess only lived three days, 
dying on June 28, 1606. 

A little, rudely sculptured bed. 
With shadowing folds of marble lace, 

And quilt of marble, primly spread 
And folded round a baby's face. 



3unc 24* 

BANNOCKBURN. 



Robert Bruce's Address to his Army, June 
24, 1814. 

In this battle, fought near Stirling, on June 
24, the Scots under Robert Bruce totally de- 
feated three times their number of English 
tmdcr Edward III. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Scois, wha hae wi' Wallace bled— 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led — 
Welcome to your gory bed. 



Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
See the front o' battle lower; 
See approach proud Edward't power- 
Chains and slaverie I 

Wha will he a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 
Let him turn a-d fiee! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'^ 
Let him follow me I 

By oppression's woes and pains I 
By your sons in servile chains I 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low I 
Tyrants fall in very foe I 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Let us do, or die ! 

—Robert Bunu. 



M. CARNOT'S DEATH. 

Sidi Carnot, the fouitb Preaidcnl of the 



Not on some despot drunk with 

slaughtering 
For whose delight the millions toil and 



To murderous envy, — not on such as 

The blow hath this time fallen, but on 

Noble and true and stainless as the sun. 
Who stood for Labor and the Love that 

Nations, avenge this death 1 Hound into 

This horde of hellish creatures and their 
creeds 



Honor will be the ghost of dead men's 

And Liberty the shadow of a name. 
— John Hall Ingham. 



THE DEATH OF HAMPDEN. 

One oE tbe "five memben" impached b* 
Chula L He «u mortallT wounded *t Ouf. 
■rove Field uiil died a -wttk mfter on June 31i 



Scene.— A tent in the Parliamentary 
camp, Hampden lies wounded, and 
Cromtvetl is bending over him. 
Hampden. — Spare all who yield ; alas, 

that we must pierce one English 

heart for England! 
Cromwell. — How he raves I The fever 



ithing; a little loss of blood; 
I fear much more must flow from 

worthier veins 
Ere England's hurt be healed. 
CroM.— -How powerful are base thin^ 

to destroy! 
The brute's part in them kills the god's 

And robs the world of many glorious 

deeds ; 
In all the histories of famous men 
We never find the greatest overthrown 
Of such as were their equals, but the 

Screened of its laurels from the light- 
ning's flash. 
Falls by some chance blow of an ob- 

And glory cannot guard the hero's heart 
Against ihe least knave's dagger. 
Hamp. — You cannot help me. 
Save yourself, sir; my best prayers keep 

you safe — 
I fain would win as far as yonder house; 
It was my dear dead wife's; such shapes 

are there 
As I would see about my dying bed. 
To make me sure of nesven— Forgive 

me, love, 
That I am loath to Come yet to thy 

heart; 



2l6 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



I have only lived without thee, O my 

best, 
That I might live for England I Is 

Cromwell come? 
Crom, — How it is with you, cousin? 
Hamp. — Very well. 
With hope to be soon better; gentle 

cousin, 
I have scant time to speak and much to 

say. 
That thou must hear — Men's eyes more 

clearly see, 
Ere the long darkness ; and thus plagues, 

and wars. 
Earthquake, and overthrow of prosper- 
ous states, 
Have been foretold by lips of dying men. 
Who saw their country's end before 

their own ; 
But I die happy; with a joy too keen 
For this weak wounded body, and de- 
light 
Of eager youth that dreams of noble 

deeds ; 
Knowing the greatness in thee, which 

occasion 
Has not yet shown the world, and thine 

own self 
Hast only dimly guessed at — These 

hands I hold 
Shall bear the weight of England's 

greatness up; 
Thy name, mine own dear kinsman's, 

shall have sound 
More royal than all crowned kings'; the 

slave 
Shall murmgr it in dreams of liberty. 
The patriot in his dungeon, and en- 
dure. 
The tyrant, and grow merciful for fear; 
And when thou hast done high and 

song-worthy deeds, 
At length shall come thy poet, whose 

purer eyes 
God shall exclude from sight of our 

gross Earth, 
And for the dull light of our darker day 
Give all heaven to his vision, star with 

star 
Shining, and splendid and sonorous 

spheres 
To make him music; and those sacred 

lips. 
More eloquent than the Mantuan's, 

praising thee. 
Shall make thy fame a memory for all 

time. 



And set a loftier laurel on thy head 
Than any gathered from red fields of 

war; 
So great shall England's great need 

make thee, Cromwell ; 
Whom thou forget not still to love and 

serve. 
Holding thy greatness given to make 

her great. 
Thy strength to keep her strong; then 

(since oblivion 
Is what men chiefly fear in death), dear 

cousin, 
I would not be forgotten of thy love. 
And now I am loath the last words I 

shall speak 
Must be of strife — ^yet I must utter 

them; 
Be not of those that vex the angry 

times 
With meek-mouthed proffers of re- 
jected peace; 
When men have set the justice of their 

cause 
To sharp arbitrament of answering 

arms. 
Tongues should keep mute, and steel 

hold speech with steel. 
Till victory can plead the conquered's 

cause, 
And make soft mercy no more danger- 
ous. 
We must o'ercome our foes to make 

them friends 

Thy hand, dear cousin Sweet, I 

hear thy voice 
That calls me, and leave England for 

thy sake; 
Kiss me, dear love, and take my soul 

to God! 

Receive my soul, Lord Jesus ! O God, 

save 

My country God be merciful to. . . . 

Crom. — O Lord of Hosts, if thou wilt 

only give me 
An England with but three such En- 
glishmen, 
My life shall be as noble as this 

man's 

Farewell, dear cousin, perfect heart 

that beats 
No more for England Think of 

me in Heaven, 
And help to make me all thou saidst I 

should be, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



[KneeU down by the bed. Riting, and 
looking steadfastly at the dead body of 
Hampden.} 

Yea, and I shall be. 

—Pakenkam Beatty. 



SAINT JOHN THE BAPTIST. 

JuDt 14, St. John'! DiT. 

The last and greatest Herald of 

Heaven's King, 
Girt with rou^h skins, hies to the 

deserts wild. 
Among that savage brood the woods 

forth bring, 
Which he more harmless found than 

man, and mild. 

His food was locusts, and what there 
doth spring, 

With honey that from virgin hives dis- 
tiltftd; 

Parched body, hollow eyes, some un- 
couth thing 

Made him appear, long since from earth 
exiled. 

There burst he forth; All ye whose 

hopes rely 
On God, with me amid these deserts 

Repent, repent, and from old errors 

—Who listened to his voice, obeyed his 



Only the echoes, which he made relent, 
Ru[^ from their flinty caves. Repent I 
Repent ! 

—iV. Drummond. 



THE FORCED RECRUIT. 

erina it a village in nortli 

le I*th. lase, the Frenc 

, under Napoleon III. ._.._ ._ 

minue]. defeated the Aiuuimt UDder Snoot 
Joieph. 

I. 

In the ranks of the Austrian you found 



He died with his face to you all ; 

Yet bury him here where around hii 

You honor your bravest that fall 



Venetian, fair- featured and slender, 
He ties shot to death in his youth. 

With a smile on his lips over-tender 
For any mere soldier's dead mouth. 



No stranger, and yet not a traitor. 
Though alien the cloth on his breast. 

Underneath it how aeldom a greater 
Young heart, has a shot sent to rest I 



file, 

His musket (see) never was loaded. 
He facing your guns with that smile I 



As orphans yearn on to their mothers. 
He yearned to your patriot bands;— 

'Let me die for our Italy, brothers. 
If not in your ranks, by your huidsl 



'Aim straightly, fire steadily I spare me 

A ball in the body which may 
Deliver my heart here, and tear me 
This badge of the Austrian awayt' 



So thought he, so died he this mom* 
ing. 
What then? many others have died. 
Ay^ but easy for men to die scorning 
The death-stroke, who fought side by 
side — 



2l8 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



IX. 

But he, — ^without witness or honor, 
Mixed, shamed in his country's re- 
gard. 
With the tyrants who march in upon 
her 
Died faithful and passive: 'twas hard. 

X. 

Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction 
Cut off from the guerdon of sons, 

With most filial obedience, conviction, 
His soul kissed the lips of her guns. 

XL 

That moves you? Nay, grudge not to 
show it. 

While digging a grave for him here: 
The others who died, says your poet, 

Have glory, — let him have a tear. 

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 



3unc 25* 

THE MARTYRDOM OF THE 
ARCHBISHOP OF PARIS. 



Shot on the barricades on June 25, during 
the revolution of 1848« as he was endeavoriug 
to make peace between the contending parties. 



A day of clouds and darkness ! a day of 

wrath and woe! 
The war of elements above, the strife 

of men below ! 
Through the air ring shout and outcry, — 

through the street a red tide 

pours, — 
To the booming of the cannon the an- 
cient city roars; 
For wilder than the tempest is human 

passion's strife, 
And deadlier than the elements the 

waste of human life: 

No breathing time for pity, 'tis the long 

stern tug of might, 
The war of poor against the rich, and 

both against the right; 
Each street and lane the artillery 

sweeps, — ^the rifle enfilades. 



With stone and bar, with beam and spar, 

they pile the barricades; 
And women, fiends with blood-specked 

arms, fierce eye and frenzied 

mien, 
Cry "Up the Red Republic!" and "Up 

the Guillotine!" 

Now forth and on them. Garde Mobile! 

stout heart, firm hand, quick ejre! 
No mercy know, no quarter show, to 

pity is to die! 
To the last worst fate of cities — the 

murder and the rape, 
'Tis yours to give one answer, the sabre 

and the grape : 
There is lust and hate and murder — they 

have filled rebellion's cup, 
And to the God of Vengeance the cit3r*s 

cry goes up! 

And more and more, on, on they pour; 

there's the battery's thicker fiame. 
And the quicker ring of musketry, and 

the rifle's deadlier aim; 
Go, hurry to the Assembly, — for the 

bravest chiefs are there, — 
Bedeau and Brea, and Cavaignac and 

Lamoriciere. 
And in and out the frequent scout goes 

hastening as he may; 
"At the Rue d'Antoine the Garde Mo- 
bile have the better of the day" — 
"Some succour to the Port au Ble — they 

scarce can hold their own" — 
"Help, help! or all is over at the Bar- 

riere du Trone!" 
And out and forth, east, west, and north, 

the hurrying chiefs advance, 
To combat with the combatants, and to 

die, if needs, for France. 

Who come toward the barricade with 

steady steps and slow, 
With prayers and tears, and blessings to 

aid them as they go? 
Among the armed nor armor the little 

cohort boasts. 
Their leader is their Prelate, their trust 

the Lord of Hosts. 
And the brave Archbishop tells them in 

voice most sweet and deep 
How the Good Shepherd layeth down 

His life to save the sheep: 
How some short years of grief and tears 

were no great price to give 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



That peace might come from discord, 
and bid these rebels live: 

Rebels so precious in His eyes, the He, 
Whose word is fete, 

Alone could make, alone redeem, xlone 
regenerate 1 

One moment's lull of firing, and near 

and nearer goes 
That candidate for martyrdom to the 

midmost of his foes; 
And on he went, with love unspent, 

toward the rifted line. 
As calm in faith, in sight of death, as 

in his Church's shrine: 
And the war closed deadlier round him, 

and more savage rose the cheer. 
And the bullets whistled past him, but 

still he knew no fear: 
And calmer grew his visage, and 

brighter grew his eye. 
He could not save his people, for his 

people he could die: 
And, following in the holy steps of Him 

that harrowed hell. 
By death crushed death, by falling up- 
raised the men that felL 

They bear him from his passion, for the 
prize of peace is won : 

His warfare is accomplished, his godlike 

They kneel before his litter, in the midst 

of hottest strife; 
They ask his prayers, the uttermost, who 

gave for them his life. 
So, offering up his sacrifice to God with 

free accord. 
The city's Martyr Bishop went home to 

see his Lord I 

Now God be praised that even yet His 

promise doth not fail I 
The gates of hell can nevermore against 

His Church prevail : 
When human ties are slackened, and 

earthly kingdcHtis rack. 
And thrones and sceptres crumble, like 

potsherd in the shock : 
There's that unearthly, though on earth, 

that ne'er shall be o'erthrown; 
Laud to the King of Martyrs for the 

Victory of His own! 

— /. Jf . ff«ib. 



MILES KEOGH'S HORSE. 

Colonel Hilei Kcoib wu i young IiithmaD 
who wu with GcncrifCiuln' in the fight on the 
Little Biff UorD. In thii fight, June Ulh, IBTfl, 
ererjr man of the United Statei force Wli 
killed, Col. KcDgh's horie heina the onl* diu 
left aiiye on the bBttlefield. 

On the bluff of the Little Big-Hom, 
At the close of a woful day, 

Custer and his Three Hundred 
In death and silence lay. 

Three Hundred to three Thousand! 

They had bravely fought and bled; 
For such is the will of Congress 

When the White man meets the Red 

The White men are ten millions. 
The thriftiest under the sun; 

The Reds are fifty thousand. 
And warriors every one. 

So Custer and all his fighting men 
Lay under the evening skies. 

Staring u^ at the tranquil heaven 
With w[de, accusing eyes. 

And of all that stood at noonday 

In that fiery scorpion ring. 
Miles Keogh's horse at evening 

Was the only living thing. 

Alone from that field of slaushter. 
Where lay the three hundred slain. 

The horse Comanche wandered. 
With Keogh's blood on his mane. 

And Sturgis issued this order, 
Which future times shall read. 

While the love and honor of comrades 
Are the soul of the soldier's creed. 

He said — 

Let the korse Comancke 

Henceforth till he thall die. 
Be kittdly cherished and cared for 

By the Seventh Cavalry. 

He shall da no labor; he never shall 

The touch of spur nor rein; 
Nor shall his back be ever erosstd 
By living rider again. 

And at regimental formation 

Of the Seventh Cavalry, 
Comancht draped in mottming and ltd 

By a trooper of Company I, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Shall parade with the regiment! 

Thus it was 

Commanded and thus done, 
By order of General Sturgis, signed 

By Adjutant Garlington. 

Even as the sword of Custer, 

In his disastrous fall, 
Flashed out a blaze that charmed the 
world 

And glorified his pall. 

This order, issued amid the gloom 
That shrouds our army's name, 

When all foul beasts are free to rend 
And tear its honest fame. 

Shall prove to a callous people 
That the sense of a soldier's worth, 

That the love of comrades, the honor of 
arms. 
Have not yet perished from earth. 

— John Hay, 



MERCEDES. 



3unc 26* 



THE VIGIL. 



June 26, 1902, was the day set for the Coro- 
nation of Edward VII. of England, whose ill- 
ness made necessary the postponement of the 
ceremony. 

Silent it stands, the shrine within whose 
walls 
He was to give his kingly gage to- 
day; 
And silent on our hearts the sorrow falls 
Which only faith may stay. 

Not for ourselves we mourn the mo- 
ment's loss, 
Our pleasure darkened and our sun 
gone down; 
All thoughts are turned to where he 
bears the cross 
Who should have worn the crown. 

So keep we vigil ; so a Nation's prayer 
Humbly before the Eternal Heart we 
bring, 
That of His grace and pity God may 
spare 
And give us back our King! 

— London Punch, 



The first wife of Alphonso XII. of Spain. 
She died on Tune 26, 1878, after a brief wedded 
life. 



Scarce grown to womanhood, to die a 

Queen ! 
Montpensier's daughter, what a fate was 

thine I 
Youngest and loveliest of that Bourbon 

line 
So long chief actors in the mingled 

scene 
Of state and sway — ^the scaffold and the 

axe; 
Spiritui tuo sit aeterna Pax! 
Thy tragedy shall keep thy cypress 

green. 
And Isabella's name shall be to Spain 
Less dear a memory than the tender tale 
Of thy young love and wedlock — and the 

wail 
That closed the marriage paean, and the 

rain 
Of sudden tears, as when an August 

doud 
Bursts mid the sunshine. Oh, how cold 

and pale 
Alfonso, when he kissed thee in thy 

shroud I 

— Thomas W. Parsons. 



June 27* 



THE BATTLE OF PULTOWA. 



In this battle, fought June 27th, 1709. the 
Russians under Peter the Great defeated the 
Swedes under Charles XII. This battle marks 
the fall of the Swedish power and the rise of 
that of Russia. 



On Vorska's glittering waves 
The morning sunbeams play; 
Puhowa's walls are throng*d 
With eager multitudes ; 
Athwart the dusty vale 
They strain their aching eyes, 
Where to the fight moves on 
The G)nqueror Charles, the 
hearted Swede. 



iron- 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



321 



Him Famine hatb not tamed. 

The tamer of the brave; 

Him Winter hath not quell'd; 

When man by man his veteran troops 

sunk down, 
Frozen to their endless sleep. 
He held undaunted on 
Him Pain hath not subdued ; 
What though he mounts not now 

The fiery steed of war? 
Bome on a. litter to the field he goes. 



Go, iron-hearted King I 
Full of thy former fame- 
Think how the humbled Dane 

Crouch'd underneath thy sword; 

Think how the wretched Pole 

Resign'd his (»)nquer'd crown; 

Go, iron-hearted King I 

Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty 

The death-day of thy glory, Charles, 

hath dawn'd ! 
Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen 
That on thy shame shall set I 

Now, Palkul, may thine injured spirit 

For over that relentless Swede 

Ruin bath raised his unrelenting arm; 

For ere the night descends. 

His veteran host destroyed. 

His laurels blasted to revive no more. 

He flies before the Mus(x>vite. 



Impatiently that haughty heart must 

bear 
Long years of hope deceived; 
Long years of idleness 
That sleepless soul must brook. 
Now, Fatkul, may thine injured spirit 

To him who suffers in an honest cause 
No death is ignominious; not on thee, 
But upon Charles, the cruel, the unjust. 

Not upon thee, — on him 
The ineffaceable reproach is fix'd, 
The infamy abides. 

Now, Fatkal, may thine injured spirit 
rett 

—Robert Southey. 



3une 28. 

MOLLIE PITCHER. 

A ricttoT BBined Dsr Freehold, N, I., on 
Jttne !8, IBTB. by the Araenuns under Wub- 
iDgloll over tbc Brituh under Clinton. 

'Twas hurry and scurry at Monmouth 

For Lee was beating a wild retreat; 
The British were riding the Yankees 

And panic was pressing on flying 
feet 



^ired h 

"Halt, and stand to your guns!" he 
cried. 

And a bombardier made swift reply. 
Wheeling his cannon into the tide; 

He fell 'neath the shot of a foenun 



Mollie Pitcher sprang to his side. 
Fired as she saw her husband do. 

Telling the king in his stubborn pride 
Women like men to their homes ai 



Washington rode from the bloody fray 
Up to the gun that a woman manned. 

"Mollie Pitcher, you save the day," 
He said, as he gave her a hero's hand. 

He named her sergeant with manly 

While her war-brown face was wet 
with tears — 
A woman has ever a woman's ways. 
And the army was wild with cheers. 
—Kate Broumlee Sherwood. 



TO JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 

Born June 18, 18M. 

As when a man along piano keys 
Trails a slow hand, and then wit 
touch grown bold 



223 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Strikes pealing chords, by some great 
master old 
Woven into a gem of melodies, 
A.11 full of summer and the shout of 
seas, — 
So do thy rhythmic songs my soul en- 
fold. 

First some sweet love-note, full as it 
can hold 
Of daintiness, comes like the hum of 

bees; 
Then, rising grandly, thou dost sound a 
chord 
That rings and clamors in the heart of 

hearts. 
And dying as receding waves, departs 
Leaving us richer by a lusty hoard 
Of noble thoughts. 

O poet! would that we 
Might strike one note like thine, — ^but 
just for thee ! 

— James Berry BenselL 



RAGLAN. 



Commanded the British in the Crimea. He 
died there on June 28, 1855. 



Ah! not because our soldier died before 

his field was won ; 
Ah! not because life would not last till 

life's long task were done. 
Wreathe one less leaf, grieve with less 

grief, — of all our hosts that led 
Not last in work and worth approved, — 
Lord Raglan lieth dead. 

His nobleness he had of none, War's 

Master taught him war, 
And prouder praise that Master gave 

than meaner lips can mar; 
Gone to his grave, his duty done; if 

farther any seek. 
He left his task to answer them, — ^a 

soldier's, — let it speak! 
'Twas his to sway a blunted sword, — to 

fight a fated field. 
While idle tongues talked victory, to 

struggle not to yield ; 
Light task for placeman's ready pen to 

plan a field for fight, 
Hard work and hot with steel and. ^hot 

to win that field aright^ 



Tears have been shed for the brave dead; 

mourn him who moum'd for all I 
Praise hath been given for strife well 

striven; praise him who strove 

o'er all. 
Nor count that conquest little, though 

no banner Haunt it far. 
That under him our English hearts beat 

Pain and Plague and War. 

And if held those English hearts too 

good to pave the path 
To idle victories, shall we grudge what 

noble palm he hath? 
Like ancient Chief he fought a-front, 

and 'mid his soldiers seen. 
His work was aye as stem as theirs ; oh I 

make his grave as green. 

They know him well,— the Dead who 

died 
That Russian wrong should cease. 
Where Fortune doth not measure men, — 

their souls and his have peace; 
Ay ! as well spent in sad sick tent as they 

in bloody strife. 
For English Homes our English Chief 

gave what he had, — his life. 

— Edwin Arnold, 



3ttne 29. 

ST. PETER'S DAY. 



Thou thrice denied, yet thrice beloved. 

Watch by Thine own forgiven friend! 
In sharpest perils faithful proved. 

Let his soul love Thee to the end. 

The prayer is heard— else why so deep 
His slumber on the eve of death? 

And wherefore smiles he in his sleep, 
As one who drew celestial breath? 

He loves and is beloved again — 

Can his soul choose but be at rest? 
Sorrow hath fled away, and pain 
Dares not invade the guarded nest 

He dearly loves, and not alone; 

For his winged thoughts are soaring 
high 
Where never yet frail heart was known 

To bi^eath in vadn abjection's sigjh.. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



223 



That gnidous chiding look, Thy call 
To win him to bjtnself and Thee, 

Sweetening the sorrow of his fall 
Which else were rued too bitterly; 

Even through the veil, of sleep it shines, 
The memory of that kindly glance; — 

The angel, watching by, divines, 
And' spares awhile bis blissful trance. 

Or haply to his native lake 

His vision wafts him back, to talk 
With Jesus, ere his flight he take. 

As in that solemn evening walk. 

When to the bosom of his friend. 
The Shepherd, He whose name is 

Did His dear lambs and sheep commend, 
Both bought and nourished with Hit 
blood ; 



r life and death, its awful charm. 

With brightening heart he bears it on, 
His passport through th' eternal gates. 

To his sweet home — so nearly won^ 
He seems, as by the door he waits. 

The un expressive notes to hear 
Of angel song and angel motion. 

Rising and falling on the ear 
Like waves in Joy's unbounded ocean. 

His dr«im is changed — the tyrant's 

Calls to that last of glorious deeds— 
But as he rises to rejoice. 
Not Herod, but an angel leads. 

He dreams he sees a lainp_ flash bright. 

Glancing around bis prison room; 
But 'tis a gleam of heavenly light 
That fills up all the ample gloom. 



The flame, that in a few short years 
Deep through the chambers of the 
dead 

Shall pierce, and dry the fount of tears. 
Is waving o'er his dungeon-bed. 

Touched, he upstarts — bis chains tin- 

ThrouE^h darksome vault, up massy 

His dizzy, doubting footsteps wind 
To freedom and cool, moonlight air. 

Then all himself, all joy and calm. 

Though for a while his hand forego. 
Just as it touched, the martyr's palm. 

He turns him to his task below: 

The pastoral staff, the keys of heaven, 
To wield awhile in gray-haired might — 

Then from hjs cross to spring forgiven. 
And follow Jesus out of sight. 

—John Kebk. 



ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BROWN- 
ING. 

Eliubetb Bmett Browning died June £9, 1SSI. 

Which of the Angels sang so well in 

Heaven 
That the approving Archon of the quire 
Cried, "Come up hither 1" and he, goii^ 

higher, 
Carried a note out of the choral seven; 
Whereat that cherub to whom choice is 

given 
Among the singers that on earth aspire 
Beckon'd thee from us, and thou, and thy 

lyre 
Sudden ascended out of sight? Yet even 
In heaven thou weepest 1 Well, true 

wife, to weqit 
Thy voice doth so betray that sweet of- 



fence 



exalt thee 
, and sudi 



That no new call should 

hence 
But for thy harp. Ah, lend 

grace 
Shall still advance thy neighbor that thou 

Thy seat, and at thy side a vacant placet 
-~Sydney DobtU. 



224 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



TO E. B. B. 



The white-rose garland at her feet. 
The crown of laurel at her head. 

Her noble life on earth complete, 
Lay her in the last low bed 

For the slumber calm and deep: 
"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Soldiers find their fittest grave 
In the field whereon they died; 

So her spirit pure and brave 
Leaves the clay it glorified 

To the land for whidi she fought 

With such grand impassioned thought 

Keats and Shelley sleep at Rome, 
She in well-loved Tuscan earth; 

Finding all their death's long home 
Far from their old home of birth. 

Italy, you hold in trust 

Very sacred English dust 

Therefore this one prayer I breathe, — 
That you yet may worthy nrove 

Of the heirlooms they bequeath 
Who have loved you with such love: 

Fairest land while land of slaves 

Yields their free souls no fit graves. 

— /flm« Thomson, 



3unc 30* 

ACQUITTAL OF THE BISHOPS. 

During the reign of James II. the clergy were 
required to read from their pulpits, on two sue- 
•essive Sundays, a Declaration of Indulgence 
which gave freedom of worship to Nottconfonn> 
ists and Roman Catholics. This being entirely 
unconstitutional, the Archbishop of Canter bury 
and six bishops declined to comity and were 
tccordingly prosecuted. They were aoqttitted, 
to the great joy of the poulace, on Jtmc So, 
1688. 

A voice, from long expecting thousands 

sent, 
Shatters the air, and troubles tower and 

spire ; 
For Justice hath absolved the innocent. 
And Tyranny is balked of her desire : 
Up, down, the busy Thames — rapid as 

fire 
Coursing a train of gunpowder— it went. 
And transport finds in every street a 

vent, 
Till the whole City rings like one vast 

quire. 
The Fathers urge the People to be still. 
With outsretched hands and earnest 

speech — in vain! 
Yea, many, haply wont to entertain 
Small reverence for the mitre's offices. 
And to Religion's self no friendly will, 
A Prelate's blessing ask on bended 

knees. ^iVilliam Wordsworth, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



225 



Sulip I. 



THE BOYNE WATER. 

The Bojme ii ■ lUoiii neat Dcochedi, Ire- 
iMut, uid it WW here that Willum III. dc- 
featnl June* II., July i. 1689. ud diora fain 
mil of the CDUDII7. The umiverHrT of this 
battle i* generally celebrated on the llih nf 
JuIt, id accordance with the modern lyiton 

Jtily the First, of a morning clear, one 
thousand (ix hundred and ninety. 

King William did his men prepare — ot 
thousands he had thirty — 

Tc fight King James and all his foes, en- 
camped near the Boyne Water; 

He little feared, though two to one, their 
multitudes to scatter. 

King William called his officers, saying: 

"Gentlemen, mind your station. 
And let your valour here be shown before 

this Irish nation; 
My brazen walls let no man break, and 

your subtle foes you'll scatter. 
Be sure you show them good English 

play as you go over the water." 

Both foot and horse they marched on, 
intending them to batter. 

But the brave Duke SchomberE he was 
shot as he crossed over the water. 

When that King William did observe 
the brave Duke Schomberg fall- 
ing. 



"What will you do for me, brave boys — 
see yonder men retreating? 

Our enemies encouraged are, and En- 
glish drums are beating." 

He says, "My boys, feel no dismay at the 
losing of one commander. 

For God shall be our king this day, and 
111 be general under." 

Within tour yards of our forefront, be- 
fore a shot was fired, 

A sudden snuff they got that day, which 
little they desired ; 

For horse and man fell to the ground, 
and some hung in their saddle; 

Others turned up their forked ends, 
which we call coup dt iadtt. 



Prince Eugene's regiment was the oext, 

on our right hand advanced. 
Into a field of standing wheat, where 

Irish horses pianced — 
But the brandy ran so in their heads, 

their senses all did scatter. 
They little thought to leave their bones 

that day at the Boyne Water. 

Both men and horse lay on the ground, 
and many there lay bleeding, 

I saw no sickles there that day— but, 
sure, there was sharp shearing. 

Now praise God, all true Protestants, 

And heaven's and earth's Creator, 

For the deliverance that He sent onr 

enemies to scatter. 
The Church's foes will pine away, like 

churlish-hearted Nabal 
For our deliverer came this day like the 

great ZorobabeL 

So praise God, all true Protestants, and 

I will say no further, 
But had the Papists gained the day, there 

would have been open murder. 
Although King James and many more 

were ne>r that way inclined. 
It was not in their power to stop what 

the rabble they designed. 

— OU BaUai. 



THE CHARGE AT SANTIAGO. 

San Joan Hill In Santiago ww taken by th* 
^me^ica^ forcea July 1, 1B9S. Colonel Tbes- 
lore RoMFvell'i Tcgiment of Rough Riden die- 



II War. 



! engagement* of the 



With shot and shell, like a loosened hell, 
Smiting them left and right. 

They rise or fall on the sloping wall 
Of beetling bush and height I 

They do not shrink at the awful brink 
Of the rifle's hurtling breath. 

But onward press, as their ranks grow 

To the open arms of death I 

Through a storm of lead, o'er maimed 
and dead. 

Onward and up they go, 
Till hand to hand the nnflinchJBg band 

Grapple the stubboni foe. 



226 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



0*er men that reel, 'mid glint of steel. 

Bellow or boom of gun, 
They leap and shout over each redoubt 

Till the final trench is won! 

O charge sublime ! Over dust and grime 

Each hero hurls his name 
In shot or shell, like a molten hell, 

To the topmost heights of fame! 
And prone or stiff, under bush and cliffy 

Wounded or dead men lie, 
While the tropic sun on a grand deed 
done 

Looks with his piercing eyel 

— William Hamilton Hayne. 



THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND 

MORE. 



On July 2, 1863, President Lincoln called 
for three hundred thousand more volunteers. 



We are coming, Father Abraham, three 
hundred thousand more, 

From Mississippi's winding stream and 
from New England's shore; 

We leave our ploughs and workshops, 
our wives and children dear. 

With hearts too full for utterance, with 
but a silent tear ; 

We dare not look behind us, but stead- 
fastly before: 

We are coming. Father Abraham, three 
hundred thousand more! 

If you look across the hill-tops that meet 

the northern sky. 
Long moving lines of rising dust your 

vision may descry; 
And now the wind, an instant, tears the 

cloudy veil aside, 
And floats aloft our spangled flag in 

glory and in pride, 
And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and 

bands brave music pour; 
We are coming, Father Abraham, three 

hundred thousand more! 

If you look all up our valleys where the 

growing harvests shine. 
You may see our sturdy farmer boys 

fast forming into line; 



And children from their mother's knees 

are pulling at the weeds. 
And learning how to reap and sow 

against their country's needs; 
And a farewell group stands weeping at 

every cottage door; 
We are coming. Father Abraham, three 

hundred thousand more! 

You have called us, and we're coming, 
by Richmond's bloody tide 

To lay us down, for Freedom's sake, our 
brothers* bones beside. 

Or from foul treason's savage grasp to 
wrench the murderous blade, 

And in the face of foreign foes its frag- 
ments to parade. 

Six hundred thousand loyal men and 
true have gone before: 

We are coming. Father Abraham, three 
hundred thousand more! 

— Anonymous. 



SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON 

MOOR. 



The royalist forces were defeated by the 
Scots and Parliamentarians, July 2, 1644, «t 
Marston Moor, a place in England. 

To horse, to horse. Sir Nicholas! the 

clarion's note is high; 
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the 

huge drum makes reply: 
Ere this hath Lucas marched with his 

gallant cavaliers, 
And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows 

fainter in our ears. 
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White 

Guy is at the door. 
And the vulture whets his beak o'er the 

field of Marston Moor. 

Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief 
and broken prayer, 

And she brought a silken standard down 
the narrow turret stair. 

Oh, many were the tears that those radl* 
ant eyes had shed, 

As she worked the bright word "Glory*' 
in the gay and glancing thread; 

And mournful was the smile that o'e? 
those bejiuteous features ran. 

As she said, "It is your lady's gift, un- 
furl it in the van." 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



*lt shall flutter, noble wench, where the 

best and boldest ride, 
Through the steel-ctad files of Skijij 

and the black dragoons of Pnd . 
The recreant sou) of Fairfax will feel 

a sicklier qualm, 
And the rebel lips of Oliver give out b 

louder psalm. 
When they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt 

bravely on their wing. 
And hear her loyal soldiers' shout, fof 

God and for the Kii^I" 

'Tis noon; the fsnks are broken along 

the royal line ; 

They fly, the braggarts of the Court, the 
Bullies of the Rhine; 

Stout Langley's cheer is heard rio more, 
and Astley's helm is down, 

And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a 
curse and with a frown; 

And cold Newcastle mutters, as he fol- 
lows in the flight, 

"The German boar had better far have 
supped in York to-night" 

The Knight is all alone, his steel cap 

cleft in twain, 
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with 

many a gory stain ; 
But still he waves the standard, and 

cries amid the rout— 
"For Church and King, fair gentlemen, 

spur on and fight it out I" 
And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, 

and now he hums a stave. 
And here he quotes a stage-play, and 

there he fells a knave. 

Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou 

hast no thought of fear; 
Good speed to thee. Sir Nicholas I but 

fearful odds are here. 
The traitors ring thee round, and with 

every blow and thrust, 
"Down, down," they cry, "with Belial, 

down with him to the dust!" 
"I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that 

Belial's trusty sword 
This day were doing battle for the 

Saints and for the Lord I" 

The Lady Alice sits with her maidens 

in her bower ; 
The grey-haired warden watches on 

castle's highest tower. — 
"What news, what news, old Anthony?" 



"The field is lost and won; 

The ranks of war are melting at the 

mists beneath the sun ; 
And a wounded man speeds hither, — I 



"I bring thee back the standard from as 

rude and rough a fray, 
As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or 

theme for minstrel's by. 
Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and 

liquor oiumlum suff; 
111 make a shift to drain it, ere I part 

with boot and buff; 
Though Guy through many a gaping 

wound is breathing out hisliie. 
And I come to thee a landless man, my 

fond and faithful wife I 

"Sweet, we will fill our money-b^s, and 
freight a ship for France, 

And moum in merry Paris for this poor 
realm's mischance; 

Or, if the worst betide me, why, better 

Tlian life with Lenthal for a king, and 

Peter's for a pope I 
Alas, alas, my gallant Guy I — out on the 

crop-eared boor. 
That sent me with my standard on foot 

from Marston Moor!" 

— Wmtkrop Mackworlh Praed. 



The tUTtl battle of SintUao WM (oofbt Jul; 
Ibe Spuish a«t coiDiDuidcd bj Admiral C^- 



/» the slagnani pride of a» outworn race 

The Spaniard taitd the tea: 
'Till we haled him *P to God"* judg- 
ment-place — 

And smashed him by God's decreet 

Out from the harbor, belching smoke. 
Came dashing seaward the Spanish 

And from all our decks a great shout 
brok^ 



228 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Then our hearts came up and set us a- 
choke 
For joy that we had them at last at 
grips! 

No need for signals to get us away — 
We were off at score, with our screws 
a-gleam ! 
Through the blistering weeks we'd 

watched the bay 
And our captains had need not a word 
to say — 
Save to bellow and curse down the 
pipes for steam! 

Leading the pack in its frightened flight 
The Colon went foaming away to the 
west — 
Her tall iron bulwarks, black as night, 
And her great black funnels, sharp in 
sight 
'Gainst the green-clad hills in their 
peace and rest. 

Her big Hontoria blazed away 

At the Indiana, our first in line. 
The short-ranged shot drenched our 

decks with spray — 
While our thirteen-inchers, in answering 
play. 
Ripped straight through her frame to 
her very spine! 

Then the Texas slid into the fighting 
game. 
With the Iowa closing to get her turn : 
And the Colon fled fighting — making bid 

for fame — 
With all her port broadside a sheet of 
flame, 
"^hough her certain fate was to sink or 
bum! 

In their fleeing Admiral's hopeless 
wake — 
Too proud to strike, and too weak to 
aid — 
Came the Spanish ships : in their turn to 

take 
Our hurtling shell-fire*s withering rake — 
From guns that were served as on 
drill parade! 

From their flaming ports and their 
flaming decks 
The rising smoke hid the colors of 
Spain. 



«T» 



We had them there with our knives in 

their necks! 
And we hammered them down into 

shapeless wrecks 
With our screaming shells in a fien[ 

rain! 

And Wainwright — the cheek of the thing 
to see! — 
Cuts in with the Gloucester, of no- 
weight tons; 
And he takes helFs broadside, and says, 

says he: 
ril teach your tea-kettles not to fight 

mer 

And he cracks it back with his tom- 
tit guns! 

Straight to its end went our winning 
fight— 
With the thunder of guns in a mighty 
roar. 
Our hail of iron, casting withering 

blight, 
Turning the Spanish ships in their flight 
To a shorter death on the rock-bound 
shore. 

The Colon, making her reckless race 
With the Brooklyn and Oregon close 
a-beam, 
Went dashing landward — and stopped 

the chase 
By grinding her way to her dying-place 
In a raging outburst of fiame and 
steam. 

So the others, facing their desperate 
luck. 
Drove headlong on to their rock-dealt 
death — 
The Vizcaya yielding before she struck. 
The riddled destroyers, a huddled ruck, 
Sinking, and gasping for drowning 
breath. 

So that flying battle surged down the 
coast. 
With its echoing roar from the Cuban 
land; 

So the dying war-ships gave up the 
ghost ; 

So we shattered and mangled the Philis- 
tine host — 
So the fight was won that our Samp- 
son planned! 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



/m the stagnant pride of an outworn race 

The Spaniard saifd the tea: 
'Till we haled him up to God's jwig- 
ment-plaee— 
And smashed him by God's decree! 
—Thomas A. lanvier. 



THE FLEET AT SANTIAGO. 
The heart leaps with the pride of their 

Predestinate lords of the seal 
They are heirs of the fla^ and its glory. 

They are sons of the soii it keeps free; 
For their deeds the serene exaltation 

Of a cause that was sUined with no 

For their dead the proud tears of a na- 
Their fame shall endure with its fame. 

The fervor that grim, unrelentins. 

The founders ia homespun had fired, 
With blood the free compact cementing, 

Was the flame that their souls had in- 
spired. 
They were sons of the dark tribulations, 

Of the perilous days of the birth 
Of a nation sprung free among nations, 

A new hope to the children of earth 1 

They were nerved by the old deeds of 

Every tale of Decatur they knew. 
Every ship that, the bright banner bear- 
ing, 
Shot to keep it afloat in the blue; 
They were spurred by the splendor un- 
dying 
Of Somer's fierce fling in the bay, 
And the watchword that Lawrence died 



they. 

By the echo of guns at whose thunder 
Old monarchies crumbled and fell. 
When the war ships were shattered 
asunder 
And their pennants went down in the 
swell ; 
By the strength of the race that, unfear 
ing. 



Its colors still nailed to the mast — 

So they fought — and the stem race im- 
mortal 

Of Cromwell and Hampton and Penn 
Has thrown open another closed portal. 

Stricken chains from a new race of 

So they fought, so they won, bo above 

Blazed the light of a consecrate aim; 
Empty words I Who may tell how we 
love them. 
How we thrill with the joy of their 

—CharUs E. RusseU. 



THE BROOKLYN AT SANTIAGO. 
'Twixt clouded heights Spain hurls to 

Ships staunch and brave. 
Majestic, forth they flash and boom 
Upon the wave. 

El Morro raise! eyes of hate 



The Brooklyn o'er the deep eapiet 

His flame-wreathed side: 
She sets her banners on the skies 

In fearful pride. 

On, to the harbor's mouth of fire. 

Fierce for the fray, 
She darts, an eagle from his eyre, 

Upon her prey. 

She meets the brave Teresa there- 
Sigh, sigh for Spain I— 

And beats her clanging armor bare 
With glittering rain. 

The bold Vizcaya's lightnings glance 

Into the throng 
Where loud the bannered Brooklyn 

Her awful song. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Down swoops, in one tremendous curve. 

Our Commodore; 
Mis broadsides roll, the foemen swerve 

Toward the shore. 

In one great round bia Brooklyn turns 

And, girdling there 
Tbis side and that witb glory, bums 

Spain to despair. 

Frightful in onslaught, fraught witb fate 

Her missiles hiss: 
The Spaniard sees, when all too late, 

A Nemesis. 

The Oquendo's diapason swells; 

Then, torn and lame. 
Her portholes turn to yawning wells. 

Geysers of flame. 

Yet fierce and fiercer breaks and cries 

Our rifles' dread: 
The doomed Teresa shudders— lies 

Stark with her dead. 

How true the Brooklyn's battery speaks 

Eulate knows, 
As the Vizcaya staggers, shrieks 
Her horrent woes. 

Sideward she plunges: nevermore 

Shall Biscay feel 
Her heart throb for the ship that wore 

Her name in steeL 

The Oquendo's ports a moment shone. 

As gloomed her knell; 
She trembles, bursts — the ship is gone 

Headlong to hell. 

The fleet Colon in lonely flight- 
Spain's hope, Spain's fear!— 

Sees, and it lends her wings of fright, 
Schley's 



The fleet Colon scuds on alone- 
God, how she runs I — 

And ever hears behind her moan 
The Brooklyn's guns. 

Our ruthless cannon o'er the flood 

Roar and draw nigh : 
Spain's ensign stained with gold and 
blood. 

Falls from on high. 



The world she gave the World has 

Gone, with her power- 
Dead, 'neath the Brooklyn's thunder- 
blast, 
In one great hour. 

The bannered Brooklyn I gallant crew. 

And pliant Schley I 
Proud IS the flag bis sailors flew 

Along the sky. 

Proud is bis country: for each star 

Our Union wears, 
The fighting Brooklyn shows a scar — 

So much he dares. 

God save us war upon tbe seas; 

But, if it sli^. 
Send such a chief, with men like tbes^ 

On such a ship! 

—Wallaee Rice. 



THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS. 

A cheer and salute for the admiral, and 

here's to the captain bold. 
And never forget the commodore's debt 

when the deeds of night are told I 
They stand to the deck thro* the battle's 

wreck, when the great shells roar 

and screech, — 
And never they fear when the foe is 

near to practise what they preach ; 
But off witb your hat and three times 

three for Columbia's true-blue 

The men below who baiter the foe — 
the men behind the guns I 

Oh, light and merry of heart are they 
when they swing into port once 

When, with more than enough of the 
"green- backed stuff," they start 
for their 1 eave-o'- shore ; 

And you'd think perhaps, that the blue- 
blouse d chaps who loll along die 

Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for 
some "mustache" to eat — 

Some warrior bold, with straps of gold. 
who dazzles and fairly stuns 

The modest worth of the sailor boys, — 
the lads who serve the guns. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



231 



But say not a word till a shot is hearj 

that tells the fight is on, 
Till the long deep roar grows more and 

more from the ships of "Yank" 

and "Don," 
Till over the deep the tempests sweep 

of fire and bursting shell, 
And the very air is a mad Despair in 

the throes of a living hell; 
Then down, deep down, in the mighty 

ship, unseen by the midday suns. 
You'll find the chaps who are giving the 

raps,— the men behind the guns! 

Oh, well they know how the cyclones 
blow that they loose from their 
cloud of wrath. 

And they know is heard the thunder- 
word their fierce ten-inch ers saith I 

The steel decks rock with the lightning 
shock, and shake with the great 

And the sea grows red with the bkwd of 
the dead and reaches for its 
spoil,— 

But not till the foe has gone below, or 
turns his prow and runs, 

Shall the voice of peace bring sweet re- 
lease to the men behind the guns I 
— John J. Roomy. 



SPAIN'S LAST ARMADA. 

They fling their flags upon the morn. 

Their safety's held a thing for scorn. 

As to the fray the Spaniards on the 

wings of war are borne; 

Their sullen smoke-clouds writhe and 

reel. 
And sullen are their ships of steel. 
All ready, cannon, lanyards, from the 
fighting-tops to keel. 



To ask that swift and thorough be the 
victory falling there; 
Then giants with a cheer and sigh 
Burst forth to battle and to die 
Beneath the walls of Morro on that 
morning in July. 



The Teresa heads the haughty train 
To bear the Admiral of Spain, 
She rushes, hurtling, whitening, like the 
summer hurricane; 
El Morro glowers in his might; 
Socapa crimsons with the fight; 
The Oquendo's lunging lightning blazes 
through her somber nlghL 

in desperate and eager dash 
The Viscaya hurls her vivid flash. 
As wild upon the waters her enormoui 
batteries crash ; 
Like spindrift scuds the fleet Colon, 
And, on her bubbling wake bestrewn. 
Lurch, hungry for the slaughter. El Fur- 
or and El Pluloit. 

Round Santia^'i armored crest. 

Serene, in their gray valor dressed. 

Our behemoths lie quiet, watching well 

from south and west ; 

Their keen eyes spy the harbor-reek; 

The signals dance, the signals speak; 

Then breaks the blasting riot as our 

broadsides storm and shriekl 

Quick, poising on her eagle- wings. 
The Brooklyn into battle swings; 
The wide sea falls and wonders as the 
titan Texas springs ; 
The Iowa in monster-leaps 
Goes bellowing above the deeps; 
The Indiana thunders as her terror on- . 
ward sweeps. 

And, hovering near and hovering low 
Until the moment strikes to go. 
In gallantry the Gloucester swoops down 
on her double foe; 
She volleys— the Furor falls lame; 
Again — and the Pluton's aflame; 
Hurrah, on high she's tossed herl Gone 
the grim destroyers' fame I 

And louder yet and louder roar 
The Oregon's black cannon o'er 
The clangor and the booming all along 
the Cuban shore. 
She's swifting down her valkyr-path. 
Her sword sharp for the aftermath. 
With levin in her glooming, like Jeho- 
vah in His wrath. 

Great ensigns snap and shine in air 
Above the furious onslaught where 
Our sailors cheer the battle, danger bnt 
a thing to dare; 



2^2 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR, 



Our gunners speed, as oft they've sped, 

sped. 
Their hail of shrilling, shattering lead, 
Swift-sure our rifles rattle, and the foe- 
man's decks are red. 

Like baying bloodhounds lope our 

ships, 
Adrip with fire their cannons' lips; 
We scourge the fleeing Spanish, whist- 
ling weals from scorpion-whips; 
Till, livid in the ghastly glare, 
They tremble on m dread despair. 
And dioughts of victory vanish in the 
carnage they must bear. 

Where Cuban coasts in beauty bloom. 
Where Cuban breakers swirl and 

boom, 
The Teresa's onset slackens in a scarlet 

spray of doom ; 
Near Nimanima's greening hill 
The streaming flames cry down her 

will, 
Her vast hull blows and blackens, prey 

to every mortal ill. 

On Juan Gonzales' foaming strand 
The Oquendo plunges 'neath our hand, 
Her armaments all strangled, and her 
hope a showering brand; 
She strikes and grinds upon the reef. 
And, shuddering there in utter grief. 
In misery and mangled, wastes away 
beside her chief. 

The Vizcaya nevermore shall ride 
From out Aserradero's tide. 
With hate upon her forehead ne'er again 
she'll pass in pride; 
Beneath our fearful battle-spell 
She moaned and struggled, flared and 
fell, 
To lie a-gleam and horrid, while the 
piling fires swell. 

Thence from the wreck of Spain alone 
Tears on the terrified Colon, 
In bitter anguish crying, like a storm- 
bird forth she's flown; 
Her throbbing engines creak and 

thrum; 
She sees abeam the Brooklyn come. 
For life she's gasping, flying; for the 
combat is she dumb. 



Till then the man behind the gun 
Had wrought whatever must be done — 
Here, now, beside our boilers is the fight 
fought out and won; 
Where great machines pulse on and 

beat, 
A-swelter in the humming heat 
The Nation's nameless toilers maJce her 
mastery complete. 

The Cape o' the Cross casts out a stone 
Against the course of the Colon, 
Despairing and inglorious on the wind 
her white flag's thrown ; 
Spain's last Armada, lost and wan. 
Lies where Tarquino's stream rolls on. 
As round the world, victorious, looms the 
dreadnaught Oregon, 

The sparkling daybeams softly flow 
To glint the twilight afterglow. 
The banner sinks in splendor that in bat- 
tle ne'er was low; 
The music of our country's hymn 
Rings out like songs of seraphim. 
Fond memories and tender fill the even- 
ing fair and dim; 

Our huge ships ride in majesty 
Unchallenged o'er the glittering sea. 
Above them white stars cluster, mighty 
emblem of the free; 
And all a-down the long sea-lane 
The fitful bale-fires wax and wane 
To shed their lurid lustre on the empire 
that was Spain. 

—Wallace Rice. 



3uli? 3* 



HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG. 



A bloody and decisive t>attle of the Civil War, 
and one which marked the high tide of the Con- 
federacv. It began July 8, 186S, and lasted 
three days, resulting in great bloodshed on 
both sides and the defeat of the Confederate 
forces. 



A cloud possessed the hollow field. 
The gathering battle's smoky shield : 
Athwart the gloom the lightning 

flashed, 
And through the cloud some horsemen 
dashed, 
And from the heights the thunder pealed. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR, 



233 



Then, at tbe brief command of Lee, 
Uoved out that matchless infanU7> 
With Pickeit leading grandly down. 
To rush against tbe roaring crown 
Of those dread heights of destiny. 

Far heard above the angry guns, 
A cry of tumult runs: 
The voice that rang through Shiloh's 

And Chicteniaiva's solitudes: 
The fierce South cheering on her sons. 

Ah, how the withering tempest blew 
Against the front of Pettigrut 
A khams in wind that ecordied and 

Like that internal flame that fringed 
The British squares at Waterloo! 

A thousand fall where Kemper led; 
A thousand died where Gamett bled; 
In blinding flame and strangling 

The remnant through the batteries 

And crossed the works with Armistead. 

"Once more in Glory's van with me!" 

Virginia cries to Tennessee : 
"We two together, come what may, 
Sliall stand upon those works to-day 1" 

The reddest day in history. 

Brave Tennessee! Reckless the way, 
Virginia heard her comrade say: 

"Close round this rent and riddled 
rag 1" 

What time she set her battle flag 
Amid the guns of Doubleday. 

But who shall break the guards that wait 

Before the awful face of fate? 
The tattered standards of the South 
Were shrivelled at tbe cannon's mouth. 

And all her hopes were desolate;. 

In vain the Tennesseean set 
His breast against the bayonet; 
In vain Virginia charged and raged, 
A tigress in her wrath uncaged. 
Till all the bUl was red and wet I 

Above the bayonets mixed and crossed. 
Men saw a gray gigantic gliost 
Receding through the battle cloud. 
And heard across the tempest loud 
The death-cry of a nation lost t 



The brave went downl Without dis- 
grace 

They leaped to ruin's red embrace; 
They only heard fame's thunder wake. 
And saw the dazzling sunburst break 

Id smiles on glory's bloody face I 

They fell who lifted up a hand. 
And bade the sun in heaven to Stand; 
They smote and fell who set the bars 
Against the progress of the stars, 
And stayed the march of Motherland. 

They stood who saw the future come 
On through the flight's delirium; 
They smote and stood who held the 

Of nations on that slippery slope. 
Amid the cheers of Christendom I 



God lives and reigns I He built and 



Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns! 

Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs, 
A mighty mother turns in tears. 
The ^ges of her battle years. 

Lamenting all her fallen sons! 

—JV. N. Tkompton. 



Reunion at Cetlrtburg twenty-fiTc jear* after 
the battle. 

Sliade of our greatest, look down to- 

Here the long, dread midsummer bat' 

tie roared. 
And brother in brother pltuged the 

accursed sword; — 
Here foe meets foe once more in proud 

array 
Yet not as once to harry and to slay 
But to strike hands, and with sublime 

accord 
Weep tears heroic for tbe hdIs that 

soared 



334 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Quick from earth's carnage to the star- 
ry way. 
Each fought for what he deemed the peo- 
ple's good. 
And proved bis bravery by his offered 

life. 
And sealed his honor with his out- 
poured blood; 
But the Eternal did direct the strife. 
And on this sacred field one patriot 

host 
Now calls thee father, — dear, majestic 
gbostt 

—Richard WaUtm Giider. 



3ul? 4. 

BEFORE VICKSBURG. 

Vidtibarg, the capital of Mijsissiopi, »n(l ■ 

CivU War, was besiegtd May 18, IgflS, bj Gen- 
eral Grim >ad hiLd om unlil July 4 of the 

cral Pembirloo luiiendfred. 

While Sherman stood beneath the hottest 
fire. 
That from the lines of Vicksburg 
gleamed, 
And bomb-shells tumbled in their smoky 
eyre, 
And grape-shot hissed, and case-shot 
screamed; 
Back from the front there came, 
Weeping and sorely lame, 
The merest child, ihc youngest face 
Man ever saw in such a fearful place. 

Stifling his tears, he limped his chief to 

But when he paused, and tottering 
stood, 
Around the circle of his little feet 
There spread a pool of bright, young 

Shocked at his doleful case, . 
Sherman cried, "Haiti front face! 
Who are you ? Speak my gallant 
boy!" 
"A drummer, sir :— Fifty-fifth Illinois," 



"Are yon not hit?" "That's nothing. 
Only send 
Some cartridges : our men are out ; 
And the foe press us." "But, my little 
friend—" 
"Don't mind met Did you bear that 
Bhout? 
What if our men be driven? 
O, for the love of Heaven, 



Send ti 



y Colonel, General dearl" 



"But you? "O I shall easily find the 

''I'll see to that," cried Sherman; and m 
drop. 
Angels might envy, dimmed his ey^ 
As the boy, toiling towards the hill's 
hard top. 
Turned round, and with his shrill 
child's cry 
Shouted, "O don't forget I 
We'll win the battle yet I 
But let our soldiers have some more, 
More cartridges, — calibre fifty-four 1" 
—George H. Boker. 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA. 



July 4, 1778. 

O Thou, thai scndest out the man 

To rule by land and sea, 
Strong mother of a lion -line. 
Be proud of these strong sons of thine 

Who wrenched their rights from theet 

What wonder if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood, 
Retaught the lesson thou had'st taught. 
And in thy spirit with thee fought, — 
Who sprang from English blood. 

But thou rejoice with liberal joy. 

Lift up thy rocky face, 
And shatter, when ihe storms are black. 
In many a streaming torrent bacl^ 

The seas that shock thy base ! 

Whatever harmonies of law 

The growing world assume, 
Thy work is Ihinc— The single note 
From that deep chord which Hampden 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



235 



3ul? 5. 



THE FIELD OF WAGRAM. 



AH was not paid, and 1 complete the 

Twas fated I should seek his battle- 
field 

And here, above the multitudinous dead, 

Be the white victim, growing daily 
whiter. 

Renouncing, praying, asking but to suf 
fer. 

Yearning toward heaven, like sacrificial 
incense I 

And while betwixt the heavens and this 
field 

retched with all my soul and 



I feel the hill upheaved beneath my feet 
To lift me gently to the stooping 

heavens I 
'Tis meet and right the battle-field should 

offer 
This sacrifice, thai henceforth it may bear 
Pure and unstained its name of Victory. 
Wagram, behold me! Ransom of old 

Son, offered for, alas! how many sons! 
Above the dreadful haze wherein thou 

Uplift me, Wagram, in thy scarlet hands! 
It must be sol I know iti Feel ill 

Will it! 
The breath of death has rustled through 

my hair! 
The shudder of death has passed athwart 

my soul I 
I am all white : a sacramental Host I 
What more reproaches can they hurl, O 

Father, 
Against our hapless fate? — Oh hush! I 

add 
In silence Schonbrunn to Saint 

Tis done I — But if the Eaglet is resigned 
To perish like the innocent, yielding 
swan. 



Nailed in the gloom above some lofty 

gale. 
He must become the high and holy signal 
That scares the ravens and calls back the 

eagles. 
There must be no more moanings in the 

field, ' 

Nor dreadful writhings in the under- 

Bear on thy wings, O whirlwind of the 

plain. 
The shouts of conquerors and songs of 
triumph ! 

From "L'Aiglon," 
— Edmond Rostand. 
Trant. of Louit Parker. 



3ul? 6. 

EDWARD VI. 



Died Julj a, 15GS. 

"Sweet is the holiness of Youth" — so felt 
Time-honored Chaucer speaking through 

that lay 
By which the Prioress beguiled the way. 
And many a Pilgrim's rugged heart did 

melt. 
Hadst thou, loved Bard I whose spirit 

often dwelt 
In the clear land of vision, but forseen 
King, child, and seraph, blended in the 

Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt 
In meek and simple infancy, what joy 
For universal Christendom had thrilled 
Thy heart 1 what hopes inspired thy 

genius, skilled 
(O great Precursor, genuine Morning 

Sur) 
The lucid shafts of reason to employ. 
Piercing the Papal darkness from afar! 
—iVUtiam Woriruiortk. 



CCEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF 
HIS FATHER. 



236 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Richard. The latter, sumamed Cceur de Lion, 
succeeded to the throne. 



Torches were blazing clear, 

Hymns piling deep and slow, 
Where a king lay stately on his bier 

Id the church at Fontevraud. 
Banners of battle o'er him hung, 

And warriors slept beneath, 
And light, as noon's broad light was 
flung 

On the settled face of death. 

On the settled face of death 

A strong and ruddy glare, 
Though dimmed at times by the cen- 
ser's breath, 

Yet it fell still brightest there: 
As if each deeply furrow'd trace 

Of earthly years to show, — 
Alas! that sceptred mortal's race 

Had surely closed in woe! 

The marble floor was swept 

By many a long dark stole. 
As the kneeling priests, round him that 
slept, 

Sang mass for the parted soul : 
And solemn were the strains they pour'd 

Through the stillness of the night, 
With the cross above, and the crown 
and sword. 

And the silent king in sight 

There was heard a heavy clang. 

As of steel-girt men the tread, 
And the tombs and the hollow pavement 
rang 

With a sounding thrill of dread; 
And the holy chant was hush'd awhile, 

As, by the torch's flame, 
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle. 

With a mail-clad leader came. 

He came with haughty look. 

An eagle-glance and clear; 
But his proud heart through its breast- 
plate shook. 

When he stood beside the bier! 
He stood there still with a drooping 
brow. 

And clasped hands o'er it raised ; — 
For his father lay before him low, 

It was Coeur de Lion gazed! 

And silently he strove 
With the workings of his breast; 
But there's more in late repentant love 
Than steel may keep suppress'd ! 



And his tears brake forth, at last, like 
rain, — 
Men held their breath in awe. 
For his face was seen by his warrior 
train. 
And he reck'd not that they saw. 

He look'd upon the dead. 

And sorrow seem'd to lie, 
A weight of sorrow, even like lead. 

Pale on the fast-shut eye. 
He stoop'd — and kiss'd the frozen cheek 

And the heavy hand of clay. 
Till bursting words — ^yet all too weak — 

Gave his soul's passion way. 

"Oh, father! is it vain. 

This late remorse and deep? 
Speak to me, father! once again, 

I weep— behold, I weep! 
Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! 

Were but this work undone, 
I would give England's crown, my sire! 

To hear thee bless thy son. 

"Speak to me ! mighty grief 

Ere now the dust hath stirr'd! 
Hear me, but hear me! — father, chief, 

My king ! I must be heard ! — 
Hush'd, hush d — how is it that I call. 

And that thou answerest not? 
When was it thus, woe, woe for all 

The love my soul forgot! 

"Thy silver hairs I see. 

So still, so sadly bright ! 
And father, father! but for me. 

They had not been so white! 
I bore thee down, high heart ! at last. 

No longer could'st thou strive; — 
Oh! for one moment of the past. 

To kneel and say — ^'forgive!' 

"Thou wert the noblest king. 

On royal throne ere seen; 
And thou didst wear in knightly ring. 

Of all, the stateliest mein; 
And thou didst prove, where spears are 
proved, 

In war, the bravest heart — 
Oh ! ever the renown'd and loved 

Thou wert — and there thou art! 

"Thou that my boyhood's guide 
Didst take fond joy to be! — 
The times I've sported at thv side. 
And climb'd thy parent knee! 



f 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



237 



And there before the blessed shrine, 

My sire I I see thee lie, — 
How will that sad still face of thine 

Look on me till I die 1" 

— Felicia Hemans. 



ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD 
BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 



Richard Brinsley Sheridan was a famoua 
Irish orator, statesman and dramatist, best re- 
membered as the author of "The Rivals/* 
"The Critic," and "The School for ScandaL" 



A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power 
Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to 

whose hour 
Of light no likeness is bequeathed — ^no 

name, 
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame I 
The flash of Wit— the bright Intelli- 
gence, 
The beam of Song — ^the blaze of Elo- 
quence, 
Set with their Sun — ^but still have left 

behind 
The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious 

noon, 
A deathless part of him who died too 

soon. 
But small that portion of the wondrous 

whole, 
These sparkling segments of that circling 

soul, 
Which all embraced — and lighten'd over 

all. 
To cheer — ^to pierce — to please— or to 

appall. 
. From the charm'd council to the festive 

board, 
Of human feelings the unbounded lord; 
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, 
The praised — ^the proud— who made his 

praise their pride. 
When the loud cry of trampled Hindo- 

stan 
Arose to Heaven in her appeal from 

man, 
His was the thunder— his the avenging 

rod, 



The wrath — ^the delegated voice of God! 
Which shook the nations through his 

lips — and blazed 
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they 

praised. 

— Lord Byron. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF 
SHERIDAN. 



That high-gifted man. 
The pride of the palace, the bower, and 
the hall, 
The orator— dramatist — ^minstrel, — who 
ran 
Through each mode of the lyre, and 
was mast'*!- of all ! 

Whose mind was an essence, compound- 
ed with art 
From the finest and best of all other 
men's powers—^ 
Who ruled, like a wizard the world of 
the heart, 
And could call up its sunshine, or bring 
down its showers! 

Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's 
light, 
Played round every subject, and shone 
as it played — 
Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as 
bright, 
Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its 
blade ; — 

Whose elocjuence — brightening whatever 
it tried, 
Whether reason or fancy, the gay or 
the grave — 
Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a 
tide 
As ever bore Freedom aloft on its 
wave! 

— Thomas Moore. 



238 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



3uii2 a 



SHELLEY. 



Percy Bysshe Shelley, the famous young Eng- 
lish poet, was drowned in the Bay of Spezia, 
near Genoa, lUly, July 8, 1822. 

To shore the sea-nymphs buoyed their 

captive dead, 
Touched by a human grief; yes, there 

lay hand. 
Heart, lip, and brain of that august com- 
mand. 
All — ^save the soul that Heaven to music 

wed. 
Qung curling yet the pale locks round 

the head ; 
Silent and prone upon the drifted sand. 
He clasped her still, his loved Italian 

land. 
The foster-mother to whose breast he 

fled. 

We raised him on the pyre — in one great 
shine 

The body reached the beckoning shade — 
'twas meet, 

That which had given the flaming soul 
a shrine 

Should incorrupt as that bright soul re- 
treat ; 

Yet, heart of proof, thy substance still 
divine, 

Lingering in earthly love, lay at our feet 1 

—Craven L. Betts. 



THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY. 



Like burnt out torches by a sick man's 
bed 
Gaunt cypress trees stand round the 

sunbleached stone, 
Here doth the little night owl make 
her throne. 
And the slight lizard show his jeweled 
head. 

And, where the chaliced poppers flame 
to red. 
In the still chamber of yon pyramid 
Surely some Old World Sphinx lurks 
darkly hid, 
Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the 
dead. 



Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the 
womb 
Of Earth, great mother of Eternal 
Sleep. 
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb 
In the blue cavern of an echoing deep. 
Or where the tall ships founder in the 
gloom 
Against the rocks of some wave-shat- 
tered steep. 

—Oscar IVUde. 



3uli? 9^ 



THE SONG OF BRADDOCK'S MEN. 



Braddock waa sent to America to take charge 
of the army there and to expel the Frendi 
from their encroachments west of the AUe- 
ghenjr Mountains. He scorned the advice of 
Americans who were accustomed to border war- 
fare (George Washington among others), and 
was killed, a victim to his own obstinacy, on 
July 9, 1766. 



To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers! 
Hark how the drums do roll it along! 
To horse, to horse, with valiant good 
cheer ; 
We'll meet our proud foe before it is 
long. 
Let not your courage fail you; 
Be valiant, stout, and bold; 
And it will soon avail you, 
My loyal hearts of gold. 
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again 

I say huzzah! 
*Tis nobly done, — the day's our own — 
huzzah, huzzah! 

March on, march on, brave Braddock 
leads the foremost; 
The battle is begun as you may fairly 
see. 
Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be 
over; 
We'll soon gain the field from our 
proud enemy. 
A squadron now appears, my boys; 

If that they do but standi 
Boys, never fear, be sure you mind 
The word of command! 
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again 

I say huzzah ! 
'Tis nobly done, — the day's our own— 
huzzah, huzzah! 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



239 



See how, see how, they break and fly be- 
fore us I 
See how they are scattered all over the 
plain! 
Now, now — now, now our country will 
adore us! 
In peace and in triumph, boys, when 
we return again! 
Then laurels shall our glory crown 

For all our actions told: 
The hills shall echo all around. 
My loyal hearts of gold. 
Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again 

I say huzzah! 
*Tis nobly done, — ^the day's our own^ 
huzzah, huzzah! 

—Old Ballad, 



THE PATRIOT'S PASSWORD. 



^ The battle in which Arnold Winkdreid nc- 
rificed his life, as told in the poem, was fought 
Julv 9, 1886, between the Swiss Confederates 
and the Austrians under Duke Leopold, and re- 
sulted in a complete victory for the Swiss. It 
was this battle which secured the independence 
of Switzerland. 



"Make way for liberty!" he cried. 

Make way for liberty and died. 

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 

A living wall, a human wood; 

A wall, — where every conscious stone 

Seemed to its kindred thousands grown, 

A rampart all assaults to bear. 

Till time to dust their frames should 

wear: 
A wood, — like that enchanted grove 
In which with fiends Rinaldo strove. 
Where every silent tree possessed 
A spirit imprisoned in its breast, 
Which the first stroke of coming strife 
Might startle into hideous life: 
So still, so dense, the Austrians stood, 
A living wall, a human wood 
Impregnable their front appears. 
All-horrent with projected spears, 
Whose polished points before them shine. 
From flank to flank, one brilliant line, 
Bright as the breakers* splendours run 
Along the billows to the sun. 

Opposed to these, a hovering band 
Contended for their father-land ; 
Peasants, whose new-found strength had 

broke 
From manly necks th' ignoble yoke, 



And beat their fetters into swords. 
On equal terms to fight their lords. 
And what insurgent rage had gained. 
In many a mortal fray maintained. 
Marshalled once more, at freedom's call 

They came to conquer or to fall. 
Where he who conquered, he who fell. 
Was deemed a dead or living Tell; 
Such virtue had that patriot breathed, 
So to the soil his soul bequeathed. 
That wheresoe'er his arrows flew. 
Heroes in his own likeness grew. 
And warriors sprang from every sod 
Which his awakening footstep trod. 

And now the work of life and death 
Hung on the passing of a breath; 
The fire of conflict burned within. 
The battle trembled to begin; 
Yet while the Austrians held their 

ground. 
Point tor assault was nowhere found; 
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed. 
The unbroken line of lances blazed; 
That line 'twere suicide to meet. 
And perish at their tyrants' feet: 
How could they rest within their graves. 
To leave their homes the haunts of 

slaves ? 
Would they not feel their children tread, 
With clanking chains, above their head? 

It must not be; tnis day, this hour 
Annihilates th* invader's power; 
All Switzerland is in the field. 
She will not fly, she cannot yield. 
She must not fall ; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 
Few were the numbers she could boast. 
Yet every freeman was a host. 
And felt as 'twere a secret known. 
That one should turn the scale alone. 
While each unto himself was he. 
On whose sole arm hung victory. 

It did depend on one indeed; 
Behold him, — Arnold Winkelreid; 
There sounds not to the trump of fame 
The echo of a nobler name. 
Unmarked he stood amidst the throng. 
In rumination deep and long, 
Till you might see, with sudden grace. 
The very thought come o'er his face. 
And by the motion of his form. 
Anticipate the bursting storm, 
And by th' uplifting of his brow 
Tell where the bolt would strike, and 
how. 

But 'twas no sooner thought than 
done. 



240 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The field was in a moment won; 
"Make way for liberty!" he cried, 
Then ran, with arms extended wide, 
As if his dearest friend to clasp; 
Ten spears he swept within his grasp; 
"Make way for liberty!" he cried. 
Their keen points crossed from side to 

side; 
He bowed amidst them, like a tree. 
And thus made way for liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly, 
"Make way for liberty!" they cry. 
And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 
As rushed Uie spears through Arnold's 

heart. 
While, instantaneous as his fall. 
Rout, ruin, panic seized them all; 
An earthquake could not overthrow 
A city with a surer blow. 

Thus Switzerland again was free; 
Thus death made way for liberty. 

— James Montgomery. 



3ulp 10- 



THE TOWER OF FLAME. 



On July 10, 1893, the Cold Storage Building 
•t the Columbian Exposition was burned. 



3ull2 II. 



Here for the world to see men brought 
their fairest, 
Whatever of beauty is in all the earth ; 
The priceless flower of art, the loveliest, 
rarest. 
Here by our inland ocean came to 
glorious birth. 

Yet on this day of doom a strange new 
splendor 
Shed its celestial light on all men's 
eyes: 
Flower of the hero-soul,— consummate, 
tender, — 
That from the tower of flame sprang 
to the eternal skies. 

— Richard Watson Gilder, 



FIRST NEWS FROM VILLA- 
FRANCA. 



Thit treaty, sijsiied by the E mp erori Fraacia 
Joseph of Austria and rfapoleon II L, on July 
11, I860, ended the war between the Anal 
and the French and Sardiniana. 



I. 

Peace, peace, peace, do 3rou say? 
Whatl — with the enemy's guns in our 

ears? 
With the country's wrong not rendered 
back? 
Whatl — ^while Austria stands at bay 
In Mantua, and our Venice bears 
The cursed flag of the yellow and 
black? 

IL 

Peace, peace, peace, do you say? 
And this is the Mincio? Where's the 

fleet. 
And Where's the sea? Are wc all 
blind 
Or mad with the blood shed yesterday. 
Ignoring Italy under our feet. 
And seeing things before, behind? 

in. 

Peace, peace, peace, do you say? 

What I — uncontested, undenied ? 

Because we triumph, we succumb? 
A pair of Emperors stand in the way, 

(One of whom is a man, beside) 

To sign and seal our cannons dtmib? 

IV. 

No, not Napoleon I— he who mused 
At Paris, and at Milan spake. 
And at Solferino led the fight : 
Not he we trusted, honored, used 
Our hopes and hearts for . . . till 

they break — 
Even so, you tell us ... in his 
sight. 

V. 

Peace, peace, is still your word? 
We say you lie then I — that is plain. 
There is no peace, and shall be none. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



241 



Our very dead would cry 'Absurd V 
And clamor that they died in vain. 
And whine to come back to the sun. 

VI. 

Hush ! more reverence for the Dead ! 
They've done the most for Italy 
Evermore since the earth was fair. 

Now would that we had died instead. 
Still dreaming peace meant liberty, 
And did not, could not mean despair. 

VII. 

Peace, you say? — ^yes, peace, in truth! 
But such a peace as the ear can achieve 
'Twixt the rifle's click and the rush of 
the ball, 
'Twixt the tiger's spring and the crunch 
of the tooth, 
'Twixt the dying atheist's negative 
And God's Face — waiting, after all ! 

— Elisabeth Barrett Browning, 



3\xVi 12, 

DEATH OF JACK CADE. 



Jack Cade was the leader in a rising of Kent- 
ishmen in 1450. At first the rebels had some 
success, but they were finally defeated and 
Cade was killed on July 12, 1460. 



Cade, Fie on ambition ! fie on myself, 
that have a sword, and yet am ready to 
famish 1 These five days have I hid me 
in these woods and durst not peep out 
for all the country is laid for me; but 
now am I so hungry that if I might have 
a lease of my life for a thousand years 
I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on 
a brick wall have I climbed into this gar- 
den, to see if I can eat grass, or pick 
a sallet another while, which is not amiss 
to cool a man's stomach this hot weather. 
And I think this word 'sallet' was bom 
to do me good: for many a time, but 
for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft 
with a brown bill; and many a time, 
when I have been dry and bravely 
marching, it hath served me instead of a 
quart pot to drink in ; and now the word 
^llet' must serye m^ to feed oa.. 



Enter Iden. 
Iden, Lord, who would live tunnoiled 

in the court, 
And may enjoy such quiet walks as 

these? 
This small inheritance my father left me 
Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy. 
I seek not to wax great by other's wan- 
ing, 
Or gather wealth, I care not, with what 

envy; 
Sufficeth that I have maintains my state 
And sends the poor well pleased from 

my gate. 
Cade. Here's the lord of the soil come 
to seize me for a stray, for entering his 
fee-simple without leave. Ah, villain, 
thou wilt betray me, a^id get a thousand 
crowns of the king by carrying my head 
to him: but I'll make thee eat iron like 
an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a 
great pin, ere thou and I part 
Iden. Why, rude companion, what- 
soe'er thou be, 
I know thee not; why, then, should I 

betray thee? 
Is't not enough to break into my garden, 
And, like a thief, to come to rob my 

grounds. 
Climbing my walls in spite of me the 

owner, 
But thou wilt brave me with these saucy 

terms? 
Cade. Brave thee! ay, by the best 
blood that ever was broached, and b^rd 
thee too. Look on me well : I have eat 
no meat these five days; yet, come thou 
and thy five men, and if I do not leave 
you all as dead as a door-nail, I pray God 
I may never eat grass more. 
Iden, Nay, it shall ne'er be said, while 

England stands. 
That Alexander Iden, an esquire of 

Kent, 
Took odds to combat a poor famfsh'd 

man. 
Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to 

mine, 
See if thou canst outface me with thy 

looks : 
Set limb to limb, and thou art far the 

lesser ; 
Thy hand is but a finger to my fist. 
Thy leg a stick compared with this 

truncheon ; 
My foot shall fight with all the strengtli 

tjxqu h^t; 



242 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



And if mine arm be heaved in the air, 
Thy grave is digg'd already in the earth. 
As for words, whose greatness answers 

words, 
Let this my sword report what speech 

forbears. 
Cade. By my valour, the most com- 
plete champion that ever I heard I Steel, 
if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the 
burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere 
thou sleep in thy sheath, I beseech God 
on my knees thou mayst be turned to 
i.jbnails. [Here they hght Cade falls. 
O, I am slain t famine and no other 
hath slain me: let ten thousand devils 
come against me, and give me but the 
ten meals I have lost, and Fid defy them 
alL Wither, garden; and be henceforth 
a burying-place to all that do dwell in 
this house, because the unconquered soul 
of Cade is fled. 
Iden. Is't Cade that I have slain, that 

monstrous traitor? 
Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy 

deed, 
And hang thee o'er my tomb when I am 

dead: 
Ne'er shall this blood be wiped from thy 

point; 
But thou shalt wear it as a herald's coat, 
To emblaze the honour that thy master 

got. 
Cadf. Iden, farewell, and be proud of 
thy victory. Tell Kent from me, she 
hath lost her best man, and exhort all 
the world to be cowards; for I, that 
never feared any, am vanquished by 
^mine, not by valour. [Dies. 

Henry fTL Part Second. Act IV. 
Scene lo. 

— Jhakespeare. 



CAESAR. 



Born in Rome, July 19, 100 6. C 



Thy marvelous genius, perfect as the 
sun, 
Gave light and vigor to the Roman 

gloom; 
Europe to hold thy legions had not 
room; 
Thy boundless mind craved worlds to 
overrun. 



The will that shrank not at the Rubicon, 
Could in grave council virtues new 

assume, 
And while thy glory on the earth did 
bloom. 
Proud nations hailed the grand deeds 
thou hadst done. 

Thy clarion name will to all men recall 
The lofty soul, the valor undismayed! 
We see thee battling 'mid the groves of 
Gaul, 
And when in robes Imperial arrayed. 
Near Pompe/s threatening marble thou 
didst fall. 
Supremely scorning thy assassins' 
blade I 

— Francis Saltus Saltus. 



3uli2 13. 



CHARLOTTE CORDAY. 



Jean Paul Marat, a famous French revolti- 
tionist, was assassinated in his bath by Char- 
lotte Corday on July 13, 1793. 



Who is tins, with calm demeanor. 
And with form of matchless grace. 

Wearing yet the modest beauty 
Of her childhood in her face? 

Close the white folds of her kerchief 
All her neck and bosom wrap. 

And her soft brown hair is hidden 
Underneath her Norman cap. 

This is she who left the convent, 
For the fierce and restless throng^. 

Who were gathering head for battle. 
To avenge her country's wrongs. 

This is she who to its rescue. 

Was the foremost to advance- 
She who struck to death the tyrant 
Of her well-beloved France. 

She who had the martyr's spirit 
To perform as she had planned; 

Taking thus her life's sweet promise 
In her own presumptuous hand. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



243 



All the while, herself deceiving. 

With this dangerous subtletiy, — 
"Evil, surely, is not evil 

If a good is gained thereby. 

'If I perish for my country. 
Is not this a righteous deed? 

If I save the lives of thousands. 
What is it that one should bleed?" 

So, arraigned at the tribunal. 

This alone was her reply: 
"It was I who did this murder. 

And I do not fear to die." 

Therefore pitying, admiration. 
More than blame, ' ■ her we feel — 

Hers was noble am ' ' oic. 
Though it was mi!> — :en zeal. 

And so long as France shall honour 
Those whose blood for her is shed. 

Shall the name of Charlotte Corday 
live among the martyred dead I 



3m t4. 



THE COLUMN OF JULY. 



Time was, ere thy bright presence bathed 

the "Place" 
In borrowed sunshine, when the Bastille 

Frowned on the passer-by; and silence 

reigned 
Supremely sad, aave where the night-bird 

cries 
Of sentinels beat back the crowding atr; 
Or where the booming clock, with sullen 

tones. 
Proclaimed the lapse, the wane, the death 

of hours; 
Or where the low cadenzas of a lute, 
Borne through a loophole's gush of 

whirling wind. 
And mingled with strange murmurs, 

tranced the ear. 
Saddening all souls that felt the har- 



o late thy brandished blazing 



Flamed like a glory through tnose dark- 
ened cells ; 
Too late the might of thine herculean 

Wrested, O golden ai^ell from those 

The bolts and staples, hingea, massy 

Setting the captives free, mid warlike 

And voices of a populace that roared, 
"Down with the Bastille 1 Over with it 1 

Down I" 
Another angel, with a sadder bee, 
Descended like a dait, still angel-like, 
Through clouds of air, stout roofs, and 



s cell, and sat with 



of stone, 
Into the masked o 

Looked the unutterable mystery 
Into the weary eyes that followed his, 
Content to be absorbed; then vanishing 
Fled out into the night,— and not alone; 
— George Gordon McCrae. 



LA TRICOTEUSE. 

The fourteenth of July had com^ 

And round the guillotine 
The thieves and beggars, rank by rank, 

Moved the red flags between. 
A crimson heart, upon a pole, — 

The long march had begun ; 
But still the little smiling child 

Sat knitting in the sun. 

The red caps of those men of France 

Shook like a poppy field; 
Three women's heads with gory hair. 

The standard-bearers wield. 
Cursing, with song and battle-hymn. 

Five butchers dragged a gun; 
Yet still the little maid sat there, 

A-knitting in the sun. 

An axe was painted on the flags, 

A broken throne and crown, 
A ragged coat upon a lance. 

Hung in foul black threads down. 
"More heads !" the seething rabble cry, 

And now the drums begun; 
But still the little fair-haired child 

Sat knitting in the son. 



244 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



ft 



And every time a head rolled off, 

They roll like winter seas, 
And, with a tossing up of caps. 

Shouts shook the Tuileries. 
Whizz — went the heavy chopper down. 

And then the drums begun; 
But still the little smiling child 

Sat knitting in the sun. 

The Jacobins, ten thousand strong, 

And every man a sword; 
The red caps, with the tri-colors. 

Led on the noisy horde. 
'The Sans-Culottes to-day are strong. 

The gossips say, and run ; 
But still the little maid sits there, 

A-knitting in the sun. 



Then the slow death-cart moved along; 

And, singing patriot songs, 
A pale, doomed poet bowing comes 

And cheers the swaying throng. 
Oh, when the axe swept shining down, 

Tne mad drums all begun; 
But, smiling still, the little child 

Sat knitting in the sun. 

"Le Marquis!" — linen snowy white, 

The powder in his hair, 
Waving his scented handkerchief. 

Looks down with careless stare. 
A whirr, a chop — another head — 

Hurrah 1 the works begun ; 
But still the little child sat there, 

A-knitting in the sun. 

A stir, and through the parting crowd. 

The people's friends are come ; 
Marat and Robespierre — "Vivat! 

Roll thunder from the drum." 
The one a wild beast's hungry eye. 

Hair tangled — ^hark! a gun! 
The other kindly kissed the child 

A-knitting in the sun. 



*'And why not work all night?" the child 

Said to the knitters there; 
Oh, how the furies shook their sides, 

And tossed their grizzled hair ! 
Then clapped a bonnet rouge on her, 

And cried — ^"Tis well begun!" 
And laughed to see the little child 

Knit, smilincr. in the sun. 

— George IV. Thombury. 



3vi\^ \5. 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 



After the battle of Waterloo Napoleon re- 
paired to Paris but finally stirrendered to the 
British Admiral Hotham at Rochefort, July 15, 
1815. 



Farewell to the Land, where the gloom 
of my glory 
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with 
her name — 
She abandons me now — ^but the page of 
her story. 
The brightest or Ltackest, is fill'd with 
my fame. 
I have warr'd with a world which van- 
quish'd me only 
When the meteor of conquest allured 
me too far; 
I have coped with the nations which 
dread me thus lonely. 
The last single Captive to millions in 
war. 

Farewell to thee, France! when thy dia- 
dem crown'd me, 
I made thee the gem and the wonder 
of earth, — 
But thy weakness decrees I should leave 
as I found thee, 
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy 
worth. 
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were 
wasted 
In strife with the storm, when their 
battles were won — 
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that mo- 
ment was blasted, 
Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on vic- 
tory's sun! 

Farewell to thee, France! — but when 
Libertv rallies 
Once more in thy regions, remember 
me then — 
The violet still grows in the depth of thy 
valleys ; 
Though wither*d, thy tears will unfold 
it again — 
Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that sur- 
round us, 
And yet may thy heart leap awake to 
my voice — 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Tbere are links which roust break in the 
chain that has bound us, 
Then turn thee and call on the Giief 
of thy choice 1 

—Lord Byron. 



CHARACTER OF THE DUKE OF 
MONMOUTH. 



natlamea i: 



In peace the thoughts of war be could 

remove. 
And seemed as he were only bora for 

love. 
Whate'er he did, was done with so much 

In him alone 'twas natural to jjlease ; 
His motions all accompanied with grace; 
And naiadise was opened in his face. 
From Abialom and Achilaphel. 
— John Dryden. 



3uli5 16. 



FROM "THE FIGHT OF FAITH." 



bumcd on JiHy Ifl. IHfl. 

Like as the armed knight. 

Appointed to the field. 
With this world will 1 fight. 

And faith shall be my shield. 

Faith is that weapon stronf^ 
Which will not fail at need; 

My foes therefore among 
Therewith will I proceed 

Thou sayst. Lord, whoso knodc. 
To them wilt (hou attend. 

Undo, therefore, the lock. 
And thy strong power sen 



More enemies now 1 have 
Than hairs upon my head; 

Let them not me deprave. 
But fight thou in my stead. 

Not oft I used to write 

In prose, nor yet in rhyme; 

Yet will I show one sight. 
That I saw in my time: 

1 saw a royal throne, 

Where Justice should have sit; 
But in her stead was one 

Of moody, cruel wit 



s rightwisness, 

■ ^ng flood; 



AbSOrpt %aa ,is4ii.m. 

As by the raging fluuu, 
Satan, in his excess. 
Sucked w the guiltless blood. 

Then thought. 1— Jesus, Lord, 
When thou shalt judge us all, 

Hard is it to record 
On these men what will fall) 

Yet, Lord, I thee desire, 

For that they do to me. 
Let them not taste the hire 

Of their iniquity. 

— Annt Askew. 



ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOU 

AND HIS WIFE, MARGARET 

FULLER. 



wreck oS Fire lilinil 

w» riturninz to Amerua trom lUlr witn Bet 

hiuband, tbe Marquii Onoli ind their child. 

Over his millions Death has lawful 

But over thee, brave D'OssoIi I none. 

After a longer struggle, in a fight 
Worthy of Italy, to youth restored, 
Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath 

the suree 
Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach 
Of help; in trust of refuge; suiJc with 



all 
Precious ( 



earth to thee— a child, a 



246 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Proud as thou wert of her, America 
Is prouder, showing to her sons how 

high 
Swells woman's courage in a virtuous 

breast 
She would not leaye behind her those 

she loved; 
Such solitary safety might become 
Others; not her^ not her who stood 

beside 
The pallet of the wounded, when the 

worst 
Of France and Perfidy assailed the walls 
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious 

soul, 
Renowned for the strength of genius, 

Margaret ! 
Rest with the twain too dear ! My words 

are few, 
And shortly none will hear my failing 

voice, 
But the same language with more full 

appeal 
Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of 

song 
Whom thou hast hearl upon thy native 

plains 
Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is 

come; 
Take we our seats and let the dirge 

begin. 

— Walter Savage Landor, 



THE BURIAL OF BERANGER. 



A French lyric poet His songs have enjoyed 
great popularity. He died on July 16, 1867. 

The poet Beranger is dead. I'he expenses of 
hia funeral will be charged to the Imperial civil 
list. — Despatch of July 17, 1857. 

NoH mes amis^ au spectacle des ombres 
ie ne veux point une loge d'honneur. 

— Beranger. 



Bury Beranger! Well for you 

Could you bury the spirit of Beranger 

tool 
Bury the bard if you will, and rejoice; 
But you bury the body, and not the 



voice. 



Bury the prophet and garnish his tomb; 
The prophecy still remains for doom, 
And niany a prophecy since proved true 
Has that pronhet spoken for such as 
you. 



Bury the body of Beranger — 

Bury the printer's boy you may; 

But the spirit no death can ever destroy 

That made a bard of that printer's boy. 

A clerk at twelve hundred francs per 

ann. 
Were a very easily buried man; 
But the spirit that gave up that little all 
For freedom, is free of the funeral. 
You may bury the prisoner, it may be. 
The man of La Force and Ste. Pelagie ; 
But the spirit, mon Empereur, that gave 
That prisoner empire knows no grave. 

"Au spectacle des ombres une loge 
d'honneur" 

Is easily given, mon Empereur; 

But a something there is which even the 
will 

Of an emperor cannot inter or kill — 

By no space restrained, to no age con- 
fined, 

The fruit of a simple great man's mind. 

Which to all eternity lives and feeds 

The births of which here it has laid the 
seeds. 

Could you bury these, you might sit 
secure 

On the throne of the Bourbons, mon 
Empereur. 

—Alfred Watts. 



3uii? n. 



LECONTE DE LISLK 



A French poet, who succeeded Victor Hugo 
in the French Academy. He died on July 17, 
1894. 



His verse was carved in ivory forms 
undying 
As those that deck the marble Phidian 
frieze. 
Over his plaintive hearse to-night is 
flying 
A phantom genius from the Cyclades. 

It hovers till our idle rites be over; 
And then will bear him in its arms 

away 
To islands cinctured by the sun* their 

lover. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



"47 



There his dark hours of toil shall diop, 
forgotten; 
There all be loved, simple and calm 
and giund — 
All the white creatures by his Muse 
begotten — 
Shall cluster round him in a stately 

148 — Poetry — Folletle— t» 

Then shall he smile, appeased by sove- 
reign beauty, 
Cintented that he strove and waited 
long, 

Since in these worlds where loveliness 

His bronze and marble leap to life 
and song. 

—Edmund Gosse. 



3ul? 18. 

DEAN STANLEY. 

Died July IB, 1S81. 

Dead I dead I in sooth his marbled brow 

And prostrate lies that brave, majestic 
headi 
True! his stilled features own death's 

JUld, 



Here fades the cast-off vestment that he 
wore. 
The robe of flesh, whence his tme self 
hath fled; 
Whate'er be false, one faith holds fast 
and sure. 
Great souls like his abide not with the 



Eyried with God, beyond all mortal pain, 
Breathing the effluence of ethereal 
birth. 
Through deeds divine, his spirit walks 
again. 
On rhythmic feet the mournful paths 
of earth) 



In heaven immortal, ytt on earth 
supreme. 
The glamour of his goodness still sur- 
vives. 
Not in vain glimpses of a flattering 
dream. 
But flower and fruit of ransomed 
human lives. 

His hopes were ocean-wide, and clasped 
mankind ; 
No Levite plea his mercy turned apart. 
But wounded souls — to whom all else 
were blind— 
He soothed with wine and balsam of 
the heart. 

With stainless hands he reared his Mas- 
ter's cross ; 

His Master's watchword pealed o'ef 
land and sea ; 

And still through days of gain, and days 

Proclaimed the golden truce of charity. 

All men were brethren to his larger 
creed, 
But given the thought I 



God's garden will not spurn the humblest 
That yearns for purer air and loftier 



This sweet evangel of the unborn jtMt, 

Seer-like he spake, as one that viewed 

his goal. 

White the world felt through darkness 

and through tears, 

Mysterious music thrill its raptured 

Dead I nay, not dead I while eagle 
thoughts aspire, 
Qothed in winged deeds across the 
empyreal height, 
And all the expanding space is flushed 
with fire. 
And deei) on deep, heaven opens to 



He cannot die I vet, o'er his dust w* 
shed 
Our rain of human torTow; on kto 
breast 



248 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Cross the pale palms: and pulseless 
heart and head 
Leave to the quiet of his cloistered 
rest 

Sleep, knightly scholar! warrior-saint, 
repose ! 
Thy life-force folded like an unfurled 
sail! 
Spent is time's rage — its foam of crested 
woes — 
And thou hast found, at last, the Holy 
Grail! 

—Paul H, Hayne, 



THACKERAY'S BIRTHDAY. 



William Makepeace Thackeray, the author of 
"Vanity Fair," ^*The Newcomers," and many 
other novels, was bom in Calcutta, India, July 
18, 1811. 



Open his hooks and bid them forth;— 
Come Clive, come Ethel, Colonel, 
"Pen" ; 

Come Henry Esmond, Beatrix, 
Out into our dull world again. 

George Warrington, "Pen's" George, I 
mean, 

(His grandpapa I vote a prig;) 
Come too, and Major, if you're dressed. 

And Morgan has arranged your wig: 

Come Hetty— Harry Warrington— 
And Bernstein ?— Well, no, as for 
her — 

We've Beatrix already here, 
And Beatrix we much prefer. 

Come Becky, Emmy, Dobbin, George ; 
Here's Captain "Cos" must have a 
place 
About the board, and now we're met, 
Charles Honeyman shall breathe a 
grace. 

And then Fred Bayham, honest Fred, 
With claret jug pushed well his way, 

Shall give the toast, that suits all, most, 
Of William Makepeace Thackeray. 

What, are they gone! Some jarring 

force 
Upon the vision rudely broke,— 



My pipe is out, my guests are gone, — 
They've vanished somewhere in the 
smoke. 

With nimble feet their way they take 
Down shadowy paths of romance dim ; 

But I, a lonely Barmecide, 
Drink deeply in my heart to him. 

THE TOAST. 

To him who in the fields of life 
Quickly discerned the vulgar chaff »^ 

And knew it void of honest grain. 
And blew it from him with a laugh. 

To him whose laughter none the less 
Was not wild mirth nor wanton jeer» 

But oftenest of that rare fine ring 
That finds its echo in a tear. 

To him whose pen was never still. 
Who for three decades thought and 
wrote, 

Who told of life, of love, of death, 
And never struck an untrue note. 

— Robert Cameron Rogers, 



3uli? 19* 



PETRARCH'S TOMB. 



Died July 19, 1374. 



There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover: here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and ln3 land re- 
claim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's 

name 
With his melodious tears he gave him- 
self to fame. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he 

died ; 
The mountain-village where his latter 

days 
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis 

their pride — 
An honest pride — and let it be their 

praise, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



249 



To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre; both 

plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise . 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monu- 
mental fame. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he 

dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems 

made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes 

decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's 

shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far 

away 
Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, 
For they can lure no further; and the 

ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holi- 
day. 

From "Childe Harold/' 
— Lord Byron, 



3uli? 20* 



THE DEAD SINGER. 



Fanny Parnell, a sister of Charles S. Par- 
nell, died on Tuly 20, 1882. She was a poetess 
of considerable merit. 



"She is dead!" they say; "she is robed 

for the grave ; there are lilies upon 

her breast; 
Her mother has kissed her clay-cold lips, 

and folded her hands to rest; 
Her blue eyes show through the waxen 

lids; they have hidden her hair's 

gold crown; 
Her grave is dug, and its heap of earth 

is waiting to press her down." 

"She IS dead!" they say to the people, 
her people, for whom she sung; 

Whose hearts she touched with sorrow 
and love, like a harp with life- 
chords strung. 



And the people hear — ^but behind their 
tear they smile as though they 
heard 

Another voice, like a mystery, proclaim 
another word. 

"She is not dead," it says to their hearts ; 

"true Singers can never die; 
Their life is a voice of higher things, 

unseen to the common eye; 
The truths and the beauties are clear to 

them, God's right and the human 

wrong. 
The heroes who die unknown, and the 

weak who are chained and 

scourged by the strong." 
And the people smile at the death-word, 

for the mystic voice is clear: 
"Th« Singer who lived is always alive: 

we hearken and always hear!" 

And they raise her body with tender 

hands, and bear her down to the 

main. 
They lay her in state on the mourning 

ship, like the lily-maid Elaine; 
And they sail to her isle across the sea, 

wn^re the people wait on the 

shore 
To lift her in silence with heads all bare 

to her home forevermore, 
Her home in the heart of her country; 

oh a grave among our own 
Is warmer and dearer than living on in 

the stranger lands alone. 

No need of a tomb for the Singer ! Her 
fair hair's pillow now 

Is the sacred clay of her country, and 
the sky above her brow 

Is the same that smiled and wept on her 
youth, and the grass around is 
deep 

With the clinging leaves of the sham- 
rock that cover her peacef 

Undreaming there she will rest and wait, 

in the tomb her people make. 
Till she hears men's hearts, like the 

seeds in Spring, all stirring to be 

awake. 
Till she feels the moving of souls that 

strain till the bands around them 

break; 
And then I think, her dead lips will 

smile and her eyes be oped to see, 
When the cry ^oes out to the Nations 

that the Singer's land is free ! 

--/ohn BoyU O'Reilly. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



LOGAN AT PEACH TREE CREEK. 



uoder Hood on jaljt 10, laai. 

Yon know that day at Peach Tiw Creek, 
When the Rebs with their circling, 

scorching wall 
Of amoke-hid cannon and sweep of 

flame 
Drove in our flanks, back I back I and all 
Our toil seemed lost in the stomi ot 

shell- 
That desperate day McPherson fell I 



An awful place to stand, in full fair 

sight. 
While the minie bullets hummed like 

bees. 
And comrades dropped on either side — 
That fearful day McPherson died I 

The roar of the battle, steady, stem. 
Rung in our ears. Upon our eyes 
The belching cannon smoke, the half-hid 

swing: 
Of deploy mg troops, the groans, the 

cries. 
The hoarse commands, the sickening 

smell- 
That blood- red day McPherson fell! 



But n 



: Stood there I — when out from the 



Out of the smoke and dismay to the 

right 
Burst a rider — His head was bare, hit 

Had a blaze like a lion fain for fight; 
His long hair, black as the deepest night 
Streamed out on the wind. And the 

Of his plunging horse was a tale to tell. 
And his voice rang high like a bugle's 

"Men, the enemy hem us on every side; 
We'll whip 'em yet! Close up that 



Forward boys, and give 'em helll"— 

Said Logan after McPherson fell 

We laughed and cheered and the red 

ground shook, 
As the general plunged along the line 
Through the deadliest rain of screamins 

shells; 
For the sound of his voice refreshed as 

all. 



But that was twenty years ago. 

And part of a hornbre dream now past 

For Logan, the lion, the drums Uux)b 

And the flae swings low on the n 
He has followed his migh^ i 

through 
The mist-hung stream, where gray and 

blue 
One color stand. 

And North to South extends the hand. 
It's right that deeds of war and blood 
Should be forgot, but, spite of alt, 
I think of Logan, now, as he rode 
That day across the field ; I hear the call 
Of his trumpet voice — see the battle 

In his stem, black eyes, and down the 

Of cheering men I see him ride. 
As on the day McPherson died. 

— Hamlin Gai-latid, 



3ul? 21. 

ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 

Died Juljr SI, 1780. 

Rear high thy bleak majestic hills. 
Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread — 

And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. 
And wave thy heaths with blossoms 

But, ahl what poet now shall tread 
Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign. 

Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. 
That ever breathed tjie sootking 
strain? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



351 



As green thy towering pines may grow, 

As clear Ihy streams may speed along. 
As bright thy summer suns may glow. 

As gayly charm thy feathery throng; 
But now unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around — 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung. 

And cold the hand that waked its 

What thoiigh thy vigorous olf^pnug 

In arts, in arms, thy sons excel; 
Though beauty in thy daughters' eyes, 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell 

In strains impassioned, found, and 
free. 



For all thy joys to him were dear. 
And all his vows to thee were due; 

Nor greater bliss his bosom knew. 
In opening youth's delightful prime, 

Than when thy favoring ear he drew ! 
To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught; 
He heard with joy the tempest rise 

That waked him to sublimer thought; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought, 

Where wild flowers poured their rathe 
perfume. 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 

But ah 1 no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoyed — 
His limbs inured to early toil, 

His days with early hardships tried t 
And more to mark the gloomy void. 

And bid him feel his misery. 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depressed. 

With sinewy arm he turned the soil. 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest, 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Waked by his rustic pipe meanwhile. 

The powers of fancy came along. 
And soothed his lengthened hours ol toil 

With native wit and sprightly tong. 



Ah I days of bliss too swiftly fled, 

When vigorous health from labor 
springs. 
And bland contentment soothes the bed. 

And sleep his ready opiate brings; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Fk>at the light forms of young desire. 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire 



Let flattery spread her viewless snare. 
And fame attract his vagrant glance; 

Let sprightly pleasure too advance. 
Unveiled her eyes, unclasped her 

Till, lost in love's delirious trance. 
He scorns the joys his youth has 
known. 

Let friendship pour her brightest bUie, 
Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 

And mirth concentre all her rays, 
And point them from the sparkling 

And let the careless moments roll 
In social pleasures unconfined. 

And confidence that spurns control. 
Unlock the inmost springs of mind I 

And lead his steps those bowers among. 

Where elegance with splendor vies. 
Or science bids her favored throng 

To more refined sensations rise; 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys. 

And freed from each laborious strife. 
There let him leam the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polished life. 

I heat 



With every_ impulse of delight. 
Dash from his Itps the cup of joy. 
And shroud tne scene in shades of 



Disclose the yawning gulf b 
And pour incessant on his sight 
Her spectred ills and shapes of woe; 

And show beneath a cbcerteu shed. 
With sorrowing heart and streaming 

In silent grief where droops her head 
The partner of hit early joya; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



And let his infants' tender cries 
His fond parental succour claim. 

And bid him hear in agonies 
A husband's and a father's name. 

'Tis done — the powerful charm succeedii 
His high reluctant spirit bends; 

In bitterness of soul he bleeds, 
Nor longer with his fate contends. 

An idiot laugh the welkin rends 
As genius thus degraded lies ; 

Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the poet's ardent eyes. 

Rear high thy bleak majestic hills. 

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread. 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 
And wave thy heaths with blossoms 
red: 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland 
reign- 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead 
That ever breathed the soothing strain. 
—William Roscoc. 



AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 

Jnly n, 180S, «ven jeari »fler hil d«»th. 

I shiver. Spirit fierce and bold, 

At thought of what I now behold : 

As vapors breathed from dungeons cold. 

Strike pleasure dead, 
So sadness comes from out the mould 

Where Burns is laid. 

And have I then thy bones so near. 
And thou forbidden to appear? 
As if it were thyself that's here 

I shrink with pain; 
And both my wishes and my fear 

Alike are vain. 

Off weight — nor press on weight I — away 
Dark thoughts ! — Ihey came, but not to 

With chastened feelings would I pay 

The tribute due 
To him, and aught that hides his clay 

From mortal view. 



r that touching earth. 



The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow. 
The struggling heart, where be thejr 

Full soon the Aspirant of the plough. 
The prompt, the brave. 

Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 
And silent grave. 

I mourned with thousands, but as one 
More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
Whose light 1 hailed when first it shone, 

And showed my youth 
How Verse may build a princely throne 

On humble truth. 

Alasl where'er the current tends. 
Regret pursues and with it blends, — 
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends 

By Skiddaw seen, — 
Neighbors we were, and loving friends 

We might have been ; 

True friends though diversely inclined; 
But heart with heart and mind with 

mind. 
Where the main fibres are entwined. 

Through Nature's skill, 
May even by contraries be joined 

More closely still. 

The tear will Start, and let it flow; 
Thou "poor Inhabitant below," 
At this dread moment — even so-— 

Might we together 
Have sate and talked where go wans 

Or on wild heather. 

What treasures would have then been 

Within my reach; of knowledge graced 
By fancy what a rich repast! 

But why go on? — 
Oh 1 spare to sweep, thou mournful blast. 

His grave grass-grown. 

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
(Not three weeks past the Stripling 

died,} 
Lies gathered to his Father's side. 

Soul-moving sight ! 
Yet one to which is not denied 
Some sad delight: 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



253 



For he is safe, a quiet bed 

Hath early found among the dead, 

Harbored where none can be misled, 

Wronged, or distrest; 
And surely here it may be said 

That such are blest 

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace 
Checked oft-times in a devious race. 
May He who hallo weth the place 

Where Man is laid 
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 

For which it prayed! 

Sighing I turned away; but ere 
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear. 
Music that sorrow comes not near, 

A ritual hymn. 
Chanted in love that casts out fear 

By Seraphim. 

— William Wordsworth, 



MANASSAS. 



The Confederates under Beauregard defeated 
the Federals under McDowell on July 21, 1861. 



They have met at last — as storm-clouds 

Meet in heaven. 
And the Northmen back and bleeding 

Have been driven; 
And their thunders have been stilled, 
And their leaders crushed or killed. 
And their ranks with terror thrilled. 

Rent and riven! 

Like the leaves of Vallambrosa 

They are lying; 
In the moonlight, in the midnight. 

Dead and dying; 
Like those leaves before the gale, 
Swept their legions, wild and pale; 
While the host that made them quail 

Stood, defying. 

When aloft in morning sunlight 

Flags were flaunted. 
And "swift vengeance on the rebel" 

Proudly vaunted: 
Little did they think that night 
Should close upon their shameful flight. 
And rebels, victors in the fight, 

Stand undaunted. 



But peace to those who perished 

In our passes! 
Light be the earth above them; 

Green the grasses! 
Long shall Nprthmen rue the day 
When they met our stem array. 
And shrunk from battle's wild affray 

At Manassas. 

— Catherine M, Wardeld, 



BATTLE OF SHREWSBURY. 



A victory gained by Henrv IV. on July 81, 
1403, over the insurgents under the Percys. 



Enter Hotspur. 

Hot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry 

Monmouth. 
Prince. Thou speak'st as if I would 

deny my name. 
Hot. My name is Harry Percy. 
Prince. Why, then I see 

A very valiant rebel of the name. 
I am the Prince of Wales ; and think not, 

Percy, 
To share with me in glory any more: 
Two stars keep not their motion in one 

sphere ; 
Nor can one England brook a double 

reign. 
Of Harry Percy and the Prince of 
Wales. 
Hot. Nor shall it, Harry; for the 
hour is come 
To end the one of us ; and would to God 
Thy name in arms were now as great as 
mine ! 
Prince. I'll make it greater ere I part 
from thee; 
And all the budding honours on thy crest 
I'll crop, to make a garland for my head. 
Hot. I can no longer brook thy van- 
ities. 

[They fight. 

Enter Falstaff. 

Fal, Well said, Hal ! to it, Hal ! Nay, 
you shall find no boy's play here, I can 
tell you. 

Re-enter Douglas; he fights with Fal- 
staff, who falls down as if he were 
dead, and exit Douglas. Hotspur is 
wounded, and falls. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Hoi. O, Harry, thou hast robb'd me 
of my youth t 
I better brook the loss of brittle life 
Than those proud titks thou hast won 

They wound sny thoughts worse tl 

thy sword my flesh: 
But thought's the slave of life, and life 

time's fool; 
And time, that takes survey of all the 

Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy. 
But that the earthy and cold hand of 

death 
Lies on my tongue; no, P«r<T, thou art 

dust, 
And food for — [Dies. 

Prince. For worms, brave Percy : fare 

thee well, great heart! 
lU-weaved ambition, how much art thou 

shrunk I 
When that this body did contain a spirit, 
A kingdom for it was too small a bound ; 
But now two paces of the vilest earth 
Is room enough: this earth that bears 

thee dead 
Bears not alive so siout a gentleman. 
If thou wert sensible of courtesy, 
I should not make so dear a snow of 

But let my favours hide thy mangled 

And, even in thy behalf, I'll thank myself 
For doing these fair rites of tenderness. 
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to 

heaven I 
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the 

grave. 
But not remember'd in thy epitaph 1 
Henry IV. Part iit. Act V, Scene 4. 
— Shakespeare. 



Jul? 22. 



Thou wast too young to know thy im- 
perial state. 
Before thy marvelous father, foe-op- 

Fetl like a hero! And thou badst not 
guessed. 
In thy sweet, guileless play, that thon 

wast great. 
And that his name, with its gigantic 
weight. 
Upon thy weakness was ordained to rest. 

When thou in after years, with tears and 

The dazzling records of his deeds 

With all their pomp and splendor, 
didst peruse. 
How must have passed In thy bewildered 

Fantastic visions, fugitive as a dream. 
Of glorious Jenas and dire Water- 
loosl 

— Francis Sallus SatUu. 



3ul? 23. 

VANQUISHED. 

General Ulyiscs S. Grant died July !S, 1SB&. 

Not by the ball or brand 
Sped by a mortal hand. 
Not by the lightning stroke 
When fiery tempests broke, — 
Not mid the ranks of war 
Fell the great Conqueror. 



Napoleon II., the ion of Napoleon I., belt* 
known a» the Duke of ReichiUdt. died i 
Vienna an Jul/ EKnd. 1S32. 

Dove that found birth within an eagle' 

Bauble of circumstance and shifting 



Eye that dimmed not, hand that failed 

n that swerved not, heart that 
quailed not. 
Steel nerve, iron form,— 
The dauntless spirit that o'erruled the 

While the Kero peaceful slept 
A foeman to his chamber crept. 
Lightly to the stumberer came, 



Etj.- 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



255 



Touched his brow and breathed his 

name: 
O'er the stricken form there passed 
Suddenly an icy blast. 

The Hero woke, rose undismayed, 
Saluted Death, and sheathed his blade. 

The Conqueror of a hundred fields 
To a mightier Conqueror yields; 
No mortal foeman's blow 
Laid the great Soldier low: 

Victor in his latest breath — 
Vanquished but by Death. 

— Francis F, Browne. 



3ttll? 24. 



THOMAS A KEMPIS. 



(De Imitatione Chriati) 
Very little is known of the pentonality of 
Thomas a Keinpis, the reputed author of '^The 
Imitation of Christ." He was a German monk 
and died on July 24th, 1471. 



Turn with me from the city's clamorous 
street. 
Where throng and push passions and 

lusts and hate, 
And enter, through this age-browned, 
ivied gate, 
For many summers* birds a sure retreat, 
The place of perfect peace. And here, 
most meet 
For meditation, where no idle prate 
Of the world's vvays may come, rest 
thee and wait 
'Tis yery quiet. Thus doth still Heaven 
entreat 

With rev'rent feet, his face so worn, so 
fair. 
Walks one who bears the cross, who 
waits the crown. 
Tumult is past In those calm eyes 
I see 
The image of the Master, Christ, 
alone. 
And from those patient lips I hear one 
prayer : 
"Dear Lord, dear Lord, that I may 
be like thee!" 

— /?. R. Bowker. 



3nl^ 25* 



COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH ON HIM- 

SELF. 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the English poet, 
died July 25, 1834. 



Stop Christian passer-by — stop child of 

God, 
And read with gentle breast Beneath 

this sod 
A poet lies, or that which once seemed 

he; 
Oh lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. 
That he who many a year with toil of 

breath 
Found death in life, may here find life 

in death! 
Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for 

fame 
He asked, and hoped through Christ 

Do thou the same. 



3\xl^ 26. 



PARSIFAL-AT BAIREUTH. 



Richard Wagner's opera, Parsifal, was first 
performed at Baireuth, July 26, 1882. 



Oh solemn harmonies that sound 
When worldly light and pleasure fail, 

And magic radiance all around 
Glows through the Holy Grail! 

Come, lover of a vanished friend! 

Uplifted on these strains divine, 
Feel love arid mercy without end 

In pitying Christ that shine! 

Oh Man of Sorrows ! cure his grief, 
And let the world's repining small 

Within thy bosom find relief. 
Thou sorrower for all! 



in reverence 



Forgetful of the world's unrest. 
Each troubled heart 
bends. 
And for one fleeting moment blest 
The Holy Dove descends. 

— Irving Browne. 



'!f> 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Jul? 27. 



•otdicr. He rused m bodr of HisbUodert to 
Si^t (or J*mei II. agunii WillUm III., nincd 
tbt battle of Killicennliie but fell, moftallr 
wonnded, on Julr 87, 1B8S. 



On th« heights of Killi«crankie 

Yester-mom our anny lay: 
Slowly rose the mist in columns 

From the river's broken way ; 
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent. 

And the pass was wrapped in gloom, 
Wiien the clansmen rose together 

From their lair amidst the broom. 
Then we belted on our tartans, 
, And our bonnets down we drew, 
And we felt our broadswords' edges. 

And we proved them to be true ; 
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers. 

And we cried the gathering- cry. 
And we clasped the hands oflinsmen. 

And we swore to do or diet 
Then our leader rode before us 

On his war-horse black as night- 
Well the Cameron! an rebels 

Knew that charger in the fight I— 
And a cry of exultation 

From the bearded warriors rose ; 
For we loved the house of Claver'se, 

And we thought of good Montrose. 
But he raised his hand for silence — 

"Soldiers ! I have sworn a vow : 
Ere the evening-star shall glisten 

On Schehallion's lofty brow. 
Either we shall rest in triumph. 

Or another of the Grsemcs 
Shall have died in battle-harness 

For his Country and King James! 
Think upon the Royal Martyr — 

Think of what his race endure — 
Think on him whom butchers murder'd 

On the field of Magus Muir :— 
By his sacred blood I charge ye. 

By the ruin'd hearth and shrme— 
By the blighted hopes of Scotland, 

By your injuries and mine — 
Strike this day as if the aovil 



Lay beneath your blows the while. 
Be they Covenanting traitors. 

Or the brood of false Ai^lel 
Strike I and drive the trembluig rebels 

Backwards o'er the stormy Forth ; 
Let them tell their pale Convention 

How they fared within the North. 
Let them tell that Highland honour 

Is not to be bought nor sold. 
That we scorn their Prince's anger. 

As we loathe his foreign gold. 
Strike I and when the fight is over. 

If ye look in vain for me. 
Where the dead are lying thickest. 

Search for him that was Dundee I" 



And the evening-star was shining 

On Schehallion's distant head. 
When we wiped our bloody broadswords. 

And returned to count the dead. 
There we found him, gashed and gory, 

Stretch'd upon the cumbered plain. 
As he told us where to seek him, 

tn the thickest of the slain. 
And a smile was on his visage. 

For within his dying ear 
Pealed the joyful note of triumph. 

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer; 
So, amidst the battle's thunder, 

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame. 
In the glory of his manhood 

Passed the spirit of the Graeme I 
Open wide the vaults of Athol, 

Where the bones of heroes rest — 
Open wide the hallowed portals 

To receive another guest 1 
Last of Scots, and last of freemen — 

Last of all that dauntless race 
Who would rather die unsullied 

Than outUve the land's disgrace I 
O thou lion-hearted warrior ! 

Reck not of the after-time: 
Honour may be deemed dishonour. 

Loyalty be called a crime. 
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes 

Of the noble and the true, 
Hands that never failed their country. 

Hearts that never baseness knew. 
Sleep!— and till the latest trumpet 

Wakes the dead from earth and sea, 
Scotland shall not l>oast a braver 

Chieftain than our own Dundee ) 
From "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers' 
—William E. AylouH^ 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



3ulu 28. 

THE DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE. 



Here let us stand— windows, and roofs, 
and leads 
Alive with clinging thousands — what a 

And in the midst, above that sea of 

Glooms the black Guillotine. 

A scene like that in the Eeternal City, 
When on men's hearts the Arena 
feasted high — 
While myriads of dark faces, void of 
pity. 
Looked on to see them die. 

How the keen Gallic eyes dilate and 

glare ! 
The flexible brows and lips grimace 

and frown — 
How the walls tremble to their shout, 

That heavy steel comes down I 

'Tis nearly over— twenty heads have 
rolled, 
One after one, upon the block — while 

And yells and curses howled t^ hate 
untold 
Kang in their dying ears. 

One more is left— and now amid a storm 
Of angry sound from that great human 
Hive 
They rear upright a dizened ghastly 

Mangled, yet still alive. 

Like one emerging from a deadly swoon. 
His eyes unclose upon that living 
plain— 
Those livid, snaky eyes I— he shuts them 

Never to ope again. 

As that forlorn, last, wandering gaze 
they took. 
Perhaps those cruel eyes, in hopeless 



uid that vast multitude. 

Sought, but in vain,— inextricably muud 
On square and street and house t op 
he surveys 
A hundred thousand human eyes, all 
fixed 
In one fierce, pitiless gaze. 

Down to the plank I the brutal headsmen 
tear 
Those blood-glued rags — nay, spare 

him needless pain. 
One cry 1 God grant that we may never 

A cry like that again! 

A pause — and the axe falls on Robes- 

That trenchant blade hath done its 
office well- 
Hark to the mighty roar I Down, Mur- 
derer— 

Down to thy native Hell I 



And breasts unladen heave a longer 

And parting footsteps echo fast and 
light— 

"of Death! 
Paris shall sleep to-night 

— Henry Howard BrowntU. 



3ttlU 29. 

HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE. 

Conpletion of Atbotic Cable, Jnir !fl, 1B««. 

Come, listen all unto my song; 

It is no silly fable; 
'TIS all about the mighty cord 

They call the Atlantic Cable. 



a58 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Bold Cyrus Field he laid, tayt be, 

I have a pretty notion 
That I can run a telwraph 

Across the Atlantic OccaiL 

Then all the people laughed and said. 
They'd like to see him do it; 

Me might get half-seas over, bat 
He never could go through it; 



He might as well go hang himself 
With hU Atlantic Cable. 

But Cynu was a valiant man, 

A fellow of decision; 
And heeded not their moddng words. 

Their laughter and derisioa 

Twice did his bravest efforts fail. 
And yet his mind was stable; 

He wa'n't the man to break his heart 
Because he broke his cable. 

"Once more, my gallant boysl" he cried; 

"Three times! — you know the fable,— 
(I'll make it thirty," muttered he, 

"But I will lay the cable.") 

Once more they tried,— hurrah ! hurrah! 

What means this great commotion? 
The Lord be praised! the cable's laid 

Across the Atlantic Ocean t 

Loud ring the bells,— for, flashing 

through 
Six hundred leagues of water. 
Old Mother England's benison 

Salutes her eldest daughter! 

O'er all the land the tidings speed. 

And soon, in every nation. 
They'll hear about the cable with 

Profoundest admiration I 

Now long live President and Queen; 

And long live gallant Cyrus; 
And may his courage, faith, and zeal 

With emulation lire us; 

And may we honor evermore 
The manly, bold, and stable; 

And tell our sons, to make them brave. 
Mow Cyrus laid the cable ! 

—John G. Saxe. 



3ul¥ 30. 

THE SIEGE OF DERRY. 



/ w«« beiietcd for ocart; b« 

moalbt br the troopi of Junei II., but held OM 
Dodl relief uriTcd on July SO, IMS. 

O my daughter! lead me forth to Out 
bastion on the north. 
Let me see the water running from tbe 
green hilU of Tyrone, 
Where the woods of Monntjoy quiver 
atrave the changeful river. 
And the silver trout lie hidden in the 
pools that I have known. 

There I wooed your mother, dear! in 
the days that are so near 
To the old man who lies dying in thi* 
sore-beleaguered place; 
For time's long years may sever, but love 
that liveth ever. 
Calls back the early rapture— ligbU 
again the angel face. 

Ah, well I she lieth still on our wall- 
engirdled hill, 
Our own Cathedral holds her till God 
shall call His dead ; 
And the Psaher's swell and wailing, and 
the cannon's loud assailing, 
And the preacher's voice and blessing, 
pass unheeded o'er her head. 

Twas the Lord who gave the word when 
his people drew the sword 
For the freedom of the present, for 
the future that awaits. 
child I thou muft r ember that Uealt 
day in December 
When ^e Prentice-Boys of Deny 
rose u" and shut the gates. 

There was tumult in the street, and a 
rush of many feet — 
There was discord in the Council, and 
Lundy turned to fly. 
For the man had no assurance of Ul- 
stermen's endurance, 
Nor the strength of him who trusteth 
in the arm of God Most High. 

These limbs that now are weak, were 
strong then, and thy cheek 
Held roses that were red as any rote 
in June — 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



259 



That now are wan, lay daughter! as the 
light on the Foyle water 
When all the sea and all th* land are 
white beneath the moon. 

Then the foemen gathered fart— we 
could see them marching pa»t— 
The Irish from his barren hills, the 
Frenchman from his wars. 
With their banners bravely beaming, and 
to our eyes their seeming 
Was fearful as a locust band, and 
countless as the stars. 

And they bound us with a cord from the 
harbour to the ford, 
And they raked us with their cannon, 
and sallying was hot; 
But our trust was still unshaken, though 
Culmore fort was taken. 
And they wrote our men a letter, and 
and they sent it in a shot. 

They were soft words that thej; spoke, 
how we need not fear their joke, 
And they pleaded by our homesteads, 
and by our children small. 
And our women fair and tender; but we 
answered: "TJo slirrenderl" 
And we called on God Almighty, and 
we went to man the walT 

There was wrath in the French camp; 
we could hear their Captain's 

And Rosen, with his hand on his 

crossed hilt, swore 
That little town of Derry, not a league 

from Culmore ferry, 
Should lie a heap of ashes on the 

Foyte'a green shore. 

Like a falcon on her perch, our fair 
Cathedral Church 
Above the tide-vext river loda east- 
ward from the bay — 
Dear namesake of St. Columb, and each 
morning, sweet and solemn. 
The bells, through all the tumult, have 
called us in to pray. 
Our leader speaks the prayer — the cap- 
tains are, all there — 
His deep voice never falters, though 
his look be sad and grave 
.On the women's pallid faces, and the 
soldiers in their places. 
And the stones above our brothers that 
lie buried in the nave. 



They are closing round us still by the 

river; on the hill 
You can lee the white pavilions round 

the Stanford of their chief; 
But the Lord is up in heaven, though the 

Though the boom is in the river 
whence we looked for our relieL 

And the faint hope dies away at the 
close of each long day. 
As we see the eyes grow lustreless, the 
pulses beating low ; 
As we see our children languish. Was 
ever martyr's anguish. 
At the stake or in the dungeon, like 
this anguish that we know? 

With the foemen's closing line, while the 
English make no sign, 
And the daily lessening ration, and the 
fall of staggering feet. 
And the wailing low and fearful, and the 
women, stern and tearful, 
Speaking bravely to their husbands 
and their lovers in the street 

There was trouble in the air when we 
met this day for praver, 
And the joyous July moming was 
heavy in our eyes ; 
Our arms were by the altar as we sang 
aloud the Psalter, 
And listened in the pauses for the 
enemy's surprise. 

"Praise the Lord God in the height, for 
the glory of His might I" 
It rang along the arches and it went 

"In His strength He hath arisen, He hath 
loosed the souls in prison, 
The wronged one He hath righted, and 
raised the fallen-down. 

And the preacher's voice was bold as he 

rose up then and told 
Of the triiimph of the righteous, of the 
patience of the saints. 
And the hope of God's assistance, and 
the greatness of resistance, 
Of the trust that never wearies and 
the heart that never faints. 

Where the river joins the brine, canst 
thou see the ships in line? 
And the plenty of our craving jost 
beyond the cruel boom? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Through the dark mist of the firing canst 



thav 



e the 



on that ship amidst the gloom 7 

She was weary, she was wan, but she 
climbed the rampart on, 
And she looked along the water where 
the good ships lay afar: 
Oh I I see on either border their can- 
non ranged in order, 
And the boom across the river, and 
the waiting men-of-war. 

There's death in every hand that holds 
a lighted brand. 
But the gallant little Mountjoy comes 
bravely to the fronL 
Now, God of Battles, hear us ! Let that 
good ship draw near us. 
Ah I the brands are at the touch- 
holes — will she bear the cannon's 

She makes a forward dash. Hark I 
hark I the thunder-crash t 
O father, they have caught her — she is 
lying on the shore. 
Another crash like thunder — will it tear 
her ribs asunder? 
No, no I the shot has freed her — she 
is floating on once more. 

She pu:hcs her white sail through the 
bullets leaden hail — 
Now blessings on her captain and on 
her seamen bold I— 
Crash ! crash \ the boom is broken ; I can 
see my true love's token — 
A lily in his bonnet, a hly all of gold. 

She sails up to the town, like a queen in 
a white gown 
Red golden are her lilies, true gold are 
all her men. 
Now the Phoenix follows after — I can 
hear the women's laughter, 
And the shouting of the soldiers, till 
the echoes ring again. 

She has glided from the wall, on her 
lover's breast to fall, 
As the white bird of the ocean drops 
down into the wave ; 
And the bells are madly ringing, and a 
hundred voices singing, 
And the old man on the bastion has 
joined the triumph stave. 



Sing ye praises through the land; the 
Lord with His right hand. 
With His mighty ann hath gotten 
Himself the victory now. 
He hath scattered their forces, both the 
riders and their horses. 
There is none that (ighteth for us, O 
Godt but only Thou. 

— Ctcil F. Alexander. 



STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF 
THOMAS GRAY. 

Thooua Griv, whoK bat knowo Doen ■• tlic 
"Elegj in ■ CouDtrr Church.Tml," died on 

July 30, 1771. 

But vain the magic lay, the warbling 

Imperious Death! from thy fell grasp 

He knew, and told it with a Poet's fire, 
"The paths of Glory lead but to the 
grave." 

And shall the Bard, whose sympathizing 

Mourned o'er the simple rustic's turfy 
cell, 
To strew his tomb no grateful 



Yes, honored shade! the fringed brook 
ril trace. 
Green rushes culling thy dark grave 
to strew; 
With mountain flowers I'll deck the hal- 
lowed place, 
And fence it round with osiers mixed 
with yew. 



3m:g 31. 

SIR WALTER RALEIGH TO A 
CAGED LINNET 

RaleiBh was imprisoned in tlie Tower, July 

Thou tiny solace of these prison days. 
Too long already have I kept thee here; 
With every week thou hast become more 
dear— 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



261 



So dear that I will free thee: fly thy 

ways. 
Maii» the alternate slave and tyrant, 

lays 
Too soon on others what he has to bear. 
Thy cage is in my cage ; but, never fear. 
The sun once more shall bathe thee with 

its rays. 
Fly forth, and tell the sunny woods how 

oft 



I think of them, and stretch my limbs 

in thought 
Upon their fragrant mosses green and 

soft; 
And whistle all the whistlings God hath 

taught 
Thy throat, to other songsters high 

aloft— 
Not to a captive who can answer 

naught 

^^Eugcne Lee-Hamilton. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Hugust t. 

CASABIANCA. 

Tba ium« o( ■ jouag CoriioB who. with 
hit father, ■ commodore in tbc French fleet, 
periwed in the burning of the flaiihiii L'Orient 
in the buttle of Atwukir Ba*. fougat between 
the Eneliah under Lord Kelson iniTlhe French 
under Admiral Bmejn on August 1, 1793. 

Tho boy stood on the burning deck 

Whence all but he had fled; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood. 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go 

Without his father's word; 
That father, faint in death below. 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud — "Say, father, say. 

If yet my task is done?" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, 

"If I may yet be gone!" 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath. 

And in his waving hair, 
And looked from that lone post of death 

In still, yet brave despair. 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

"My fatherl must I stay?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and 
shroud. 

The wreathing flres made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild. 
They caught the flag on high. 

And streamed above the gallant child, 
Like banners in the sky. 



There came a 
The boy— 

Ask of the wii 
With fragmt 



burst of thunder sound— 



With mast, and helm, and peimon bir. 

That well had borne their part — 
But the noblest thing which perished 
there 
Was that young, faithful heart ! 

—Felicia Hemaiu. 



Huguflt 2. 

WHAXL BE KING BUT CHARLIE? 

Charlei Edward, "the young Pretender," 
Itnded in the Hebrida on August B, IT4G, to 
head a Jacobite tiling which wu dettincd to be 



The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen, 

Will soon gar mony ferlie; 
For ships o' war hae just come in. 

And landed Royal Charlie 1 

The Highland clans wi' sword in hand, 
Frae John o' Groat's to Airlie, 

Hae to a man declared to stand. 
Or fall wi' Royal Charlie! 

The Lowlands a' baith great and sma', 
Wi' mony a lord and laird, hae 

Declared for Scotland's king and law. 
And speir ye, wha' but Charlie? 

There's ne'er a lass in a' the land 
But vows baith late and early. 

To man she'll ne'er gie heart or hand 
Who wadna fight for Charlie. 

Then here's a health to Charlie's cause. 
And be't complete and early; 

His very name my heart's blood warms — 
To arms tor Royal Charlie! 

Cho. — Come through the heather, around 

Ye're a' the welcomer early; 
Around him cling wi' a' your kin. 
For wha 'II be king but Charlie? 

Come through the heather, around him 

Come Ronald, come Donald, come *' 
theglther, 
And crown your rightfu', lawfu' king; 
For wha'll be king but CharUe? 

— Lady Nairng. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



263 



Hu0U0t 3. 



NILSSON. 



Christine Nilsson, bom August S, 184S. 



A rose of perfect red, embossed 
With silver sheens of crystal frost. 
Yet warm, nor life nor fragrance lost. 

High passion throbbing in a sphere 
That Art hath wrought of diamond clear, 
— A great heart beating in a tear. 

The listening soul is full of dreams 
That shape the wondrous-varying themes 
As cries of men or plash of streams. 

Or noise of summer rain-drops round 
That patter daintily a-ground 
With hints of heaven in the sound. 

Or tioble wind-tones chanting free 
Through morning-skies across the sea 
Wild hymns to some strange majesty. 

O, if one trope, clear-cut and keen, 
May type the art of Song's best queen. 
White-hot of soul, white-chaste of 
mien. 

On Music's heart doth Nilsson dwell 
As if a Swedish snowflake fell 
Into a glowing flower-bell. 

— Sidney Lanier. 



HU0U0t 4. 

ON THE CORONATION OF QUEEN 
VICTORIA. 



August 4, 1888. 



Within the minster's venerable pile 
What pomps unwonted flaih upon our 

eyes! 
What galleries in gold and crimson, 
rise 
Between the antique pillars of the aisle. 
Crowded with England's gayest life ; the 
while 



Beneath, her dead, unconscious glory 

lies; 
Above, h^r ancient faitb still seeks the 
skies ; 
And with apparent life^ doth well he- 
guild 
Our senses in that ever-growing roof ; 
Whence on the soul return those 
recollections 
Of her great annafs — built to be time- 
proof. 
Which chiefly make this spot the fit- 
test scene 
Wherein to consecrate those new affec- 
tions 
We plight this day to Britain's virgin 
queen. 

— Jedidiah Huntington, 



HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 



Died August 4, 1875. 



A being cleaves the moonlit air. 

With eyes of dew and plumes of fire. 
Newborn, immortal, strong and fair; 

Glance ere he goes ! 
His feet are shrouded like the dead. 

But in his face a wild desire 
Breaks like the dawn that flushes red. 
And like a rose. 

The stars shine out above his path. 
And music wakes through all the 
skies ; 
What mortal such a triumph hath. 

By death set free? 
What earthly hands and heart are pure 
As this man's, whose unshrinking eyes 
Gaze onward through the deep obscure. 
Nor quail to see? 

Ah! this was he who drank the fount 
Of wisdom set in speechless things. 
Who, patient, watched the day-star 
mount, 
While others slept. 
Ah ! this was he whose loving soul 
Found heart-beats under trembling 
wings, 
And heard divinest music roll 

Where wild springs leapt 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



For poor dumb lips had songs for him 

And children's dreamings ran in tune. 
And struige old heroes, weird uid dim, 

Wslked by his side, 
the veiy shadows loved him well 

And (kneed and flickered in the moon. 
And left hint wondrous tales to tell 
Men fir and wide. 

And now no more he smilinc wallcs 
Throueh greenwood alleys full of sun, 

And, as he wanders, turns and talks. 
Though none be there; 

The children watch in vaio the place 
Where they were wont, when day waa 

To see their poet's sweet worn face. 
And faded hair. 

Yet dream not juch a spirit diei. 

Though all its earthly shrine decay I 
Transfigured under clearer skies. 

He sings anew ; 
The frail joul-covering, racked with 

And scored with vigil, fades away. 
The soul set free and young again 
Glides upward through. 

Weep not; but watch the moonlit air I 
Perchance a glory like a star 

May leave what hangs about him there. 
And flash on usi..,. 

Behold I the void is full of light. 
The beams pierce heaven from bar to 

And all the hollows of the night 
Grow luminous! 

—Edmund Goat. 



under BuduniD on Augiut S, 1 

Farragut, Farragut, 

Old heart of oak. 
Daring Dave Farragut, 

Thunderbolt stroke. 
Watches the hoary mist 

Lift from the bay. 
Till his flag, glory-kissed. 

Greets the young day. 



Far, by gray Morgan's walla. 

Looms the black fleet 
Hark, deck to rampart calb 

With the drum's beat! 
Buoy your chains overboard. 

While the steam hums; 
Men I to the battlement, 

Farragut comes. 

See, as the hurricane 

Hurtles in wrath 
Squadrons of clouds amain 

Back from its path! 
Bade to the parapet. 

To the guns' lips, 
Thunderbolt Farragut 

Hurls the black ships. 

Now through the battle's roar 
Clear the boy sings, 

"By the mark fathoms four," 
While his lead swings. 

Steady the wheelmen five 
"Nor' by East keep her," 
"Steady," but two alive : 
How the shells sweep her! 

Lashed to the mast that sways 

Over red decks. 
Over the flame that plays 

Round the torn wrecks. 
Over the dying lips 

Framed for a cbeer, 
Farragut leads his ships. 

Guides the line clear. 

On by heights cannon-browed. 

While the spars quiver; 
Onward still flames the cloud 

Where the hulks shiver. 
See, yon fort's star is set. 

Storm and fire past. 
Cheer him, lads— Farragut, 

Lashed to the mast! 

Oh I while Atlantic's breast 

Bears a white sail. 
While the Gulfs towering crest 

Tops a green vale. 
Men thy bold deeds shall tell. 

Old Heart of Oak, 
Daring Dave Farragut, 

Thunderbolt stroke 1 

—mUioM T. Mtrtditk. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



265 



SHERIDAN. 



General Philip Sheridan died August 6, 1888. 



Quietly, like a child 
That sinks in slumber mild, 
No pain or troubled thought his well- 
earned peace to mar, 
Sank into endless rest our thunderbolt 
of war. 

Though his power to smite 
Quick as the lightning's light, — 
His single arm an army, and his name a 

host, — 
Not his the love of blood, the warrior's 
cruel boast 

But in the battle's flame 
How glorious he camel — 
Even like a white-combed wave that 

breaks and tears the shore. 
While wreck lies strewn behind, and ter- 
ror flies before. 

'Twas he, — his voice, his might, — 
Could stay the panic-flight. 
Alone shame back the headlong, many- 
leagued retreat. 
And turn to evening triumph morning's 
foul defeat 

He was our modem Mars; 

Yet firm his faith that wars 
Ere long would cease to vex the sad, 

ensanguined earth. 
And peace forever reign, as at Christ's 
holy birth. 

Blest land, in whose dark hour 
Arise to loftiest power 
No dazzlers of the sword to play the 

tyrant's part. 
But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and 
high of heart! 

Of such our chief of all; 
And he who broke the wall 
Of civil strife in twain, no more to 

build or mend; 
And he who hath this day made Death 
his faithful friend. 

And now above his tomb 
From out the eternal gloom 
"Welcome!" his chieftain's voice sounds 

o'er the cannon's knell ; 
And of the three one only stays to say 
"Farewell !" 

— Richard Watson Gilder. 



Buguet 6. 



TO BEN JONSON. 



Ben Jonson died August C, 1687. 



Ah, Ben! 
Say, how or when 
Shall we, thy guests. 
Meet at those lyric feasts 

Made at the Sun, 
The Dog, the Triple Tun ; 
Where we such clusters had 
As made us nobly wild, not mad. 

And yet each verse of thine 
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine? 

My Ben! 
Or come again. 
Or send to us 
Thy wit's great overplus ; 

But teach us yet 
Wisely to husband it, 
Lest we that talent spend; 
And having once brought to an end 

That precious stock, the store 
Of such a wit, the world should have no 



more. 



— Robert Herrick. 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 



An English scholar executed for murder. 
The murder was committed while Aram was an 
usher in a school. His sentence was carried 
out on August 6, 1769. 



'Twas in the prime of summer time, 

An evening calm and cool, 
And four-and-twenty happy boys 

Came bounding out of school ; 
There were some that ran and some that 
leapt, 

Like troutlets in a pooL 

Away they sped with gamesome minds. 
And souls untouched by sin ; 

To a level mead they came, and there 
They drave the wickets in: 

Pleasantly shone the setting sun 
Over the town of Lynn. 

Like sportive deer they coursed about, 
And shouted as they 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 

nirth all tilings Of earth. 



His hat was off, his vest apart. 
To catch heaven's blessed breeze; 

For a burning thought was in his brow, 
And his bosom ill at ease; 

So he leaned his head on his hands, and 
read 
The book between bis knees t 

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er. 

Nor ever glanced aside ; 
For the peace of his soul he read that 
book 

In the golden eventide ; 
Much study had made him very lean. 

And pale, and leaden-eyed. 

At last he shut the ponderous tome; 

With a fast and fervent grasp 
He strained the dusky covers close, 

And fixed the brazen hasp: 
"0, God I could I so close my mind. 

And clasp it with a clasp I" 

Then leaping on his feet upright, 
Some moody turns he took — 

Now up the mead, then down the mead, 
And past a shady nook — 

And, lol he saw a little boy 
That pored upon a book I 

"My gentle lad, what is 't you read- 
Romance or fairy fable? 
Or is it some historic page, 
__^0f kings and crowns unstable?" 
■joy ga 
e Death of Abel.' ' 

The Usher took six hasty strides. 

As smit with sudden pain — 
Six hasty strides beyond the place. 

Then slowly back again : 
And down he sat beside the lad. 

And talked with him of Cain; 

And. long since then, of bloody men. 
Whose deeds tradition saves; 

And lonely folk cut off unseen. 
And hid in sudden graves ; 

And horrid stabs, in groves forktm, 
And murders done in cavea; 



To show the burial clod; 

And unknown facts of guilty acts 

Are seen in dreams from God I 

He told bow murderers walk the earth 
Beneath the curse of Cain— 

With crimson clouds before their eyes. 
And flames about their brain; 

For blood has left upon their souls 
Its everlasting stain! 

"And well," quoth he, 1 know, for 
truth. 
Their pangs must be extreme- 
Woe, woe, unutterable woe — 

Who spill life's sacred stream I 
For why? Methougbt, last ni^ I 
wrought 
A murder, in a dream I 

"One that had never done me wrongs 

A feeble man and old; 
I led him to a lonely field — 

The moon shone clear and cold : 
Now here, said I, this man shall die. 

And I will have his gold I 

"Two sudden blows with a ragged stick. 

And one with a heavy stone, 
One hurried gash with a hasty knif^^ 

And then the deed was done : 
There was nothing lying at my feet 

But lifeless flesh and bone I 

"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, 

That could not do me ill ; 
And yet I feared him all the more. 

For lying there so still : 
There was a manhood in his look, 

That murder could not kill ! 

"And, lo t the universal air 

Seemed lit with ghastly flame ; — 

Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 
Were looking down in blame ; 

I took the dead man by his hand. 
And called upon his name ! 

"O Godt it made me quake to see 
Such sense within the slain I 

But when I touched the lifeless cli^. 
The blood gushed out amain I 

For every clot a burning spot 
Was scorching in my brain I 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



267 



^t the Devil's price. 

A dozen times 1 groaned — the dead 
Had never groaned but twice I 

"And now, from forth the frowning sky. 
From the heaven's topmost height, 

I heard a voice— the awful voice 
Of the blood-avenging sprite: 

Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead. 
And hide it from my sight t' 

"And I took the dreary body up. 

And cast it in a stream — 
The sluggish water, black as ink. 

The depth was so extreme: 
Uy gentle Boy, remember! this 

Is nothing but a dream ! 

"Down went the corse with a hollow 

plunge, 
And vanished in the pool; 
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands. 
And washed my forehead cool. 

And sat among the urchins young. 
That evening in the school. 

"O Heaven I to think of their white souls. 
And mine so black and grim I 

I could not share in childish prayer. 
Nor join in eveniiig hymn; 

Like a devil of the pit I seemed, 
'Mid holy cherubim I 



"One stem tyrannic thought, that made 

All other thoughts its slave! 
Stronger and stronger every pulse 

Did that temptation crave^ 



"And peace 1 
all. 



: with them, 






And each calm pillow spread; 
But Guilt was my grim chamberlain. 

That lighted me to bed, 
And drew my midnight curtains round 

With lingers bloody redt 

"All night I lay in agony. 

In anguish dark and deep; 
My fevered eyes 1 dared not dose. 

But stared aghast at Sleep; 
For Sin had rendered unto her 

The keys of hell to keep I 

"All night I lay in agony, 
From weary chime to chime; 

With one besetting horrid hint. 
That racked me all the time — 

A mighty yearning, like the first 
Fierce impulse unto crime— 



The dead n 



n in his grave I 



"Heavily I rose up, as iooa 

As light was in the sky, 
And sought the black accursed pool 

With a wild misgiving eye; 
And 1 saw the dead in the river bed. 

For the faithless stream was dry. 

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook 
The dew-drop from its wing; 

But I never marked its morning flight — 
I never heard it sing ; 

For 1 was stooping once again 
Under the horrid thing. 

"With breathless speed, like a soul in 

I took him up and ran; 
There was no time to dig a ([rave 

Before the day began — 
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of 

I hid the murdered man ! 

"And all that day I read in school. 
But my thought was other where; 

As soon as the mid-day task was done. 
In secret I was there— 

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, 
And still the corse was barel 

"Then down I east me on my face. 

And first began to weep, 
For I knew my secret then was one 

That earth refused to keep — 
Or land or sea, though he should be 

Ten thousand fathoms deep. 

"So wills the fierce avenging sprite. 

Till blood for blood atones I 
Aye, though he's buried in a cave. 

And trodden down with stones. 
And years have rotted off his flesh — 

The world shall see his bones ! 

"O God I that horrid, horrid dream 

Besets me now awake I 
Again — again, with dizzy brain. 

The human life I take; 
And my red right hand grows raging 
hot, 

Like Cnuuner's at the sake. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



"And still no peace for the restless day 

Will wave or mould allow; 
The horrid thing pursues my soul — 

It stands before me now !" 
The fearful boy looked up, and saw 

Huge drops upon his brow. 

That very night, while gentle sleep 

The urchin's eyelids kissed, 
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn 

Through the cold and heavy mist; 
And Eugene Aram walked between. 

With gyves upon his wrist. 

— Thomat Hood. 



august 7. 



And it is given I — the sur^e. 

The tree, the rock, the sand 
On freedom's kneeling spirit urge, 
In sounds that speak but to the free. 
The memory of thine and thee I 

The vision of thy band 
Still gleams within the glorious dell 
Where their gore hallowed as it fell I 

And is thy grandeur done? 

Mother of men like these t 
Has not thy outcry gone 
Where justice has an ear to hear?— 
Be holy! God shall guide thy spear. 

Till in thy crimsoned seas 
Are plunged the chain and scimitar. 
Greece s^ll be a new-bom star! 

— George Croty. 



The battle of Thcrniopyla: vu fought on 
August T, IBO B. C. Leonidai and a unall 
may of Grctka beld a turrow pu* agaiiut 



Shout for the mighty men 

Who died along this shore, 
Who died within this mountain's 
For never nobler chieftain's head 
Was laid on valor's crimso: 

Nor ever prouder gore 
Sprang forth, than theirs who 



bed. 






Upon thy strand, Thermopytel 

Shout for the mighty men 

Who on the Persian tents, 
Like lions from their midnight den 
Bounding on the slumbering deer, 
Rushed — a storm of sword and spear; 

Like the roused elements, 
Let loose from an immonal hand 
To chasten or to crush a land! 

But there are none to hear— 

Greece is a hopeless slave. 
Leonidas t no hand is near 
To lift thy fiery falchion now ; 
No warrior makes the warrior's vow 

Upon thy sea-washed grave. 
The voice that should be raised by met 
Must now be given by wave and glen. 



THE DEATH OF QUEEN CARO- 
LINE. 



Queen Caroline w»« the wife of George IV., 
vbo after leaving her, while Prince of^alei. 
Rcciued her later on of adulter;. She was tried 
before the House of Lords, but the trial was 
' idoned after causing much excitement In 
liih politics. She died on August T, lall. 



Who shall lament to know thy aching 

Hath found its pillow?— that in long re- 
pose 
Great Death, the noblest of thy kingly 

Hath laid thee, and, with sacred veil 

outspread. 
Guards thee from basest insults? Thou 

hast led 

A solitary course, — among the great 
A regal hermitress, despoiled of state. 
Or mocked and fretted by one tattered 

Of melancholy grandeur: thou didst wed 
Only to be more mournfully alone t 

now, thy sad regalities o'erthrown, 
more an alien from the common fate. 
Thou hast one human blessing for thine 

A place of rest in Nature's kindliest bed. 
—Thomas Noon TatfourO, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



269 




fleet WW lent hf Phillp of 



SpaiD aiuiul Engli 
tuled by the Englii 
of F.ffitijhp irt on Aui 



Attend, all ye who list to hear 

Our noble England's praise ; 
I tell of the thrice famous deeds 

She wrought in ancient daya, 
When that great fleet invincible 

Against her bore in vain 
The richest spoils of Mexico, 

The stoutest hearts of Spaio. 

It was about the lovely close 

Of a warm summer day. 
There came a gallant merchant-ship 

Full sail to Plymouth Bay; 
Her crew hath seen Castile's black tleet. 

Beyond Aurigny's isle, 
At earliest twilight, on the waves, 

Lie heaving many a mile. 
At sunrise she escaped their van. 

By God's especial grace; 
And the tall Pinta, till the noon. 

Had held her in close chase. 
Forthwith a guard at every gun 

Was placed along the wall ; 
The beacon blazed upon the roof 

Of Edgecumbe's lofty hall ; 
Many a light fishing bark put out 

To pry along the coast. 
And with loose rein and bloody spur 

Rode inland many a post. 
With his white hair unbon eted. 

The stout old sheriff comes; 
Before him march the halberdiers; 

Before him sound the drums; 
His yeomen round the market cross 

Make clear an ample space; 
For there behooves him to set up 

The standard of Her Grace. 
And haughtily the trumpets peal 

And gayly dance the bells. 
As slow upon the laboring wind 

The royal blazon swells. 
Look how the Lion of the sea 

Lifts up his ancient crown. 
And underneath his deadly paw 

Treads the gay lilies down. 
So stalked he when he turned to fli|^t. 

On that famed Picard field 



Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow. 

And CJesars eagle shield. 
So glared he when at Agincourt 

In wrath he turned to bay. 
And crushed and torn beneath his daws 

The princely hunters lay. 
Ho I strike the flag-staff deep. Sir 
Knight : 

Hoi scatter flowers, fair maids: 
Hoi gunners, fire a loud salute: 

HoT gallants, draw your blades: 
Thou sun, shine on her joyously; 

Ye breeies, waft her wide ; 
Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, 

The banner of our pride. 
The freshening breeze of eve unfurled 

That banners massy fold ; 
The parting gleam of sunlight kissed 

That haughty scroll of gold; 
Night sank upon the dusl^ beach. 

And on the purple sea. 
Such night in England ne'er hath been 

Nor e er again shall be. 
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds. 

From Lynn to Milford Bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright 

And busy as the day; 
For swift to east and swift to west 

The ghastly war-flame spread. 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: 

It shone on Beachy Head. 
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, 

Along each southern shire, 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, 

Those twinkling points of fire. 
The fisher left his skiff to rock 

On Tamar's glittering waves: 
The rugged miners poured to war 

From Mendip's sunless c 
O'er Longleat a towers, 
bourne's oaks, 

The fiery herald flew; 
He roused the shepherds of Stone- 
henge. 

The rangers of Beau lieu. 
Right sharp and quick the bells all night 

Rang out from Bristol town. 
And ere the day three hundred hone 

Had met on Clifton down; 
The sentinel on Whitehall gate 

LocAed forth into the night, 
And saw o'erhanirfng Richmond Hill 

The streak of blood-red light. 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roor 

The death-like stillness broke. 
And with one start, and witli one 07. 

The royal city woke. 






2;o 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



At once on all her stateftr gates 

Arose the answeritig fires; 
At once the wild alarum clashed 

From all her reeling spires ; 
From all the batteries of the Tower 

Pealed loud the voice of fear; 
And all the thousand masts of Thames 

Sent back a louder cheer: 
And from the furthest wards was heard 

The rush of hurrying feet, 
And the broad streams of pikes and 



flags 
ished dc 



Rushed down each roaring street; 
And broader still became the blaze. 

And louder still the din. 
As fast from every village round 

The horse came spurring in : 
And eastward straight from wild Black- 
heath 

The warlike errand wen^ 
And roused in many an ancient lull 

The gallant squires of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills 

Flew those bright couriers forth ; 
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy 

They started for the north : 
And on, and on, without a pause 

Untired they bounded still: 
All night from tower to tower tbey 
sprang ; 

They sprang from hill to hill: 
Till the proud peak unfurled the flag 

O'er Darwin's rOcky dales, 
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven 

The stormy hills of Wales, 
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze 

On Malvern's lonely height, 
Till streamed in crimson on the wind 

The Wrekin's crest of light, 
Till broad and fierce the stars came 
forth 

On Ely's stately fane. 
And tower and hamlet rose in arms 

O'er all the boundless plain; 
Till Belvoir-s lordly terraces 

The sign to Lincoln sent. 
And Lincoln sped the message on 

O'er the wide vale of Trent; 
Till Skiddaw saw the Are that burned 

On Gaunt's embattled pile. 
And the red glare on Skiddaw roused 

The burghers of Carlisle. 



— Lord Uacaulay. 



A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZA- 
BETH. 



King Philip had vaunted his claims ; 
He had sworn for a year he wonld 
sack us; 
With an army of heathenish names 
He was coming to fagot and stadc us; 
Like the thieves of the sea he would 
track us. 
And shatter our ships on the main; 
But we had bold Neptune to back 

And where are the galleons of Spain? 



With his saints and his gilded ster 

He had thought like an egg-shell 

Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, 
And Drake to his Devon again. 
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bac- 

For where are the galleons of Spain? 

Let his Majesty hang to St. James 
The axe that he whetted to hack us; 

He must play at some lustier games 
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack 



s of Peru he would pack 



e the galleons of Spain? 



Gloriana! — the Don may attack us 
Whenever his stomach be fain; 
He must reach us before he can rack 

And where are the galleons of Spain? 
— Austin Dobson. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



271 



EXECUTION OF UGO BASSL 



A noted Italian priest and patrioL His ser- 
mons produced great effects on bis bearers. He 
joined Garabaldi in 1848 and continued preach- 
ing until he was taken by the Austrians and 
shot on August 8, 1849. 



About a mile outside the city-gate. 

Porta Isaia, lies the felon's field; 

And close beside it lies the Cemetery, 

Certosa, to the westward of the walls ; 

The Mount of Guard above it, with its 
church 

And portico to give the pilgrims' feet 

Safe-conduct to our Lady of Saint Luke, 

Stands for a landmark many miles 
away. 

Bologna knows it well; — ^there is no 
child 

Bom in Bologna but shall know the 
place. 

And there they halted, past the wailing 
throngs ; 

And there they formed a square of in- 
fantry ; 

And then there was a silence, very short ; 

And then three volleys rang out, one by 
one, 

Through the still, sultry air. Bologna 
heard, 

And knew that all was over. 

After that, 

Gorzhowski cleared the streets, and suf- 
fered none 

To show themselves abroad again that 
day. 

They dug a grave, and threw the 

bodies in. 
Just where they fell, and hardly covered 

them. 
But the next mom, as if by miracle. 
The cruel mound had blossomed into 

wreaths, — 
Clusters of summer-snowing stars in 

heaps 
On glossy trailing leaves, and roses red 
As any Dorothea sent her friend. 
And night by night the grave lay fresh 

in flowers. 
In spite of all the Austrian arms could 

do. 

'^Harriet Eleanor Hamilton King, 



HUdU0t 9. 

DRYDEN. 



John Dryden, born August 9, 1081. 



There sits he with the wits around hia 

chair, 
Sipping his cordial or his cup of tea; 
Fair primed with aphorisms choice or 

free. 
The "glorious John," who trimmed to 

every air! 
The biggest brawn on the arena there, 
He shook the town with vauntings, then 

on knee 
Bartered his birthright for a huckster's 

fee, 
And thrust his muse aneath a lordling's 

care. 

Still he wrought valiant service; none 

that day 
Might bide the baited gladiator's blows; 
His ponderous truncheon cmshed the 

foe at bay; 
How grand to watch him on McFlecnoe 

close f 
The drums resound, the trumpets loudly 

bray 
As down the age that lordly galleon 

goes! 

— Craven JL Betts. 



CEDAR MOUNTAIN. 



The battle of Cedar Mountain was fought in 
Virginia on August 9. 1862, the Confederates 
under Stonewall Jackson defeating part of 
Pope's army under Banks. 



Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly; 
Toll them not, — the day is holy! 
Golden-flooded noon is poured 
In grand libation to the Lord. 

No mou miner mothers come today 
Whose hopeless eyes forget to pray; 
They each hold high the o'erflowing 

urn, 
And bravely to the altar tuni. 

Ye limners of the ancient saint ! 
To-day another virgin paint; 
Where with the lily once she stood 
Show now the new beatitude. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



To-day a mother crowned with pain. 
Of silver beauty beyond stain, 
ClaspinK a flower for our land 
A sheathed in her hand. 

Each pointed leaf with sword-like 

strength, 
Guarding the flower throughout its 

length; 
Each sword has won a sweet release 
To the flower of beauty and of peace. 



Buaust to. 



THE DEATH OF LYON. 



Sing, bird, on green Missouri's plain, 

The saddest song of sorrow; 
Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rain 

Ye from the winds can borrow; 
Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh. 

Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor, 
For him who knew well how to die, 

But never to surrender. 

Up rose serene the August sun 

Upon that day of glory ; 
Up curled from musket and from gun 

The war-cloud, gray and hoary ; 
It gathered like a funeral pall, 

Now broken, and now blended, 
Where rang the bugle's angry call. 

And rank with rank contended. 

Four thousand men, as brave and true 

As e'er went forth in daring, 
Upon the foe that morning threw 

The strength of their despairing. 
They feared not death— men bless the 
field 

That patriot soldiers die on ; 
Fair Freedom's cause was sword and 
shield. 

And at their head was Lyon. 



Their leader's troubled soul looked forth 

From eyes of troubled brightness; 
Sad soul I the burden of the North 

Had pressed out all its lightness. 
He gazed upon the unequal fight. 

His ranks all rent and gory. 
And felt the shadows close like night 

Round his career of glory. 

"General, come lead usl" loud the cry 

From a brave band was ringings 
"Lead us, and we will stop, or die. 

That battery's awful singing!" 
He spurred to where his heroes stood— 

Twice wounded, no ooe knowing — 
The fire of battle in hi* blood 

And on his forehead glowing. 

Oh I cursed for aye that traitor's hand. 

And cursed that aim so deadly, 
Which smote the bravest of the land. 

And dyed his bosom redlj; I 
Serene he lay, while past him pressed 

The battle's furious billow, 
As calmly as a babe may rest 

Upon its mother's pillow. 

So Lyon died ; and well may flowers 

His place of burial cover. 
For never had this land of ours 

A more devoted lover. 
Living, his country was his bride; 

His life he gave her, dying; 
Life, fortune, love, he nought denied 

To her, and to her sighing. 

Rest, patriot, in thy hillside grave, 

Beside her form who bore thee I 
Long may the land thou diedst to save 

Her bannered stars wave o'er thee I 
Upon her history's brightest page. 

And on fame's glowing portal. 
She'll write thy grand, heroic age. 

And grave thy name immortal. 

—Anonymous. 



Hugust It. 

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. 

Cardinal Newman died Augult 11, ISM. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



273 



Truce for one hour through all the 
camps of thought 1 
Our subtlest mind hath rent the veil of 
pain. 
Hath found the truth he sought. 

Who knows what script those opening 
eyes have read? 
If this set creed, or that, or none be 
best? 
Let no strife jar above this snow-white 
head! 
Peace for a saint at rest ! 

— Edmund Gosse. 



THADDEUS STEVENS. 



An American anti-slavcrv statesman. He 
was the chief manager of the impeachment of 
Andrew Johnson. He died on August 11, 1868. 



An eye with the piercing eagle's fire, 
Not the look of the gentle dove; 

Not his the form that men admire. 
Nor the face that tender women love. 

Working first for his daily bread 
With the humblest toilers of the earth ; 

Never walking with free, proud tread — 
Crippled and halting from his birth. 

Wearing outside a thorny suit 
Of sharp, sarcastic, stinging power; 

Sweet at the core as sweetest fruit, 
Or inmost heart of fragrant flower. 

Fierce and trenchant, the haughty foe 
Felt his words like a sword of flame; 

But to the humble, poor, and low 
Soft as a woman's his accents came. 

Not his the closest, tenderest friend — 
No children blessed his lonely way; 

But down in his heart until the end 
The tender dream of his boyhood lay. 

His mother's faith he held not fast; 

But he loved her living, mourned her 
dead, 
And he kept her memory to the last 

As green as the sod above her bed. 

He held as sacred in his home 
Whatever things she wrought or 
planned, 
And never suffered change to come 
To the work of ber "industrious 
hand." 



For her who pillowed first his head 
He heaped with a wealth of flowers 
the grave. 
While he chose to sleep in an unmarked 
bed, 
By his Master's humblest poor— the 
slave ! 

Suppose he swerved from the straightest 
course — 
That the things he should not do he 
did— 
That he hid from the eyes of mortals, 
close. 
Such sins as you and I have hid? 

Or suppose him worse that you; what 
then ? 

Judge not, lest you be judged for sin I 
One said who knew the hearts of men: 

Who loveth much shall a pardon win. 

The Prince of Glory for sinners bled; 
His soul was bought with a royal 
price ; 
And his b^utified feet on flowers may 
tread 
To-day with his Lord in Paradise. 

—Ph be Cory. 



Hugu0t 12* 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Robert Southey, born August 18, 1774. 



First in the ranks see Joan of Arc ad- 
vance. 
The scourge of England, and the boast 

of France! 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a 

witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from 

prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous 

son; 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'er* 

threw 
More mad magicians than the world ere 

knew. 



274 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Immortal herot all thy foes o'ercome. 
Forever reigiF-the rival of Tom Thumb I 
Since startled metre fled before thy face. 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all 

thy race I 
Well mi^t triumphant genii bcftr thee 

Illuttrions conqueror of cotnmon sense) 
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads 

bis sails, 
Cadqne in Mexico, and prince in Wales; 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers 

do, 
More old than Mandeville's, and not so 

O Souther, Southey, cease thy varied 

A bard may chant too often and too 

long; 
As thou art Strang in verse, in mercy 

spare I 
A fourth, alas I were more than we could 

bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say. 
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary 

If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil. 
Thou wilt devote old women to the 

The babe unborn thy dread intent may 

•^d help thee," Southey, and thy read- 



WILLIAM BLAKE. 



William Bbke died AusuK IS. ISIT. 

They win who never near the goal, 

Tbey run who halt on wounded feet; 
Art hath its martyrs like the soul. 
Its victors in defeat. 

This seer's ambition soared too far; 

He sank, on pinions backward blown ; 

But, tho' he touched nor sun nor star. 

He made a world his own. 

^Edmtmd Gosst. 



HELEN HUNT JACKSON. 



An American writer of pw 
Sh* wa* much intercMed in i 
' itcd spccii] coramiu 



I ippoinl 



What songs found voice upon those lips, 
What ma^c dwelt within the pen. 

Whose music into silence slips. 
Whose spell lives not again I 

For her the clamorous to-day 
The dreamful yesterday became; 

The brands upon dead hearths that lay 
Leapt into living flame. 

Clear ring the silvery mission bells 
Their mils to vesper and to mass; 

O'er vineyard slopes, through fruited 
detis. 
The long processions pass; 

The pale Franciscan lifts in air 

The Cross above the kneeling thrang; 
Their simple world how sweet with 

prayer, 
With chant and matin-song I 

There, with her dimpled lifted hands. 
Parting the mustard's golden plumes, 

The du^ maid, Ramona, stands 
Amid the sea of blooms. 

And Alessandro, type of all 
His broken tribe, for evermore 

An exile, hears the stranger call 
Within his father's door. 



The visions vanish and are not. 
Still are the sounds of peace and 
strife,— 
Passed with the earnest heart and 
thought 
Which lured them back to life. 

O sunset land I O land of vine! 

And rose, and bayl in silence here 
Let fall one little leaf of thine. 

With love, -upon her bier. 

—Ina CoMriA. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAIL 



275 



Huguet t3« 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 



Near this village in Bavaria the allied £ng- 
lish, Dutch, Danes, and Germans under the 
Duke of Marlborough defeated the French and 
Bavarians under Tallard on August 18, 1704. 



It was a Summer evening- 
Old Kaspar's work was done^ 

And he before his cottage door 
Was sitting in the sun ; 

And by Him sported on the green 

His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

XL 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round. 

Which he beside the rivulet, 
In playing there, had found; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and 
round. 

in. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy. 

Who stood expectant by; 
And then the old man shook his head. 

And, with a natural sigh — 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
"Who fell in the great victory. 



IV. 

"I find them in the garden, 
For there's many here about; 

And often when I go to plough. 
The ploughshare turns them out; 

For many thousand men," said he, 

"Were slain in the great victory." 

V. 

"Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
And little* Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes — 
^Now ^ell us all about the war. 
And what they fought each other for." 



VI. 

*^t was the English," Kaspar cried, 
"Who put the French to rout; 

But what they fought each other for, 
I could not well make out; 

But everybody said," quoth he, 

"That 't was a famous victory. 

VIL 

''My father lived at Blenheim then. 

Yon little stream hard by; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

VHL 

"With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide; 
And many a childing mother there. 

And new-bom baby died; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

IX. 

"They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won — 
For many tnousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 



X. 



"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 
And our good Prince Eugene." 

"Why, 't was a very wicked thing I" 
Said little Wilhelmine. 

"Nay— nay— my little girl!" quoth he, 

"It was a famous victory. 

XL 

"And everybody praised the Duke, 
Who this great fight did win." 

"But what good came of it at lart?^ 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he; 

"But 'twas a famous victory." 

--Robert Southey. 



276 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



PHILIP MY KING. 

"Wtra bean upon tail btbj brow the round aiid 
top of (overeignt;." 

Philip Bourke Uanton wai in Sngliih soet 
who wu born on Augiui IS, ISSO. He be- 
canie blind at la early age. 

Look St me with thy large brown eyes, 

Philip, my King! 
For round thee the purple shadow lies 
Of bahyhood's regal dignities. 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand 

With Love's invisible sceptre laden; 
I am thine Esther, to command 
Till thou shalt find thy queen-hand- 
maiden, 
Philip, nty King I 

Oh, the day when thou goeat a-wooing, 

Philip, my Kingl 
When those beautiful hps are suing, 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, 
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and 
there 
Sittest all glorified I— Rule kindly. 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; 
For we that love, ah I we love so 
blindly, 
Philip, my King! 

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy 

Philip, 'my Kin^I 
Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now, 
That may rise like a giant, and make 

As to one Cod-throned amidst his peers. 
My Saul, than thy brethren higher and 
fairer. 
Let me behold thee in coming years ! 
Yet thy head needetb a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my King — 

A wreath, not of gold, but palml One 

Philip, my King I 
Thou loo must tread, as we tread, a way 
Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray; 
Rebels within thee, and foes without 
Will snatch at thy crown. But go on, 
glorious. 
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout, 
As thou sittest at the feet of God vic- 
torious. 
"Philip, the King!" 

— Dinah M. Craik. 



august 14. 



AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE. 



Admiral Famgut died Augutt I' 



1870. 



To live a hero, then to stand 

In bronze serene above the city's 
throng; 
Hero at sea, and now on land 

Revered by thousands as they rush 

If these were all the gifts of fame — 
To be a shade amid alert reality. 

And win a statue and a name — 
How cold and cheerless immortality I 



Children are always gathered there, 
Laughing and playing round the 
heroes feet 

And in the crisis of the game — 
With boyish grit and ardor it is 
played — 
You'll hear some youngster call his 



"The Admiral — he n 



s afraid 1" 



And so the hero daily lives, 

And boys grow braver as the Ma> 
they seel 
The inspiration that he gives 

Still helps to make them loyal, strong, 
and freel 

— Robert Bridget. 



HudU0t 15* 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Born August IE, 1TT1. 

Thus I^ys of Minstrels— may they be 

the last !— 
On half-strung harps whine mournful to 

the blast; 
While mountain spirits prate to mer 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



277 



That dames may listen to the sound at 

nights ; 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's 

Decoy young border nobles through the 

And skip at every step. Lord knows how 

high, 
And frighten* foolish babes, the Lord 

knows why ; 
While high-born ladies in their magic 

cell. 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot 

Dispatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
And light with honest men to shield a 



Next V 



I state, proud prancing ( 



The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 

Now forging scrolls, now foremost in 

the fight. 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
The gibbet or the field prepared M grace ; 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And think'st thou, Scott I by vain conceit 



On public 



foist thy stale 



Though Murray with his Miller may 

combine 
To yield thy muse Just half a crown per 

line? 
No I when the sons of song descend to 

trad^ 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels 

fade. 
Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for 

Low may they sink to merited contempt. 
And scorn remunerate the mean attempt! 
Such be their meed, such still the just 

Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
And bid a long "good-night to Mar- 



These are the themes that claim our 

plaudits now ; 
These are the bards to whom the muie 

While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike for- 



got. 



Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter 
Scott 
From "English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers," — Lord Byron. 



THE ASSUMPTION. 

si in the Rcmin aniT GreeL c 



cdebrati 



1 Augu 



Nor Bethlehem nor Nazareth 

Apart from Mary's care; 
Nor heaven itself a home for Him 

Were not His mother there. 

—Father Tabb. 



LILLIAN ADELAIDE NEILSON. 

Engliah I 



who difd 









What shall my gift be to the dead one 
lying 
Wrapped in the mantle of her mother 
earth? 
No tear, no voice, no prayer, or any 
sighing. 
Gives back her face made beautiful by 
birth. 

Honor was due to one whose «oul was 

Whose nature quickened at the touch 
of art; 
Now that the struggle's over, God will 
send her 

Mercy and peace to soothe her trou- 
bled heart. 

Tears will be shed; for who dare raise 

the finger 

Of scorn when all is buried in the 

grave? 

Some pity near her memory will linger: 

Upon life's stormy sea she tossed — a 

Life's weary hill she bravely fell in 
breasting. 
Her work was done; "Oh take me 
home," she sighs; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Wbiiper it low, she Bleeps not, "she is 

So fell the cuTtain, and she closed ber 
eyes. 

The flowers she loved will deck the 
cross that shows us 
Where all remains of what was once 

Yetl she is dead, but still perhaps she 

Who lay "Implora pace I" for our 
prayer. 

They gave love's playthings, who were 
won't to win her. 
As Juliet coaxed to happiness ber 

But I, who knew the goodness that was 
in ber. 
Place bumbly on her grave— this leaf 
of verse. 

—CUment Seott. 



NAPOLEON. 

Bern AusBrt IB, ITS*. 

Thy breath was fire I And fire was on 
thy brow I 
Dealing out lightnings on thy ceaseless 

Thou mad'st the heads of haughty kings 

When the exultant welcome of thy 
camp 

Hailed tLee in summer'a heat and win- 
ter's damp. 

Bom for a day, thou I>estiny didst know, 
And, eager, longedst thy victories to 

Thy soul-star shown on Borodino's woe. 
On Jena's corpse- strewn field, in 

Wagram's flame I 
Europe, o'erawed. crouched shudder- 
ing at thy name. 

Hark to that echo bom of crushing 
glooms 
That o'er thy sepulcher continually 
fliut 



Dost thou, oh giant I lead those 
still 

In other planets to the valorous strife? 

Dost thou urge on thy phalanxes to kill? 

And art thou doomed to lead a battling 

life 
In other spheres, all gore and combat- 
rife? 

Art thou by God to crush his toes or- 

Far on the limits of the endless night? 
Art thou still chief, and hast thou battles 

gained 
With countless myriad angels in the 

fight? 
Hast thou Hit sword of flame to 

sheathe or smite? 

If so, oh ! do not grieve for our sad 
earth. 
The men that loved thee are no longer 

They have forgotten all thy priceless 

Long are thy deeds lost as the years 
grow new, 

All that they know of thee is — Water- 
loo! 

— Francis Safliu Salhu. 



Hugust 16. 

THE BATTLE OF BENNINGTON. 



Nt«r this town in Vermont 
under Sl»rk defeated the Briti< _.. __^ 

and Brejman on August IS, 17TT. 

On this fair valley's grassy breast 
The calm sweet rays of summer rest. 
And dove-like peace divinely broods 
On its smooth lawns and solemri woods. 

A century since, in flame and smoke. 
The storm of battle o'er it broke; 
And ere the invader turned and fled. 
These pleasant fields were strown with 
dead. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



279 



Stark, Quick to act and bold to dare, 
And Warner's mountain tnnd were 

there; 
And Allen, who had flun^ the pen 
Aside to lead the Berkahire men. 

With fiery onset — blow on blow — 
They rushed upon the embattled foe, 
And swept his squadrons from the nle. 
Like leaves before the autumn gsle. 

Oh ! never may the purple stain 
Of combat blot these fields agaii^ 
Nor this fair valley ever cease 
To wear the placid smile of peaces 

But we, beside this battlefield. 
Will plight the vow that ere we yield 
Tb; nght for which our fathers bled. 
Our blood shall steep the ground we 
tread. 

And men shall hold the memoiy dear 
Of those who fought for freedom here. 
And guard the heritage they won 
While these green hillsides feel the sun. 
—William CttlUn Bryant. 



augu0t 17. 

MURDER OF THE PRINCES IN 
THE TOWER. 



brother, the Duke of 



Edward V. ind „.. , 

YotV, were onothereil in the Tower of LoDd(_ 
1 AuBiM IT, 148S, bv order of Ihetr tmcle, 
u i^J .. .ijg (iKoot as Richard UL 



Ettter TvuzL. 
Tytrel The tyrannous and bloody 
deed is done. 
The most arch act of piteous massacre 
That ever yet this land was guilty of. 
Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn 
To do this ruthless piece of butchery. 
Although they were fleshed villains, 

bloody dogs, 
Melting witL tenderness and kind com- 
passion 
Wept like two children in their deaths' 

sad stories. 
lo, thus,' quoth Dighton, lay those ten- 
der babes:' 



Thus, thus,' quoth Forrest, 'girdling 

one another 
Within their innocent alabaster arms: 
Their lips were four red rosea on a 

sulk, 
Which in their summer beauty Idsied 

each other. 
A book of "rayers on their pillow lav; 
Which once,' quoth Forrest, "aunost 

changed my mind ; 
But 01 the devil'— there the villain 

stopp'd; 
Whilst Dishtoii thtts told oa: 'We 

smothered 
The most replenished sweet woric of 

nature, 
That from the prime creation eer she 

framed.' 
Thus both are gone with consdence and 

remorse; 
They could not speak; and so I left them 

both. 
To bring this tidings to the bloody king. 
And here be comes. 

Richard in. Act IV. Scene 3- 
—Shakespeare. 



Huguet 18. 



KILMARNOCK'S LAMENT. 



Farewell to my Eppie, 

My wish be wi' Eppie, 
Too soon will my Eppie receive my 
adieu: 

My sentence is past, 

To-morrow's my last. 
And I'll never win hame to my Eppie I 



Oh Eppie my dearest, 
Oh Eppie my fairest. 
Sac mony sweet days I hae spent wi' 

Now cauld are my hands 
In these iron bands. 
And I'll never mair stretch them, dear 
Eppie, to yon. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



But though I maun die, 
I boldly defy 
My foes to declare that my crime I do 

Nor need my prond kin 
Be ashamed of my sin. 
But sad is the heart of my ^ipie, I trow. 

Good angels be keeping 
Her while she is sleeping. 
Leat dreams should present my sad fate 
to her view ; 
And when I am dead, 
Support her widowed head, 
For sad will the heart o' my Eppie be 
now- 

—Otd Ballad. 



Huau0t 19. 



THE CAPTURE OF THE GUER- 
RIERE BY THE CONSTITU- 
TION. 

A naval Tictoty of the war of 1812, foagbl 
on AaguBt 19 of^ tbxt year. The ConstitDiioa 
under Capt luac Hull eapiared (fae Guerriere, 
Capt. Philip Vera Broke, and biuaed her. 

Loi^ the tyrant of our coast 

Reined the famous Guerriere; 
Our little navy she defied. 

Public ship and privateer: 
On her sails in letters red. 
To our captains were displayed 
Words of warning, words of dread, 

"All who meet me, have a caret 

I am England's Guerriere." 

On the wide, Atlantic deep 

(Not her equal for the fight) 
The Constitution, on her way. 

Chanced to meet these men of might; 
On her sails was nothing said. 
But her waist the teeth displayed 
That a deal of blood could shed. 
Which, if she would venture near. 
Would stain the decks of the Guer- 



Now our gallant ship they met— 

And, to struggle with John Bull — 
Who had come, they little though^ 



Strangers, yet, to Isaac Hull: 

Better soon to be acquainted : 

Isaac hailed the Lords anointed — 

While the crew the caiman pointed. 

And the balls were so directed 

With a hlaze so unexpected; 

Isaac so did maul and rake her 
That the decks of Captain Dacre 
Were in such a woful pickle 
As if death with scythe and sickle. 
With his sling, or with his shaft 
Had cut his harvest fore ajid aft 
Thus, in thirty minutes ended, 
Mischiefs that could not he mended; 
Masts, and yards, and ship descended. 
All to David Jones' locker- 
Such a ship in such a pucker! 

Drink a bout to the Constitution I 

She performed some execution 
Did some share of retribution 

For the insuhs of the year 
When she took the Guerriere. 

May success again await her, 
Let who will again command her 

Bainbridge, Rodgers, or Decatur — 
Nothing like her can withstand her. 

With a crew like that on board her 
Who so boldly called "to order" 

One bold crew of English sailors, 
Long, too long our seamen's jailors, 

Dacre and the Guerriere 1 

— Philip Freneau. 



august 20. 

MARCO BOZZARIS. 



He nas killed on 
xessful Diebi aitadt 
K Greek War of In- 



At midnight, in his guarded tent. 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance 

bent. 
Should tremble at his power. 
In dreams, through camp and court, he 

The trophies of a conqueror; 
In dreams his song of triumph he^4; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



281 



Then wore his monarch's signet-ring — 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — sl 

king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing. 
As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band — 
True as the steel of their tried blades. 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood. 
There had the glad earth drunk their 
blood 

On old Plataea's day; 
And now there breathed that haunted 

air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arms to strike, and soul to dare 

As quick, as far, as they. 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke: 

That bright dream was his last; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 

"To arms! they come! the Greek! 
the Greek!" 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band: 
"Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires; 
Strike — for the green graves of your 

sires ; 
God — ^and your native land!" 

They fought — like brave men, long and 
well; 
They piled that ground with Moslem 
slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell. 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hur- 
rah. 
And the red field was won; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose. 
Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber, Death! 

Come to the mother's, when she feels. 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
^d crowded cities wail its stroke; 



Come in consumption's ghastly form. 
The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm; 
Come when the heart beats high and 
warm. 

With banquet-song, and dance and 
wine; 
And thou art terrible — the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free. 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is 

wrought — 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood- 
bought — 

Come in her crowning hour — ^and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were night 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of 

palm. 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 

Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 
Bozzaris! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glor3r*s time. 
Rest thee — ^therc is no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee. 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its 
plume, 
Like torn branch from death's leafless 

tree. 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 

But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone; 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed. 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
For thee she rings the birth-day bells; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch, and cottage bed ; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Thinks of thy £ste, and checks her tears. 

And she, the mother of thv boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheiek 
It read the grief she will not speak. 

The memory of her buried joys — 
And even she who gave thee birth. 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth. 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and 

One of Uie few, the immortal names 
That were not bom to die. 

—Fitt'Creene HaUtck. 



WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS 
COME IN. 

New York Hubor, Ansnvt 10, ISS*. 

To eastward ringing, to weslward wing- 
ing, o'er miks of maples s sea. 
On winds and tides the gospel rides that 

the furthermost isles are free. 
And the furthennost isles make answer, 

harbor, and height, and hill, 
Breaker and beach cry each to each, 
" "Tis the Mother who calls I Be still I" 
Mother I new-found, beloved, and strong 

to hold from hann. 
Stretching to these across the seas the 

shield of her sovereign arm. 
Who summoned the guns of her sailor 

sons, who bade her navies roam. 
Who calls again to the leagues of main, 

and who calls them this time 

Home I 
And the great gray ships are silent, and 

the weary watchers rest, 
The black cloud dies in the August 

skies, and deep in the golden west 
Invisible hands are limning a glory of 

crimson bars. 
And far above is the wonder of a 

myriad wakened stars I 
Peace! As the tidings silence the stren< 

uous cannonade, 
Peace at last I is the bugle blast the 

length of the long blockade, 
And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the 

glad release, 
From ship to ship and from lip to lip it 

is "Teace I Thank God for peace," 



The sons of these who swept the aeai 
how she bade them rise and go, — 

How, when the stirring summons smote 
on her children's ear. 

South and North at the call stood forth, 
and the whole land answered. 



"Hei 



For the soul of the soldier's story and 

the heart of the sailor's song 
Are all of those who meet their foes as 

right should meet with wrong. 
Who fight their guns till the foeman 

runs, and then, on the decks they 

trod. 
Brave faces raise, and ^ve the praise to 

the grace of their country's God I 

Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be 

strong and free. 
To carry the hearts of the people to the 

uttermost ends of sea. 
To see the day steal up the bay where 

the enemy lies in wait. 
To run your ship to the harbor's lip and 

sink her across the strait : — 
But better the golden evening when the 

ship heads round for home, 
And the long gray miles slip swiftly past 

in a swirl of seething foam. 
And the people wait at the haven's gate 

to greet the men who win ! 
Thank God for peace! Thank God for 

peace, when the great gray ships 

— Guy Wttmore CarryL. 



auau0t 2t. 



FAREWELL TO FRANCE. 
Arrival of the Quten in Scotltnd, AnsuM 11, 



Farewell, beloved France to thee, 

Best native land! 

The cherished strand 
That nursed my tender infancy I 

Farewell, my childhood's happy day! 
The bark that bears me thus away 

Bears but the poorer moiety hence; 
The nobler half remains with thee,— 

I leave it to thy confidence, 
But to remind thee still of me I 



—Mary Quetn of Seott, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



283 



1S08, tbc Briliih, under 
the French under JunoL 



; yonder stream, which 



This is Vim. 

Westward through heathery highlands to 

the sea. 
1$ called Maceira, till of late a name. 
Save to the dwellers of this peaceful 

vale, 
Known only to the coasting mariner; 
Now in the bloody page of war in- 

When to the aid of injured Portugal 
Struggling against the intolerable yoke 
Of treacherous France, England her old 

ally, 
Long tried and always faithful found, 

went forth, 
The embattled hosts, in equal strength 

And equal discipline, encountered here. 

Junot, the mock Abrantes, led the 

And confident of skill so oft approved. 
And vaunting many a victory, advanced 
Against an untried foe. But when the 

Met in the shock of battle, man to man. 

And bayonet to bayonet opposed. 

The flower of France, cut down along 

their line, 
Fell like ripe grass before the mower's 

scythe; 
For the strong arm and rightful cause 

prevailed. 
That day delivered Lisbon from the 

And babes were taught to bless Sir 
Arthur's name. 

—Robert Southej 



PRINCE EUGENE. 

Belgrade ii ■ town in Hungirr which bu 
luiliined many sicgu. Prince Eugene nined 
a brilliant victory there orer the Tuik* on 



Prince Eugene, our noble leader, 
Made a vow in death to bleed, or 
Win the emperor back Belgrade: 



"Launch pontoons, let all be ready 

To bear our ordnance safe and ateady 

Over the Danube"— thus he said. 

There was mustering on the border 
When our bridge in marching order 

Breasted first the roaring stream; 
Then at Semlin, vengeance breathing. 
We encamped to scourge the heathen 

Back to Mabound, and fame redeem. 

'Twaa on August one-and-twenty, 
Scouts and glorious tidings plenty 

Galloped m, through storm and rain; 
Turks, they swore, three hundred thou- 

Marched to give our prince a rouse, and 
Dared us forth to battle-plain. 

Then at Prince Eugene's headquarters 
Met our fine old fighting Tartars 

Generals and field marshals all; 
Every point of war debated. 
Each in his turn the signal waited, 

Forth to march and on to falL 

For the onslaught all were eager 
When the wora sped round our leaguer: 

"Soon as the clock chimes twelve to- 
Then, hold hearts, sound boot and 

saddle, 
Stand to your arms, and on to battle. 

Every one that has hands to fight t" 

Musqueteers, horse, yagers, forming, 
Sword in hand eadi bosom warming. 

Still as death we all advance: 
Each prepared, come blows or booty, 
German-like to do our duty, 

Joining hands in the gallant dance. 

Our cannoneers, those tough old heroes, 
Strudc a lusty peal to cheer us, 

Firing ordnance great and small; 
Right and left our cannon thundered. 
Till the pagans quaked, and wondered. 

And by platoons began to falL 

On the right, like a lion angered. 
Bold Eugene cheered on the vangtiard; 

Ludovic spurred up and down. 
Crying, "On. boys ; every hand to't ; 
Brother Germans nobly stand to't ; 

Giarge them home, for our old re- 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Gallant prince t he spoke no more; be 
Fell in early youth and glory. 

Struck from his horse by some curst 
ball: 
Great Eugene long sorrowed o'er him. 
For a brother's love he bore him; 

Every soldier mourned his fall. 

In Waradin we laid his ashes; 
Cannon peals and musket flashes 

O'er his grave due honors paid: 
Then, the old black eagle flying. 
All the pagan powers defyine, 
On we marched and stormecT Belgrade. 
— Anonymous. 
Trans, of John Hughtt. 



Hugu0t 22. 

DEAD MEN'S HOLIDAY. 



— yirMcluiptt. 
A tWH in the Balkans, nude famoua in The 
«j iWftta Turkey and RasBui in 1B7T-TB br 
the defense nude br the Turks >|ainal the 
Ruuians on August SS, 18TT. 

Who dares to say the dead men were not 
glad. 
When all the banners flaunted triumph 

there 
And soldiers tossed their caps into the 



Proudly the General galloped down the 
line, 
And shouted thanks and praise to all 

his men. 
And the free echoes tossed it back 
again. 
And the keen air stung all their lips like 

And there, in front, the dead lay 
silently— 
They who had given their lives the 

fight to win- 
Were their ears deaf, think you, to 
all the din, 
And their eyes hlinded that they could 
not see? 



I tell you, no I They heard, and hearing 

How brief a thing this triumph of a 
day, 

From which men journey on, the same 
old way, 
The same old snares and pitfalls strug- 
gle through. 

Theirs the true triumph, for their figfat 

And with low laughter called they 

each to each — 
"We are at rest where foemen cannot 

reach, 
And better this than fighting in the 

— Louise CkanJhr Moulton. 



TO THE MEMORY OF SYDNEY 
DOBELL. 



I English poet who died on August IE, 



And thou, too, gone I one more bright 
soul away 
To swell the mighty sleepers 'neath 
the sod; 
One less to honor and to love, and say. 
Who lives with thee doth live half- 
way to God! 
My chaste-souled Sydney ! thou wast 
carved too line 
For coarse observance of the general 
eye; 
But who might look into thy soul's fair 

Saw bright gods there, and felt their 
presence nigh. 
Oh I if we owe warm thanks to Heaven, 

In the slow progress oF the struggling 

Our touch is blessed to feel the pulse of 

Who walk in light and love above their 

White-robed, and forward point with 

guiding hand, 
Breathing a heaven around thetn where 

they stand ! 

—Johu Stuart Blackit. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Hugu0t 23. 



THE DEATH OF WALLACE. 

A Scattiah patriot and nitioiul hero. He 
fouglit tbe Englnh lucccHfuIlr for Duoy yevi, 
but was finally betrayed to them and execuled 
on Auguil la, ISDS. 

Joyi ypy in London now I 
He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to 

death ; 
At length the traitor meets the traitor's 

Joy, ioy in London now I 

He on a sledge is drawn. 
His strong right arm unweaponed and 

And garlanded around his helm less head 
The laurel wreath of scorn. 

They throng to view him now. 
Who in the field had fled before his 

Who at the name of Wallace once grew 
pale 
And faltered out a prayer. 

s eye, 

murage 

Yea I they can look upon those manly 
limbs, 
Defenceless now and bound. 

And that eye did not shrink 
As he beheld the pomp of infamy; 
Nof one ungovemed feeling shook those 

When the kst moment came. 

What though suspended sense 
Was by their legal cruelty revived; 
What though ingenious vengeance 
lengthened life 

To feel protracted death? 



He called to mind his deeds 
Done for his country in the embattled 
field; 



He thought of that good cause for which 
he died. 
And it was joy in death. 

Go, Edward I triumph now I 
Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's 

strength is crushed ; 
On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled 

The fowls of heaven have fed. 

Unrivalled, unopposed. 
Go Edward, full of jlory to thy gravel 
The weight of patnot blood upon thy 

Go Edward, to thy Godt 

— Robert Southty. 



Huauet 24. 

MILLAIS'S "HUGUENOTS." 



a ParlB a 



■laughter of French FroteltaBtl 

le provinces irutiraled by Cilh. 

-«, the Queen Dowager. The 

nDmbCT of victimi is estimated at from tO.OOO 
to 30,000. The masucre took place on St. Bar- 
tholomeVi Day (Auguil 24). 1578. 

Your favorite picture rises up before me, 
Whene'er you play that tune; 

I see two figures standing in a garden 
In the still August noon. 

One is a girl's with pleading face turned 
upward 
Wild with a great alarm. 
Trembling with haste, she binds her 
broidered kerchief 
Around the other's arm. 

Whose gaze is bent on her in tender pity. 

Whose eyes look into hers 
With a deep meaning though she cannot 

Hers are so dim with tears. 

What are they saying in the stmny gat- 

With Summer Rowers ablow? 
What ^ives the woman's voice its pas- 
sionate pleading; 
What makes the man's so low? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



"See, love," she mnnnurs, ."you ahall 
wear my kerchief. 
It is the badge, I know ; 
And it will bear you safely through the 
conflict 
If — if indeed you go? 

Tou will not wear it? Will not wear 
my kerchief? 

Nay I Do not tell me why, 
I will not listen I If you (fo without it 

You will go hence to dte. 

"Hush I Do not answer I It is death, I 
tell you. 
Indeed I speak the truth. 
You, standing there so full of life and 
courage, 
3o bright with health and youth. 

'You would go hence, out of the Sum- 
mer sunshine, 
Out of the garden bloom ; 
Out of the living, thinking, feeling, 

Into the unknown gloom?" 

Then he makes answer. "Hush I oh, 
hush my darling I 
Life is so sweet to me. 
So full of hope you need not bid me 
guard it. 
If such a thing might be! 

*^f such a thing might be I — but not 
through falsehood, 
I could not come to you; 
I dare not stand here in your pure, sweet 
presence. 
Knowing myself untrue." 



"It ii 



" the wild ^ 



e interrupts 



Have you not often dreamt a nobler war- 
fare 
In which to spend your life? 

"Ohl for my sake — though but for my 
sake— wear it! 
Think what my life would be 
If you, who gave it first true worth and 
meaning 
Were taken now from met 



"Think of the long, long days, so slowly 
passing! 
Thiiik of the endless years ! 
I am so young I Must I live out my 
life-time 
With neither hopes nor fears?" 

He speaks again, in mournful tones and 
tender. 
But with unswerving faith: 
"Should not love make us braver, ajre, 
and stronger 
Either for life or death? 



"And life is hardest Oh, my love, my 
treasure 
If f could bear your part 
Of this preat sorrow, I would go to 
meet it 
With an unshrinking heart 



"Child! child! I little dreamt in that 
bright Summer 
When first your love I sought, 
Of all the future store of woe and an- 
guish 
Which I, unknowing, wrought 



"But you'll forgive me? Yes, you will 
forgive me 
I know, when I am dead I 
I would have loved you — but words have 

scant meaning 
God loves you more instead." 

Then there is silence in the sunny gar- 

Until, with faltering tone, 
She sobs, the while still clings close to 

"Forgive me — go — my own I" 

So human love, and faith by death tm- 
shaken. 
Mingle their glorious psalm. 
Albeit low. until the passionate pleading 
Is hushed in deepest calm. 

— London Spectator, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



287 



TWILIGHT ON SUMTER. 



In the Bpring and lumniB of lUS, Port 

the BuiTCnder of Uuor Andenon, two Tcan 
beiore, wu bombu-ded by the PedenI fli 
bv the arlillety on Morru IsUnd, 






Still and dark along the sea 

Sumter lay; 
A light was overhead. 
As from burning cities shed, 
And the clouds were battle-red. 

Far away. 
Not a solitary gun 
Left to tell the fort had won 

Or lost the day! 
Nothing but the tattered rag 
Of the drooping rebel flag, 
And the sea-birds screaming round it ii 
their play. 



How it woke one April mom. 

Fame shall tell ; 
As from Moultrie, close at hand. 
And the batteries on the land. 
Round its faint but fearless band 

Shot and shell 
Raining hid the doubtful light; 
But they fought the hopeless fight 

Long and well, 
(Theirs the glory, ours the shame!) 
Till the walls were wrapt in flame. 
Then their flag was proudly struck, and 
Sumter felll 



Now—oh, look at Sumter now, 

In the gloom I 
Mark its scarred and shattered walls, 
(Hark! the ruined rampart falls!) 
There's a justice that appalls 

In its doom; 
For this blasted spot of earth 
Where rebellion had its birth 

Is its tomb I 
And when Sumter sinks at last 
From the heavens, that shrink 

Hell shall rise in grim derision and make 



—Richard Henry Stoddard. 



auguat 25. 



THE HEART OF THE BRUCE. 

A Scalliib DoblcmBiL In occorduce vith 
Ibe dTini rniuat of Sruce he let out on m jour- 
ney to the Holy Land, carryina with him 
Bnice'i beirt in ■ gold ciilcet On bU way 
through Spain he joined the Spaniard! m figfat- 

and caating it before him explaimed, "Nov pMa 
folTo* thee or^die"^ He^beolell ovefponmd 



The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew. 
The arrows flashed like flame, 

As spur in side, and spear in rest. 
Against the foe we came. 

And many a bearded Saracen 

Went down, both horse and man; 
For through their ranks we rode like 

So furiously we rani 

But in behind our path they closed, 
Though fain to let us through. 

For they were forty thousand men. 
And we were wondrous few. 

We might not see a lance's lei^th. 

So dense was their array. 
But the long fell sweep of the Scottish 

blade 
Still held them hard at bay. 

"Make in 1 make in 1" Lord Douglas 
cried, 

"Make in, my brethren dear! 
Sir William of Saint Gair is down; 

We may not leave him here !" 

But thicker, thicker, grew the swarm. 

And sharper shot the rain. 
And the horses reared amid the press. 

But they would not charge agam. 

"Now Jesu help thee," said Lord James, 
"Thou kind and true St. Clairl 

An' if I may not bring thee off, 
I'll die beside thee there I" 

Then in his stirrups up he stood. 

So lionlike and bold. 
And held the precious heart aloft 

All in its case of gold. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



He flung it from him, far ftbead, 

And never spake he more. 
But— "Pass thee first, thou <l>uiitleM 
heart. 

As thou wert wont of yore I" 

The roar of fight rose fiercer yet. 

And heavier stilt the stour. 
Till the spears of Spain came shivering 

And swept away the Moor. 

"Vow praised be God, the day it won I 

They fly o'er flood and fell- 
Why dost thou draw the rein so hard. 
Good knight, that fought so well?" 



"There lies, beside his master's heart 
The Douglas, stark and grim ; 

And woe is me I should be here. 
Not side by side with him !" 



The King he lighted from his horse. 

He flung his brand away, 
And took the Douglas by the hand. 

So stately as he lay. 

"God give thee rest, thou valiant soul. 
That fought so well for Spain ; 

I'd rather half my land were gone, 
So thou wert here again !" 

We bore the good Lord James away, 
And the priceless heart he bore, ■ 

And heavily we steer*d our ship 
Towards the Scottish shore. 

No welcome greeted our return, 

Nor clang of martial tread, 
But all were dumb and hushed as death 

Before the mighty dead. 

We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk, 

The heart in fair Melrose; 
And woeful men were we that day — 

God grant their souls repose ! 

—H'Uliam E. Aytonm. 



ON THE DEATH OF CHATTER- 
TON. 



Thomu Chittertoo, an Bs^iih poet of ec- 
tnoTdinary precocity, committed nuddc *> 
LondoD at the eulj is' * ' 



What a wonder seems the fear of death. 

Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep. 

Babes, Children, Youths, and Men. 

Night following night for threcscoK 
years and ten ! 

But doubly strange, when life is but a 
breath 

To sigh and pant with, up Want's rug- 
ged steep. 

Away, Grim Phantom 1 Scorpion King, 
away I 

Reserve thy terrors and thy stings dis- 
play 

For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes 
of State I 

Lo! by the grave I stand of one, for 
whom 

A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom 

(That all bestowing, this withholding 
all,) 

Made each chance knell from distant 



spire or 
i like a 



sei^ng Mother's 



Thee Chatterton I these unblest stones 

protect 
From want, and the bleak freezings of 

Too lon^ before the vening Storm-blast 

Here hast thou found repose! beneath 

this sod! 
Thou! O vain word! thou dwell'st not 

with the clodl 
Amid the shining host of the Forgiven 
Thou at the throne of Mercy and thj 

God 
The triumph of redeeming Love dost 

(Believe it, O my soull) to harps ot 
Seraphim. 

—S. T. Coltridgt. 
From "Monody on Chatterton." 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



CHATTERTON. 

He went his way to rest with weary feet, 
Home-turning as one would that long 

had strayed 
In stoniest pathways, for his love re- 

With mocking laughter, for bis singing 

sweet 
With fast-shut door and wind-swept 
echoing street. 
Tired eyes and hopeless heart to the 

great shade 
Crept beaten back at last but unafraid. 
And stilled were wings for a sodden 
world too fleet. 

He went his way; and we, in whose 

charmed ears 
Live still the sound and throbbing of 
his song, 
But for this picture of his darkening 

Might nothing know bow bruised and 
baffled long 
His soul soared singing to the brightest 

From that salt gulf of bitterness and 
wrong. 

—CharUt E. RusseU. 



Bugust 26- 

TO CELIA THAXTER. 

Died August 16, ISBL 

Beloved, on the shore of this gray world 

Thy little bird, the sandpiper, and I 

Now stand alone; 

And when mine eye 

Returned from following thy upward 

flight. 
And found him here, and heard his 

And saw the tiny wing unfurled, 

(As oft for thee) 

I knew thy messenger, 'twas he I 

His little cry 

Is meek and full of joy in things that lie 

Oose to our feet ; 



He speeds along the sands, bidding my 

sight 
Grow keen as thine. 
He cries : "O love complete, 
Thoti hast become the leaf and flower 
That whisper now companionship; 
O follow, follow 
Traveller mine I 
Thou, too, Shalt step 
Into the hand'S'breadth hollow 
Thy dust shall claim I 
And no fair fame 
Shall stead thee when the winds of life 

shall fall; 
Only ray call 
To the unknown, untried, whither thcs« 

Now vanish; the fading bower 

Can hold and soothe thee not I 

O follow, follow, 

'Tis Love who sings I 

Love, love is here and beckons thee 

away; 
My song leads on, thou canst not go 

astray 1 

—Annie Field. 



Hugust 27. 

THE MARYLAND BATTALION. 

Tbe bstllt of Long latind wu fought at the 

*T, ™Te.**Tht" BHiiih und«"ul-d "howc de- 
feaied tbe Amiricans, bui ihe litter oudo a 
master Ijr retrut under cover of uight. 

Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to See, 
Tidy and dapper and gallant were we; 
Blooded fine gentlemen, proper and tall. 
Bold in a fox-hunt and gay at a ball; 
Prancing soldadoa so martial and bluff. 
Billets for bullets, in scarlet and buff^ 
But our cockades were clasped with a 

mother's low prayer. 
And the sweethearts that braided the 

sword-knots were fair. 

There was gnimmer of drums humming 

hoarse in the hills. 
And the bugles sang fanfaron down by 

the mills, 
By Flatbush the baginpes were droning 



290 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



And keen cracked the rifles in Martetue'a 

For the Hessiani were flecking the 

hedges with red. 
And the grenadiers' tramp marked the 

roll of the dead. 



The fierce gleam of Uieir tteel u the 

glow of a forge. 
The brutal boom-boom of their awart 

cannoneers 
Was sweet music compared with the 

taunt of their cheers — 
For the brunt of their onset, onr crippled 



Oh, the rout on the left and the tug on 

the right I 
The mad plunge of the cliarge and the 

wreck of the flight I 
When the cohorts of Grant held stout 

Stirling at strain. 
And the mongrels of Hesse went tearing 

the slam; 
When at Freeke's Mill the flumes and the 

sluices ran red, 
And the dead choked the dike and the 

marsh choked the dead I 

"Oh, Stirling, good Stirling, how long 

Shall the shout of your trumpet unleash 

us too late? 
Have you never a dash for brave Mor- 

decai Gist, 
With his heart In his throat, and his 

blade in his fist? 
Are we good for no more than to prance 

' a ball, 



Tral&ral Tral&ral Now praise we the 
Lord 

For the clang of His call and the flash of 
His sword ! 

Tralira! Traliiral Now forward to 
die; 

For the banner, hurrah t and for sweet- 
hearts, good-by ! 

"Four hundred wild ladst" May be so. 
111 be bound 



'T will be easy to count ni, face up, oo 

the ground. 
If we holtithe road open, though Death 

Uke the toll, 
We'll be missed on parade when the 

States call the roll- 
When the flags meet in peace and the 
Ens are at rest, 
r Freedom is singing Sweet 
Home in the West 

— John IVillianuan Palmtr. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOM- 
SON. 



In yonder grave a Druid lies. 

Where slowly winds the stealing wave; 
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, 

To deck its poet's sylvan grave. 

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
His airy harp shall now be laid. 

That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds 
May love through life the soothing 

Then maids and youths shall linger here. 
And, while its sounds at distance swell. 

Shall sadly seem, in Pity's ear, 
To hear the woodland pilgrim's kneU. 

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
When Thames in summer wreaths is 

And oft suspend the dashing oar 
To bid his gentle spirit restt 

And oft, as Ease and Health retire 

To breezy lawn or forest deep. 
The friend shall view yon whitening 

And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 

But thou, who own'st that earthly bed. 
Ah, what will every dirge avail? 

Or tears which Love and Pity shed. 
That mourn beneath the gliding sail? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide 
No sedge-crowned sisters nofc attend, 

Now waft me from the green hill's side 
Whose cold turf hides the buried 

And see, the fairy valleys fade; 

Dun night has veiled the solemn viewl 
Yet once again, dear parted shade. 

Meek Nature's child, again adieu 1 

The genial meads assigned to bless 

Thy life shall mourn thy early doomi 
Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall 

Wieh simple hands tby rural tomb. 

Long, long thy stone and pointed clay 
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: 

"O y^les and wild woods I" shall he say, 
"In yonder grave your Druid lies !" 
—miliam Coliint. 



Hugust 28. 

LOHENGRIN. 



The sun has stricken the armor splendid. 

Till the silver scales into golden melt. 

And the stately sail of the swan is 



The shout has risen, the strident clamor 
From the sense assured of a portent 

great. 
As the hero moves in his awful Rlamour, 
The gleaming shaft of a heavenly 
hate. 

Then, where the fierce drum savage has- 

In the troubled wake of the horns 
harsh blown. 
From the charmed hush of the tumult 
chastened. 



There was one height left for the tenor- 

Who hath clearness taught to the sil- 
ver bell, 
Who may lend the trump when the strain 
grows vaster — 
A deeper volume, a broader sweU. 

For though the eye like the pendant glis- 

When Femand's voice to the pendant 
flows. 
In a mellow whisper, one knows be lis- 
tens 

To mortal miming a mortal's woes. 

But in the old, half-sacred stories. 
The mystic mountain, the shining king. 

The awful cup, with its crimson glories, 
iiy faith was full as I heard him sing. 

And naught I'd know of the strange or 

Had the Grail-flame lighted his face 

upon 
For 'twas the voice of an angel-errant. 
Wherewith he spake to the faithful 

swan. —A. E. Watrotu. 



Bugust 29. 

TO 0. W. HOLMES. 

Oliver Wendell Halmu, boro Auffiut IS, 

isoa. 

Dear Doctor, whose blandly invincible 
pen 

Has honored so often your great fellow- 
men 

With your genius and virtiies, wbo 
doubts it is true 

That the world owes in turn, a warm 
tribute to you? 

Wheresoever rare merit has lifted its 

From the cool country calm or the dty's 

hotbed— 
You were always the first to applaud it 

by name, 
And to smooth for its feet the harsh 

pathway to fame. 



292 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Wheresoever beneath the broad rule of 

the sun. 
By some spirit elect, a grand deed has 

been done — 
Its elearical spell like the lightning's 

would dart. 
Though the globe lay between, to thrill 

first in your heart 1 



Philanthropist I poet t 

Ay t shrewd scientist too — who shall 
fathom your mind. 

Shall plumb that strange sea to the ut- 
termost deep. 

With its vast under-tides, and its 
rhythmical sweep? 

You have toiled in life's noon, till the 

hot blasting light 
Blinds the eyes that would gauge your 

soul siaiure aright ; 
But when eve comes at last, 'twill be 

clear to mankind, 
By the length of bright shadow your soul 

leaves behind I 

—Paul H. Hayne. 



vbta the 




arrived. 








n AuBust 29 


17B 


, she .uddenlr 



Toll for the brave— 

The brave that are no more! 
All sunk beneath the wave. 

Fast by their native shore I 

Eight hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel, 
And laid her on her side. 

A land breeie shook the shrouds. 

And she was overset — 
Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 



It was not in the battle; 

No tempest gave the shock; 
She sprang no latal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath; 

His fingers held the pen. 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up. 
Once dreaded by our foes! 

And mingle with our cup. 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 

And she may float again, 
Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt is gone — 



And he and his eight hundred 
Shall plough the waves no more. 

—JVilliam Couiper 



Hugu0t 30. 

CONVENTION OF CINTRA. 

The treaw bnvcca the French and Eng' 
concluded on Aueust SU, by the terma of wb 
the Freach evaciuied Portugal. 

Not 'mid the world's vain objects t) 

The free-born Soul— that World wh^ 

\aunted skill 
In seitish interest perverts the will. 
Whose factions lead astray the wise i 

Not there; but in dark wood and roi 

And hollow vale which foaming t 



Here, miRhty Nature! 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering 

Spain; 
For ber consult the auguries of time, 
And through the human heart explore 

my way; 
And look and listen — gathering, whence 

Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can 

— William Wordsworth. 



The Confed«itei under Lee defeated the 
Federals under Pope at (he Kcoad battle of 
Bull Run on August 30, 1862. 

From dawn to dark they stood 

That long midsummer day. 

While fierce and fast 

The battle blast 

Swept rank on rank away. 

From dawn to dark they fought. 
With legions torn and cleft; 

And still the wide 

Black battle tide 
Poured deadlier on "Our Left." 

They closed each ghastly gap ; 
They dressed eadi shattered rank; 

They knew — how well — 

That freedom fell 
With that exhausted flank. 

"Oh, for a thousand men 
Like these that melt awayl" 

And down they came. 

With steel and flame. 
Four thousand to the fray I 

Right through the blackest cloud 
Their lightening path they cleft; 
And triumph came 
With deathless fame 
To our unconquered "Left." 

Ye of your sons secure. 
Ye of your dead bereft — 
Honor the brave 
Who died to save 
Your all upon "Our Left." 

—FrotKis 0. Ticknor. 



THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA 



Died August 80, 80 B. C 



Drink, comrades, drink; give loose to 

mifthi 
With joyous footstep beat the carthj 
And spread before the War-God's 

The Salian feast, the sacrificial wine. 

Bring forth from each ancestral hoard. 
Strong draughts of Gecuban long stored. 

Til] now forbidden. Fill the bowl ! 
For she is fallen, that great Egyptian 

Queen, 
With all her crew contaminate and ob- 

Who, mad with triumph, in her pride, 
The manly might of Rome defied. 
And vowed destruction to the CapitoL 

As the swift falcon swooping from above 
With beak unerring strikes the dove. 

Or as the hunter tracks the deer 
Over HEEmonian plains of snow, 

Thus Cxsar came. Then on her 

royal state 
With Mareotic fumes inebriate, 
A shadow fell of fate and fear. 
And thro' the lurid glow 
From all her burning gall^s shed 
She turned her last sunrivmg bark and 
fled. 

She sought no refuge on a foreign shore. 
She sought her doom ; far nobler 'twas 

Than like a panther caged in Roman 
bonds to lie. 
The sword she feared not In her realm 

Serene among deserted fanes. 

Unmoved mid vacant halls she stood; 
Then to the aspic gave her darkening 

And sucked the death into her blood. 



Discrowned, and yet a Queen ; a captive 
chained ; 
A woman desolate and forlorn. 

—Horace. Ode XXXVII. 
Trans, of Sir Stephen E. Dt Vert. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



BuaU0t 31. 



THE KEVENGR 

A Ballad of the Fleet, Auguit II, 1S91. 
Sir Richsrd CrinyiJle. in command of the 
Bcvengf, wu atUcVed in Hit Aiora by fifle«o 
ships of tbc Spaniih ficcl. He miinuioed a 
hand to hand fight Cor fifteen houn on Auguil 
Bl and only aurrendeied when all but twen^ of 
hil men were hilled. 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard 

Grenville lay. 
And a pinnace like a fluttered bird, came 

nyine from far away: 
'Spanish snips of war at sea! we have 

sighted fifty-three I' 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : 

' 'Fore God I am no coward ; 
But I cannot meet them here, for my 

ships are out of gear. 
And the naif my men are sick. I must 

fly, but follow quick. 
We are six ships of the line; can we 

fight with fifty-three f 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : 'I 
know you are no coward; 

You fly them for a moment to fight with 
them again. 

But I've ninety men and more that are 
lying side ashore. 

I should count myself the coward if I 
left them, my Lord Howard, 

To these Inquisition dogs and the devil- 
doms of Spain.' 

So Lord Howard passed away with five 

ships of war that day, 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent 

But Sir Richard bore in hand all his 

sick men from the land 
Very carefully and slow. 
Men of Bideford and Devon, 
And we laid them on (he ballast down 

For we brought them all aboard, 

And they blessed him In their pain, that 

they were not left to Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for 

the glory of the Lord. 

J work 



And he sailed away from Flores till the 

Spaniard came in sight. 
With his huge sea-castlcs heaving upon 

the weather bow. 
'Shall we fight or shall we fly? 
Good Sir Richard tell us now. 
For to fight is but to die I 
There'll be little- of us left by the time 

this sun be set' 
And Sir Richard said again : "We be all 

good English men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the 

children of the devil. 
For I never turned my back upon Don 

or devil yet' 

Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and 

we roared a hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the 

heart of the foe. 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and 

her ninety sick below; 
For half of their Heet to the right and 

half to the left were seen. 
And the little Revenge ran on thro' the 

long sea-lane between. 

Thousands of their soldiers looked down 

from their decks and laughed. 
Thousands of their seamen made mock 

ai the mad little craft 
Running on and on. till delay'd 
By their mountain-like San Philip that, 

of fifteen hundred tons, 
And up-shadowing high above us with 

her yawning tiers of guns. 
Took the breath from our sails, and we 

And while now the great San Philip 
hung above us like a cloud 

Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud. 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day. 

And two upon the larboard and two 
upon the starboard lay. 

And the battle-thunder broke from them 
all. 

But anon the great San Philip, she be- 
thought nerself and went 

Having that within her womb that had 
left her ill content; 

And the rest they came aboard us, and 
they fought us hand to hant^ 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



295 



For a dozen times they came with thdr 

pikes and musqueteers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as 

a dog that shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the 
land. 

And the atin went down, and the stara 

came out far over the summer sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight of 

the one and the fifty -three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

their high-built galleons came; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

with her battle- thunder and flame; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 

drew back with her dead and her 

For some were sunk and many were 
shattcr'd, and so could fight us no 



For he said 'Fight on I fight on !' 

Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; 

And it chanced that, when half of the 
short summer night was gone, 

With a grisly wound to be drest he had 
left the deck. 

But a bullet struck him that was dress- 
ing it suddenly dead. 

And himself he was wounded again in 
the side and the head, 

And he said 'Fight on I fight on 1' 

And the night went down, and the sun 



But they dared not touch us again, for 

they feared that we still could 

sting. 
So they watched what the end would 

be. 
And wc had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were 

slain. 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for 

life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the 

desperate strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold were 

most of them stark and cold, 



And the pikes were all broken or bent, 
and the powder was all of it 

And the masts and the rigging were ly- 
ing over the side; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English 

"We have fought such a fight for a day 






ight 



As may never be fought again I 

We have won great glory, my ment 

And a day less or more 

At sea or ashore, 

We die — does it matter when? 

Sink me the ship. Master Gunner — sink 

her, split her in twain I 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the 

bands of Spain I' 

And the gunner said 'Ay, ay,' but the 

seamen made reply: 
'We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if 

we yield, to let us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to 

strike another blow.' 
And the lion there lay dying, and they 

yielded to the foe. 

And the stately Spanish men to their 

flagship bore him then. 
Where they laid him by the mast, old 

Sir Richard caught at last. 
And they praised him to his face with 

their courtly foreign grace; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he 

'I have fought for Queen and Faith like 

a vahant man and true; 
I have only done my duty as a man is 

bound to do: 



And they stared at the dead that had 

been so valiant and true. 
And had holden the power and glory of 

Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship 

and his English few; 
Was he devil or man? He was devil for 

aught they knew, 
But they sank his body with honor down 

into the deep. 



296 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



And they mann'd the Revenge with a 

swarthier alien crew, 
And away she sailed with her loss and 

longed for her own; 
When a wind from the lands they had 

ruined awoke from sleep. 
And the water began to heave and the 

weather to moan, 
And or ever that evening ended a great 

gate blew. 
And a wave like the wave that is raised 

by an earthquake grew. 
Till it smote on their hulls and their 

sails and their masts and their 

flags, 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on 
the shot -shattered navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went 

down by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 

—Alfred Tennyson. 



AVE ATQUE VALE. 



died on Augu 

Shall I Strew on thee rose or rue or 

Brother, on this that was the veil of 

thee? 
Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the 

sea, 
Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or 

Such 3s the summer-sleepy Dryads 

Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains 

at eve? 
Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before. 
Ha If- faded fieiy blossoms, pale with 

heat 



And full of bitter summer, but more 

To thee than gleanings of a noithem 
shore 
Trod by no tropic feet? 

Sleep ; and if life was tutter to thee, par- 
don, 

If sweet, give thanks; thou hut no 
more to live; 

And to give thanks is good, and to 
forgive. 
Out of the mystic and the mournful 
garden 

Where all day through thine hands in 
barren braid 

Wove the sick flowers of secrecy an^ 

Green buds of sorrow and sin, and rem- 
nants grey. 
Sweet- smelling, pale with poison, san- 

^ine- hearted. 
Passions that sprang from sleep and 
thoughts that started. 
Shall death not bring us all as thee one 

Among the days departed? 
For thee, O now a silent soul, my 

brother. 
Take at my hands this garland, and 

farewell. 
Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintrr 

And chill the solemn earth, a fatal 
mother, 
With sadder than the Niobean womb. 
And in the hollow of her breast a 

Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are 

There lies not any troublous thitig be- 



For whom all winds are quiet as the son. 
All waters as the shore. 

— Algernon C. Swinburne. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



September l. 



DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 



le FrtDcb in luly w 



n the Hocicui 



id*d the l>t New 

In Franklin's diriaion of Ibe 
" wu killed in • 



f Urinat in Fi 

r of ihe Potomi.. . 

moiler near Chaniillx, Vs.. Sept 



Qose his eyes; his work is done I 

What to him is friend or foetnan, 
Rise of moon, or set of sun, 
Hand of man, or kiss of woman? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow I 
What cares he? he cannot know; 
Lay him low I 

As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
Let him sleep in solemn night. 
Sleep forever and forever. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snowj 
What cares he? he cannot know: 
Lay him lowt 

Fold him in his country's stars. 

Roll the drum and fire the volley! 
What to him are all our wars. 
What but death bemocking folly? 
Lay him low, lay Kim low. 
In the clover or the snow I 
What cares he? he cannot know: 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the hand that made hiir 
Mortal love weeps idly by: 
God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know: 
Lay him low. 

— George H. Boker. 



BEFORE SEDAN. 

"The dead hand claipcd ■ letter." — Sfetial 
CBTTttpondttict. 

The lurrender at Napoleon III. to the Em- 
peror WUlum L H Sedan on Sept 1, UTO, 



Here, in this leafy place, 

Quiet he lies. 
Cold, with his sightless face 

Turned to the skies ; 
Tis but another dead ; 
All you can say is said. 

Carry his body hence, — 
Kings must have slaves; 

Kings ciimb to eminence 
Over men's graves : 

So this man's eye is dim ; — 

Throw the earth over him. 

What was the white you toudied. 

There, at his side? 
Paper his hand had clutched 

Tight ere he died ;— 
Message or wish, may be; — 
Smooth out the folds and see. 

Hardly the worst of us 
Here could have smiled 1^ 

Only the tremulous 
Words of a child; — 

Prattle, that has for stops 

Just a few ruddy drops. 

Look. She is sad to misi, 

Morning and night. 
His— her dead father's— kiss ; 

Tries to be bright, 
Good to mamma, and sweet. 
That is all. "Marguerite," 

Ah, if beside the dead 

Slumbered the pain I 
Ah, if the hearts that bled 

Slept with the slain 1 
If the grief died;— But no; — 
Death will not have it so. 

— Austin DobtoH. 



September 2. 

THE SPHINX OF THE TUILERIES. 

Louii Napoleon abdicated, September I, ISTO. 



298 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Two Cockneys stood br the gate, and 

Observed, as they turned to go, 
"No wonder he likes that sort of thing, — 
He's a Sphinx himself, you know." 

I thought as I walked where the garden 
glowed 
In the sunset's level fire. 
Of the Charlatan whom the Frenchmen 
loathe 
And the Cockneys all admire. 
They call him a Sphiiuc,— it pleases 

And if we narrowly read, 
We will find some truth in the flunkey's 
praise,— 
The man is a Sphinx indeed. 

For the Sphinx with breast of woman 

And face so debonair 
Had the sleek fatse paws of a lion, 

That could furtively seize and tear. 
So far to the shoulders,— but if you took 

The Beast in reverse you would find 
The ignoble form of a craven cur 

Was all that lay behind. 

She lived by giving to simple folk 

A silly riddle to read. 
And when they failed she drank their 
blood 

In cruel and ravenous greed. 
But at last came one who knew her 

And she perished in pain and shame, — 
This bastard Sphinx leads the same base 
life 
And his end will be the same. 

For an CEdipus- People is coming fast 

With swelled feet limping on, 
If they shout his true name once aloud 

His false foul power is gone. 
Afraid to fight and afraid to fly, 

He cowers in an abject shiver; 
The people will come to their own at 
last,— 

God is not mocked forever. 

—John Hay. 



September 3. 

EXECUTION OF THE PRINCESS 
DE LAMBALLE. 



A hjtl frlcsd of Uuie Aatdnettc 
rcfuaed to Uke the oath lEEiut the mooa 
mnd WW lorn to piece* u she left the c 
home after her trul on Sept. 1, ITSS. 



"The glorious days of September 

Saw many aristocrats fall; 
'Twas then that our pikes drank the 

In the beautiful breast of Lamballe. 
Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady! 

I seldom have look'd on her like; 
And I dnimm'd for a gallant procession. 

That marched with her head on a 
pike. 

"Let's show the pale head to the Queen, 
We said — she'll remember it well. 

She looked from the l»rs of her prison. 
And shriek'd as she saw it, and fell. 

We set up a shout at her screaming. 
We laugh'd at the fright she had 
shown 

At the sight of the head of her minion- 
How she'd tremble to part with her 

From "The Chronicle of the Drum." 
— Williatn Makepeace Thaekeray. 



r 3, ISSS. 



His grand e 

For he was great, 



he derived from Heaves 
fortune made faim 
■at rise against the / 
seem, not great^ 
—John Dryden. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



299 



September 4. 



Beside that tent and under guard 
In majesty alone he stands 
As some chained eagle, broker-winged 
With eyes that gleam like smouldering 

A savage (ace, streaked o'er with paint. 
And coal-black hair in unkempt mane. 
Thin, cruel lips, set rigidly — 
A red Apache Tamerlane. 

As restless as the desert winds. 
Yet here he stands like carven stone. 
His raven locks by breezes moved 
And backward o'er his shoulders blown; 
Silent, yet watchful as he waits 
Robed in his strange, barbaric guise, 
While here and there go searchingly 
The cat-like wanderings of his eyes. 

The eagle feather on his head 
Is dull with many a bloody slain. 
While darkly on his lowering brow 
Forever rests the mark of Cain; 
Have you but seen a tiger caged 
And sullen through his barriers glare? 
Mark well his human prototype. 
The fierce Apache fettered there. 

—Ernest McGaffty. 



He took p 
brctho ' 



t Dudley. %ij\ of Leic 
""""of ^ D^e'^f' 



thumbcrUnd. 
■ father ud 

be failure of 



fully, to obuin t) 
»1dier "u'r 






Mere lies the noble courtier that never 

kept his word; 
Here lies his excellency that governed 

all the state; 
Here lies the L. of Leicester that all the 

world did hate. 

—Sir Walter Ralfigh. 



Qcptembev 5. 



A Belgian tawn captured br Ibe Alliea under 
WUliam III. from the Preoch under Bouffier). 
on Sept. G, lOBS. 

Sambre and Maese their waves itaj 

But ne'er can William's force restrain; 
He'll pass them both, who passed the 

Remember this and arm the Seine. 

Full fifteen thousand lusty fellows, 
With fire and sword the fort maintain; 

Each was a Hercules, you tell us. 

Yet out they marched like common 

Cannons above and mines below 
Did Death and tombs for us contrive; 

Yet matters have been ordered so. 
That most of us are still alive. 

If Namur be compared to Troy 
Then Britain's boys excelled the 
Greeks ; 
Their siege did ten long years employ; 
We've done our business in ten weeka. 
—Matthtui Prior. 



9epteml>er 6. 

THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

Tbc ahip Mayflower, bearing tne Pilgrinn, 
Bailed from Southampton. England, Sept. 6, 

laeo. 



Well worthy to be magnified are they 
Who, with sad hearts, of friends and 
country took 



300 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



A last farewell, their loved abodes for- 

And hallowed ground in which tbeir 

fathers lay; 
Then to the new-found World explored 

their way, 
That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to 

Ritual restraints, within some sheltering 

Her Lord might worship and His word 

obey 
In freedom. Men they were wlio could 

Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for 

A will by sovereign Conscience sancti- 
fied; 

Blest while their Spirits from the woods 
ascend 

Alon^ a Galaxy that knows no end. 



September 7. 

SIDNEY LANIER. 



Life's fragile bonds united 

By fine-spun webs of breath, 
Scarce quivered 'ncath the mystic 

The unsheathed sword of Death I 

O poet, preen thy pinions! 

Soar through Faith's radiant pass ; 
The mists of pain fade from thy soul. 

As frost-films from a glass. 

Thy worn, white body slumbers. 
Dreamless in Death's dark keep: — 

The drawbridge crossed, thy spirit feels 
No lethargy of sleep 

O Music, mother of soft sounds, 
Let not thy tongue be mute I 

For he, through silver lips, evoked 
The language of the ttute. 

And Nature, though her voice is dumb. 
Through dew-draped blades of com, 

Shall shed, 'mid Southern fields of grain. 
Memorial tears at morn. 

—William H. Hayne. 



THRENODY OP THE PINES. 

For tbe Pbiudk of Their Poet, Sidney X,uuei. 



"His body lieth cold and still. 
For Death has triumphed on the biU." 
—William H. Hayne. 



September 8. 

EUTAW SPRINGS. 



ritish, ihouKh their lou wu 
i of the American, and ther 
:t mornmK. pursued for thirty 



It in this wreck of ruin th^ 
Can yet be thought lo claim a tear, 

O smile thy gentle breast, and say 
The friends of freedom slumber heret 

Those who shall trace this bloody plain. 
It goodness rules thy generous breast, 

Siish for the wasted, rural reign; 
Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to restt 

Stranger, their humble graves adorn; 

You too may tall and ask a tear; 
'Tis not the beauty of the morn 

That proves the evening shall be 
clear— 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



301 



They saw their injured country's woe; 

The flaming town the wasted field ; 
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe ; 

They took the spear, — but left the 
shield. 

Led by the conquering genius, Greene, 

The Britons they compelled to Ay; 
Kone distant viewed the fatal plain, 

None grieved, in such a cause to die — 

But, like the Parthian, famed of old. 
Who, flying still their arrows threw; 

These routed Britons, full as bold. 
Retreated, and retreating slew. 

Now rest in peace, our patriot band ; 
Though far from Nature's limits 
thrown. 
We trust they find a happier land, 
A brighter sunshine of their own. 
— Philip Freneai*. 



September 9. 

EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN. 

At thia place in NorthumtKrland tfae EoBliih 
ondrr th» Eai! of Surrey detratid the Scot* 
uBdci JamM ly. on Sept e, 151S. The king 






of h 



e killed 



News of battle 1— news of battle I 

Hark! 'tis ringing down the street: 
And the archways and the pavement 

Bear the clang of hurrying feet. 
News of battle? Who hath brought it? 

News of triumph? Who should bring 
Tidings from our noble army. 

Greetings from our gallant King? 
All last night we watched the beacons 

Blazing on the hills afar. 
Each one bearing, as it kindled, 

Message of the opened war. 
All night long the northern streamers 

Shot across the trembling sky: 
Fearful lights, that never beckon 

Save when kings or heroes die. 

News of battle! Who halh brought it ? 
All are thronging to the gate; 

"Warder — warder I open quickly! 

Man — is this a time to wait?" 
And the heavy gates are opened: 

Then a murmur long and k>ud. 



And a cry of fear and wonder 

Bursts from out the bending crowd 
For they see in battered harness 

Only one hard-stricken man. 
And his weary steed is wounded. 

And his cheek is pale and wan. 
Spearless hangs a bloody banner 

In bis weak and drooping hand — 
God I can that be Randolph Murray, 

Captain of the city band? 
Round him crush the people, crying, 

"Tell us all— oh, tell us true ! 
Where are they who went to battle, 

Randolph Murray, sworn to you? 
Where are they, our brothers — children? 

Have they met the English foe? 
Why art thou alone, unfoUowed? 



Is it' 



:al, ( 



Like a corpse the grisly v 
Looks from out his helm of steel; 

But no word he speaks in answer, 
Only with his armed heel 

Chides his weary steed, and onward 
Up the city streets they ride; 

Through the streets the death- word 

Spreading terror, sweeping on— 
"Jesu Christ I our King has fallen — 

great God, King James is gone I 
Holy Mother Mary, shield us. 

Thou who erst did lose thy Son I 
O the blackest day for Scotland 

That she ever knew before! 
O our King^the good, the noble. 

Shall we sec him never more? 
Woe to us and woe to Scotland, 

our sons, our sons and men ! 
Surely some have 'scaped the Southron 

Surely some will come again I" 
Till the oak that felt last winter 

Shall uprear its shattered stem — 
Wives and mothers of Dunedin — 

Ye may look in vain for them I 

But within the Council Chamber 

AH was silent as the grave. 
Whilst the tempest of their sorrow 

Shook the bosoms of the brave. 
Well indeed might they be shaken 

With the weight of such a blow : 
He was gone — their prince, their idol. 

Whom they loved and worshipped sol 
Like a knell of death and judgment 

Rung from heaven by angel hand, 
Fell the words of desolation 

On the elders of the land. 



302 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Hoary heads were bowed and trembling, 
Withered hands were clasped and 
wniiiK: 

God had left the old and feeble. 
He had ta'en away the young. 

Then the Provost he uprose, 

And his lip was ashen white. 
But a flush was on his brow, 

And his eye was full of light. 
"Thou hast spoken, Randol^ Murray, 

Like a soldier stout and true; 
Thou bast done a deed of daring 

Had been perilled but by few. 
For thou hast not shamed to face us. 

Nor to speak thy ghastly tale, 
Standing— thou, a knight and captain- 
Here, alive within thy mail ! 
Now, at my God shall judge me, 

I hold it braver done. 
Than hadst thou tarried in thy place. 

And died above my son I 
Thou needst not tell it : he is dead. 

God help us all this day I 
But spMk— how fought the citizens 

Within the furious fray? 
For, by the might of Mary, 

"Twere something slill to tell 
That no Scottish foot went backward 

When the Royal Lion fell !" 

"No one failed him I He is keeping 

Royal state and semblance still ; 
Knight and noble lie around him, 

Cold on Flodden's fatal hilL 
Of the brave and pliant-hearted, 

Whom ye sent with prayers away. 
Not a single man departed 

From his monarch yesterday. 
Had you seen them, O my masters I 

When the night began to fall, 
And the English spearmen gathered 

Round a grim and ghastly wall ! 
As the wolves in winter circle 

Round the leaguer on the heath. 
So the greedy foe glared upward. 

Panting stiil for blood and death. 
But a rampart rose before them. 

Which the boldest dared not scale; 
Every stone a Scottish body, 

Every step a corpse in mail I 
And behind it lay our monarch 

Clenching still his shivered sword: 
By his side Montrose and Athole, 

At his feet a Southern lord. 
All so thick they lay together. 

When the stars lit up the sky. 



That I knew not who were stricken, 

Or who yet remained to die. 
Few there were when Surrey halted. 

And his wearied host withdrew ; 
None but dying men around me, 

When the English trumpet blew. 
Then I stooped, and took the banner. 

As yc see it, from his breast. 
And I closed our hero's eyelids. 

And I left him to his rest. 
In the mountains growled the thunder. 

As I leaped the woeful wall. 
And the heavy clouds were settling 

Over Flodden, like a pall." 

From "Lays of the Scoltith Cavaliers." 
—William E. Ayloun. 



The Second Condemnstion. 
The deuili of the Dieyfua uk are too long 

Iiland, Dr'evfus wu Tro'^h" back °to Frince 
Sept 9/1899. WM "C;"ufli^w?™^nuitina 



wu pardoned by the Presideat tea days later. 

O martyr-soul, the infamy they speak 
Is of themselves alone, and not of thee I 
They are condemned at last. Thou goest 

free 
By the high court of Heaven. One low- 

A Jew, despised of Roman and Greek, 
Hath once before turned doom to vic- 

And God and Right will thwart eternal- 
ly 
The vengeance that these human devils 



The thunderbolt hath fallen I From lust 

to lust 
France languished on her way, till her 

decrees, 
Moulded by perjuries and forgeries. 
Devote undying Justice to the dust, 
Nor heed the awful writing on the wall 
That she who loselh Honor losetta all I 
—Jokn Hall Ingham. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



303 



September 10. 

PERRY'S VICTORY. 



A naval victor]' gained hj the 

Dnilcr Perrj over the English uDdd BmltUj 
on ScpL 10, 18It. 

We sailed to and fro in Erie's broad lake. 
To find British bullies or get into their 

When we hoisted our canvas with true 
Yankee speed, 

And the brave Captain Perry our squad- 
ron did lead 

We sailed through the lake, boys, in 

search of the foe. 
In the cause of Columbia our brav'ry to 

To be equal in combat was all our de- 
light, 

As we wished the proud Britons to know 
we could fight. 

And whether like Yeo, boys, they'd taken 

affright. 
We could see not, nor find them by day 

or by night ; 
So cruising we went in a glorious cause, 
In defense of our rights, our freedom, 

and lews. 
At length to our liking, six sails hove in 
Huzzah I says brave Perry, huziah I says 

And then for the chase, boys, with our 
brave little crew, 

We fell in with ihe bullies, and gave 
them "burgoo." 

Though the force was unequal, deter- 
mined to light. 

We brought them to action before it was 

We let loose our thunder, our bullets did 

fly. 

"Now give them your shot, boys," our 

commander did cry. 
We gave them a broadside, our cannon 

to try, 
"Well done," says brave Perry, "for 

quarter they'll cry. 
Shot well home, my brave boys, they 

shortly shall see. 
That quite brave as they are, still braver 



Then we drew up our squadron, each 

man full of fight, 
And put Ihe proud Britons in a terrible 

plight, 
The brave Perry's movements will prove 

fully as bold. 
As the famed Admiral Nelson's prowess 

of old. 

The conflict was sharp, boys, each man 
to his guns. 

For our country, her glory, the vict'ry 
was won. 

So six sail (the whole fleet) was our for- 
tune to take. 

Here's a health to brave Perry, who 
governs the Lake. 

—Old Ballad. 



September il. 

THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAM- 
PLAIN. 



On September 11, 1314, i 

OttrAlei a British for 
Capuin Downie on . 
foiee iupporied an in' 
a land force under Sii 



;■£ 



r Captain MacdOQOi 

Ake ChampLain. 

uion o( Hew York br 
George Prevoat. a pre* 



Parading near Saint Peter's flood 
Full fourteen thousand soldiers stood; 
Allied with natives of the wood. 
With frigates, sloops, and galleys near; 
Which southward, now, began to steer; 
Their object was, Ticonderogue. 

Assembled at Missisqui bay 
A feast they held, to hail the day. 
When all should bend to British sway 
From Plattsburgh to Ticonderogue. 

And who could tell, if reaching there 

They might not other laurels share 
And England's flag in triumph bear 
To the capitol, at Albany I 

Sir George advanced, with fire and 

The frigates were with vengeance stored. 
The strength of Mars was felt on 

When Downie gave the dreadful wordi 
Huzza I for death or victory I 



304 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Sir Georse beheld the prize at stake. 
And, witfi his veterans, made the attack, 
Macomb's brave legions drove him back; 
And England's fleet approached, to meet 
A desperate combat, on the lake. 

From Isle La Motte to Saranac 

With sulphurous clouds the heavens were 

black; 
We saw advance the Confiance, 
Shalt blood and carnage mark her trade, 
To gain dominion on the lake. 

Then on our ships she poured her flame. 
And many a tar did kill or maim. 
Who suffered for their country's fame, 
Her soil to save, her rights to guard. 

Macdonough, now, began his play, 
And soon his seamen heard him say, 

"No Saratoga yields, this day. 
To all the force that Britain sends. 

"Disperse, my lads, and man (he waist. 

Be Rrm, and to your stations haste. 
And England from Champlain is chased, 
If you behave as you see me." 

The fire began with awful roar; 
At our first flash the artillery tore. 
From his proud stand, their commo- 

A presage of the victory. 

The skies were hid in flame and smoke. 
Such thunders from the cannon spoke. 
The contest such an aspect took 
As if all nature went lo wreck 1 

Amidst his decks, with slaughter strewed. 
Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood. 
Or waded through a scene of blood, 
At every step that round him 



He stood amidst Columbia's sons. 
He stood amidst dismounted guns, 

He fought amidst heart-rending groans. 
The tattered sail, the tottering mast. 



In vain they fought, in vain they sailedi 
That day; for Britain's fortune tailed. 
And their best efforts naught availed 
To hold dominion on Champlain. 

So, down their colors to the deck 

The vanquished struck— their ships » 

What dismal tidings for Quebec, 
What news for England and her 
prince I 

For, in this fleet, from England won, 
A favorite project is undone; 
Her sorrows only are begun— 
And she may want, and very soon. 
Her armies for her own defence. 

— PhiUp Freneau. 



THE TAKING OF SEBASTOPOL. 



Bjr an Amciican aboard the Botion abip Sul- 

TiJe liege of Scbasiapol wu ihe chief ereot 
of the Crimean Wat. It «m begun in Octo- 
ber. IBGl, anJ continued for over ■ year, the 
city being entcre.I hy die Allici on Scptembet 

10, 1S5S. 



I sailed by Tencdos, in sight of Troy, 
My Homer in my hand, but in my 

Little remembrance of the past, or Joy 
In the sad present or the poet's art 

A ship went by that bore my country's 

"The Great Republic," and a moment's 
thrill 
Flashed through my breast, but van- 

For in that bark an Iliad was of ill. 



A thous 



wounded soldiei 



her 



Lay groaning, bleeding; scirce a man 
but bore 
His deathmark on him. Happy he that 

There where he tell, beside the Pontic 

shore. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



And farther onward a 

sail 



e stretched our 



Along the sacred Hellespont, a gleam 
Came in the night, and mingled with a 

That seemed the voice of the com- 
plaining stream. 

Black messengers of death were on the 

Like clouds containing tempests, dark- 
ly driven 
By autumn winds — alas I the news they 
bring 

The doom that took the gentle chief to 
heaven. 

Farewell, brave heart! if not the bright- 
est sword, 
Set of true temper, thou wert of the 
best: 
Considerate chieft&in, unpresuming Lord, 
FiMroy ! good angels bear thee to thy 



We mourned with England, if the vulgar 

Read of her sorrow with unfriendly 

We mourn for them too, for our hearts 



Tel] me thy name, American 1 What 

What blood, what accent ruled thee at 
thy birth? 
That when the news cornel of a new dis- 
grace 

Mak'st England's grief the staple of 
thy mirth. 

But we are past Seraglio Point— behold 1 
S cutari— Pera — cypresses — cdiques — 

All the old places— lo I the Horn of 
Gold! 
The Sultan's pride — the glory of the 

There as we anchored in Byzantium's 
Beneath the walls of Constantinc, a 



; but 'twas a cry that 



Startled our 
gave 

Joy to my soul and gladness to mine 
eye. 

A new gleam breaketh oa tiie duiky 

Gilding Sophia's, like Saint Peter's 

Good news! they have itl God hath 
sped the right ; 
A hundred minarets flash it on the 
foamt 



Mount Ida caught the flash and sent it on 
To the isle of Lemnos, like that 
courier-light 
Which bright with news of Troy's de- 

And thence it sped to Athos' holy 
height ; 

So on to Argos, on to Syracuse, 
And, by Hesperia, to the bounteous 
land 
That owes to Gallic hearts its generous 



Till to this young half-world, where 
Hesperus 
Hangs a new signal in the nation's 

The lightning sped! and brought the 
thrill to us— 
A thrill of joy! they have itl the 

Allies I 

For we must joy with England or ab- 

The faith in freedom that our fathers 
had. 
Dost thou rejoice not? Wouldst thyself 

The sway whose downfall does not 
make thee glad? 

Tell me thy name, that I may set it 

And say this man — he had a double 

soul: 

Proud of old England and her past re- 
He felt no triumph at SebastopoM 
—T. W. Parstmt. 



306 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



September IZ 



THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF 
THE BLOODY BROOK. 



nUe from DeerGeld, i 



A brOfdi mbout a 
Sept 11. 1878. 

Come listen to the Stor; of brave Lath- 
rop and his Men. — 
How they fought, how thejr died. 
When they marched against the Red 
Skins in the Autumn Days, ana 
then 
How they fell, in their pride, 
By Pocumtuck Side. 

"Who will go to Deerfield Meadows and 
bring the ripened Grain?" 
Said old Mosety to his men in Array. 
"Take the Wagons and the Horses, and 
bring it back again ; 
But be sure that no Man stray 
All the Day, on the Way." 

Then the Flower of Essex started, with 

Lathrop at their head. 

Wise and brave, bold and true. 

He had fought the Pequots long ago, 

and now to Mosely said, 

"Be there Many, be there Few, 

I will bring the Grain to you." 

They gathered all the Harvest, and 

marched back on their Way 

Through the Woods which blazed like 

No Soldier left the Line of march 

wander or to stray. 
Till the Wagons were stalled in tl 

Mire, 
And the Beasts began to tire. 



The Wagons have all forded the Brook 
as it fiows 
And then the Rear-Guard stays 
To pick the Purple Grapes that are 
hanging from the Boughs, 
When, crack ! — to their Amaze, 
A hundred Fire-locks blaze ! 

Brave Lalhrop. he lay dying; but as he 
fell he cried, 
"Each Man to his Tree," said he. 



"Tet no one yield an inch;" and $o the 
Soldier died; 
And not a Man of all can see 
Where the Foe can be. 



And Philip and his Devils pour in tfadr 
Shot so fast. 
From behind and before. 
That Man after Man is shot down and 
breathes his last 
Ever; Man lies dead in his Gore 
To fight no more, — no more ! 

Oh, weep, ye Maids of Essex, for Ac 
Lads who have died, — 
The Flower of Essex they! 
The Bloody Brook still ripples by the 

black Mountain-side, 
But never shall they come again to see 

the ocean-tide. 
And never shall the Bridegroom return 
to his Bride, 
From that dark and cruel Day. — cruel 
Dayl 

— Edward Everett Hale. 



AT THE GRAVE OF WALKER, 



/illiam Walker, afler in ers) 
mtral America, invaded Hond—^ 
:re caittured sod allot by the ao- 
Sept. 12. ISSD. 



He lies low in the levelled sand. 
Unsheltered from the tropic sun, 
And now of all he knew not one 
Will speak him fair in that far land. 
Perhaps 'twas this that made me seek. 
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide ; 
A weakness for the weaker side, 
A siding with the helpless weak. 

I A palm not far held out a hand. 
Hard by a long green bamboo swung. 
And bent like some great bow unstrung. 
And quivered like a willow wand. 
Perched on its fruits that crooked hang, 
Beneath a broad bnnana's leaf, 
A bird in rainbow splendor sang 
A low, sad song, of tempered grief. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone. 
But at his side a cactus Ereen 
Upheld its lances long and keen; 
It stood in sacred sands alone, 
Fht-palmed and fierce with lifted spears; 
One bloom of crimson crowned its head, 
A drop of blood, so bright, so red, 
Yet redolent as roses' tears. 

In ray left hand I held a shell. 
All rosy lipped and pearly red; 
I laid it by his lowly bed, 
For he did love so passing well 
The grand songs of the solemn sea. 

shell ! sing well, wild, with a will, 
When storms blow loud and birds be 

still, 
The wildest sea-song known to thee! 

1 said some things with folded hands, 
Soft whispered in the dim sea-sound, 
And eyes held humbly to the ground. 
And trail knees sunken in the sands. 
He had done more than this for me. 
And yet I could not well do more: 

I turned me down the olive shore, 
And set a sad face to the sea. 

—Joagain Milter. 



September 13. 



ON GENERAL WOLFE. 



In the Church i 
where he wan 1v,rn. 
QnelHC 



._ by the Britith undf 

Wolfe from the French nadir MoDtcilni, o 
,1S, IT SB. Both CDOvnaDderi wen 



While George in sorrow bows his lau- 
relled head. 

And bids the artist grace the soldier 
dead,— 

We raise no sculptured trophe to thy 

Brave youth I the fairest in the lists of 

Proud of thy birth, wc boast the' auspi- 
cious year; 
Struck with thy fall, we shed the gen- 

With humble grief inscribe one artless 

And from thy matchless honor date our 
Qwn, 



ON THE DEATH OF MR, FOX, 



"Our nation's foes lament on Fox's 

death. 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd 

his breath : 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth 

We give the palm where Justice points 
it 's due." 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES 
SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY : 

O factious viper I whose envenom'd 

tooth 
Would mangle still the dead, perverting 

truth ; 
What though our "nation's foes" lament 

the fate. 
With generous feeling, of the good and 

great, 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the 

Of him whose meed exists in endless 

When Pitt expired in plenitude of power. 
Though il! success obscured his dying 

Pity her dewy wings before him spread, 
For noble spirits "war not with the 

dead." 
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem 

gave, 
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; 
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the 

Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting 
state : 

When, lo I a Hercules in Fox appear'd. 

Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd; 

He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss sup- 
plied. 

With him our fast-reviving hopes have 
died; 

Not one great people only raise his um. 

All Europe's far-extending regions 

"These feelings wide, let sense and truth 

undue. 
To give the palm where Justice points 

Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail. 



308 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Or round our statesmen wind ber gloomy 

veil. 
Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world 

must weep. 
Whose dear remains in honor'd marble 

sleep ; 
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations 

groan. 
While friends and foes alike his talents 

Fox shall in Britain's future annals 
shine, 

Nar e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm re- 
sign; 

Wbidi Envy, wearing Candor's sacred 
mask. 

For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to 
ask. 

—Lord Byron. 



September 14. 

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE 
PORTS. 

The Cinque Porti ii > collictiTe name for 
Oc five Engliih Cbannel Poru— Sandwich, 
HMtingm. Romncr, Uythc, and Dover. They 
fnrouhed tho chief naval continieal until the 
time of HeTU7 VII. Ther are loverned bj a 
Lord Warden Ihough moat of their privilegei, 
Eranud la then hv William The Conqueior. 
Gave been aboliabed. Civil iuriadiction ceaMd 
to 18»S, but the Loi 



e Duke . 






the 



. 1BS3. 



The 



A mist was driving down the British 
Channel ; 
The day was just begun; 
And through the window-panes, on floor 
and panel, 
Streamed the red Aatumn sun. 

It gbnced on flowing flag and rippling 
pennon, 
And the white sails of ships; 
And, from the frowning rampart, the 

black cannon 
Hailed it with feverish lips. 

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, 
and Dover, 
Were all aleit that day, 



To see the French war-steamers speed- 
ing oyer 
When the fog cleared away. 

Sullen and silent, and like concbant lioai. 
Their cannon through the night. 

Holding their breath, had watched m 
grim defiance 
The sea-coast opposite. 

And now they roared, at dnun-bea^ 
from their statitms 
On every dtadel; 
Each answering each, with morning 
salutations. 
That all was welll 

And down the coast, all taking up the 
burden. 
Replied the distant forts — 
As if to summon from his sleep the 
Warden 
And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 



L shall I 



sunshine from the fields 



No drum-beat from the wall, 
No morning gun from the black forts' 
embrasure, 
Awaken with their call! 



No 1 



vith i 






lore, surveying ' 

The long line of the coast, 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old field- 
marshal 
Be seen upon his post I 

For in the night, unseen, a single war- 
In sombre harness mailed, 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the De- 

The rampart wall has scaled! 
He passed into the chamber of the 

The dark and silent r 
And, as he entered, darker grew, and 
deeper, 
The silence and the gloom. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



309 



He did not pause to parley, or dissemble. 
But smote the Warden hoar — 

Ah! what a blow I — that made all Eng- 
land tremble 
And groan from shore to shore. 

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon 
waited. 
The sun rose bright o'erhead— 
Nothing in Nature s aspect intimated 
That a great man was dead ! 

—Hettry W. Longfellow. 



WELLINGTON. 

Not only that thy puissant arm could 

The tyrant of a world: and, (Xinquer- 

ing Fate, 
Enfranchise Europe, do 1 deem thee 
great; 
But that in all thy actions I do find 
Exact propriety ■ no gusts of mind 

Fitful and wild, but that = 

state 
Of ordered impulse mariners await 
In some benignant and enriching wind,— 
The breath ordained of Nature. Thy 
calm mien 
Recalls old Rome, as much as thy high 
deed; 
Duty thine only idol, and serene 
When all are troubled; in the utmost 

Prescient; thy country's servant ever 

Yet sovereign of thyself, whate'er may 
speed. 

— Lord Beatoitsfield. 



FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 

WiUiam McKinliir died September 11, IVOl. 

His work is done, his toil is o'er; 
A martyr for our land he fell — 
The land he loved, that loved him well; 

Honor his name forevermore! 

Let all the world its tribute pay. 
For glorious shall be his renown; 
Though duty's was his only crown. 

Yet du^s path ia glory's way. 



For he was great without pretense ; 
A man of whom none whispered 

A man who knew nor guile nor blame; 
Good in his every influence. 

On battle field, in council hall. 
Long years with sterling service rife 
He gave us, and at last his life — 

Still tmafraid at duty's call. 

Let the last solemn pageant move. 
The nation's grief to consecrate 
To him struck down by maniac hate 

Amid a mighty nation's love; 

And though the thought its solace gives. 
Beside the martyr's grave to-day 
We feel 'tis almost hard to say; 

"God reigns and the republic lives I" 
—R. H. Tilherineton. 



THE COMFORT OF THE TREES. 

Prea!d(iit UcKinler: September, IVO], 

Gentle and generous, brave-hearted, kind, 

And full of love and tntst was he, our 
chief; 

He never harmed a soul I Ob, dull 
and blind 

And cruel, the hand that smote, be- 
yond belief I 
Strike him? It could not be! Soon 
should we find 

'Twas but a torturing dream— our sud- 
den grief I 

Then sobs and wai lings down the 
northern wind 

Like the wild voice of shipwreck from 
a reef I 
By false hope lulled (his courage gave 

By day, by night we watched, — until 

unfurled 
At last the word of fate!— Our memo- 
Cherish one tender thought in their sad 

scope: 
He, looking from the window on this 

world. 
Found comfort in the moving green of 

—Richard Wattoa GUdfr. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER. 



bm of BKltimorc, wu aiuuccaafnllj bom- 
bu-dcd b; the Biitiih, Sept 11, ISll. Fnnci* 
Scott Ker witneucd the botnttudinent ftom 
die Britiwi veieel io which he wu detained u 

the name of "The Star Spacfled Banner." 



Oh, say, a^a you see, by the dawn's early 
light, 
What so proudly we hailed at the twi- 
light's last ^leamii^? 
Whose hroad stnpes and bright stan 
thro' the penlous fi^ht 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so 
gallantly strearoinK? 
And me rockets red glare and bombs 
bursting in air 
Gave proof thro' the night that our flag 
was still there; 
Oh, say, does that Star Spangled banner 
yet V 



CBOHUS. 

Oh, say, does the Star Spangled Banner 



On the shore, dimly seen thro' the mist 

of the deep. 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread 

silence reposes, 
What is that which the breeze o'er the 

towering sleep, 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half 

discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morn- 
ing's first beam. 
In full glory reflected now shines in 

the stream ; 
Tis the Star Spangled Banner, oh, 

long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home 

of the brave. — Cho. 

And where is that band who so vaunt- 
ing! y swore, 
'Mid the havoc of war and the battle's 

A home and a country they'd leave us 
no more? 



Their blood has washed out their foul 

footsteps' pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and 

slave 
From terror of flight or the gloom of 

the grave ; 
And the Star Spangled Banner in 

triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home 

of the brave. — Cho. 

Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall 

Between their loved home and the 
war's desolation; 
Blest with victory and peace, may the 
Heaven-rescued land 
Praise the Power that made and pre- 
served us a nation I 
Then conquer we must, when our cause 
it is just. 
And this be our motto, "In God is our 
trust I" 
And the Star Spangled Banner in 
triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home 
of the brave.— Cho. 

—Francis Scott Key, 



September 15. 

ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM. 

The fiiend af Tcan^rson. Hi* .euljr dea 



The Danube to the Severn gave 
The darken'd heart that beat no more; 
They laid him by the pleasant shore. 

And in the hearing of the wave. 



And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along 
And hush'd my deepest grief of all. 
When fill'd with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls; 
My deeper anguish also falls. 

And I can speak a little then. 

I envy not in any moods 
The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet bom within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods : 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime. 

To whom a conscience never wakes; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth. 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; 

Nor any want-begotten rest 

I hold it true, whate'er befall; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

This truth came borne with bier «nd 
pall, 
I felt it when I sorrowed most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost. 
Than never to have loved at all — 
From "In Memoriam," 
—Alfred Tettnyton. 



September 16. 

BISHOP PATTESON. 

An English miuionatr Bitbop ol McUnoia 
murdered br Ihc niliTF* of the SuU Cnu 
itiudi on Sept. 10, ISTl. 

An Angel came and cried to him by 
night, 
"God needs a Martyr from your little 

Name me the purest soul, which, closely 
scanned. 
Still overflows with sweetness and 
with light 
That find no limit till they reach the 
Und 
Whence first they sprang I" Weeping 
for what must be. 



He named them all, with love adorning 

And still that angel smiled upon bis 
speech. 
And, smiling still, went upward silent- 
ly 
Not marking any name. Amaied be 
knelt. 
Pondering the silent choice. But when 
the stroke 
Fell, not an Angel, but the Master, 
spoke, 
With voice so strong that nothing else 
was felt i 
'niiou art the man I Beloved, come to 
Mel" 

—MeneUa Bttie Smedlty- 



September 17. 

IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE 
LANDOR. 



Bade to the flower-town, side by side. 

The bright months bring, 
New-born, the bridegroom and the 

Freedom and spring. 

The sweet land laughs from sea to sea. 

Filled full of sun; 
All things come back to her, being free; 

All things but one. 

In many a tender wheaten plot 

Flowers that were dead 
Live, and old suns revive; but not 

That holier head. 

By this white wandering waste of sea. 

Far north I hear 
One face shall never turn to me 

As once this year : 

Shall never smile and turn and rest 

On mine as there, 
Nor one most sacred hand be prest 

Upon my hair. 



313 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



I came as one whose thougbu half 

Half ran before: 
The youngest to the oldest singer 
That England bore. 

I found him whom I shall not find 

Till alt grief end, 
In holiest age our mightiest mind. 

Father and friend. 

But thou, if anythii^ endure. 

If hope there be, 
O spirit that man's life left pure, 

Man's death set free. 

Not with disdain of days that were 

Look earthward now ; 
Let dreams revive the reverend hair. 

The imperial brow ; 

Come back in sleep, for in the life 

Where thou art not 
We find none like thee. Time and Strife 

And the world's lot 

Move thee no more ; but love at least 

And reverent heart 
May move thee, royal and releast. 

Soul, as thou art. 

And thou, his Florence, to thy trast 

Receive and keep, 
Keep safe his dedicated dust. 

His sacred sleep. 

So shall thy lovers, come from far. 

Mix with thy name 
As morning-star with evening-star 

His faultless fame. 

— Algernon C. Swinburne. 



Septcmljcr 18. 



KING HENRY V. AT HARFLEUR. 



Captured by the Kngliah andtr Utnrj V. 
fram the French. The siecre was besun on 
Sept IB, Itlfi and ended nine dayi liter. 



Or close the wall up with oar Engliih 

dead. 
In peace there's nothing so becomes a 

As modest stillness and humility: 

But when the blast of war blows in our 

Then imitate the action of the tiger; 
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. 
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd 

rage; 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 
Let it pry through the portage of tbe 

head 
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'er> 

whelm it 
As fearfully as doth a galled rock 
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
Swiird with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
Now set the teeth and stretch the oostril 

Hold hard the breath and bend up every 

spirit 
To his full height On, on, you noblest 

English, 
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war- 
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, 
Have in these parts from mom till even 

fought 
And sheathed their swords for lack of 

argument : 
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest 
That those whoca you call'd Others did 

b^et you. 
Be copy now to men of grosser blood. 
And teach them how to war. And you, 

good yeomen. 
Whose limbs were made in England, 

show us here 
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear 
That you are worth your breeding; 

which I doubt not; 
For there is none of you so mean and 

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 
I sec you stand like greyhounds in the 

Straining upon the start. The game's 

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge 
Cry 'God for Ilarry, England, and Saint 
George I' 
Exeunt. Alarum. 

Henry V. Act III. Scene I, 

— Shakespeare. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



September lo. 



B of ihr uvcrcM bittlo of the Civil V 

t an Scpl. ig, 1883. The Confederi 

Bragg, defMled the Federili ni 



Happy are they and charmed in life 

Who through long wars arrive tin- 
scarred 
At peace. To such the wreath be given, 
If they unfalteringly have striven — 

In honor, as in limb unmarred. 
Let cheerful praise be rite. 

And let them live their years at ease. 
Musing on brothers who victorious 
died— 

Loved mates whose memory shall ever 

And yet mischance is honorable too- 
Seeming defeat in conflict justified. 
Whose end to closing eyes is hid from 

The will, that never can relent — 
The aim, survivor of the bafflement. 
Make this memorial due. 

— Herman Melville. 



AT THE PRESIDENT'S GRAVE. 



July id, but )i 



Sept IS, ] 



1. (hot at Waihinnon an 
I far over two manflu. He 



All summer long the people knelt 
And listened at the sick man's door: 

Each pang which that pale sufferer felt 
Throbbed through the land from shore 

And as the all-dreaded hour drew nigh, 
What breathless watching, night and 
day I 
What tears, what prayers! Great God 
on high,— 
Have we forgotten how to pray ! 

O broken-hearted, widowed one. 
Forgive us if we press too nearl 

Dead is our husband, father, son, — 
For we are all one household here. 



And not alone here by the sea. 
And not in his own land alone, 

Are tears of anguisti shed with thee — 
In this one loss the world is one. 



A man not perfect, but of heart 
So high, of such heroic rage. 

That even his hopes became a part 
Of earth's eternal heritage. 

—Richard WaUoti Gilder. 



THE BELLS AT MIDNIGHT. 

Tolling for the death af Preaident Gtrficld. 

/» their dark House of Cloud 
The three weird titters toil liU time be 

sped; 
One vnwittds life, one ever weaves the 

One wails to fart Ike thread. 

1. 



How long, O sister, now long 
Ere the weary task is done? 
How long, sister, how long 
Shall the fragile thread be spun? 



Like her who kneels by his bed I 



Patience I the end is come ; 
He shall no more endure : 
Seel with a single touch! — 
My band is swift and sure! 



Two angels pausing in their flight 

nnST ANGEL. 

Listen ! what was it fell 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The planet where mortals dwell t 
I hear it not . . yes, I hear; 

How it deepens— a sound of dole I 

FIKST ANGEL. 

Listen I tt is the knell 
Of a passing soul — 

The midnight lamentation 

Of some stricken nation 

For a chieftain's soull 

It is just begun. 

The many- throated moan . . . 

Now the clangor swells 

As if a million bells 

Had blent their tones in one I 

Accents of despair 

Are these to mortal ear; 

But all this wild funereal music blown 

And sifted through celestial air 

Turns to triumphal pians here! 

Wave upon wave the silvery anthems 

Wave upon wave the deep vibrations roll 

From that dim sphere below. 

Come, let us go — 

Surely, some chieftain's soul I 

— Thomas B. Aldrich. 



September 20. 

CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE. 

Verse* wrilttn in the Tower, the night be 

Chediock'rkhebDrne, one of the BabingtoF 
conspirators, who wag executed Sept. sn 
iiW. The object o< thii conipiracy waa Itii 
dealh of Queen Eli"bclh. the relea« of Marj 
Queen. ot^ScdU, and a general riling of the 

My prime of youth is but a froat of cares. 
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain. 
My crop of com is but a field of tares. 
And all my goodes is but vain hope of 

gain. 
The day is tied, and yet I saw no sun ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done ! 

My spring is past, and yet it hath not 

sprung, 
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are 

green. 



My youth is past, and yet I am but 

young, 
I saw the world, and yet I was not sc«i. 
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; 
And now 1 live, and now my life is done I 

I sought for death and found it in the 

wombe, 
I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, 
I trade the ground, and knew it was my 

And now I die, and now I am but made. 
The glass is full, and vet my glass is run ; 
And now I live, and now my life is done I 
— Chediock Tichebome. 



Though till now ungraced in story, scant 

although thy waters be. 
Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly 

roll them to the sea. 

Yesterday unnamed, unhonoured, but to 
wandering Tartar known. 

Now thou art a voice for ever, to the 
world's four comers blown. 

In two nations' annals graven, thou art 
now a deathless name, 

And a star forever shining in their firma- 
ment of fame. 

Many a great and ancient river, crowned 
with city, tower and shrine, 

Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts 
no potency like thine ; 

Cannot shed the light thou sheddest 
around many a living head, 

Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the 
memories of the dead. 

Yea, nor all unsooihed their sorrow, 
who can, proudly mourning, say — 

When the first strong burst of anguish 
shall have wept itself away — 

'He has passed from us, the loved one; 
but he sleeps with them that died 

By the Alma, at the winning of that ter- 
rible hillside.' 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Yes, and in the days far onward, when 
we all are calm as those, 

Who beneath thy vines and willows on 
their hero-beds repose. 

Thou on England's banners blazoned 
with the famous fields of old, 

Shalt, where other fields are winning, 
wave above the brave and bold : 

And our sons unborn shall nerve them 
for some great deed to be done. 

By that twentieth of September, when 
the Alma's heights were woa 

O thou river I dear forever to the gallant, 

to the free. 
Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly 

roll them to the sea. 

'-Richard C. Trench. 



OI BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 

Robert Eminclt, at th« ige of t*«ilT-fi»«| 
put hiniaelf at the bead of an luuucceuful 
riaing in Dublin. Hi> capture ii said to bavc 
been the re»u1i of hi* reluming lo Uhe leave 
of Miu Sarah Curran, to «bom he waa eD- 
gaged. He wa« tried for treaioa on SepL IS, 
IBOS. found guilly and banged the Dcxt day. 
---■ "-■--■nbam Hoapital bul 



t!f' St. }[^u 



rebyar. 



O! breathe not his name! let it sleep in 

the shade. 
Where cold and unhonored his relics are 

kid; 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we 

shed. 
As the night dew that falls on the grave 

o'er his head. 

But the night dew that falls, though in 

silence it weeps. 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave 

where he sleeps ; 
nnd the tear that we shed, though in 

secret it rolls, 
Shall long keep his memory green in our 

— Thomas Moore. 



WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE 

When he who adores thee has left but 
the name 
Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh I say, wilt thou weep, when they 
darken the fame 
Of a life that for thee was resigned? 
Yea, weep, and however my foes may 
condemn, 
Thy tears shall efface their decree; 
For Heaven can witness, though guilty 
to them, 
I have been too faithful to thee ! 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest 

Every thought of my reason was thine ; 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit 

Thy name shall be mingled with minel 
Oh I blest are the lovers and friends who 
shall live 
The days of thy glory to see ; 
But the next dearest blessing that 
Heaven can give 
Is the pride of thus dying for theet 
— Thomas Moore. 



SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 

She is far from the land where her 
young hero sleeps, 
And lovers around her are sighing; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze and 

For her heart in his grave is lyingl 

She sings the wild soi« of her dear 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her 

How the heart of the minstrel is break- 
ing! 

He had lived for his love, for his country 

They were all that to life had entwined 

him,— 
Nor soon shall the tears of his country 

be dried. 
Nor loi^ wiU his love stay behind him. 



3i6 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Oh! make her a grave where the sun- 
When they promise a glorious to-mor- 

They'U shine o'er her sleep like a smile 
from the West 
From her own loved Island or Sorrow. 
— Thomas Moore. 



^ptcmber 21. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



Died September ei 1SS>. 

Rhymers and writers of our day. 
Too much of melancholy I 
Give us the old heroic lay ; 
A whiff of wholesome folly; 
The escapade, the dance ; 
A touch of wild romance ; 
Wake from this self-conscious fit; 
Give us again Sir Walter's wit ; 
His love of earth, of sky, of life; 
His ringing page with humor rife; 
His never-weary pen; 
His love of men! 

Builder of landscape, who could make 

Turret and tower their stations take 

Brave in the face of the sun ; 

Of many a mimic world creator, 

Of nothing human he the hater. 

Nobly could he plan : 

Master of nature, master of man. 

Sometimes I think that He who made us, 

Asd on this pretty planet laid us. 

Made us to work and play 

Like children in the light of day— 

Not J ike plodders in the dark 

Searching with lanterns for some mark 

To find the way. 

After the stroke of pain. 

Up and to work again I 

Such was his life, without reproach or 

fear: 
A lonely fight before the last eclipse, — 
A broken heart, a smile upon the lips; 
And. 3t the end. 



When Heaven bent down and whispered 
The word God's saints waited and longed 

I ween he was as quick as they to coia- 

prehend ; 
And, when he passed beyond the goal. 
Entered the gates of pearl no sweeter 

souL 

—Richard WaUon Gilder. 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 



And ttier, whDU buna ar« drj 

diut. 
Bum to the iiKket" — WoTdtwarth. 

Green be the turf above thee. 

Friend of my better days I 
None knew thee but to love the^ 

Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell, when thou wert dyit^, 

From eyes unused to weep, 
And long where thou art lying. 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven. 
Like thine, are laid in earth, 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth ; 



And I, who woke each n 

To clasp thy hand in mme. 
Who shared thy joy and sorrow. 
Whose weal and woe were thine: 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow, 
But I've in vain essayed it. 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep the^ 
Nor thoughts nor words are fre^ 

The grief is fixed too deeply 
That mourns a man like thee. 

—Fits-Greene HatUek. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



3»7 



Died Stplctnber 31, 19 B. C 



I salute thee, Montovano, I that loved 
thee since my day began, 

Wielder of the stateliest measure ever 
moulded by the lips of man. 

—Alfred Tennyson. 



Roman Virgil, thou that singest llion's 
lofty temples robed in fire, 

Ilion falling, Rome arising, wars, and 
filial faith, and Dido's pyre; 



Days, 

All the chosen coin of fancy flash it% out 
from many a golden phrase; 

Thou that singest wheat and woodland, 
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse 

and herd; 
All the charm of all the Muses often 
flowering in a lonely word; 

Poet of the happy Tityrus piping under- 
neath his beechen bowers; 

Poet of the poet-satyr whom the laugh- 
ing shepherd bound with flowers; 

Chanter of the Pollio, glorying in the 
blissful years again to be. 

Summers of the snakeless meadow, un- 
laborious earth and oarless sea; 

Thou that seest Universal Nature moved 

by Universal Mind; 
Thou majestic in thy sadness at the 

doubtful doom of human kind; 

Light among the vanished ages ; star that 
gildcst yet this phantom shore; 

Golden branch amid the shadows, kings 
and realms that pass to rise no 



^ptember 22. 

NATHAN HALE. 

1 RnolunlionlTT pab-iot. Sent 

■rmtca in tnc Britiah cunp ana nani 
■PT on Sept 12, ma. 

To drum-beat and heart-beat, 

A soldier marches by; 
There is color in his cheek. 

There is courage in his eye, 
drum-beat and heart-beat. 



hen 



t die. 



Now thy Forum roars no longer, fallen 
every purple Csesar's dome — 

Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm sound 
for ever o* Imperial Rome — 

Now the Rome of slaves hath perished, 

and the Rome of freemen holds 

her place, , 
I, from out the Northern Island sun- 

der'd once from all the human 

race, 



In; 

By starlight a „ . 

He seeks the Briton's camp; 
He hears the rustling flag, 

And the armed sentry's tramp; 
And the starlight and moonlight 

His silent wanderings lamp. 

With slow tread and still tread. 
He scans the tented line; 

And he counts the battery guns, 
By ihe gaunt and shadowy pine; 

And his slow tread and still tread 
Gives no warning sign. 

The dark wave, the plumed wave. 
It meets his eager glance; 

And it sparkles 'neaCh the stars. 
Like the glimmer of a lance— 

A dark wave, a plumed wave. 
On an emerald expanse. 

A sharp clang, a still clang. 
And terror in the sound I 

For the sentry, falcon-eyed. 
In the camp a spy hath found; 

With a sharp clang, a steel dang, 
The patriot is bound. 

With calm brow, steady brow. 

He listens to his doom; 
In his look there is no fear, 
I Nor a shadow-trace of gloom; 



3x8 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



But with calm brow and steady brow 
He robes him for the tomb. 

In the long night, the still night. 

He kneels upon the sod; 
And the brutal guards withhold 

E'en the solemn word of God I 
In the long night, the still night. 

He walks where Christ hath trod. 

'Neath the blue mom, the sunny mom. 

He dies upon the tree ; 
And he mourns that he can lose 

But one life for liberty ; 
And in the blue mom, the sunny mom. 

His spent wings are free. 

But his last words, his message-words, 

They bum, lest friendly eye 
Should read how proud and calm 

A patriot could die. 
With his last words, his dying words, 

A soldier's battle-cry. 

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf, 

From monument and urn, 
The sad of earth, the glad of heaven, 

His tragic fate shall learn ; 
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf 

The name of HALE shall burn ! 

— Francis M. Finch, 



NATHAN HALE. 



I can see him, pale and slender. 

Playing by his father's door; 
I can see him off for college 

With that manly smile he wore. 
Where he quaffed the cup of knowledge 

Filled with freedom, truth and right 
Where he caught the burning spirit 

Which aroused men with its might. 
I behold him now a teacher 

Of the young and tender mind. 
Winning love of child and parent 

By his deeds and manners kind; 
A companion of the pupil, 

Of the aged none the less. 
Idolized by every woman 

For his grace and comeliness. 



Here he lived as guide and teacher. 

While the Revolution flame 
Was as yet but dark and smould'ring. 

And himself unknown to fame. 
Here he strolled along the river 

When his daily toil was o'er, 
Growing strong in mind and body 

For ti^e future's ^teful store. 

I behold him off to battle, 

Now a comely youth and strong. 
Filled with love of home and country* 

Filled with hate of Britain's wrong; 
Now a captain of *'The Rangers," 

Fearless, dashing, "Congress Own;" 
Teaching men by bold example, 

Bringing gloom to Britain's throne. 

I behold him in the harbor 

On that well remembered night 
With the British sloop in captive. 

And the hungry men's delight 
As they seized the rich provisions. 

Sweeter to a marked degree, 
Knowing that they were intended 

For their common enemy. 
I can see him later passing 

Through the British lines of steel. 
Ever keen, alert, courageous, 

Filled with patriotic zeal. 
Then betrayal, and the capture. 

And the gloom which spread afar 
When 'twas feared the daring **Ranger* 

Was a prisoner of war. 

I behold now Rutger's orchard 

On that morning red with crime. 
When they led him forth undaunted 

Hard on Howe's appointed time. 
O the God of war that morning 

Must have dropped a silent tear 
When were bumed before his vision 

Messages to kindred dear. 
But I see his eyes turn skyward 

With a look of triumph there. 
While his lips for one brief moment 

Moved as if in silent prayer. 
Then those burning words immortal. 

Bringing shame to England's crown: 
*T regret that for my country 

I've but one life to lay down !** 

— Joe Cone* 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



^pteml)er 23. 

VICTORY OF THE "BONHOMME 
RICHARD" OVER THE "SERAPIS." 



blMor^. Tbe Aniericao nMn-af-wir fioohoa 
me Rjcfaardi uadcr Paul Jones, oi^ecd the 
Sei-apU, under Capt PevKn, off Plamborough 
Had ud fought, on Sept. it, 1770, in t£e 
priMnce of thduundi of ■pectMon, until the 
Serapii furrtndered. 

O'er the rough main with flowitiK abeet 
The guardian of a numerous fleet, 

SerapU from the Baltic came ; 
A ship of less tremendous force 
Sailed by her side the self-same courae, 

Cavntess of Scarb'ro, was her name. 

Full forty guns Serapit bore. 

And Scarb'ro's Covntess twenrt-four, 

Manned with old England: boldest 
tars — 
What flag that rides the Gallic seas 
Shall dare attack such piles as these, 

Designed for tumults and for wars I 
• •••****** 
Twas Jones, brave Jones, to battle led 
As bold a crew as ever bled 

Upon the sky- surrounded main; 
The standards of the Western World 
Were to the willing winds unfurled. 

Denying Britain's tyrant reign. 

The Good Man Richard led the line; 
The Alliance next ; with these combine 

The Gallic ship they Patlat call ; 
The Vengeance, armed with sword and 

These to attack the Britons came— 
But two accomplished all. 

Go on, great man, to daunt the foe. 
And bid the haughty Britons know 

They to our Thirteen Stan shall bend ; 
Those Stars that, veiled in dark attire, 
Long glimmered with a feeble fire. 

But radiant now ascend. 

Bend to the Stars that flaming rise 
In western, not in eastern, skies, 

Fair Freedom's reign restored — 
£o when the Magi, come from far 
Beheld the God-attending Star, 

They trembled and adored. 

—Philip FrenetM. 



PAUL JONES' VICTORY. 

An American Frigate :— a frigate of fame, 
With guns mounting forty. The Richard 

by name. 
Sailed to cruise in tbe dianoels of old 

England, 
With a valiant commander, Paul Jones 

was his name. 
Hurrah I Hurrah I Our countiy forever. 

Hurrah I 



Well manned with bold seamen, well laid 
in with stores. 

In consort to drive us from Old Eng- 
land's shores. 

Hurrah I Hurrah t Our country fbrerer. 
Hurrah! 

About twelve at noon, Pearson came 

alongside. 
With a loud speaking trumpet, "Whence 

came you ?" he cried ; 
"Return me an answer— I hailed you 

Or if you do not, a broadside 111 pour." 

Hurrah I 
Paul Jones then said to his men, every 

"Let every true seaman stand firm to his 

gunt 
Well receive a broadside from this bold 

Englishman, 
And like true Yankee sailors, return it 

again." Hurrah! 

The contest was bloody, both decks ran 

with gore, 
And the sea seemed to blaze, while the 

"Fight on, my brave boys," then Paul 
Jones he cried, 

"And soon we will humble this Eng- 
lishman's pride." Hurrah I 

"Stand firm to your quarters— your dnty 

The first one that shrinks, through tbe 

body I'll run. 
Though their force is superior, yet they 

shall know. 
What true, brave American seamen can 

do." Hurrah t 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The battle roUed on, till bold Pearson 

cried: 
"Have you yet struck your colon? then 



But so far from thinking that the battle 

was won. 
Brave Paul Jones replied : "I've not yet 

b^vn 1" Hurrah I 

We fought them eight glasses, eight 

glasses so hot. 
Till seventy bold Beameo lay dead on the 

spot. 
And ninety brave seamen lay stretched in 

their gore. 
While the pieces of camion most fiercely 



Our gunner, in great fright, to Captain 

Jones came, 
*^e gain water i^uite fast and our side's 

Then Paul Jones said in the height of his 

"If we cannot do better, boys, sink 
alongside !" 

The Alliance bore down, and the Richard 
did rake, 

Which caused the bold hearts of our sea- 
men to ache : 

Our shots flew so hot that they could not 
stand us long, 

And the undaunted Union-of- Britain 
came down. 

To us they did strike and their colors 

hauled down; 
The fame of Paul Jones to the world 

shall be known. 
His name shall rank with the gallant and 

Who fought like a herc^-our freedom to 
save. 

Now alt valiant seamen where'er you 

Who hear of this combat that's fought 

on the sea. 
May you all do like them when called to 

do the same. 
And your names be enrolled on the p^es 

of fame. 



And to you she will look from all dan- 
gers to save, 

She'll call you dear sons, in her aaasla 
you'U shine. 

And the brows of the brave shall green 
laurels entwine. 

So now my brave boya have we taken a 

A large 44 ajid a 30 likewise I 

Then God bless the mother whose doom 

The loss of her sons in the ocean so de^ 
—Anonymoiu. 



DEATH OF GENERAL MARCEAU. 



By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground. 
There is a small and simple pyramid. 
Crowning the summit of the verdant 

mound ; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid. 
Our enemy's— but let not that forbid 
Honor to Marceau I o'er whose early 

Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rou^ 

soldier's lid, 
Lameming and yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he 

battled to resume. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young 
two hosts, his friends 



and foes. 

And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright re- 

For he was Freedom's champion, one of 

The few in number, who had not o'er- 



On such as wield her weapons; he had 

kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men 
o'er him wept. 

From "Childe Harold," 
— Lord Byron. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



September 24. 



a M«nco Mkm br Ibe United State* 
der Taylor, from the Mexican*, un- 
idia, OQ Sqit. It, IBM, after three 



We were not manj, — we who stood 

Before the iron sleet that day; 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if but he could 
Have with us been at Monterey. 



Now, here, now there, the shot it hail'd 
In deadly drift of fiery spray. 

Yet not a single soldier quail'd 
Ibea wounded comrades round them 

wail'd 
Their dying shout at Monterey, 



7'. 



And oi»— still on our column kept 
Through walls of flame its 

Where fell the dead, the livit^ atept, 
Still charging •n the guns which swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoil'd aghast. 

When, striking where the strongest 

lay. 

We swoop'd his flanking batteries past. 

And braving full their murderous blast, 

Storm'd home the towers of Monterey. 



Our banners on those turrets wave. 

And there our evening bugles play ; 

Where orange-boughs above their grave 

Keep green the memory of the brave 

Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many,— we who press'd 

Beside the brave who fell that day, — 
But who of us has not confess'd 
He'd rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey? 
— Charles Fenno Hoffman. 



September 25. 

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF 
PEMBROKE 



Underneath this sable herse 
Lies the subject of all verse, 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; 
Death I ere thou hast slain another, 
Lcam'd and fair, and good as she. 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 

—Ben Jonson. 



September 26. 

JOHN GEORGE NICOLAY. 

Lincoln'! Private Secretary died September 

Joha Nicolay, who died on Sept. tS. IBOl, 
was the private aecretaiy of President ticcoln 
■nd joint author, with John Uijp, of a life at 
the Prejideot. 

This man loved Lincoln, him did Ijn- 

coln love ; 
Through the long storm, right there, by 

Lincoln's side. 
He stood, bis shield and servitor; 

when died 
The great, sweet, sorrowful soul,— still 

high above 
AH other passions, that for the ^irit 

fled! 
To this one task his pure life was as- 
signed : 
He strove to make the world know 

Lincoln's mind: 
He served him living, and he served him 

dead. 
So shall the light from that immortal 

Keep bright forever this most faithful 
name. 

—Richard Walton Gitdtr. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



September 27. 

THE REDUCTION OF HAKFI^UR. 
T IT. itis. 



Scun ///. Btfort the galtt of Har- 
lltfw. The Governor and tome Citizens 
OM the waUs: the English foreet below. 
Enter King Hsnky and his from. 

K. Hen. How jet resolves the gor- 
emor of the town? 
This is the latest parte we will admit : 
Therefore to our best mercy give your- 
selves ; 
Or like to men proud of destruction 
Defy us to our worst: for, as 1 am a 

soldier, 
A name that in my thoughts becomes 
e best, 
■n the 

t leave the half-achieved Har- 
fleur 
Till in her ashes she lie buried. 
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, 
And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard 

of heart. 
In liberty of b1ood}| hand shall ra:^ 
With conscience wide as hell, mowing 

like grass 
Your fresh-fair virgins and your flower- 
ing infants. 
What is it then to me, if impious war, 
Array'd in flames like to the prince of 

Do, with his smirch'd complexion, all 

fell feats 
Enlink'd to waste and desolation? 
What is't to me, when you yourselves 

If your pure maidens fall into the hand 

Of hot and forcing violation? 

What rein can hold licentious wicked- 

When down the hill he holds his 6erce 

We may as bootless spend our vain com 

Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil 

As send precepts to the leviathan 

To come a.shore. Therefore, you men 

of Harflcur, 
Take pity of your town and of your 

people, 



Whiles yet my soldiers are in mj com- 

Wbiles yet the cool and temperate wind 

of grace 
O'erblows the filthy and oonta^otu 

Of heady murder, spoil and villany. 
If not, why, in a moment look to see 
The blind and bloody soldier with fnil 

Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking 

daughters ; 
Your fathers taken by the silver beards 
And their most reverend heads dash^ 

to the walls. 
Your naked infants spitted upon pikes. 
Whiles the mad mothers with their 

howls confused 
Do break the clouda, as did the wives of 

Jewry 
At Herod s bloody-hunting slaughter- 

What say you? will you yield, and this 

Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd? 
Gov. Our expectation hath this day 

The Dauphin, whom of succours we en- 
treated. 

Returns us that his powers are yet not 
ready 

To raise so great a siege. Therefore, 
great king. 

We yield our town and lives to tby soft 

Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours; 
For we no longer are defensible. 
K. Hen. Open your gates. Come, 
uncle Exeter, 
Go you and enter Harfieur; there re- 

And fortify it strongly 'gainst the 

French : 
Use mercy to them all. For at, d«ar 

The winter coming on and sidcness 

growing 
Upon our soldiers, we will retire to 

To-night in Harfleur we will be yowr 

guest; 
To-morrow for the march are we ad- 
drest. 
[Flourish. The King and his train em- 
ler the lowm. 
Henry V. Act III. Scene 3. 

—Shakeapeore. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



THE SONG OF THE RAILROAD, 

On Sept. «T, ISEfi, the fint nilrowl in 
Enilind, the Slocklon A Dulinttod, wu 
thrown open to the public. 

While evefy age is crowned with rhTine, 

And song is ever young, 
The bravest birth of later time 

Must not remain unsung; 
A poet shall be bom to us. 

For living men to hail. 
Dismounted from old Pegasus 

To mount the fiery rail I 

When speed and joy go hand in hand, 

And loves are side by side. 
We are the sunbeams of the land 

On which the angels glide; 
The husband to his anxious wife. 

The friend to friendly care, 
The lover to his life of life 

On burning wings we bear! 

But oft like ships of ill accursed 

That sail the solid earth 
On sacred parting hours we burst. 



I lost in vulgar 



The dearest and the longest Ipst 

Pass by wiihin a span 
Yet know it not ; of little cost 

We make the heart of man I 

Our cry is onward, onward yet — 

Hard pace and little pause; 
We will not let the world forget 

Her nature's motive laws. 
Like her we hasten day by day. 

Nor rest at any goal; 
The sun himself has moved, they tay. 

Since planets round him rolll 
— Richard MoHckton MUnes 
(Lord Houghton). 



5epteml)er 28. 

MARATHON. 

it the aeciiive battlei of the world u 
.. d Diriui' atlempti agaliut Greece- 
Eleven thoiuand Oreeki under Hiltiide*. re- 
■iited artr 100,000 Peniuu nnder Dalii and 
■ fought on Sept BS, tSO 



Artapheme*- 



Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy 
ground ; 



No earth of thine i 

mould, 
But one vast realm of wander spreads 

around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly 

told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing to 

behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have 

dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening 

glen and wold. 
Defies the power which crush'd thy 

temples gone: 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares 

gray Marathon. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, 
the same; 

Unchanged in all except its foreign 
brd— 

Preserves alike its bounds aud bound- 
less fame; 

The Battlefield, where Persia's victim 
horde 

First bowed beneath the brunt of Hel- 
las' sword. 

As on the mom to distant Glory dear, 

When Marathon became a magic 

Which uttered, to the hearer's eye ap- 

The camp, the host, the fight, the con- 
queror's career. 

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken 

The fieiy Greek, his red pursuing 

Mountains above. Earth's, Ocean's 

plain below; 
Death in the front. Destruction in the 

Such was the scene— what now re- 
mainetb here? 

What sacred trophy marks the hal- 
low 'd ground. 

Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's 
tear? 

The rifled urn, the violated mound. 
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude 
stranger, spurns around. 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendor 

past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, 

throng; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Loogshal 
llast. 



shall the vorager, with th' Ionian 



Hail the bright dime of battle and of 

song; 
Long shall thine annals and inintortal 

tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many 

Boast of the aged! lesson of the 

young! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
Ai Pallas and the Muse unveil their 
awful lore. 

From "Childe Haroli." 
—Lord Byron. 



Septeml>er 29. 

MICHAEL THE ARCHANGEL. 



Whom, living, God had loved— H cheru- 

With cherubim conlended for one clod 
0( human dust, for forty years that trod 
The gloomy desert of heaven's ehastise- 

Are there not ministering angels sent 

To battle with the devils that roam 
abroad, 

Clutching our livit^ souls? "The living, 
still 

The living, they shall praise Thee!"— 
Let some great 

Invisible spirit enter in and fill 

The howling chambers of hearts deso- 
late; 

With looks like thine, O Michael, strong 

My white archangel with the steadfast 
''"^ —D. M. Craik. 



September 30. 

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. 
GEORGE WHITEFIEID. 



Sept. SO, 17T0. Thii poem h intovatinc 
cturBj on account of in author, PhilU* Wbrrt- 
ICT, who wu ■ aUve in the familr of Mr. 
John Whatlcj, of Bmtan, Oy wtunn iha ma 
bought on her arrival in that place &«■ 
Africa. She wai taught to rtad and -wiitt. ■ 
which she learned very qoldclr ■ 
•event poems which com -ace f~ 
much «f the vcnc of that day. 



Hail, happy saint, on thine immortal 

Fossest of glory, life, and bliss tmknown. 
We hear no more the music of thy 

tongue. 
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng. 
Thy sermons in unequalled accents 

flowed. 
And every bosom with devotion glowed; 
Thou didst, in strains of eloquence re- 
Inflame the heart, and captivate the 

Unhappy, we the setting sun deplore, 
So glorious once, but ^t it shines no 



But tho' arrested by the hand of death, 
Whitetield no more exerts bis laborii^ 

Yet let us view him in th' eternal skies, 
I-et every heart to this bright vision rise; 
While the tomb safe retains its aacred 

Till life divine re-animates his dust 
^PhiUis WhtalUy. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



325 



October I. 

OCTOBER. 

It is no joy to me to sit 

On dreamy summer eves, 
When silently the timid moon 

Kisses the sleeping leaves, 
And all things through the fair boshed 

Love, rest,— but nothing grieves. 
Better I like old autumn. 

With his hair lossed to and fro, 
Firm striding o'er the slubble-fidds 

When the equinoctials blow. 

When shrinkingly the sun creeps wp 

Through misty mornings cold. 
And robm on the orchard hedge 

Sings cheerily and bold. 
While heavily the frosted plum 

Drops downward on the mold; 
And as he passes autumn 

Into earth's lap does throw 
Brown apples ^ay in a game of play. 

As the equmoctials blow. 

When the spent year its carol sings 

Into a humble psalm. 
Asks no more for the pleasure draught, 

But for the cup of balm. 
And all its storms and sunshine bursts 

Controls to one brave calm,— 
Then step by step walks autumn. 

With steady eyes that show 
Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the 

While the equinoctials blow. 

—Mrt. D. M. Craik. 



October 2. 



TO THE MEMORY OF CHANNING- 



rican clergynian And philuthroput 
B chief fouDdcn of Amcricui Uni- 
Hc died on Oct t. 1811. 



Upon whose souls the beams of truth 
first fall; 
They who reveal the ideal, the unat- 
tatned, 



And to their age, in stirring tones and 

high. 
Speak out for God, truth, man, and lib- 
Such prophets, do they die? 



The landmarks of their age, 
High-priests, kings of the realm of mind, 

are they. 
A realm unbounded as posterity; 

The hopeful future is their heritage; 
Their words of truth, of love, and faith 

sublime. 
To a dark world of doubt, despair, and 

Re-echo through all time. 

Such kindling words are thine. 
Thou, o'er whose tomb the requiem 

soundelh still. 
Thou from whose lips the silvery tones 
yet thrill 
In many a bosom, waking life divine; 
And since thy Master to the world gave 

That for Love's faith the creed of fear 
was broken, 
N*ne higher have been sp<^ea 



Ages agone, like thee 
The fam^d Greek with kindling aspect 

stood. 
And blent his eloquence with wind and 
flood. 
By the blue waters of the jEgean sea ; 
But he heard not their everlasting 

His lofty soul with Error's cloud was 

And thy great teachers spake not unto 
him. —Anne C. Lynch. 



RICHARD III. 



Miraculous genius, grasping at the 

whole I 

Gossiping history calls you cruel, mad. 

Was not your hump enough to make 

you bad, 

Politic despot? Aye, with tntter soul, 



336 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



You phjed a grand and most itnpendous 
role; 
NambinK your secret nature, good and 

To juggle with crowns u does with 
■tonea a lad. 
And wade thFongh Uood to a stupen- 
dous goall 



Where red swords gleamed, when 
Death claimed you his own. 
Yon did not falter Richard, nor did 
yield. 

Or bear again the smothered princes 

No Ticttm-riiosts before jrour mind's eye 
reeled. 
What rour grand soul regretted was 
a throneT 

— FratKU Salttu Sallus. 



October 3. 



THE BATTLE OF MONCONTOUR. 

The Pteech Catholics defeated the HogiiC' 



Oh I weep for Moncontourt Ohl weep 

.for the hour 
When the children of darkness and evils 

had power, 
When the horsemen of Valots triumf^- 

antly trod 
On the bosoms that bled for their rights 

and their God. 
Oh) weep for Moncontourt Ohl weep 

for the slain. 
Who for faith and for freedom lay 

slaughtered in vain 
Oh, weep for the living, who linger to 

The rene^de's shame, or the exile's de- 
One look, one last look, to our cots and 

To the rows of our vines, and the beds 

of our flowers, 
To the church where the bones of our 

fathers decayed, 
Where we fondly had deemed that our 

own would be laid. 



Alas I we must leave thee, dear desobte 

To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings 

of Rome, 
To the serpent of Florence, the vulture 

of Spain, 
To the pride of Aqjoo, and the gnile oS 

Lorraine. 

Farewell to thy mountains, farewell to 

thj shades. 
To the songs of thy youths, and the 

dance of thy maids. 
To the breath of thy gardens, the hmn 

of thy bees. 
And the long waving line of the blue 

Farewell, and for ever. The priest and 

the slave 
May rule in the halls of the free and the 

Our hearths we abandc»i; our lands we 

But, Father, we kneel to no altar but 
thine. 

—Lord MuMHlay. 



October 4. 



In the garden of death, where the singers 
whose names are deathless 
One with another make music unheard 
of men. 

Where the dead sweet roses fade not of 
lips long breathless. 
And the fair eyes shine that shall weep 
not or change again. 

Who comes now crowned with the blos- 
som of snow-while years? 

What music is this that the worid of the 
dead men hears? 

Beloved of men, whose words oo our 

lips were honey. 
Whose name in our ears and our 

fathers' ears was sweet. 
Like summer gone forth of the land his 

songs made sunny. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



To the beautiful veiled bright world 

where the glad ghosts meet, 
Child, father, bridegroom and bride, and 

anguish and rest. 
No soul shall pass of a singer than this 

more blest 
Blest for the years' sweet sake that were 

filled and brightened. 
As a forest with birds, with the fruit 

and the flower of his song; 
For the souls' sake blest that heard, and 

their cares were lightened. 
For the hearts' sake blest that have 

fostered his name so long; 
By the living and dead lips blest that 

have loved his name, 
And clothed with their praise and 

crowned with their love for fame. 
Ah, fair and fragrant his fame as Bowers 

that close not. 
That shrink not by day for heat or for 

cold by night. 
As a thought in the heart shall increase 

when the heart's self knows not. 
Shall endure in our ears as a souni], 

in our eyes as a light ; 
Shall wax with the years that wane and 

the seasons' chime. 
As a white rose thornless that grows 

in the garden of time. 
The same year calls, and one goes hence 

with another. 
And men sit sad that were glad for 

their sweet songs' sake ; 
The same year beckons, and elder with 

younger brother 
Takes mutely the cup from his hand 

that we all shall take. 
They pass ere the leaves be past or the 

snows be come; 
And the birds are loud, but the lips that 

outsang them dumb. 
Time takes them home that we loved, 

fair names and famous. 
To the soft long sleep, to the broad 

sweet bosom of death ; 
But the dower of their souls he shall not 

take away to shame us, 
Nor the lips lack song for ever that 

now lack breath. 
For with us shall the music and perfume 

that die not dwell. 
Though the dead to our dead bid wel- 
come, and we farewell. 

—Algernon C. SviitAnme. 



©ctobcr 5. 

IN MEMORIAM.— J. O. 



qaei Offenbuta, ■ Prench compsKr < 
Iwuffe, died on Oct. B, IBSO. Hii miu 
nclodioui and cminenUr popular. 



The fan no longer flutters 
And the whisper knows central. 

For the full contralto utters 
The Letter of Perichole. 

But the critics, clever people, 

They laugh. You're light, so- light- 
(And so's the rain on the steeple, 

And the leaves that lift at night.) 

And Chopin, Wagner, Handel 
(Outgrown the Southern crew) 

Are stars. Your fame's a candle 
Death quenched in snuBing you. 

Bnt for all the fan ne'er flutters, 
And the whisper knows control. 

When the full contralto utters 
The Letter of Perichole. 

^A. E. Watrom. 



October 6. 

UNDER THE PINE. 



well known Mnilhtm p 



The same majestic pine is lifted high 

Against the twilight sky, 
The same low, melancholy music grieves 

Amid the topmost leaves, 
As when I watched, and mused, and 
dreamed with him. 

Beneath these shadows dim, 

O Treel hast thou no memory at thy 

Of one who comes no more? 
No yearning memory of those iMnes 
that were 
So richly calm and foir. 
When the last rays of sunset, s 
ing down. 
Flashed like a royal crown? 



328 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



And he, with hand outstretched and 
eyes ablaze, 
Looked forth with burning gaze. 
And seemed to drink the sunset like 
strong wine, 
Or, hushed in trance divine, 
Hailed the first shy and timorous glance 
from far 
Of evening's virgin star? 

O Tree I against thy mighty trunk he laid 

His weary head; thy shade 
Stole o'er him like the first cool spell 
of sleep; 
It broufi[ht a peace so deep 
The unquiet passion died from out his 
eyes, 
As lightning from stilled skies. 

And in that calm he loved to rest, and 
hear 
The soft wind-angels, clear 
And sweet, among the uppermost 
branches sighing; 
Voices he heard replying 
(Or so he dreamed) far up the mystic 
height. 
And pinions rustling light. 

O Tree! have not his poet touch, his 
dreams 
So full of heavenly gleams. 
Wrought through the folded dullness of 
thy bark. 
And all thy nature dark 
Stirred to slow throbbings, and the flut- 
tering fire 
Of faint, unknown desire? 

At least to me there sweeps no rugged 
ring 
That girds the forest-king 
No immemorial stain, or awful rent 

(The mark of tempest spent). 
No delicate leaf, no lithe bough, vine 
o'ergrown, 
No distant, flickering cone, 

But speaks of him, and seems to bring 
once more 
The joy, the love of yore; 
But most when breathed from out the 
sunset-land 
The sunset airs are bland. 
That blow between the twilight and the 
night, 
Ere yet the stars are bright; 



For then that quiet eve comes back to 
me. 
When de«)ly, thrillingly. 
He spake of lofty hopes which vanquish 
death; 
And on his mortal breath 
A language of immortal meanings htmg, 
That fired his heart and tongue. 

For then unearthly breezes stir and sigh. 

Murmuring, "Look up ! 'tis I : 
Thy friend is near thee ! Ah, thou canst 
not see!" 
And through the sacred tree 
Passes what seems a wild and sentient 
thrill- 
Passes, and all is still ! — 

Still as the grave which holds his tran- 
quil form. 
Hushed after many a storm, — 
Still as the calm that crowns his marble 
brow. 
No pain can wrinkle now, — 
Still as the peace — pathetic peace of 
God- 
That wraps the holy sod. 

Where every flower from our dead min- 
strel's dust 
Should bloom, a type of trust, — 
That faith which waxed to wings of 
heavenward might 
To bear his soul from night, — 
That faith, dear Christ! whereby we 
pray to meet 
His spirit at God's feet! 

—Paul H, Hayne, 



PARNELL. 



Charles Stewart Parnell was an Irish statea- 
man and leader of the Home Rule party whtdi, 
under his guidance, accomplished more than 
ever before or since. He died on Oct. 6, 1891* 



The wail of Irish winds. 
The cry of Irish seas; 

Eternal sorrow finds 
Eternal voice in these. 

I cannot praise our dead 
Whom Ireland weeps so well; 

Her morning light tl^t fled 
Her morning star that fell. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



She of the mournful eyes 

Waits, and no dark clouds break; 
Waits, and her strong son lies 

Dead, for her holy sake. 

Her heart is sorrow's home; 

And hath been from of old; 
An host of griefs hath come 

To make that heart their fold. 

Ah, the sad autumn day 
When the last sad troop came 

Swift down the ancient way. 
Keening a chieftain's name ! 

Gray hope was there, and dread. 
Anger and love in tears; 

They mourned ihe dear and dead. 
Dirge of the ruined years. 

Home to her heart she drew 

The mourning company; 
Old sorrows met the new 

In sad fraternity. 



CROSSING THE BAR. 
Alfred, Lord TennTaon, died Octdxr B, 



Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me I 
And may there he no moaning of the har. 

When J put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 
Too full for sound or foam. 

When that which drew from out the 
boundless deep 
Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening belt, 

And after that the darki 
And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark; 

For though from out our bourne of Time 
and Place 
The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have crossed the bar. 

—Alfred Tftmyton. 



A mother, and forget? 

Nay \ all her children's fate 
Ireland remembers yet. 

With love i 



©ctobcr 7. 



She hears the heavy bells 
Hears, and with passionate breath 

Eternally she tells 
A rosary of death. 

Faithful and true is she. 

The mother of us all ; 
Faithful and true may we 

Fail her not though we fall. 

Her son, our brother, lies 

Dead for her holy sake; 
But from the dead arise 

Voices that bid us wake. 

Not his to hail the dawn; 

His but the herald's part; 
Be ours to see withdrawn 

Night from our mother's heart. 

— Lionel Johnton. 



TO EDGAE A. FOE 

Died October J, ISM. 

When first I looked into thy glorioiu 

eyes, 
And saw, with their unearthly beantjr 

iven deepening within heaven, like 

the skies 
Of autumn nights without a shadow 

stained, 
I stood as one whom some strange dream 

enthralls ; 

For, far away in some lost life divine. 
Some lard which every glorious dream 

recalls, 
A spirit looked on me with eyes like 

thine. 
Even now, though death has veiled their 

starry light. 
And closed their lids in his relentless 

some strange dream, remembered in 



330 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Again I see, in sleep, their tender beam; 
Unfading hopes their cloudless azure fill. 
Heaven deepening within heaven, serene 
and stilL 

-~Sanh H. Whitman. 



Sir PbUlp Sidner ' . 

■atiuir tnd naenl and u the irioia oi uueen 
EUnbcdi. He wu morUllT wounded mt tba 
BUlle of ZutpbcD, Oct. 7, IMS. 

You knew— who knew not Astrophel? 
That I should live to say I knew. 
And have not in possession still I — 
Thin^ known permit me to renew. 
Of him you know his merit such 
I cannot say — you hear — too much. 

Within these woods of Arcady 

He chief delight and pleasure took; 

And on the mountain Partheny, 

Upon the crystal liquid brook, 

The muses met him every day, — 

Taught him to sing, and write, and say. 

When he descended down the mount 
His personage seemed most divine; 
A thousand graces one might count 
Upon his lovely, cheerful eyne. 
To hear him speak, and see him smile. 
You were in Paradise the while. 



Continual comfort in a face; 
The lineaments of gospel books; 
I trow that countenance cannot tie 
Whose thoughts are le^ble in the eye. 

Above all others this is he 
Who erst approved in his song 
That love and honor might agree, 
And that pure love will do no wrong. 
Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame 
To love a man of virtuous name. 

Did never love so sweetly breathe 
In any mortal breast before; 
Did never muse inspire beneath 
A poet's brain with finer store. 
He wrote of love with high conceit, 
And beauty reared above ner height. 
—Mathew Royden. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

Died October T, 18M. 

Asleep at last I For fourscore yean 
He toiled among his fellow men, 

And reaped in Thougfat's inqierial fieldt 
A golden harvest ot the pen. 

Asleep at last! yet strangely near I 
On many a magic page we find. 

In deathless sheaves of prose or verse^ 
The garnered fruitage of his mind. 

Asleep at last I His happy mnse 

Awoke all measures, brave and bright. 
And seemed to love's enamored eyes 

Vibrating with the morning light- 
Asleep at last I In nobler strains. 

Possessed of more than rhythmic art. 
We felt the master's finger touch 

The secret harpstring of the heart. 

Asleep at lastt and yet awake! 

For he has reached the far off goal. 
And passed the stormy reefs of Death 

To shining waters of the SouL 

— WiUiam Hamillon Hayne. 



October 8. 

RIENZrS ADDRESS TO THE 
ROMANS. 



well 



t here to talk. Ye know too 



The story of our thraldom. We are 

slaves I 
The bright sun rises to his course, and 

lights 
A race of slaves 1 He sets, and his last 

Falls on a slave: not such as, swept 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



331 



By the full tide of power, the conqueror 

To crimson glory and undying fame, — 
But base, ignoble slaves I — slaves to a 



Strong in some hundred spearmen; only 

great 
In that strange spell — a namet Each 

hour, dark fraud. 
Or open rapine, or protected murder. 
Cry out against them. But this very day. 
An honest man, my neighbor, — there he 

stands, — 
Was struck — struck like a dog, by one 

who wore 
The badge of Orsini I because, forsooth. 
He tossed not high his ready cap in air, 
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts. 
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we 

And suffer such dishonor? Men, and 

wash not 
The stain away in blood? Sucb shames 



I have known deeper wrongs. I, that 

speak to ye, — 
I had a brother once, a gracious boy. 
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope. 
Of sweet and quiet joy. There was the 

Of heaven upon his face, which limners 

give 
To the beloved disciple. How I loved 
That gracious boy 1 Younger by fifteen 

Brother at 'once and son! He left my 

r bloom on his fair cheeks — a 



Parting his innocent lips. In one short 
The pretty, harmless boy was slain I I 

The corse, the mangled corse, and then 
I cried 

For vengeance I Rouse, ye R'omans! 
Rouse, ye slaves! 

Have ye brave sons? — Look in the next 
fierce brawl 

To see them die! Have ye fair 
daught ers ?— I-ook 

To see them live, torn from your arms, 
disdained. 

Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for jus- 
tic^ 



Be answered by the lash ! Yet, this is 

That sat on her seven hills, and from 

her throne 
Of beauty ruled the world ! Vet, we are 

Romans. 
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman 
Was greater than a king! And once 

again— 
Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the 

tread 
Of either Brutus I — once again I swear 
The Eternal City shall be free ! 

^iiary Russell Mitford. 



October 9. 



Putly dcMrojrcd br fire, OeL 9, ISTl. 

Gaunt in the midst of the prairie. 
She who was once so fair; 

Charred and rent are her garments, 

Heavy and dark like cerements; 
Silent, but round her the air 

Plaintively wails, "Miserere I" 

Proud like a beautiful maiden, 

Art-like from forehead to feet. 
Was she till pressed like a leman 
Close to the breast of the demon. 



Sow 



her shoulders laden. 



Friends she had, rich in her treasures: 

Shall the old taunt be true- 
Fallen, they turn their cold faces, 
Seeking new wealth-gilded places. 

Saying we never knew 
Aught of her smiles or her pleasure*? 

Silent she stands on the prairie. 
Wrapped in her fire-scathed sheet: 

Around her, thank God, is the Nation, 

Weeping for her desolation. 
Pouring its gold at her feet. 

Answering her "Miserere t" 

—Johm Boyle O'RtHlf. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



THE SIEGE OF SAVANNAH. 



undnL Thii poem apptared in Kivinstan': 
Bujit Guettc, 1 ("per publiitacd in New York 
dorinB the Revoiulion uid conducted for the 
Torr lide with srcat cleverDew. Muit poema 
appeared in 11 wbicb were full of facetioDuaa 
at the cxpctiM of Che Rerolutioiury leaden 
and their French allies, Theae »ei»» from 



an intereit of their own. 

Come let us rejoice, 

With heart and with voice 
Her triumphs let loyaltj' show, sir. 

While bumpers go round 

Re-echo the sound, 
Huzza, for the King and Provost, sir 

With warlike parade. 

And his Irish brigade. 
His ships and hia spruce Gallic host, i 

As proud as an elf, 

D'Elslaing came himself, 
And landed on Georgia's coast, sir. 

There joining a band. 

Under Lincoln's command. 
Of rebels and traitors and Whigs, sir 

'Gainst the town of Savannah, 

He planted his banner. 
And then he felt wondrous big, sir. 



Then muskets did rattle, 

Fieroe raged the battle, 
Grape shot it Hew thicker than hail, sir. 

The ditch tilled with slain. 

Blood dyed all the plain. 
When the rebels and French turn tail, 
sir. 



There Pulaski fell. 
That Imp of old Bell, 
Who attempted to murder his king, si 
But now he is gone 

Whence he'll never return, 

But will make H with treason I 

ring, sir. 

To Charleslown with tear. 
The rebels repair, 
D^taing scampers back to his boats, si 



Each blaming the other. 
Each cursing his brother. 
And may the; cut each other's throati. 



—Rivinglon'i Gaxette. iT79. 



October \9, 



REOPENING OF THE DBURY 
LANE THEATRR 



When tl 


e D 




Lane Theatr 




opened on 


Oct. 


10, 


18H, after 




ru£i;%* 


the mam 




priu for ■ 




to be apohea on 


U>at oco- 


■ion. The 






n hj Lord Urr 


on waa the 


one selected, bu 


the 


"./rfn7.1"" 




booh oUled 


"Rejecte 


whiJh con' 


tamed aho 


t twenty 


poema. borles 


queiny the 


atyle of we 


l-lmo 








have been 




b; 


"th™ in" rem 


>e^tion*t« 


the priie 


■■The 


Baby'a Debuf ■ i 




t«m of W 


irdawo 


rth. 







In one dread night our city saw, and 
sigh'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower 

In one short hour beheld the blazing 

fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to 

reign. 

Ye who beheld (oh I sight admired and 

Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it 

adorn'd!) 
Through clouds of fire the massive frag- 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from 

heaven : 
Saw the long column of revolving 

Shake its red shadow o'er the startled 

Thames, 
While thousands, thronged around the 

burning dome, 
Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for 

their home, 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly 

The skies, with lightnings awful as their 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



333 



Say— shall this 

pile, 
Rear'd where o 



new, nor less aspiring 
ice rose the mightiest in 
favor which the former 



Know the s 

A shrine for Sbakspeare — worthy him 
and yoHf 

Yes— it shall be— the magic of that 

Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of 

On the same spot still 



And bids the Drama be where she hath 

This fabric's birth attesM the potent 

spell- 
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How 

■mell! 



Some hour propitions to our prayers may 

Names such as hallow still the dome we 

lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrillinR art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm 'd the 

On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius 

Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last 

But still for living wit the wreaths may 

bloom. 
That only waste their odors o'er the 

Such Drury claim d and claims-^ior 

you refuse 
One tribule to revive his slumbering 

With garlands deck your own Menan- 

der's head! 
Nor hoard your honors idly for the 

deadl 

Dear are the days which made our an- 
nals bright. 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to 
write. 



Heirs to their labors, like all high-bom 

Vain of oitr ancestry as they of theirs; 
While thus Remembrance borrows Ban- 

quo's glass 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they 

pass. 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged 

Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, 
Pause— ere their feebler offspring you 

condemn. 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them I 

Friends of the stage I to whom both 
Players and Plays 
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise. 
Whose judging voice and eye alone di- 
rect 
The boundless power to cherish or re- 
ject; 
If e'er frivolity has led to fame. 
And made us blush that you forebore to 

If e'er the sinking stage could conde- 

To soothe the sickly taste it dare not 

All past reproach may present scenes re- 



And 



fute, 



re, wisely loud, be justly) 



tel 



Ohl since your fiat stamps the Drama'i 

Forbear to mock us with misplaced ap- 
plause; 
So pnde shall doubly nerve the actor's 

And reason's voice be echoed back by 
ours I 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule 

The Drama's homage by her herald paid, 
Receive our welcome too, whose every 

Springs from our hearts, and fain would 

The curtain rises — may our stage mifold 
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of 

oldt 
Britons our judges, Natnre for our 

guide. 
Still may we please — long, long may yo» 

— Lord Byron. 



334 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



THE BABY'S DEBUT. 



(Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, 
a girl of eight yean of age. who is drawn 
upon the stage in a child's chaise by SMnuel 
Hufl^es, her uncle's porter.) 



My brother Jack was nine in May, 
And I was eight on New-year's-day; 

So in Kate Wilson's shop 
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) 
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, 

And brother Jack a top. 

Jack's in the pouts, and this it is, — 

He thinks mine came to more than his; 

So to my drawer he goes, 
Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! 
He pokes her head between the bars, 

And melts off half her nose! 

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg. 
And tie it to his peg-top's peg. 

And bang, with might and main, 
Its head against the parlour-door: 
Off flies the head, and hits the floor. 

And breaks a window-pane. 

This made him cry with rage and spite: 
Well, let him cry, it serves him right 

A pretty thing, forsooth ! 
If he's to melt, all scalding hot. 
Half my doll's nose, and I am not 

To draw his peg-top's tooth ! 

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, 
And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake, 

Thus to distress your aunt: 
No Drury-Lane for you to-day!" 
And while papa said, "Pooh, she may! 

Mamma said, "No, she shan't ! 



I') 



Well, after many a sad reproach. 
They got into a hackney coach. 

And trotted down the street, 
I saw them go: one horse was blind, 
The tails of both hung down behind. 

Their shoes were on their feet. 

The chaise in which poor brother Bill 
Used to be drawn to Pentonville, 

Stood in the lumber-room : 
I wiped the dust from off the top, 
While Molly mopped it with a mop. 

And brushed it with a broom. 



My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, 
Came in at six to black the shoes, 

(I always talk to Sam:) 
So what does he, but takes, and drags 
Me in the chaise along the flags, 

And leaves me where I am. 



My father's walls are make of brick. 
But not so tall and not so thick 

As these, and, goodness me! 
My father's beams are made of wood, 
But never, never half so good 

As those that now I see. 



What a large floor ! 'tis like a town ! 
The carpet, when they lay it down. 

Won't hide it, I'll be bound ; 
And there's a row of lamps ! — ^my eye ! 
How they do blaze ! I wonder why 

They keep them on the ground. 



At first I caught hold of the wing. 
And kept away; but Mr. Thing- 
umbob, the prompter man. 
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove. 
And said, "Go on, my pretty love; 
"Speak to *em, little Nan. 



"You've only got to curtsy, whisp 

£r, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp. 

And then you're sure to take: 
I've known the day when brats, not quite 
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; 

Then why not Nancy Lake? 



But while I'm speaking, where's papa? 
And where's my aunt? and where's 
mamma ? 

Where's Jack ? O there they sit ! 
They smile, they nod ; I'll go my ways. 
And order round poor Billy's chaise. 

To join them in the pit. 



And now, good gentlefolks, I g^ 
To join mamma, and see the show; 

So, bidding you adieu, 
I curtsy, like a pretty miss, 
And if you'll blow to me a kiss, 

I'll blow a kiss to you. 

[Blows a kiss, and exit. 
— Horace and James Smith, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



THE BATTLE OF MAQEJOWICE. 

A TilUsc of Poland where, on Oct 10, 
ITSl, the RumUiu. under Freneio Ferecn, 
defeated the Pole* uoder KoKtusko. 

Oh sacred Truth! thy triumph ceated 

And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee 

to smile. 
When leagued Oppression poured to 

Northern wars 
Her whiskered pandours and her fierce 

Waved her dread standard to the breeze 

of mom. 
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her 

trumpet horn; 
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van. 
Presaging wrath to Poland and to man! 
Warsaw's last champion from her 

height surveyed, 
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin 

laid,— 
"Oh heaven I" he cried, "my bleeding 

country save ! 
Is there no hand on high to shield the 

Yet, though destruction sweep these 

lovely plains, 
Rise, fel!ow-men I our country yet re- 

By that dread name we wave the sword 

on high, 
And swear for her to live I — with her to 

die I" 
He said, and on the rampart-heighti 

arrayed 
His trusty warriors, few, but undis- 

Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front 

they form. 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the 

Low, murmuring sounds along their ban- 
Revenge or death, — the watchword and 

reply; 
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to 

diatm, 
And the loud tocsin tolled their last 

In vain alast in vain, ye gallant few I 
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder 
fiew 



Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; 
Found not a generous friend, a pitying 

foe. 
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her 

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the 
shattered spear. 

Closed her bright eye, and curbed her 
high career! 

Hope, for a season, bade the world fare- 
well, 

And Freedom shrieked— as Kosdusko 
fell) 

—Thomas Campbttt. 



(October tl. 

SIR THOMAS WYATT. 



Sir Thonuu Wyatt wu u Endiifa diplo- 
matBt and poet of the time of Henry Vlll. 
who died on Oct. 11, 1G4I. He wrote the 
fint EnglUb eonneti. 



Thus lieth the dead, that wbilome lived 

here 
Among the dead that quick go on the 

ground ; 
Though he be dead, yet doth he quidc 

By immortal fame that death cannot 

His life for aye, his fame in trump shall 
sound. 
Though he be dead, yet is he thus 

alive: 
No death that life from Wyatt can de- 
prive. 

Sir Antonio SenlUger. 



(October 12. 

THE WEXFORD MASSACRE. 



The Wexford Munerc, which occurred Oct 
IS, IM9. wu the result of Cromweli'l 
Mannine of Chat place and wu part of hia 
ferocioui policy in Ireland. 



336 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



They bowed before redemption's sign, 

And fervently they prayed: 
Three hundred fair and helpless ones, 

Whose crime was this alone — 
Their valiant husbands, sires, and sons. 

Had battled for their own. 

Had battled bravely, but in vain— 

The Saxon won the fight, 
And Irish corses strewed the plain 

Where Valour slept with Ri^ht 
And now that man of demon guilt 

To fated Wexford flew— 
The red blood reeking on his hilt. 

Of hearts to Erin true! 

He found them there— the young, the 
old. 

The maiden and the wife : 
Their guardians brave in death were 
cold, 

Who dared for them the strife. 
They prayed for mercy— God on high ! 

Before Thy cross they prayed, 
And ruthless Cromwell bade them die 

To glut the Saxon blade! 

Three hundred fell — the stifled prayer 

Was quenched in woman's blood; 
Nor youth nor age could move to spare 

From slaughter's crimson flood. 
But nations keep a stern account 

Of deeds that tyrants do; 
And guiltless blood to Heaven will 
mount, 

And Heaven avenge it, too ! 

— M, J. Barry, 



THE WANDERER. 



The supposed song of Hel6ne Modjeska, 
born Oct 12, 1844. 



Upon a mountain height, far from the 
sea, 
I found a shell. 
And to my listening ear this lonely 

thing 
Ever a song of ocean seem'd to sing — 
Ever a tale of ocean seem'd to tell. 

How came the shell upon the mountain 
height ? 
Ah, who can say 



Whether there dropped by some too 

careless hand — 
Whether there cast when oceans swept 

the land. 
Ere the Eternal had ordained the day? 

Strange, was it not? Far from its native 
deep. 
One song it sang ; 
Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide. 
Sang of the restless sea, profound and 
wide — 
Ever with echoes of the ocean rang. 

And as the shell upon the mountain 
height 
Sang of the sea. 
So dol ever, leagues and leagues away — 
So do I ever, wandering where I may. 
Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! 
of thee! 

—Eugene Field. 



COLUMBUS. 



Discovery of America by Christopher Colum- 
bus, Oct 12, 1402. 



Behind him lay the gray Azores, 

Behind the Gates of Hercules; 
Before him not the ghost of shores. 

Before him only shoreless seas. 
The good mate said: "Now must we 
pray. 

For lo! the very stars are gone. 
Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I 
say?" 

"Why, say, 'Sail on! and on!* 



f> 



"My men grow mutinous day by day ; 

My men grow ghastly wan and weak." 
The stout mate thought of home ; a spray 

Of salt wave washed his swarthy 
cheek. 
"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, 

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?' 
"Why, you shall say at break of day, 

'Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on V " 

tents of peace, — 
They sailed and sailed, as winds might 
blow, 
Until at last the blanched mate said: 
"Why, now not even God would know 
Should I and all my men fall dead. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



These very winds forget their way, 

For God from these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and 

say"— 
He said: "Sail on! sail on! and onl" 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake 
the mate ; 

"This mad sea shows his teeth to- 
night. 
He curls his lip, he lies in wait. 

With lifted teeth as if to bite I 
Brave Admiral, say but one good word: 

What shall we do when hope is gone?" 
The words leapt like a leaping sword : 

"Sail onl sail onl sail onl and an!" 

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, 

And peered through darkness. Ah, 
that night 
Of all dark nights ! And then a speck— 

A light! a light! a light I a light! 
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! 

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world; he gave that world 

Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!" 
—Joaquin Miller. 



COLUMBUS. 



St Stephen's cloistered hall was proud 
In learning's pomp that day, 

For there a robed and stately crowd 
Pressed on in long array. 

A mariner with simple chart 
Confronts that conclave high. 
While strong ambition stirs his heart, 

And burning thoughts of wonder part 
From lip and sparkling eye. 

What hath he said? With frowning 

In whispered tones they speak. 
And lines upon their tablets trace, 

Which flush each ashen cheek; 
The Inquisition's mystic doom 

Sits on their brows severe. 
And bursting forth in visioned gloom. 
Sad heresy from burniiw tomb 

Groans on the startleti ear. 

Courage thou Genoese! Old Time 
Thy splendid dream shall crown; 

Yon Western Hemisphere sublime. 
Where unshorn forests frown. 



The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow. 

The Indian hunter's bow. 
Bold streams untamed by helm or prow. 
And rocks of gold and diamonds, toou 

To thankless Spain shalt show. 

Courage, World-finder ! Thou hast need I 

In Kite's unfolding scroll, 
Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read. 

That rack the noble soul. 
On! on! Creation's secrets probe. 

Then drink thy cup of scorn. 
And wrapped in fallen Cxsar's robe. 
Sleep like that master of the globe, 

All glorious,- yet forlorn. 

— Lydia H. Sigoumey. 



Bring me my dead I 

To me that have grown. 

Stone laid upon stone. 

As the stormy brood 

Of English blood 

Has wax'd and spread 

And fill'd the world. 

With sails unfurl'd; 

With men that may not lie; 

With thoughts that cannot die. 

Bring me my dead I 

Into the storied hall. 

Where I have gamer d all 

My harvest without weed; 

My chosen fruits of goodly seed. 

And lay him gently down among 

The men of state, the men of song: 

The men that would not suffer wrong; 

The thought- worn chieftains of the 

Head-servants of the human Idnd. 



Bring me my dead ! 

The autumn sun shall shed 

Its beams athwart the trier's 

Heap'd blooms: a many tears 

Shall flow ; his words, in cadence sweet 

and strong, 
Shall voice the full hearts of the silent 

throng. 
Bring me my deadi 



338 

And oh ! sad wedded mounier, seeking 

still 
For vanish'd hand clasp : drinkiiig in thy 

Of holy grief; fofgivc, that pioiu theft 
Robs thee of all, save meinories, left: 
Not thine to kneel beside the gtasiy 

mound 
While dies the western glow : and all 

around 
Is silence; and the shadows closer creep 
And whisper softly: All must fall 

asleep. 

—Tkonuu Htnrj Huslty. 



"GONE FORWARD » 



Ye*. "Let the tent be Stmck": Victor- 
ious morning 
Through every crevice flashes in a 
day 
Magnificent beyond all earth's adorning; 
TTie night is over; wherefore should 

he stay? 
And wherefore should our voices 
choke to say, 
"The General has gone forward!" 

Life's foughten field not once beheld sur- 

But with superb endurance, present, 
past. 
Our pure Commander, lofty, simple, ten- 
der. 
Through good, through ill, held his 

high purpose fast. 
Wearing his armor spotless,— till at 
last 
Death gave the final "Forward I" 

All hearts grew sudden palsied: Yet 
what said he. 
Thus summoned? — "Let the tent be 

For when 
Did call of duty fail to find him ready 
Nobly to do his work in sight of men. 
For God's, and for his country's sake — 
and then 
To watch, wait, or go forward? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



We will not weep,— we dare nott— Sndi 
a story 
As his large life writes on the cen- 
tury's years 
Should crowd our bosoms with a flntb of 
glory. 
That manhood's type, supremest that 

To-day, he shows the ages. Nay, ao 

Because he has gone forward I 

Gone forward?— Whither?— Where the 
marshalled legions, 
Christ's well-worn soldiers, from tbdr 
conflicts cease, — 
Where Faith's true Red-Cross KaighU 
repose in regions 
Thick studded with the calm white 

ten of peace, — 
Thither, right joyful to accept re- 

The General has gone forward ! 
—Margaret J. Preston. 



October t3. 

THE DEFEAT OF BURGOYNR 

SintOBs, Ociober 18, 17TT. 



Burgoyne is rushing on in quest of blood. 
And Indians shout for victory through 

the wood. 
He solemnly declares, unless we yidd. 
Horror and death await us in the field. 
He sends his bloody Rag from bouse to 

The mountains travail, and bring forth 

a mouse. 
While thus he threatens ruin to these 

Behold! here comes the brave heroic 
Gates. 

The gloom dispelled, the light doth now 
appear. 

And shines through all the northeni 
hemisphere ; 

Our troops collect, and marshal in amy. 

Complete in arms, their banners they dis- 
play. 



EVERY DA YIN THE YEAR. 



Burgoyne now views theni all in a:nu 

complete. 
Struck witfa a panic, orderi a retreat 
The soldiers trembling, his commands 

obey, 
And he, uie most intrepid, leads the 

Our brave commander then pursues with 

Soon overtakes; and nttmbers lie and 

bleed: 
Our valiant troops inclose Burgoyne 

around. 
And take the best advantage of the 

ground 
The British hero that appeared so 

prompt, 
Is now enclosed by Yankees in a swamp. 
The great Burgoyne is now overwhelmed 

with grief. 
Nor has he any hope to obtain relief ; 
The rebel army he with scorn defied, 
Have him encompassed round on every 

Alas how great his grief, how 'cute his 

How great is his reproach, bow great the 

Surprising strange I how singular his 



Great generals and lords that >tmt and 

Are fond of having room enough to 

What seized his soul with horror and 

He expects now soon to fall a sacrince; 

A sacrifice to liberty's brave sons ; 

For blood of innocence and dying 

His sorrows rise ; an overwhelming 

flood. 
Conscience accused, and justice cried for 

Whole rivers of such blood could ne'er 
atone. 

For all the horrid murders be had dotie. 

Now thunder-struck, with these ill-bod- 
ing fates. 

Resigns himself and army up to Gates. 
—Rev. W. Cote. 



October t4. 

JENA. 

The battle of Jeu. fooghl on Oct It, 180«, 
wu one of Napoleon'* victories orer the Pru*. 



The Prussian eagle in its eyrie screamed. 
And, from the sandy plains in war's ar- 
ray. 
Dense hordes of stolid, boorish soldiers 
streamed 
To meet the men of Rivolt that day; 
The martial hosts yearning to smite 
and slay. 
Stood there defiant with bare awords that 

gleamed. 
And in calm, haughty insolence they 

Like hungry condors watching for 
their prey. 

The Titan fray began, and with disdain 
The laureled grenadiers of France 
marched on. 
Stem and majestic^ througli the bullets' 
rain. 
Until the corpse-clogged field was 
nobly won. 
While the astounded Vandals fled in 



SAXON GRIT. 



E Kormaa cod- 

J und« Harold 

, loss, br WilUun 



Worn with the battle, by Stamford town. 
Fighting the Norman, by Hastings 

Harold, the Saxon's, sun went down. 
While the acorns were falling one au- 
tumn day, 
Then the Norman said, T am lord of 
the land: 
By tenor of conquest here I sit; 
I will rule you now with the iron band ;" 
But he bad no thought of the ^xon 
grit 



34° 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



He took the land, and he took the men. 
And burnt the homesteads from Trent 
toTyne, 
M«de the freemen serfs by a stroke of 
the pen, 
Ate up the corn and drank the wine. 
And said to the nuiden, pure and fair, 
'^ou shall be my leman, as is most 
fit, 
Your Saxon churl may rot in hii lair;" 
But he had not measured the Sucon 
grit. 

To the merry green-wood went bold 
Robin Hood, 
With his strong-hearted yeomaniy 
ripe for the fray. 
Driving the arrow into the marrow. 
Of all the proud isonnans that came in 
his way; 
Scorning the fetter, fearless and free. 



This merry old rogue with the Saxon 
grit- 

And Kelt the tanner whipped out his 

And Watt the smith his hammer 
brought down. 
For ruth of the maid he loved better 
than life, 
And by breaking a head, made a hole 
in the Crown. 
From the Sixon heart rose a mighty 

"Our life shall not be by the King's 

We will fight for the right, we want no 
more ;" 
Then the Norman found out the Saxon 
grit. 

For stow and 

From the : 

So the Saxon manhood in tborpe and 
town 

To a nobler stature grew alway; 
Winning by inches, holding by clinches, 

Standing by law and the human right. 
Many times failing, never once quailing. 

So the new day came out of the night. 



Then rising afar in the Western sea, 



A new world stood in the mom of die 
day, 
Ready to welcome the brave and ibe 
free. 
Who could wrench out the heart and 
march away 
From the narrow, contracted, dear oU 

Where the poor are held by a cmd 

bit. 
To ampler spaces for heart and hand— 
And here was a chance for the Sajrao 

grit 

Steadily steering, eagerly peering. 
Trusting in God your fathers cam^ 

Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dan- 
gers. 
Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts 

Bound by the letter, but free from the 

fetter. 
And hiding their freedom in Holy 

Writ. 
They gave Deuteronomy hints in econ- 

And made a new Moses of Saxon 
grit. 

They whittled and waded through forest 

Fearless as ever of what might be- 
fall; 
Pouring out life for the nurture of men; 
In faith that by manhood the world 
wins all. 
Inventing baked beans and no end of 

Great with the rifle and great with the 

Sending their notions over the oceans. 
To fill empty stomachs and straighten 
bent backs. 

Swift to take chances that end in the 

dollar, I 

Yet open of hand when the dollar is 

Maintaining the meetin', exalting the 
scholar. 
But a little too anxious about a good 
trade; 
This is young Jonathan, son of old John. 
Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, 
Saxon men all of us, may we be one. 
Steady for freedom, and strong in her 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have 
grown 
From the acorns that fell on that au- 
tumn day. 
So this new manhood in dty and town, 

To a nobler stature will grow alway; 

Winning by inches, holding by clinches. 

Slow to contention, and slower to 

Now and then failing, never once quail- 
ing. 
Let us thank God for the Saxon grit 
—Robert Coliyer. 



iSctober 15. 



During the war btCwMD England and Franct 
■ fleet was lent by the latter country aaainil 
the American colonia. After many vieiaii. 
tudea in the way of licknesi and bad weathet 
the fleet was (inally diaperaed by ■ atorm on 
Oct 16, 17«a, »nd teturned to France withoul 
bavins don* any damaBC. 

Mr. Thomaa Prince, toqutttir. 

A fleet with flags arrayed 

Sailed from the port of Brest, 
And the Admiral's ship displayed 

The signal; "Steer southwest" 
For this Admiral D'Anville 

Had sworn by cross and crown 
To ravage with fire and steel 

Our helpless Boston Town. 

There were rumors in the street. 

In the houses there was fear 
Of the coming of the fleet, 

A.id the danger hovering near. 
And while from mouth to ntouth 

Spread the tidings of dismay, 
I stood in the Old South, 

Saying humbly: "Let us pray I 

"O Lord! we would not advise; 

But it in thy Providence 
A tempest should arise 

To drive the French Fleet hence. 
And scatter it far and wide. 

Or sink it in the sea, 
We should be satisfied. 

And thine the gloty be." 



This was the prayer I made, 

For my soul was all on flame. 
And even as I prayed 

The answering tempest came; 
It came with a mighty power. 

Shaking the windows and walls. 
And tolling the bell in the tower. 

As it tolls at funerals. 

The lightning suddenly 

Unsheathed its flaming sword. 
And 1 cried : "Stand still, and see 

The salvation of the Lord I" 
The heavens were black wiih cloud. 

The sea was white with hail. 
And ever more fierce and loud 

Blew the October gale. 

The fleet it overtook, 

And the broad sails in the van 
Like the tents of Cushan shook, 

Or the curtains ol Midian. 
Down on the reeling' decks 

Crashed the o'erwhelming aeaa ; 
Ah, never were there wrecks 

So pitiful as these! 

Like a potter's vessel broke 

The great ships of the line; 
They were carried away as a smoke. 

Or sank like lead in the brine. 
O Lord I before thy path 

They vanished and ceased to be, 
When thou didst walk in wrath 

With thine horses through the seat 
— Henry W. Longfellow. 



LINES UPON HIMSELF. 

Soben Herriek was an Entliah lyrical poet 



Thou shall not all die; for, while love's 

fire shines 
Upon his altar, men shall read thy lines, 
And learn'd musicians shall, to honour 

Herrick's 
Fame and his name, both set and sing 

his lyrics. 

—Robert Herriek. 



342 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



October 16* 



JOHN BROWN. 



John Brown, an anti-slavery ajptator, seized 
Harper's Ferry, Oct 16, 1859, m an attempt 
to free the slaves. He was arrested, tried, and 
hanged December 2 of tne same year. 



States are not great 
Except as men may make them; 
Men are not great except they do and 
dare. 
But States, like men, 
Have destinies that take them — 
That bear them on, not knowing why or 
where. 

The WHY repels 
The philosophic searcher — 
The WHY and WHERE all question- 
ings defy. 
Until we find, 
Far back in youthful nurture. 
Prophetic facts that constitute the WHY. 

All merit comes 
From braving the unequal ; 
All glory comes from daring to begin. 
Fame loves the State 
That, reckless of the sequel. 
Fights long and well, whether it lose or 
win. 

Than in our State 
No illustration apter 
Is seen or found of faith and hope and 
will. 
Take up her story: 
Every leaf and chapter 
Contains a record that conveys a thrill. 

And there is one 
Whose faith, whose fight, whose fail- 
ing, 
Fame shall placard upon the walls of 
time. 
He dared begin — 
Despite the unavailing. 
He dared begin, when failure was a 
crime. 

When over Africa 
Some future cycle 



Shall sweep the lake-gemmed uplands 
with its surge; 
When, as with trumpet, 
Of Archangel Michael, 
Culture shall bid a colorod race emerge ; 

When busy cities 
There in constellations. 
Shall gleam with spires and palaces and 
domes. 
With marts wherein 
Is heard the noise of nations ; 
With summer groves surrounding state- 
ly homes- 
There, future orators 
To cultured freemen 
Shall tell of valor, and recount with 
praise 
Stories of Kansas, 
And of Lacedaemon — 
Cradles of freedom, then of ancient days. 

From boulevards 
O'erlooking both Nyanzas, 
The statu red bronze shall glitter in the 
sun. 
With rugged lettering: 
"JOHN BROWN OF KANSAS : 
HE DARED BEGIN ; 
HE LOST, 
BUT, LOSING, WON." 

— IronquiU. 



EXECUTION OF MARIE ANTOI- 
NETTE. 



Marie Antoinette, the wife of Louis XVI., 
was executed on Oct. 16, 1703, after an im- 
prisonment of over a year. 



"We had taken the head of King Capet, 

We called for the blood of his wife; 
Undaunted she came to the scaffold. 

And bared her fair neck to the knife. 
As she felt the foul fingers that touched 
her, 

She shrank, but she deigned not to 
speak : 
She Iook*d with a royal disdain. 

And died with a blush on her cheek! 

From "The Chronicle of the Drum." 
— JVilliam Makepeace Thackeray. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



343 



LATIMER AND RIDLEY. 



Latimer and Ridlev were two English re- 
formers who were burnt for heresy under 
Queen Mary, Oct 16, 1666. 



How fast the Marian death-list is un- 
rolled 1 

See Latimer and Ridley in the might 

Of Faith stand coupled for a common 
flight ! 

One (like those prophets whom Ciod 
sent of old) 

Transfigured, from this kindling hath 
foretold 

A torch of inextinguishable light; 

The Other gains a confidence as bold; 

And thus they foil their enemy's de- 
spite. 

The penal instruments, the shows of 
crime, 

Are glorified while this once-mitred pair 

Of saintly Friends the "murtherer's 
chain partake. 

Corded, and burning at the social stake :" 

Earth never witnessed object more sub- 
lime 

In constancy, in fellowship more fair! 
— WiUiam Wordsworth. 



©ctobcr n. 



THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED 

ARMS. 



After the second battle of Saratoga, fought 
on Oct. 17, 1777, Bur^oyne and his army sur- 
rendered to the Americans. By the terms of 
the agreement the British marched out of 
camp with the honors of war and piled their 
arms in an appointed place. 



The forest leaves lay scattered cold and 
dead, 
» Upon the withered grass that autumn 
mom. 
When with as withered hearts 
And hopes as dead and cold, 

A gallant army formed their last array 
Upon that field, in silence and deep 
gloom, 
And at their conqueror's feet 
Laid their war-weapons down. 



Sullen and stem, disarmed but not dis- 
honored ; 
Brave men, but brave in vain^ they yield- 
ed there: 
The soldier's trial task 
Is not alone '^o die." 

Honor to chivalry! the conqueror's 

breath 
Stains not the ermine of his foeman's 
fame. 
Nor mocks his captive's doom — 
The bitterest cup of war. 

But be that bitterest cup the doom of all 
Whose swords are lightning flashes in 
the cloud 
Of the Invader's wrath. 
Threatening a gallant land. 

His armies' trumpet-tones wake not 

alone 
Her slumbering echoes : from a thousand 
hills 
Her answering voices shout. 
And her bells ring to arms ! 

Then danger hovers o'er the Invader's 

march. 
On raven wings, hushing the song of 
fame, 
And glory's hues of beauty 
Fade from the cheek of death. 

A foe is heard in everv mstling leaf, 
A fortress seen in every rock and tree. 
The eagle eye of art 
Is dim and powerless then, 

And war becomes a people's joy, the 

dmm 
Man's merriest music, and the field of 
death 
His couch of happy dreams. 
After life's harvest home. 

He battles heart and arm, his own blue 

sky 
Above him, and his own green land 
around, 
Land of his father's grave. 
His blessing and his prayers. 

Land where he learned to lisp a mother's 

name, 
The first beloved in life, the last for- 
got, 
Land of his frolic youth. 
Land of his bridal eve. 



344 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Land of his children — vain your col- 
umned strength. 
Invaders! vain your battles' steel and 
fire! 
Choose ye the morrow's doom— 
A prison or a grave. 

And such were Saratoga's victors — such 
The Yeomen-Brave, whose deeds and 
death have given 

A glory to her skies, 

A music to her name. 

In honorable life her fields they trod. 
In honorable death they sleep below; 

Their sons' proud feelings here 

Their noblest monuments. 

— Fits-Greene Halleck. 



©ctobcr 18* 



ST. LUKE THE PAINTER. 



St. Luke's Day, October 18. 



Give honor unto Luke Evangelist ; 
For he it was (the aged legends say) 
Who first taught Art to fold her hands 
and pray. 
Scarcely at once she dared to rend the 

mist 
Of devious symbols: but soon having 
wist 
How sky-breadth and field-silence and 

this day 
Are symbols also in some deeper way, 
She looked through these to God and 
was God's priest. 

And if, past noon, her toil began to irk, 
And she sought talismans, and turned in 

vain 
To soulless self-reflections of man's 

skill,— 
Yet now, in this the twilight, she might 

still 
Kneel in the latter grass to pray again, 
Ere the night cometh and she may not 

work. — D. G. Rossetti. 



deprived of his offices, and afterwards ar- 
rested, Oct. 18, 1680, for high treason. 



FALL OF WOLSEY. 



Prime Minister to Henry VIII. He gained 
the ill-will of the king by his conduct re- 
garding his divorce from Queen Katherine, was 



IVolsey. Cromwell, I did not think to 

shed a tear 
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced 

me, 
Out of thy honest truth, to play the 

woman. 
Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, 

Cromwell ; 
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, 
And sleep in dull cold marble, where ne 

mention 
Of me more must be heard of, say, I 

taught thee. 
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of 

glory, 
And sounded all the depths and shoals of 

honour, 
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to 

rise in; 
A sure and safe one, though thy master 

miss*d it. 
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd 

me. 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away am- 
bition : 
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, 

then, 
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it? 
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts 

that hate thee ; 
Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace. 
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and 

fear not : 
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy 

country's, 
Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou 

fairst, O Cromwell, 
Thou fairst a blessed martyr ! Serve the 

king ; 
And, — prithee, lead me in : 
There take an inventory of all I have. 
To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my 

robe, 
And my integrity to heaven, is all 
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, 

Cromwell I 
Had I but served my God with half the 

zeal 
I ser\'ed my king, he would not in mine 

age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

Henry VIII. Act III. Scene 2, 

— Shakespeare. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



THE WASP'S FROLIC. 



ction captDrcd tacr. Both itaip* wcr« 
umc dajr bj the Briliih. 



Twas on board the sloop-of-war iVatp. 
boys, 

We set sail from Delaware Bay, 
To cruise on Columbia's fair coast, sirs. 

Our rights to maintain on the sea. 

Three days were not passed on our lU- 



We boldly bore up to this Briton, 

Whose cannon began for to roar; 
The H^asp soon her stings from her side 
ran. 
When we on them a broadside did 
pour. 

Each sailor stood firm at his quarters, 
'Twas minutes past forty and three. 
When fifty bold Britons were slaugh- 
tered, 
Whilst our guns swept their masts in 
the sea. 

Their breasts then with valor still glow- 
ing. 

Acknowledged the battle we d won. 
On us then bright laurels bestowing. 

When to leeward they fired a gun. 

On their decks we the twenty guns 
counted. 

With a crew for to answer the same; 
Eighteen was the number we mounted. 

Being served by the lads of true game. 



With the FrotU in 



iw, we were s 



All in for Columbia's fair shore; 
But fate on our laurels was frowning. 
We were taken by a seventy-four, 
~-Ftom "Naval Songster " iSi}. 



0ctol>er 19. 



YORKTOWN CENTENNIAL LYRIC 



tioiUTj War. 

Hark, hark! down the century's long 
reaching slope 

To those transports of triumph, those 
raptures of hope. 

The voices of main and of mountain 
combined 

In glad resonance borne on the wings of 
the wind. 

The bass of the drum and the trumpet 
that thrills 

Through (he multiplied echoes of jubi- 
lant hills. 

And mark how the years melting upward 
like mist 

Which the breath of some splendid en- 
chantment has kissed. 

Reveal on the ocean, reveal on the shore 

The proud pageant of conquest that 
graced them of yore. 

When blended forever in love as in fame 

See, the standard which stole from the 
starlight its flame. 

And type of all chivali;, glory, romance. 

The lilies, the luminous lilies of France. 

Oh, stubborn the strife ere the conflict 

And the wild whirling war wrack h&If 

stifled the sun. 
The thunders of cannon that boomed on 

the lea. 
But re-echoed far thunders pealed up 

from the sea, 
V/here guarding his sea Usts, a knight 

on the waves, 

bull-d(^s o 
The day turned to darkness, the night 

changed to fire. 
Still more fierce waxed the combat, more 

deadly the ire, 
Undimmed by the gloom, in majestic 

advance. 
Oh, behold where they ride o'er the red 

battle tide. 
Those banners united in love as in fun^ 



346 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The brave standard which drew from the 

star-beams their flame. 
And ^e of all chivalry, glory, romancep 
The lilies, the luminous lilies of France. 

No respite, no pause ; by the York's tor- 
tured flood. 
The grim Lion of England is writhing in 

blood. 
G)mwalli5 may chafe and coarse Tarle- 

ton aver. 
As he sharpens his broadsword and 

buckles his spur, 
^This blade, whioi so oft has reaped 

rebels like grain. 
Shall now harvest for death the rude 

yeomen again." 
Vain boast ! for ere sunset he's flying in 

fear. 
With the rebels he scouted close, close 

in his rear. 
While the French on his flank hurl such 

volleys of shot 
That e'en Gloucester's redoubt must be 

growing too hot. 
Thus wedded in love as united in fame, 
Lo! the standard which stole from the 

starlight its flame, 
And type of all chivalry, glory, romance, 
The lilies, the luminous lilies of France. 

O morning superb! when the siege 

reached its close ; 
See! the sundawn outbloom, like the 

alchemist's rose! 
The last wreaths of smoke from dim 

trenches upcurled. 
Are transformed to a glory that smiles 

on the world. 
Joy, joy I Save the wan, wasted front of 

the foe, 
With his battle-flags furled and his arms 

trailing low ; — 
Respect for the brave! In stem silence 

they yield, 
And in silence they pass with bowed 

heads from the field. 
Then triumph transcendent ! so Titan of 

tone 
That some vowed it must startle King 

George on his throne. 

When Peace to her own, timed the pulse 

of the land, 
And the war weapon sank from the 

war-wearied hand, 



Young Freedom upborne to the het^ 

of the goal 
She had yearned for so long with deep 

travail of soul, 
A song of her future raised, thrilling and 

clear. 
Till the woods leaned to hearken, the 

hill slopes to hear: — 
Yet fraught with all magical grandeurs 

that gleam 
On the hero's high hope, or the patriot's 

dream. 
What future, though bright, in cold 

shadow shall cast 
The proud beauty that haloes the brow 

of the past 
Oh! wedded in love, as united in fame. 
See the standard which stole from the 

starlight its flame. 
And type of all chivalry, p:lory, romance. 
The lUies, the luminous lilies of France. 

— Pfli*/ if. Hayne. 



THE KINSHIP OF THE CELT. 



Commemorating the Battle of Yorktown, 
Oct. 19, 1781. 



"It's the flag of France! the flag of 
France, I sec! 
Life to it I Health to it 1 fold on fold, 
With the silken glint on its colors three. 
Yet if it was white with lilies of 
gold— 
The flag of a king — ^but the banner of 
France. 
With the flag of stars our love 'twould 
share, 
And, my soul, I'm for either with sword 
or lance. 
It's a people we love not the flag they 
bear. 
Let the seas divide; let the green 
earth hide. 
And the long years come and go, 
When love has once dwelt in the 
heart of the Celt. 
It is there while the waters flow." 

"And why do you Irish love France? It 
seems right 
When we sons of Plymouth read how 
they came. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



347 



And shouldered their guns in the York- 
town fight, 
To feel grateful, and honor that na- 
tion's name. 
To see plain Ben Franklin sit down with 
their king, 
And Rochambeau join Lafayette on 
guard. 
Tx)ngside of George Washington, and, — 
by jing! 
Paul Jones on the deck of Bonhomme 
Richard ! 
Oh, it stirs us yet; no, we don't 
forget 
The days between storm and shine. 
With the ships of the French, and 
their men in the trench 
And their rush on the fighting 
line." 

"The love of old Ireland for France? It 
has been 
In the first low lilt of our cradle croon ; 
Has twined with our longing for 'Wear- 
ing the Green ;' 
Has been wet with the tears of our 
'Shule Aroon.* 
No new love can bid it to wither and 
fall ; 
Its roots have sunk in the deep past, 
and are strong 
As the long, long mem'ry that marks out 
the Gael 
For loving old love and rememb'ring 
old wrong. 
Where the strong hands clasp, in the 
true man's grasp 
And the stout soul finds its mate. 
Let the great doors swing and the 
great bells ring 
For the love that laughs at fate. 

**To France for a hundred sad years we 
turned 
As our only friend and our hope-lit 
star. 
And never our banished ones' prayers 
she spurned 
But mustered for Ireland her lords of 
war. 
Oh, the French on the sea, and the pikes 
on the plain, 
The battle- joy strong in the eyes and 
breast ; 
And if in our Ireland their valor was 
vain. 



God prospered their arms in the land 
of the West. 
Man strikes and prays, but God's 
dim ways 
Direct the red bolt that's hurled, 
And the staggering blow of Rocham- 
beau 
Broke chains all round the world. 

"They flung wide their halls to our 
priests and our youth, 
When our schools were razed and our 
faith was banned ; 
They sent us the swords of De Tesse and 
St Ruth. 
And Humbert and Hoche to strike for 
our land. 
And we, poor in all but our lives and our 
blades. 
Sent Sarsfield and Dillon, O'Brien, 
O'Neill 
And the passionate stream of the Irish 
brigades, 
The sire of MacMahon went there with 
his steel. 
With the years as they go, may its 
^ glory g^row, 
Fair France of the generous hand f 
As for freedom it stood with its gold 
and its blood. 
Still free and superb may it stand. 

"From the loins of the grand old Celtic 
race. 
Our fathers and theirs came stalwart 
and twin. 
Wherever we've met on the round 
world's face, 
Our souls knew their souls for clans- 
man and kin. 
And by us, who on many a blood-red 
field, 
Poured out of our best by the best of 
France, 
The compact of kinship again shall be 
sealed. 
Whenever for freedom her colors ad- 
vance. 
May health and grace grttt the Cel- 
tic race — 
The Gaul and Gael— on sea and 
shore t 
And the green banner ride the wide 
heavens beside 
The starry flag and the tricolor!" 

— /. /. C. Clarke, 



348 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



SWIFT. 



Died October 19, 1746. 



First in fhe list behold the caustic Dean, 
Whose muse was like himself compact of 

spleen ; 
Whose sport was ireful, and his laugh 

severe, 
His very kindness cutting, cold, austere. 

— Hartley Coleridge, 



Qctobcv 20. 



BURTON. 



Richard Burton, died October 80, 1800. 



While England sees not her old praise 

dim, 
While still her stars through the world's 

night swim, 
A fame outshining her Raleigh's fame, 
A light that lightens her loud sea's rim. 

Shall shine and sound as her son's pro- 
claim 
The pride that kindles at Burton's name. 

And joy shall exalt their pride to be 
The same in birth if in soul the same. 

But we that yearn for a friend's face — ^we 
Who lack the light that on earth was 
he- 
Mourn, though the light be a quench- 
less flame 
That shines as dawn on a tideless sea. 
— Algernon C. Swinburne, 



October 21. 



TRAFALGAR DAY. 



The greatest English naval victory of the 
Napoleonic wars, fought on Oct. 21, 1805. 
The English commander, Lord Nelson, was 
killed. 



Laurels, bring laurels, sheaves on 
sheaves. 



Till England's boughs are bare of leaves ! 
Soon comes the lower more rare, more 
dear 

Than any laurel this year weaves — 
The Aloe of the hundredth year 
Since from the smoke of Trafalgar 
He passed to where the heroes are. 
Nelson, who passed and yet is here. 
Whose dust is fire beneath our feet. 
Whose memory mans our fleet 

Laurels, bring laurel^ since they hold 
His England's tears in each green fold. 
His England's joy, his England's pride. 
His England's glories manifold. 
Yet what was Victory since he died ? 
And what was Death since he lives 

yet. 
Above a Nation's worship set. 
Above her heroes glorified? — 
Nelson, who made our flag a star 
To lead where Victories are! 

— E, Nesbit 



October 22. 



THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 



A French poet, critic, and novelist. He died 
on Oct. 22. 1872. 



Mixed with the masque of death's old 

comedy 
Though thou too pass, have here our 

flowers, that we 
For all the flowers thou gav'st upon 

thee shed. 
And pass not crownless to Persephone. 

Blue lotus-blooms and white and rosy- 
red 

We wind with poppies for thy silent 
head, 
And on this margin of the sundering 
sea 

Leave thy sweet light to rise upon the 
dead. 

— Algernon C. Swinburne. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



349 



©ctobcr 23^ 



A DINNER AT THE HOUSE OF 
DUGAL STEWART. 



This little poem of Burns' is the outcome 
of his dining on Oct. 28, 1786, with his friend 
Robert Ferguson, and there meeting unex* 

pectedly Lord ^. The occasion seems 

to have been a pleasant one. 



This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled up the brae, 

I dinnered wi* a Lord. 



I've been at drunken writer's feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou *mang godly priests, 

Wi' reverence be it spoken; 
I've even joined the honoured jorum. 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 



But wi* a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord— a Peer— an Earl's son. 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa. 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a* 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

I watched the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern. 

One rank as well's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care. 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 

'^Robert Bums. 



©ctobcr 24^ 



MONTEFIORE. 



An English-Jewish philanthropist, who was 
born on Oct 24, 1784. He lived to be over 
a hundred years of age. 



I saw — ^'twas in a dream the other 

night — 
A man whose hair with age was thin and 

white ; 
One hundred years had bettered by his 

birth. 
And still his step was firm, his eye was 

bright 

Before him and about him pressed a 

crowd. 
Each head in reverence was bared and 

bowed. 
And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred 

tongues 
Extolled his deeds and spake his fame 

aloud. 

I joined the throng and, pushing for- 
ward, cried 
"Montefiore I" with the rest, and vied 

In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er 
To want and worth had charity denied. 

So closely round him swarmed our 

shouting clan 
He scarce could breathe, and, taking 

from a pan 
A gleaming coin, he tossed it o'er our 

heads, 
And in a moment was a lonely man ! 

— Ambrose Bierce. 



WEBSTER 



Death of Daniel Webster, October 84, 1854. 



Night of the Tomb I He has entered thy 
portal; 
Silence of Death! He is wrapped in 
thy shade; 
All of the gifted and great that was 
mortal. 
In the earth where the ocean-mist 
weepeth, is laid 



350 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Lips, whence thy voice that held Senates 
proceeded, 
Form, lending argument aspect aufi^ust. 
Brow, like the arch that a nation's weight 
needed. 
Eyes, wells unfathomed of thought— all 
are dust 

Night of the Tomb I Through thy dark- 
ness is shining 
A light, since the Star in the East 
never dim; 
No joy's exultation, no sorrow's repining 
Could hide it in life or life's ending 
from him. 

Silence of Death I There were voices 
from heaven. 
That pierced the quick ear of Faith 
through the gloom ; 
The rod and the staff that he asked for 
were given, 
And he followed the Saviour's own 
track to the tomb. 

Beyond it, above, in an atmosphere finer, 
Lo, infinite ranges of being to filll 

In that land of the spirit, that region 
diviner, 
He liveth, he loveth, he laboureth still. 

— Epes Sargent, 



Qctobct 23. 



THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. 



A victory gained by the English under 
Henry V. over the French under the Constable 
d'Albret. on Oct. 26, 1416. The English loss 
was about 1,600, that of the French over 10,- 
000. 



Fair stood the wind for France, 
When we our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry; 
But putting to the main, 
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train. 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fortj 
Furnished in warlike sort. 
Marched towards Agincourt 

In happy hour — 
Skirmishing day bv day 



With those that stopped his way. 
Where the French gen'ral lay 
With all his power. 

Which in his height of pride» 
King Henry to deride. 
His ransom to provide 

To the king sending; 
Which he neglects the while» 
As from a nation vile. 
Yet, with an angry smile. 

Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men. 
Quoth our brave Henry then : 
Though they to one be ten. 

Be not amazed; 
Yet have we well begun — 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised. 

And for myself, quoth he. 
This my full rest shall be; 
England ne'er mourn for me. 

Nor more esteem me. 
Victor I will remain, 
Or on this earth lie slain; 
Never shall she sustain 

Loss to redeem me. 

Poitiers and Cressy tell. 
When most their pride did swell, 
Under our swords they fell; 

No less our skill is 
Than when our grandsire great, 
Claiming the regal seat. 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French lilies. 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vaward led; 
With the main Henry sped. 

Amongst his henchmen. 
Excester had the rear — 
A braver man not there: 
O Lord ! how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen! 

They now to fight are gone; 
Armour on armour shone; 
Drum now to drum did groan — 

To hear was wonder; 
That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shake; 
Trumpet to trumpet spake. 

Thunder to thunder. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



351 



Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham! 
Which did the signal aim 

To our hid forces; 
When, from a meadow by. 
Like a storm suddenly, 
The English archery 

Struck the French horses, 

With Spanish yew so strong. 
Arrows a cloth-yard long, 
That like to serpents stung, 

Piercing the weather; 
None from his fellow starts, 
But playing manly parts. 
And like true English hearts. 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw. 
And forth their bilbo ws drew, 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy: 
Arms were from shoulders sent ; 
Scalps to the teeth were rent; 
Down the French peasants went; 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble king. 
His broadsword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding. 

As to overwhelm it: 
And many a deep wound lent. 
His arms with blood besprent. 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 

Glo'ster, that duke so good. 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood, 

With his brave brother- 
Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight. 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade; 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made. 

Still as they ran up. 
Suffolk his axe did ply ; 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's day 
Fought was this noble fray. 
Which fame did not delay 



To England to carry; 
O, when shall Englishmen 
With such acts fill a pen. 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry? 

— Michael Drayton. 



THE "UNITED STATES" AND 
"MACEDONIAN." 



A naval engagement of the War of 1818 in 
which the American frigate "United States" 
captured the English frigate "Macedonian." 
It was fought on Oct. 25, 1812. 



The banner of Freedom high floated un- 
furled. 

While the silver-tipped surges in low 
homage curled, 

Flashing bright round the bow of Deca- 
tur's brave bark, 

In contest, an "eagle" — in chasing a 
"lark." 
The bold United States. 
Which four-and-forty rates. 

Will ne'er be known to yield — ^be known 
to yield or fly. 

Her motto is "Glory I we conquer or we 
die." 

All canvas expanded to woo the coy gale. 
The ship cleared for action, in chase of a 

sail; 
The foemen in view, every bosom beats 

high. 
All eager for conquest, or ready to die. 
The bold United States, 
Which four-and-forty rates. 
Will ne'er be known to yield — be known 

to yield or fly. 
Her motto is "Glory! we conquer or we 

die." 

Now havoc stands ready with optics of 

flame. 
And battle-hounds "strain on the start" 

for the game; 
The blood demons rise on the surge for 

their prey. 
While Pity, rejected, awaits the dread 
fray. 
The bold United States, 
Which four-and-forty rates, 



352 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Will ne'er be known to yield — ^be known 

to yield or Qy, 
Her motto is "Glory! we conquer or we 

die." 

The gay floating streamers of Britain ap- 
pear, 

Waving light on the breeze as the 
stranger we near; 

And now could the quick-sighted 
Yankee discern 

Macedonian, emblaeoned at large on her 
stem. 
The bold United States, 
Which four-and-forty rates. 

Will ne'er be known to yield — ^be known 
to yield or fly. 

Her motto is "Glory! we conquer or we 
die." 

She waited our approach, and the con- 
test began, 

But to waste ammunition is no Yankee 
plan ; 

In awful suspense every match was with- 
held, 

While the bull-dogs of Britain incessant- 
ly yelled. 
The bold United States, 
Which four-and-forty rates. 

Will ne'er be known to yield — ^be known 
to yield or fly. 

Her motto is "Glory ! we conquer or we 
die." 

Unawed by her thunders, alongside we 

came, 
While the foe seemed enwrapped in a 

mantle of flame; 
When, prompt to the word, such a flood 

we return. 
That Neptune aghast, thought his trident 

would bum. 
The bold United States, 
Which four-and-forty rates, 
Will ne'er be known to yield — ^be known 

to yield or fly. 
Her motto is "Glory ! we conquer or we 

die." 

Now the lightning of battle gleams hor- 
ridly red. 

With a tempest of iron and hail-storm 
of lead; 

And our Are on the foe we so copiously 
poured^ 



His mizzen and topmasts soon went by 
the board. 
The bold United States, 
Which four-and-forty rates. 
Will ne'er be known to yield:— be known 

to yield or fly, 
Her motto is "(Xory ! we conquer or we 
die." 



So fierce and so bright did our flashes 

aspire. 
They thought that their cannon had set 

us on fire, 
"The Yankee's in flames !— every British 

tar hears. 
And hails the false omen with three 

hearty cheers. 
The bold United States, 
Which four-and-fortjr rates. 
Will ne'er be known to yield — be known 

to yield or fly. 
Her motto is "Glory 1 we conquer or 

die." 



In seventeen minutes they found their 

mistake. 
And were glad to surrender and fall in 

our wake; 
Her decks were with carnage and blood 

deluged o'er, 
Where welt'ring in blood lay an hundred 

and four. 
The bold United States, 
Which four-and-forty rates. 
Will ne'er be known to yield — ^be known 

to yield or fly, 
Her motto is "Glory! we conquer or we 

die." 



But though she was made so completely 

a wreck. 
With blood they had scarcely encrim- 

soned our deck; 
Only five valiant Yankees in the contest 

were slain. 
And our ship in five minutes was fitted 

again. 
The bold United States, 
Which four-and-forty rates. 
Will ne'er be known to yield — ^be known 

to yield or fly, 
Her motto is "Glory ! we conquer or we 

die." 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 353 


Let Britain no longer lay claim to the 


IL 


For the trident of Neptune is ours, if we 


"Forward, the Light Brigade t" 


. Pl«se. 


Was there a man disma/d? 


While Hull and Decatur and Jones are 


No tho' the soldier knew 


our boast, 


Some one bad blunder'd; 


Wc dare their whole navy to come on 


Theirs not to make reply. 


The bold United StaUs. 
Which four-and- forty rates. 
Will ne'er be known to yield— be known 
to yield or %, 


Theirs not to reason why. 

Theirs but to do and die 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 


Her motto is "Glory 1 we conquer or we 




die." 


in. 


Rise, tars of Columbia !— and share in the 

fame, 
Which gilds Hull's, Decatur's and 

Jones's bright name; 
Fill a bumper and drink, "Here's suc- 


Cannon to right of them, 


Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon in front of them 

Volley'dandthunder'd; 


cess to the cause. 


Storm'd at with shot and shell. 


But Decatur supremely deserves our ap- 


Boldly they rode and well. 


plause." 


Into the jaws of Death, 


The bold Unitfd StaUs. 


Into the mouth of Hell 


Which four-and-forty rates. 


Rode the six hundred. 


Shall ne'er he known to yield— be known 




to yield_or fly. 


IV. 


Her motto 13 "Glory 1 we conquer or we 
die." 

—Old Ballad. 


Flash'd all their sabres bare. 




Flash'd as they tum'd in air 




Sabring the gunners there. 




Charging an army, while 


THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 


All the world wonder'd: 
Plunged in the batterv-smoke. 


BRIGADE. 


Right thro' the line thej- broke; 




Cossack and Russian 


Daring Ihe battle of B>1>kl>ra in A* 
CrimcMi War. by lome matake an order m* 


Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 


Siven for the Light Brigade of cavalrr to 


Shatter'd and sunder'd. 


cbaige tlie Ruuian irtiltery at the eitremitir 
of the .allcT. With a balttrr in froal of ttaem 
•nd one oa each lide the Light Brigade 


Then they rode back, but not 
Not the six hundred. 


hcoed lis oaj put the gun* ia front and 




routed the enemy'i eaoalry. Very few aur- 




viTtd thii famous charge which occurred on 


V, 


Oct. S6, 1864. 






Cannon to right of them. 




Cannon to left of them. 


I. 


Cannon behind them 


Half a league, half a league. 


Volley'd and thunder*d; 


Half a league onward, 


Storm'd at with shot and shell. 


All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 


While horse and hero fell. 


They that had fought so well 


"Forward, the Light Brigade t 


Came thro' the jaws of Death 


Charge for the gunsi" he said: 


Back from the mouth of Hell, 


Into the valley of Death 


All that was left of them. 


Rode the six hundred. 





354 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



VI. 

When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they madel 

All the world wonder'd. . 
Honor the charge they madel 
Honor, the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 

^—Alfred Tennyson. 



CHAUCER. 



Died October S5» 1400. 



The heart of Merrie England sang in 

diee, 
Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of 

Mom! 
How from that dim and mellow distance 

borne 
Come floating down thy measures pure 

and free, 
Minstrel of Pilgrim pleasaunce ! Pagen- 

try, 
And Revel, blowing from his drinking- 
horn 
The froth of malt, and Love that dwells 

forlorn — 
England shall live in these that live 

through thee! 

Thine is the jocund Springtime; — ^win- 
some May, 

Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, 
clerkly wight! 

The breath of pastoral cheer is in thy 
lay, 

And in thy graver verse thy nation's 
might 

O, Pan-pipe, blown at England's break 
of day, 

Re-echo through her noon thy clear de- 
light! — Craven L, Betts, 



October 26. 



ON WILLIAM HOGARTH — IN 
CHISWICK CHURCHYARD. 



William Hogarth, the great English artist, 
engraver, and cartoonist, died on Oct. 26, 
1764. 

Farewell, great painter of mankind, 
Who reached the noblest point of art ; 



Whose pictured morals charm the mind. 
And through the eye correct the heart I 

If genius fire thee, reader stay; 

If nature touch thee, drop a tear; 
If neither move thee, turn away. 

For Hogarth's honoured dust lies here^ 



LADY PENELOPE CLIFTON. 



Elcfy'on the Death of tiie Lady 
difton— <laiighter of the Earl of Wa 
fint of the seven wires of Sir Gcnraae 
Died October 26, 161S. 



and 

CliflOB. 



Since thou art dead, Qifton, the world 

may see 
A certain end of flesh and blood in thee; 
Till then a way was left for man to ciy, 
Flesh may be made so pure it cannot die; 
But now thy unexpected death doth 

strike 
With grief the better and the worse 

alike ; 
The good are sad they are not with thee 

there. 
The bad have found they must not tarry 

here. 

— Francis Beaumont. 



©ctobcr 27. 



THE TWO ANGELS. 



This poem commemorates the birth of s 
child to the poet and the death of the wife of 
his friend and neighbor, James Russell Low- 
ell, on October 27, 1858. 



Two angels, one of Life and one of 
Death, 
Passed o'er our village as the morning 
broke ; . 
The dawn was on their faces, and be- 
neath, 
The sombre houses hearsed with 
plumes of smoke. 

Their attitude and aspect were the same. 
Alike their features and their robes of 

white ; 
But one was crowned with amaranth, as 

with flame^ 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



355 



I saw them pause oa their celestial way; 
Then said I, with deep fear and doubt 
oppressed, 
'^eat not so loud, my heart, lest thou 

The place where thy beloved are at 



And he who wore the crown of aspho- 
dels. 
Descending, at my door began to 

And my soul sank within me, as in wells 
The waters ink before an earthquake's 

I recognized the nameless agony, 
The terror and the tremor and the 

That oft before had filled or haunted me. 
And now returned with threefold 
strength again. 



The door I opened to my heavenly guest, 
And listened, for I thought I heard 
God's 



And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was 
best, 
Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. 

Then with a smile, that filled the house 
with light, 
"My errand is not Death, but Life," he 

And ere I answered, passing out of sight. 
On his celestial embassy he sped. 

Twas at thy door, O friend I and not at 

The angel with the amaranthine 

Pausing, descended, and with voice di- 



Then fell upon the house a sudden 
gloom, 
A shadow on those features fair and 
thin; 
And softly, from that hushed and dark- 
Two angels issued, where but one vent 



All is of God 1 If be but wave bis hand, 
The mists collect, the rain falls thick 
and loud. 
Till, with a smile of light on sea and 

Lot he looks back from the departing 

Angels of Life and Death alike are his; 
Without his leave they pass no thres- 
hold o'er; 
Who, then, would wish or dare, believing 



—Henry W. Longfellow. 



ON A PORTRAIT OF SERVETUS. 



Ifkhael Servetu* wu ■ Spuiiili phjilelMii 
•nd cootrovcnuliM who wu buined for 
hcrar on Oct. IT, ISU. 



ward rage 
Thy broken frame, what tempests chilled 

and shook! 
Ah, could not thy remorseless foenun 

Time's sure devourment, but must needs 
assuage 

His anger in thy blood, and blot the age 

With that dark crime which virtue's 
semblance took ! 

ServetusI that which slew thee lives to- 
day. 

Though in new forms it taints our mod- 
em air; 

Still in heaven's name the deeds of hdl 

Still on the high-road, 'neath the noon- 
day sun. 
The fires of hate are lit for them who 

Follow their Lord along the untrodden 

—Richaid Watson Gilder. 



3S6 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



®ctol)er 28. 



ALFRED. 



Alfred the Great, King of England, died 
Oct. 28, 001. 



Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 
The pious ALFRED,. King to Justice 

dear! 
Lord of the harp and liberating spear; 
Mirror of Princes! Indigent Renown 
Might range the starry ether for a crown 
Equal to his deserts, who, like the year. 
Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth 

cheer, 
And awes like night with merqr-tem- 

pered frown. 
Ease from this noble miser of his time 
No moment steals ; pain narrows not his 

cares. 
Though small his kingdom as a spark or 

gem, 
Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, 
And Christian India, through her wide- 
spread clime. 
In sacred converse gifts with Alfred 

shares. 

— William Wordsworth, 



Qctobcv 29. 



DEATH OF SIR WALTER 
RALEIGH. 



Executed Oct 29, 1618. I«me8 written in 
his Bible. 



E'en such is time ! which takes in trust 
Our youth, our joys, and all we have; 

And pays us naught but age and dust. 
Which, in the dark and silent grave, 

When we have wandered all our ways. 

Shuts up the story of our days. 

And from which grave, and earth, and 
dust, 

The Lord shall raise me up I trust. 

Sir Walter Raleigh, 



0ctol)er 30. 



DE LONG. 



"I have found De Long and part3N-«ll dead. 
MelTiUe." 

George De Long was an American naval 
officer and explorer. He embarked on the 
Jeannette for a three years' cruise in Arctic 
waters but died in Siberia of cold and ttarrar 
tion on Oct SO, 1881. 



No harbor of all harbors 'neath God's 
sun 
Hath buoyed so much of all most 
priceless freight 
As this, since first a Spanish galleon 
Turned South from San Francisco's 
golden gate. 
But— how they cheered from wharf and 
yard and deck ! 
The costliest cargo that those roads 
hath crost 
Was when to face want, famine, fever, 
wreck. 
To battle with the forces of the frost. 
The craft, whose light name hence 

shall holy be. 
Steered for the Northern death 
across that windless sea. 

O lonely headlands of th' Alaskan strait I 
Ye watched that lonelier vessel as she 
passed ; 
Saw ye his face grow gladly satiate 
Of peril as he neared the ice-fields 
vast? 
For not the salvo's roar, the cheering 
town, 
Nor Summer voyage o'er soft Pacific's 
swell 
Delight such souls— nay. Nature's stern- 
est frown 
Sign of her fierce moods and impla- 
cable. 
So, where gray meeting seas the world 
divide 
With moaning wastes of chill and bit- 
ter foam, 
Methinks his step grew lighter as he 
eyed 
The confines of his all too narrow 
home. 
Northward — the night received them, 
and the ice 
Chill shining bergs and chiller shining 
stars 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



357 



Mocked them to whom one world would 
not suffice 
With toils and dangers, pestilences, 
wars. 
Northward--and East— the raving Arctic 
wind 
Stabbed at their hearts, pierced bone 
and marrow through, 
And vaster streamed the trackless tract 
behind. 
Nor nearer at their goal nor larger 

grew. 
And o'er their heads strange birds 
of omen flew. 
Then-^stayed and stopped — the hungry 
ice beneath 
Gnawed ravening at the vessel's groan- 
ing sides; 
And shut were they in horror as a 
sheath, 
'Twixt the thick darkness and the 
frozen tides. 
And they became a memory to men 
Who said: "Lo! these, too, meet the 
ancient fate!" 
And weeks grew months and months 
grew years — ^and then 
Behold the dead raised from their 
lodging strait ! 

Found! But how found? One blinded, 
one gone mad! 
And some are dead — the missing of the 
roll 
Doth their sepulture, awful, riteless, sad. 
Swell the dread trophies of the North- 
em pole? 
Answer from out Siberia's lifeless waste. 
Answer from 'neath Siberia's leaden 
skies. 
Though none shall know the desperate 
ills they faced. 
Till at the crack of Doom the dead 
arise ; 
Found — like a gunner lying by his 

gun— 
They found the strong Republic's 

strongest son: 
Her eagle at his crest, her stars his 
shoulders on. 

O solemn service of that ancient faith ! 
From proudest minster, darkest cata- 
comb; 



From where the Asian sunshafts scorch 
and scathe 
Judean deserts — ritual of Rome, 
All ages have thy prayers and paeans 
heard. 
But ne'er in all the measure of thy 
time. 
More faithful flock received thy weight- 

ful word 
From lips of holier priest— or more sub- 
lime — 
Than when beside the frost-sealed 

Lena he 
Read in unchanging voice thy 
changeless liturgy. 



O stormy splendor of the Saxon cheer. 
What echoes hast thou waked— ol 
Afric night, 
When St Amaud the Legion — unto fear 
Most Foreign — hurled into the flaming 
fight; 
And those that roused on Alma's blood- 
soaked height 
At sunset of that red September day; 
And those that taught the Rhine the 
Scottish might ; 
And those that beat the walls of Mon- 
terey! 
But the breath failing in the feeble shout 
That gave their envoys God-speed 
through the snow. 
Despair showed vanquished, and the 
sinking doubt 
Of famine bom in slow and sickening 
throe; 
Aye, showed each hero, where were 

heroes all 
Ready with Death to grip in cer- 
tainty to fall! 



Gaunt corpses in weird solitude they lie. 
But as th' Aurora's signet on their sky. 
So on the tablets of enduring fame. 
Transcribed in fire the letters of each 
name 
Of those who on our streets but now 

we saw. 
Nor paled, oh, blindness, with presag- 
ing awe. 

— Andrew E. Wairout. 



348 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



SWIFT. 



Died October 10, 1746. 



First in ^he list behold the caustic Dean, 
Whose muse was like himself com|>act of 

spleen ; 
Whose sport was ireful, and his laugh 

severe, 
His very kindness cutting, cold, austere. 

— Hartley Coleridge. 



QCtO\)CV 20. 



BURTON. 



Richard Burton, died October SO, 1890. 



While England sees not her old praise 

dim, 
While still her stars through the world's 

night swim, 
A fame outshining her Raleigh's fame, 
A light that lightens her loud sea's rim, 

Shall shine and sound as her son's pro- 
claim 
The pride that kindles at Burton's name. 

And joy shall exalt their pride to be 
The same in birth if in soul the same. 

But we that yearn for a friend's face — ^we 
Who lack the light that on earth was 
he- 
Mourn, though the light be a quench- 
less flame 
That shines as dawn on a tideless sea. 
— Algernon C. Swtnburne, 



October 2t* 



TRAFALGAR DAY. 



The greatest English naval victory of the 
Napoleonic wars, fought on Oct. 21, 1805. 
The English commander, Lord Nelson, was 
killed. 



Laurels, bring laurels, sheaves on 
sheaves. 



Till England's boughs are bare of leaves 1 
Soon comes the lower more rare, more 
dear 

Than any laurel this year weaves — 
The Aloe of the hundredth year 
Since from the smoke of Trafalgar 
He passed to where the heroes are. 
Nelson, who passed and yet is here. 
Whose dust is fire beneath our feet. 
Whose memory mans our fleet 

Laurels, bring laurels, since they hold 
His England's tears in each green fold. 
His England's joy, his England's pride. 
His England's glones manifold. 
Yet what was Victory since he died? 
And what was Death since he lives 

yet, 
Above a Nation's worship set. 
Above her heroes glorified ? — 
Nelson, who made our flag a star 
To lead where Victories are! 

— E. Nesbit 



October 22. 



THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 



A French poet, critic, and novelist. He died 
on Oct 22. 1872. 



* * * 



* >K >K ♦ 



Mixed with the masque of death's old 

comedy 
Though thou too pass, have here our 

flowers, that we 
For all the flowers thou gav'st upon 

thee shed, 
And pass not crownless to Persephone. 

Blue lotus-blooms and white and rosy- 
red 

We wind with poppies for thy silent 
head, 
And on this margin of the sundering 
sea 

Leave thy sweet light to rise upon the 
dead. 

— Algernon C. Swinburne, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



349 



©ctobcr 23^ 



A DINNER AT THE HOUSE OF 
DUGAL STEWART. 



This little poem of Burns' is the outcome 
of his dining on Oct. 28» 1780, wiUi his friend 
Robert Ferguson, and there meeting unex- 
pectedly Lord The occasion seems 

to have been a pleasant one. 



This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day. 
Sac far I sprackled up the brae, 

I dinnered wi' a Lord. 



I've been at drunken writer's feasts. 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi* reverence be it spoken; 
I've even joined the honoured jorum. 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 



But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — ^a Peer— an Earl's son. 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa. 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a* 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 



I watched the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 



Then from his Lordship I shall learn. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern. 

One rank as well's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care. 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 

'^Robert Bums. 



©ctobcr 24^ 



MONTEFIORE. 



An English-Jewish philanthropist, who was 
born on Oct 24, 1784. He lived to be over 
a hundred years of age. 



I saw — 'twas in a dream the other 

night — 
A man whose hair with age was thin and 

white ; 
One hundred years had bettered by his 

birth. 
And still his step was firm, his eye was 

bright 

Before him and about him pressed a 

crowd. 
Each head in reverence was bared and 

bowed. 
And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred 

tongues 
Extolled his deeds and spake his fame 

aloud. 

I joined the throng and, pushing for- 
ward, cried 
"Montefiorel" with the rest, and vied 

In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er 
To want and worth had charity denied. 

So closely round him swarmed our 

shouting clan 
He scarce could breathe, and, taking 

from a pan 
A gleaming coin, he tossed it o'er our 

heads. 
And in a moment was a lonely man! 

— Ambrose Bierce. 



WEBSTER. 



Death of Daniel Webster, October 84, 1864. 



Night of the Tomb ! He has entered thy 
portal ; 
Silence of Death! He is wrapped in 
thy shade; 
All of the gifted and great that was 
mortal. 
In the earth where the ocean-mist 
weepeth, is laid 



}6o 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



flovcm!)cr I. 



ALL-SAINTS' DAY. 



One feast, of holy days the crest, 

I, though no Churchman, love to keep, 
All-Saints, — ^the unknown good that rest 

In God's still memory folded deep; 
The bravely dumb that did their deed. 

And scorned to blot it with a name, 
Men of the plain heroic breed. 

That loved Heaven's silence more than 
fame. 

Such lived, not in the past alone. 

But thread to-day the unheeding street. 
And stairs to Sin and Famine known 

Sing with the welcome of their feet; 
The den they enter grows a shrine, 

The grimy sash an oriel bums. 
Their cup of water warms like wine, 

Their speech is filled from heavenly 
urns. 

About their brows to me appears 

An aureole traced in tenderest light. 
The rainbow-gleam of smiles through 
tears 

In dying eyes, by them made bright, 
Of souls that shivered on the edge 

Of that chill ford repassed no more. 
And in their mercy felt the pledge 

And sweetness of the farther shore. 

'^ James Russell Lowell 



WHEN I BENEATH THE COLD, 
RED EARTH AM SLEEPING. 



William Motherwell, a Scottish poet and 
antiquary, who died Nov. 1, 1885. 



When I beneath the cold, red earth am 
sleeping. 
Life's fever o'er. 
Will there for me be any bright eye 
weeping 
That I'm no more? 
Will there be any heart still memory 
keeping 
Of heretofore? 

When the great winds, through leafless 
forests rushing, 



Like full hearts break — 
When the swoU'n streams, o'er crag and 
gully gushing, 
Sad music mak&* 
Will there be one, whose heart Despair 
is crushing. 
Mom for my sake? 

When the bright sun upon that spot is 
shining 
With purest ray. 
And the small flowers, their buds and 
blossoms twining, 
Burst through that day — 
Will there be one still on that spot re- 
pining 
Lost hopes all day? 

When the Night shadows, with the am- 
ple sweeping 
Of her dark pall. 
The world and all its manifold creation 
sleeping — 
The great and small — 
Will there be one, even at that dread 
hour, weeping. 
For me — for all? 

When no star twinkles with its eye of 
glory 
On that low mound. 
And wintry storms have with their ruins 
hoary 
Its loneness crowned, 
Will there be then one versed in Misery's 
story 
Pacing it round? 

It may be so — ^but this is selhsh sorrow 

To ask such meed — 
A weakness and a wickedness, to borrow 

From hearts that bleed 
The waitings of to-day, for what to-mor- 
row 

Shall never need. 

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwell- 
ing. 
Thou gentle heart ! 
And, though thy bosom should with grief 
be swelling, 
Let no tear start ; 
It were in vain — ^for Time hath long^ been 
knelling — 
Sad one, depart! 

—William Motherwell 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



361 



'noveml>er 2. 

TO JENNY UND. 

died CD No*. 



They call thee Nightingale, who know 
thee nott 
But Philomel's light voice within her 
tree 
Betrays an instinct of her transient lot; 
As flowers to gems are, so are birds 
to thee. 

— Edmund Cosse. 



Ilovcmbcr 3. 

TO BRYANT ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 

Rnm Nnvnnhrr *. 1TD1. 
Thew 



bdar. Not 
n ol that 



t the Centurr Club 



Hearken, ye bards who err by rigid rules. 
And wear the tawdry livery of the 

schools ; 
Who strive to shine as other lights have 

shone. 
And envying others, forfeit what's your 

Write, as he wrote, with honest, simple 

pains. 
Out of the seeds God planted in your 

Out of tile fullness of your nation's heart, 
Nor vex the dead with imitative art; 
Nor cross the natural limit of the seas, 
To seek a strength that tills our stronger 

For were the copy as the first mould 

Out on the thing I a copy 'lis at last I 
By mere descent no poet shall be known ; 
Each royal minstrel holds his separate 

And o'er his state a seraph's brand is 

whirled : 
One Milton is enough for any world. 
Poet revered, you taught this lesaon first. 



As from the bondage of the schools you 

Anil filled our startled but delighted 

sense 
With our wide land's discovered afflu- 

Gave the scorned legends of our narrow 

Another color and more graceful cast; 
Touched the wild flowers beneath our 

ludd skies. 
And shook their glimmer in the dream- 
Made history light upon unstoried bills. 
And breathed a voice along our savage 



rills; 






all the haze of fresh ro- 



Till Europe wondered through her doubt- 
ing glance; 
But wondered more that every tone rang 



freeman's 



out 
The clarion challenge of : 

shout; 
Sounding defiance to their castes and 

kings. 
Their courtly follies over empty things; 
But, O my Bryant, tempered sweet and 

To tenderest pity, was your music's flow 
Over the trampled serfs that raised their 

Beneath the shadows of resplendent 

thrones. 
Warm was the welcome of the hand you 

gave 
Across our threshold to the fleeing 

And stem the courage of your angry 

When tyrants raged for what they called 
their own. 

You were the first who made us clearly 
set^ 

In rhythmic words, how grand 'tis to be 
free; 

Sang to the world the spirit of our land. 

And waved her standard from your spot- 
less hand ; 

Taught every child the glory of his birth. 

And spread his heritage around the 
earth; 

Made youth feel Stronger, that his life 
b^an 

Here in the front of freedom's hardy 



362 



EVERY DAY IN THE lYEAR. 



Consoled the sage against foreboding 

fears, 
And starred with hopes the shadows of 

his years. 

-George H, Boker. 



flovemI>er 4. 



EUGENE FIELD. 



Died November 4, 1896. 



But yesterday he was, and lo 1 to-day 
Upon Viis lips there is not any breath 
To tell me how he fared along the way ; 
And yet, methinks, beside his pulseless 

clay 
I kneel and listen till I hear him say, 
**V\\ sing more sweetly for the sleep of 



death. 



— Marion F. Ham. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 



Charles Churchill was an English ooet of 
most erratic habits, who died on Nov. 4, 
1704. 



I Stood beside the grave of him who 
blazed 
The comet of a season, and I saw 
The humblest of all sepulchres, and 
gazed 
With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
On that neglected turf and quiet stone. 
With name no clearer than the names un- 
known, 
Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 
The Gardener of that ground, why it 
might be 
That for this plant strangers his memory 
task'd 
Through the thick deaths of half a 
century? 
And thus he answer'd: "Well, I do not 

know 
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims 

so; 
He died before my day of Sextonship. 
And I had not the digging of this 
grave." 



And is this all? I thought, — and do we 

rip 
The veil of Immortality? and crave 
I know not what of honor and of lis^t 
Through unborn ages, to endure thii 

blight? 
So soon, and so successless? As I said. 
The Architect of all on which we tread. 
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
To* extricate remdcnbrance from the day, 
Whose minglings mis^t confuse a New- 
ton's thought. 
Were it not that all life must end in one, 
Of which we are but dreamers; — as he 

caught 
As 'twere the twilight of a former Son, 
Thus spoke he: "I believe the man of 

whom 
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
Was a most famous writer in his day. 
And therefore travellers step from out 

their way 
To pay to him honor, — and myself what- 

e'er 
Your honor pleases." Then most pleased 

I shook 
From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
Some certain coins of silver, which as 

'twere 
Perforce I gave this man, though I could 

spare 
So much but inconveniently: — Ye smile, 
I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while. 
Because my homely phrase the truth 

would tell. 
You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
With a deep thought, and with a soften'd 

eye. 
On that old Sexton's natural homily. 
In which there was Obscurity and 

Fame, — 
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 

—Lord Byron, 



Viovember 3# 



INKERMAN. 



In this battle in the Crimean War. fought 
on Nov. 5, 1854, the Allies defeated the Rus- 
sians who had made an unexpected attack on 

the camp. 



Cheerly with us that great November 
morn 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



363 



Rose, as 1 trace its features in my 

A day that in the lap of winter born. 
Yet told of autumn scarcely left be- 

And we by many a hearth in all the land, 
Whom quiet sleep had lapped the calm 
night through, 
Gianged greetings, lip with lip, and hand 

Old greetings, but which love makes 

Then, as the day brought with it sweet 

From this world's care, with timely 
feet we trod 
The customary paths of blessed peace. 
We worshipped in the temples of our 
God; 
And when the sun had travelled his brief 

Drew round our hearths again in 
thankful ease; 
With pleasant light we chased away the 
dark, 
We sal at eve with children round our 

So fared this day with us:— but how 



with 






What, gallant hosts of England, was 
your cheer, 
Who numbered hearts as gentle and as 

As any kneeling at our altars here? 

From cheerless watches on the cold 
dank ground 
Startled, ye felt a foe on every side; 
With mist and gloom and deaths encom- 
passed round. 
With even to perish in the light denied. 

And that same season of our genial ease. 

It was your very agony of strife; 
While each of those our golden moments 

With you the ebbing of some noble' life. 

'Mid dark ravines, by precipices vast, 
Did there and here your dreadful con- 
flict sway; 
No Sabbath day's light work to quell at 
last 
The fearful odds of that unequal fray. 



Oh "hope" of England, only not "for- 

Because ye never your own hope re- 
signed. 
But in worst case, beleaguered, over- 
borne. 
Did help in God and in your own 
selves find; 

We greet yon o'er the waves, as from 
this time 
Men, to the meanest and the least of 
whom, 
In reverence of fortitude sublime. 
We would rise up, and yield respectful 

We greet you o'er the waves, nor doubt 
to say, 
Our Sabbath setting side by side with 

Yours was the better and the nobler day. 
And days like it have made that ours 
endures. 

—Richard C. Trench. 



Hark I forth from the ibyta a voice 

proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread 

Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable 

wound ; 
Through storm and darkness yawns - 

the rending ground. 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but 

the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her 

head discrown'd, 
And {tale, but lovely, with maternal 

grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast 

yields no relief. 

Scion of chiefs and monarch s, where 

art thou? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou 

dead? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and 



364 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
In the sad .midiiight, while thy heart 

atiU bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang for ever : with 

thee fled 
The present happiness and promised 

joy 
Which fiird the imperial isles so full it 

seem'd to cloy. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it 

be, 
O thou that wert so happy, so adored 1 
Those who weep not for kings shall 

weep for thee, 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, 

cease to hoard, 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had 

pourd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely 

lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert 

thou wed! 
The husband of a year I the father of the 

dead! 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment 

made; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles 

is laid. 
The love of millions ! How we did en- 
trust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly 

deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, 

and blcss'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose 

promise seem'd 
Like star to shepherds* eyes: — 'twas but 

a meteor beam'd. 

Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps 

well: 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the 

tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy 

hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'er- 

stung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the 

strange fate 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, 

and hath flung 



Against their blind omnipotence a 
weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes 
soon or late, — 

These might have been her destiny; 
but no. 

Our hearts deny it: and so jroung, so 
fair. 

Good without effort, great without a 
foe; 

But now a bride and mother — and now 
there! 

How many ties did that stem moment 
tearl 

From thy Sire's to his humblest sub- 
ject's breast 

Is link'd the .electric chain of that des- 
pair. 

Whose shock was as an earthquake's, 
and opprest 
The land which loved thee, so that none 
could love thee best. 

From "Childe Harold." 
— Lord Byron, 



GUNPOWDER PLOT. 



A conspiracy of malcontents, having for 
ils object the destruction of James I and the 
Lords and Commons in the Parliament House. 
It was discovered on Nov. 6, 1605. 



Fear hath a hundred eyes that all SLgree 
To plague her beating heart: and there 

is one 
(Nor idlest that I) which holds com- 
munion 
With things that were not, yet were 

meant to be 
Aghast within its gloomy cavity 
That eye (which sees as if fulfilled and 

done 
Crimes that might stop the motion of the 

sun) 
Beholds the horrible catastrophe 
Of an assembled Senate unredeemed 
From subterraneous Treason's darkling 

power : 
Merciless act of sorrow infinite. 
Worse than the product of that dismal 

night, 
When gushing, copious as a thunder- 
shower 
The blood of Huguenots through Paris 
streamed. 

—WUliam Wordsworth. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



36S 



Hovember d. 



THB. OLD ADMIRAL. 

Admiral Stewmrt, in American adniirB], ilu> 
tiiiEuisfaed in tbe croiaa agtiiut Prencli pH- 
vaiccn and in the War of ISIt. He wm tbc 
grandfiihcr of Charlu S. Parndl. He died 



Gone at last, 

That brave old hero of the Pait I 
His spirit has a second birth, 

An unknown, grander life; — 
All of him that was earth 

Lies mute and cold, 

Like a wrinkled sheath and old 
Thrown off forever from the shimmering 

blade 
That has good entrance made 

Upon some distant, glorious strife. 



The mom and noontide of the nation 
Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his 

O, not outlived his fame I 
The dauntless men whose service guards 
our shore 

Lengthen still their gloiy-roll 

With his name to lead the scroll. 
As a flagship at her fore 

Carries the Union, with its amre and 
the stars. 
Symbol of times that are no more 

And the old heroic wars. 

He was the one 

Whom Death had spared alone 

Of all the captains of that lusty age. 
Who sought the foeman where he lay. 
On sea or sheltering bay, 

Nor till the prize was theirs repressed 
their rage. 
They are gone^ — all gone: 

They rest with glory and the undying 

Only their name and fame and what 
they saved are oursl 

It was fifty years ago, 
Upon the Gallic Sea, 
He bore the banner of the free. 



And fought tBe fight whereof our chil- 
dren know. 
The deathful, desperate fight I— 
Under the (air moon's light 
The frigate squared, and yawed to left 
and right. 
Every broadside swept to death a 

Roundly played her guns and well, till 
their fiery ensigns fell. 
Neither foe replying more. 

All in silence, when the night-breeze 
cleared the air. 
Old Ironsides rested there, 
Locked in between the twain, and 
drenched with blood. 
Then homeward, like an eagle with her 

preyl 
O, it was a gallant fray. 
That fight in Biscay Bay! 
Fearless the Captain stood, in hii youth- 
ful hardihood; 
He was the boldest ol them all. 
Our brave old Admiral! 

And still our heroes bleed, 
Taught by that golden deed. 

Whether of iron or of oak 
The ships we marshal at our country's 

Still sp^ their cannon now as then 
they spoke; 
Still floats our unstruck banner from the 

As in the stormy Past. 

Lay him in the ground : 
Let him rest where the ancient river 
rolls; 
Let him sleep beneath the shadow and 
the sound 
Of the bell whose proclamation, as it 
tolls. 
Is of Freedom and the gift our father's 
gave, 
Lay him gently down: 
The clamor of the town 
Will not break the slumbers deep, the 
beautiful rtpe sleep 
Of this lion of the wave, 
Will not trouble the old Admiral in his 
grave. 



3fi(> 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



On the shadow of a great ship leaves 
the shore; 
Over cloudless western seas 
Seeks the for Hesperides, 

The islands of the blest, 
Where no turbulent billows roar, — 

Where is rest 
His ghost upon the shadowy quarter 

stands 
Nearing the deathless lands. 

There all his martial mates, renewed 
and strong. 

Await his coming long. 

I see the happy Heroes rise 

With gratulation in their ores: 
"Welcome, old comrade," Lawrence 

cries; 
"Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars I 
Who win the glory and the scars? 

How floats the skyey flag, — ^how many 
stars? 
Still speak they of Decatur's name, 
Of Bainbridge's and Perry's fame? 
Of me, who earliest came? 

Make ready, all : 

Room for the Admiral! 
Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars !" 

— E. C, Stedman. 



Dovember ?• 



THE MAN OF ROSS. 



The Man of Ross, who has been immortal- 
ised by Pope in these lines, was named John 
Kyrle, and died on Nov. 7, 1724. 



Rise, honest Muset and sing the Man 
of Ross: 

Pleased Vaga echoes through her wind- 
ing bounds. 

And rapid Severn hoarse applause re- 
sounds. 

Who hung with woods yon mountain's 
sultry brow? 

From the dry rock who bade the waters 
flow? 

Not to the skies in useless columns tost, 

Or in proud falls magnificently lost, 

But dear and artless, pouring thro' the 
plain 

Health to the sick, and solace to the 
swain. 



Whose causeway parts the vale with 
shady rows? 

Whose seats the weary traveller repose? 

Who taught that heaven-directed spire to 
rise? 

"The Man of Ross," each lisping babe 
replies. 

Behold Uie market-place with poor e'er- 
spread ! 

The Man of Ross divides the weekly 
bread: 

He feeds yon alms-house,, neat, but void 
of state. 

Where Age and Want sit smiling at the 
gate; 

Him portioned maids, apprenticed or- 
phans blest, 

The young who labour, and the old who 
rest 

Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves. 

Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes, 
and gives. 

Is there a variance? enter but his door. 

Balked are the Courts, and contest is no 
more. 

Despairing Quacks with curses fled the 
place. 

And vile Attorneys, now an useless race 

— Alexander Pope, 



THE GOSPEL OF PEACE. 



The captain and several of the crew of the 
ship Virginius, captured by the Spaniards in 
Cuban waters were executed at Santiago de 
Cuba, Nov. 7, 1878. The affair almost 
caused a rupture between Spain and the 
United States, and was finally settled by the 
payment of an indemnity by the Spaniah 
government 



Ay, let it rest! And give us peac& 

Tis but another blot 
On Freedom's fustian fbg, and gold 

Will gild the unclean spot. 

Yes, fold the hands, and bear the wrong 

As Christians over-meek, 
And wipe away the bloody stain. 

And turn the other cheek. 

What boots the loss of freemen's blood 

Beside imperilled gold? 
Is honor more than merchandise? 

And cannot pride be sold? 



I _ 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



367 



Let Cuba groan, let patriots fall; 

Americans may die; 
Our flag may droop in foul disgrace. 

But "Peace 1" be still our cry. 

Ay, give us peace ! And give us truth 

To nature, to resign 
The counterfeit which Freedom wears 

Upon her banner fine. 

Remove the Stars, — ^the light our 
shame ; 

But keep the Stripes of gore 
And craven White, to tell the wrong 

A prudent nation bore. 

— James Jeffrey Roche. 



November 8. 



MADAME ROLAND. 



Madame Roland, wife of a famous adherent 
of the French Revolution, was guillotined on 
NoY. 8, 1798. 



A mien of modest loveliness, 
A brow on which no shadow lies. 

And woman's soul of truthfulness 
Out-looking from soft hazel eyes : 

Thy placid features only show 
The happy mother, faithful wife. 

Not her whose fate it was to know 
All strange vicissitudes of life. 

Unnoticed in thy youthful days 
It was thy happy lot to move, 

Brightening life's unobtrusive ways 
With the sweet ministries of love. 

And learning the great truths of life 
That best are learned in solitude, 

But only in its after strife 
Are ever proved or understood! 

That toiling early, toiling late. 
For others, is our highest bliss — 

Man, even in his best estate, 
Hath no more happiness than this. 

Such truth it was, that even there, 
Where reigned the prison's gloom and 
chill. 

Could keep thee wholly from despair. 
And make thee toil for others stilL 



Till thine own sorrows half forgot, 
Thy noblest sacrifice was shown 

In words and deeds for those whose lot 
Was* far more wretched than thine 
own. 

Yet well for thee our tears may flow. 
Though high thy name emblazoned 
stands. 
Thou, with a woman's heart, could'st 
know 
No life that woman's heart deniiands. 

Happier than thou, with fame and 
wealth. 
Is she who cheers earth's humblest 
place ; 
Leaving no picture of herself. 
Save in a daughter's modest face. 

—Anon, 



FRANCIS PARKMAN. 



The well-known historian. Died November 
8, 1808. 



He rests from toil; the portals of the 
tomb 
Gose on the last of those unwearying 
hands 
That wove their pictured webs in His- 
tory's loom. 
Rich with the memories of three dis- 
tant lands. 

One wrought the record of the Royal 
Pair 
Who saw the great Discoverer's sail 
unfurled, 
Happy his more than regal prize to share. 
The spoils, the wonders, of the sunset 
world. 

There too, he found his theme ; uprearcd 
anew, 
Our eyes beheld the vanished Aztec 
shrines. 
And all the silver splendors of Peru 
That lured the conqueror to her fatal 
mines. 

Nor less remembered he who told the 
tale 



368 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Of empire wrested from the strangling 



Of Leyden's woe, that turned his readers 
pale. 
The price of unborn freedom yet to be; 

Who taught the New World what the 
Old could teach; 
Whose silent hero, peerless as our 
own. 
By deeds that mocked the feeble breath 
of speech 
Called up to life a State without a 
Throne* 

As year by year his tapestry unrolled, 
What varied wealth its glowing length 
displayed ! 
What long processions flamed in cloth 
of gold I 
What stately forms their flowing robes 
arrayed ! 

Not such the scenes our later craftsman 
drew; 
Not such the shapes his darker pattern 
held ; 
A deeper shadow lent its sober hue, 
A sadder tale his tragic task com- 
pelled. 

He told the red man's story; far and 
wide. 
He searched the unwritten records of 
his race; 
He sat a listener at the Sachem's side, 
He tracked the hunter through his 
wildwood chase. 

High o'er his head the soaring eagle 
screamed ; 
The wolf's long howl rang nightly; 
through the vale 
Tramped the lone bear; the panther's 
eyeballs gleamed; 
The bison's gallop thundered on the 
gale. 

Soon o'er the horizon rose the cloud of 
strife, — 
Two proud, strong nations battling for 
the prize, — 
Which swarming host should mould a 
nation's life, 
Which royal banner flout the western 
skies. 



Long raged the conflict ; on the crimson 
sod 
Native and alien joined their hosts in 
vain; 
The lilies withered where the Lion trod. 
Till Peace lay panting on the ravaged 
plain. 

A nobler task was theirs who strove to 
win 
The blood-stained heathen to the 
Christian fold; 
To free from Satan's clutch the slaves of 
sin: 
Their labors, too, with loving grace 
he told. 

Halting with feeble step, or bending o'er 
The sweet-breathed roses whidi he 
loved so well, 
While through long years his burdening 
cross he bore. 
From those Arm lips no coward ac- 
cents fell 

A brave, bright memory! his stainless 

shield 

No shame defaces and no envy mars! 

When our far future's record is unsealed. 

His name will shine among its morning 

stars. 

'— O/twr Wendell Holmes. 



November 9* 



BOSTON. 



The Boston Fire, November 9, 187S. 



O broad-breasted Queen among Nations ! 

O Mother, so strong in thy youth ! 
Has the Lord looked upon thee in ire. 
And willed thou be chastened by fire. 

Without any ruth? 

Has the Merciful tired of His mercy. 
And turned from thy sinning in wrath. 

That the world with raised hand sees 
and pities 

Thy desolate daughters, thy cities. 
Despoiled on their path? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



3<i9 



One year since thy youngest was strick- 

Thy eldest lies stricken to-day. 
Ahl God, was thy wrath without pity. 
To tear the strong heart from our city. 

And cast it away? 

O Fatherl forgive us our doubting; 

The stain from our weak souls efface; 
Thou rebukest, we know, but to chasten; 
Thy hand has but fallen to hasten 

Return to thy grace. 

Let us rise purified from our ashes 

As sinners have risen who grieved; 
Let us show that twice-sent desolation 
On every true heart in the nation 
Has conquest achieved. 

—John Boyle O'Reilly. 



November 10. 

THE FISHERMEN OF WEXFORD. 

SL Martin') Eve, NDvember 10. 

There is an old tradition sacred held in 

Wexford town, 
That says : "Upon St. Martin's Eve no 

net shall be let down ; 
No fisherman of Wexford shall, upon 

that holy day, 
Set sail or cast a line within the scope of 

Wexford Bay." 
The tongue that framed the order, or the 

time, no one could tell ; 
And no one ever questioned, but the peo- 
ple kept it well. 
And never in man's memory was fisher 

known to leave 
The little town of Wexford on the good 

St. Martin's Eve. 

Alas! alas for Wexford 1 once upon that 

holy day 
Came a wondrous shoal of herring to the 

waters of the Bay. 
The fishers and their families stood out 

upon the beach. 
And all day watched with wistful eyes 

the wealth they might not reach. 
Such shoal was never seen before, and 

keen r^rets went round — 



Alas I alas for Wexford I Hark ! what ta 

that grating sound? 
The boats keel on the shinglel Motbcrsl 

wives I ye well may grieve, — 
The fishermen of Wexford mean to sail 

on Martin's Eve I 

"Oh, stay ye 1" cried the women wild. 
"Stay 1" cried the men white- 

"And dare ye not to do this thing your 

fathers never dared. 
No man can thrive who tempts the 

Lord I" "Awayl" they cried: "the 

Lord 
Ne'er sent a shoal of fish but as a fisher- 

And sciffingly they said, "To-night our 

net shall sweep the Bay, 
And take the saint who guards it. should 

he come across our way I" 
The keels have touched the water, and 

the crews are in each boat; 
And on Sl Martin's Eve the Wexford 

fishers are afloat I 

The moon is shining coldly on the sea 
and on the land. 

On dark faces in the fishing-fleet and 
pale ones on the strand. 

As seaward go the daring boats, and 
heavenward the cries 

Of kneeling wives and mothers with up- 
lifted hands and eyes. 

"Oh Holy Virgin! be their guard I" the 

weeping women cried; 
The old men, sad and silent, watched the 

boats cleave through the tide, 
As past the farthest headland, past the 

lighthouse, in a line 
The fishing-fleet went seaward through 

the phosphor- lighted brine. 

Oh, pray, ye wives and mothers) All 

your prayers they sorely need 
To save them from the wrath they've 

roused by (heir rebellious greed. 
Oh I white-haired men and little babes, 

and weeping sweethearts, pray 
To God to spare the fishermen to-night 

in Wexford Bay I 

The boats have reached good offing, 
and, as out the nets are thrown. 

The hearts ashore are chilled to hear the 
soughing sea-wind's moan: 



3;^ 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Like to a human heart that loved, and 
hoped for some return. 

To find at last but hatred, so the sea- 
wind seemed to mourn. 

But ah! the Wexford fishermen I their 
nets did scarcely sink 

One inch below the foam, when, lol the 
daring boatmen shrink 

With sudden awe and whitened lips and 
glaring eyes agape. 

For breast-high, threatening, from the 
sea uprose a Human Shape I 

Beyond them, — in the moonlight,— hand 

upraised and awful mien. 
Waving back and pointing landward, 

breast-high in the sea 'twas seen. 
Thrice it waved and thrice it pointed, — 

then, with clenched hand upraised, 
The awful shape went down before the 

fishers as they gazed! 
Gleaming whitely through the water, 

fathoms deep they saw its frown, 
They saw its white hand clenched above 

it, — sinking slowly down! 
And then there was a rushing 'neath the 

boats, and every soul 
Was thrilled with greed: they knew it 

was the seaward-going shoal! 

Defjring the dread warning, every face 

was sternly set. 
And wildly did they ply the oar and 

wildly haul the net 
But two boats' crews obeyed the sign, — 

God-fearinjB: men were they, — 
Tkey cut their lines and left their nets, 

and homeward sped away; 
But darkly nsing stemward did God's 

wrath in tempest sweep. 
And they, of all the fishermen, that night 

escaped the deep. 
Oh, wives and mothers, sweethearts, 

sires! weh might ye mourn next 

day; 
For seventy fishers' corpses strewed the 

sliores of Wexford Bay ! 

—John Boyle CyReiUy. 



flovcmbcr II* 



ST. MARTIN'S DAY. 



of the eighteenth century, devoted himtdf to 
the study and care-tmking of old churches- 
Having inherited a fortune from hit grand* 
father. Dr. Thomas Willis, the ccl^ratcd 
ph/sician, placed this inscription on a con- 
spicuous part of a chapel at Fenny Stratford, 
dedicated to St Martin, his grand£ither havinc 
been bom in St Martin's I<ane, and oo St. 
Martin's Day. 



In honour to thy.memonr, blessed shade 1 
Were the foundations of this chapel laid. 
Purchased by thee, thy son and present 

heir 
Owes these three manors to thy sacred 

care. 
For this may all thy race thanks ever 

pay, 
And yearly celebrate St Martin's Day. 

—Browne IViUis. 



flovcmbcr 12* 



EPITAPH ON SIR THOMAS FAIR- 

FAX. 



Sir Thomas Pairfas^ who died on Nov. 
is, 1671 » was a celebrated Parliamentary 
leader in the English Civil Wars. 



An antiquary, known as Browne Willis — a 
sort of Old Mortality, wno in the early part 



I. 

Under this stone doth lie 

One bom for victory, — 
Fairfax the valiant, and the only He 
Who ere for that alone a conqueror 

would be. 

II. 

Both sexes' virtues were in him com- 
bined : 

He had the fierceness of the manliest 
mind. 

And all the meekness too of womankind. 

III. 

He never knew what envy was, nor hate ; 
His soul was filled with worth and 
honesty, 
And with another thing besides, quite 
out of date. 
Called modesty. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



371 



VI. 

When all the nation he had won. 

And with expense of blood had 

bought 
Store great enough, he thought. 

Of fame and of renown, — 

He then his arms laid down, 
With full as little pride 
As if he'd been the other, con- 
quered side, 

Or one of them could be that were un- 
done. 

VII. 

He neither wealth nor places sought: 
For others, not himself, he fought ; 

He was content to know 

(For he had found it so) 
That when he pleased to conquer he was 

able, 
And left the spoil and plunder to the 

rabble. 



VIII. 

He might have been a king. 

But that he understood 
How much it is a meaner thing 

To be unjustly great than honorably 
good. 

IX. 

This from the world did admiration 

draw, 
And from his friends both love and awe. 
Remembering what he did in fight before. 

Nay, his foes loved him too. 

As they were bound to do. 
Because he was resolved to fight no 

more. 



X. 



So, blessed of all he died, but far more 

blessed were we 
If we were sure to live till we could see 
A man as great in war, as just in peace 

as he. 

— George Villiers, 



flovcmbcr 13* 



STEVENSON'S BIRTHDAY. 



Robert I^uis Stevenson, bom November IS, 
1860. 



l)uke of Buckingham, 



"How I should like a birthday I" said 

the child, 
'Ihave so lew, and they so fai apart." 
She spoke to Stevenson — ^the Master 

smiled— 
"Mine is to-day; I would with all my 

heart 
That it were yours ; too many years have 

I! 
Too swift they come, and all too swiftly 

fly." 

So by a formal deed he there conveyed 
All right and title in his natal day. 
To have and hold, to sell or give 
away, — 
Then signed, and gave it to the little 
maid. 

Jojrful, yet fearing to believe too much. 
She took the deed, but scarcely dared 
unfold. 
Ah, liberal Genius! at whose potent 
touch 
All common things shine with trans- 
muted gold ) 
A day of Stevenson's will prove to be 
Not part of Time, but Immortality. 

—Katherine Miller. 



flovcmbcr 14* 



THE TRAVELLER AT THE 
SOURCE OF THE NILE. 



November 14, 1770. 



In sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, 

A wanderer proudly stood 
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone. 

Of Egypt's awful flood; 
The cradle of that mighty birth. 
So long a hidden thing to earth. 

He heard its life's first murmuring 
sound, 
A low mysteriQus tone; 



372 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



A music sought, but never found 

By kings and warriors gone ; 
He listened — and his heart beat high — 
That was the song of victory ! 

The rapture of a conqueror's mood 
Rush'd burning through his frame. 

The depths of that green solitude 
Its torrents could not tame. 

Though stillness lay with eve's last 
smile, 

Round those calm fountains of the Nile, 

Night came with stars; — across his soul, 
There swept a sudden change, 

E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal, 
A shadow dark and strange, 

Breathed forth the thought, so swift to 
fall 

O'er triumph's hour — And is this all? 

No more than this ! — what seem'd it now 
First by that spring to stand? 

A thousand streams of lovelier flow 
Bathed his own mountain land 1 

Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, 

Their wild sweet voices call'd him back. 

They call'd him back to many a glade, 

His childhood's haunt of play. 
Where brightly through the beechen 
shade 
Their waters glanced away; 
They call'd him, with their sounding 

waves. 
Back to his father's hills and graves. 

But, darkly mingling with the thought 

Of each familiar scene. 
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 

With all that lay between, — 
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, 
The whirling sands, the red simoon ! 

Where was the glow of power and pride ? 

The spirit bom to roam? 
His weary heart within him died 

With yearnings for his home ; 
All vainly struggling to repress 
That gush of painful tenderness. 

He wept— the stars of Afric's heaven 

Beheld his bursting tears. 
E'en on that spot where fate had given 

The meed of toiling years. 
O happiness ! how far we flee 
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee ! 

— Felicia Hetnans. 



NELL GWYNN. 



A famous actress who became the mistress 
of Charles II. Her son was made Duke of 
St Albans. She died Nov. IS, 1687. 



Sweet heart, that no taint of the throne 
or the stage 
G)uld touch with unclean transforma- 
tion, or alter 
To the likeness of courtiers whose con- 
sciences falter 
At the smile or the frown, at the mirth 

or the rage, 
Of a master whom chance could inflame 
or assuage. 
Our Lady of Laughter, invoked in no 

psalter, 
Adored of no faithful that cringe and 
that palter, 
Praise be with thee yet from a hag- 
ridden age. 

Our Lady of Pity thou wast : and to thee 

All England, whose sons are the sons of 
the sea, 
Gives thanks, and will hear not if his- 
tory snarls 

When the name of the friend of her 
sailors is spoken: 

And thy lover she cannot but love — by 
the token 
That thy name was the last on the lips 
of King Charles. 

— Algernon C. Swinburne. 



•Wovcmbcr 15. 



THE COMEDIAN'S LAST NIGHT. 



George Belmore. playing Nat Gosling m 
"The Flying Scud** at Booth's Theatre, died 
during the run of t^e play, Nov. 16, 1876. 

Not yet! No, no, — you would not quote 

That meanest of the critic's gags? 
'Twas surely not of me they wrote 

Those words, too late the veteran lags: 
'Tis not so very late with me ; 

Fm not so old as that you know. 
Though work and trouble — as you see — , 

(Not years) have brought me some- 
what low. 



EVERY DAY IK THE YEAR. 



I failed you say? No, no, not yet I 
Or, if I did,— with such a past. 

Where is the man would have me quit 
Withmt one triumph at the last? 



But one night more,— a little thing 
To you,— I swear 'tis all I askl 

Once more to make the wide bouse ring. 
To tread the boards to wear the mask. 

To move the coldest as of yore. 
To make them laugh, to m^e thera 

cry, 
To be — to be myself once more. 
And then, if must be, let me die I 

The prompter's bell ! I'm here, you see : 
By Heaven, friends, youll brak my 

Nat Gosling's called: let be, let be- 
None but myself shall act the part) 



Yes, thank you, boy, I'll take you chair 

One moment while I catch my breath. 
D'ye hear the noise they're malung there? 

'T would wann a player's heart in 
death. 
How say yon now? Whate'er they write. 

We've put that bitter gibe to shame; 
I knew, I knew there burned to-night 

Within my soul the olden flame I 
Stand off a hit: that final round,- 

I'd hear it ere it dies away 
The last, last time I — there's no more 

So end the player and the play. 



The house is cleared. My senses swim ; 

I shall be better, though, anon, — 
One stumbles when the lights are dim,— 

Tis growing late: wc must be gone. 
Well, braver luck than mine, old friends ! 

A little work and fame are ours 
While Heaven health and fortune lends. 

And then— the coffin and the flowers! 
These scattered garments? let them lie: 

Some fresher actor (I'm not vain) 
Will dress anew the part;— but I— 

/ shall not put them on again. 

— £. C. Stedma*. 



SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MOR- 
GAKTEN. 



The wine-month shone in tti golden 
prime. 
And the red grapes clustering hung. 
But a deeper sound, through the Switz- 
er's dime. 
Than the vintage-music, rung. 
A sound, through vaulted cave, 

A sound, through echoing glen. 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing 

'Twas the tread of steel-girt men. 

And a trumpet, i>ealing wild and hr, 

'Midst the ancient rocks was blown. 
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war 
With a thousand of their own. 
And through the forest-glooms 

Flashed helmets to the day. 
And the winds were tossing knightly 
plumes. 
Like the larch-boughs in their play. 

In Hash's wilds there was gleaming steel. 

As the host of the Austrian passed; 
And the Schreckhom's rocks, with a 
savage peal. 
Made mirth of his clarion's blast 
Up 'midst the Righi snows 

The stormy march was heard, 
With the charger's tramp, whence fire- 
sparks rose. 
And the leader's gathering word. 

But a band, the noblest band of all. 

Through the rude Morgarten strait. 
With blazoned streamers, and lances tall. 
Moved onwards in princely state. 
They came with heavy chains. 

For the race despised so long- 
But amidst his Alp-domains, 
The herdsman's arm is strong I 

The sun was reddening the clonda of 
morn 
When they entered the rode defile. 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rung the while. 
But on the misty height. 

Where the mountain people stood. 
There was stillness as of night, 
When storms at distance brood 



374 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



There was stillness, u of de^ dead 
night. 
And « pause— but not of fear. 
While the Switzers ({azed on the gather- 
ins might 
Of the hostile shield and 4>ear. 
On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood. 
But they looked not to the misty hcoht 
Where the mountain people stood. 

The pass was filled with their serried 
power. 
All helmed arl mail-arrayed. 
And their steps had sounds like a thun- 
der-shower 
In the rustling forest- shade. 
There were pnnce and crested knight. 

Hemmed m fay cliff and flood. 
When a sfaout arose from the nuHj 

Where the mountain-people stood. 
And the mighty rocks came bounding 

Their startled foes among, 
With a joyous whirl from the summit 
thrown — 
Oht the herdsman's arm is strong! 
They came like lauwine hurled 

From Alp to Alp in play. 
When the echoes shout through the 
snowy world 
And the pines are borne away. 



The fir-woods crashed on the 

And the Switzers rushed from high. 
With a sudden charge, on the flower and 

Of Uie Austrian chivalry: 
Like hunters of the deer, 

They stormed the narrow dell. 
And first in the shock, with Uri's 

Was the arm of William Tell. 

There was tumult in the crowded strait. 

And a cry of wild dismay. 
And many a warrior met his fate 
From a peasant's hard that day I 
And the empire's banner then 

From its place of waving free. 
Went down before the shepherd-men. 
The men of the Forest-sea. 



With their pikes and massy dubs tbe7 
brake 
The cuirasa and the shield. 
And the war-horse dashed to the reddo^ 
ing lake 
From the reapers of the field I 
The field— but not of sheaves- 
Proud crests and pennons lay. 
Strewn o'er it thick as the Inrch-wood 
leaves. 
In the autumn tempest's way. 

Oh the sun in heaven fierce havoc 

When the Austrian turrted to fly. 
And the biave. in the trampling mnlti- 
tude. 
Had a fearful death to die t 
And the leader of the war 

At eve unhelmed vras seen. 
With a hunying step on the wilds atsr. 
And a pale and troubled mien. 

But the sons of the land which die free- 
man tills. 
Went back from the battle-toil, 
To their cabin-homes 'midst the deep 
green hills, 
All burdened with royal spoil. 
There were songs and festal fires 
On the soaring Alps that night. 
When children sprung to greet their 
sires 
From the wild Morgarten fight. 
— Felicia Htmans. 



TlovemDer 10. 

JAMES McCOSH. 



Youi^; to the end through sympathy with 

youth, 
Gray man of learning— champion of 

truth! 
Direct in rugged speech, alert in mind. 
He felt his kinship with all humankind. 
And never feared to trace development 
Of high from low — assured and full con- 
tent 
That man paid homage to the Mind 

Uplifted by 'the "Royal Law of Love." 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



375 



The laws of nature Ihat he loved to trace 
Have worked, at last, to veil from us his 

The dear old elms and ivy-covercd walls 
Will mias his presence, and the stately 

halls 
His trumpet-voice; while in tlietr joys 
Sorrow will shadow those he called "my 

boys!" 

— Robert Bridget. 



Hoveniber t7, 

THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 



lie incideaU of the Indun UudDT. It 

prolonged for S7 dari and wu £n«]l7 

relieved by Generil Campbell on Nov. IB, 



I. 

Banner of England, not (or a season, O 

banner of Britain, hast thou 
Floated in conquering battle or flapt to 

the battle-cry ! 
Never with mightier glory than when we 

had reared thee on high 
Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly 

siege of Lucknow — 
Shot through the staff or the halyard, 

but ever we raised thee anew, 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 

H. 

Frail were the works that defended the 

hold that we held with our lives — 
Women and children among us, God 

help them, our children and wives 1 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen days 

or for twenty at most. 
'Never surrender, 1 charge you, but 

every man die at his post I' 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our 

Ijwrence the best of the brave : 
Cold were his brows when we kissed 

him — we laid him that night in his 

anvt. 
"Every man die at his postt' and there 

hailed on our bouKs and balls 



Death from tUor nlle-bullets, and death 

from their cannon-balls. 
Death in our innermost chamber, and 

death at our slight barricade. 
Death while we stood with the musket, 

and death while we stoop to the spade. 
Death to the dying, and wounds to the 

wounded, for often there fell, 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro' 

it, their shot and their shell. 
Death — for their spies were among us, 

their marksmen were told of our bed. 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' the 

brain that could think for the rest; 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and 

bullets would rain at our feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the 

rebels that girdled us round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from 

over the breadth of a street. 
Death from the heights of the mosque 

and the palace, and death in &a 

ground 1 
Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! down, 

down I and creep thro' the hole I 
Keep the revolver in hand I you can hear 

him — the murderous mole ! 
Quiet, ah I quiet — wait till the point of 

the pickaxe be through 1 
Click with the pick, coming nearer and 

nearer again than before — 
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the 

dark pioneer is no more; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blewt 

111. 

Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many 
times, and it chanced on a day 

Soon as the blast of that underground 
thunderclap echoed away. 

Dark through the smoke and the sulphur 
like so many fiends in their hell^ 

Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on vol- 
ley, and yell upon yell — 

Fiercely on all the defences our myriad 
enemy fell. 

What have they done? where is it? Out 
yonder. Guard the Redan ! 

Storm at the Water-gate! storm at tfae 
Bailey-gate! storm, and it ran 

Surging and swaying all round as, as 
ocean on every side 

Plunges and heaves at a bank that is 
daily devoured by the tide— 



376 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



So many thousands that if they be bold 
enough, who shall escape? 

Kill or be killed, live or die, they shall 
know we are soldiers and men I 

Ready! take aim at their leaders — their 
masses are gapp'd with our grape — 

Backward they reel like the wave, like 
the wave flinging forward again. 

Flying and foiled at the last by the hand- 
ful they could not subdue; 

And ever upon the topmost roof our 
banner of England blew. 

IV. 

Handful of men as we were, we were 

English in heart and in limb, 
Strong with the strength of the race to 

command, to obey, to endure. 
Each of us fought as if hope for the gar- 
rison hung but on him ; 
Still — could we watch at all points? we 

were every day fewer and fewer. 
There was a whisper among us, but only 

a whisper that past: 
'Children and wives — if the tigers leap 

into the fold unawares — 
Every man die at his post — ^and the foe 

may outlive us at last — 
Better to fall by the hands that they 

love, than to fall into theirs I' 
Roar upon roar in a moment two mines 

by the enemy sprung 
Gove into perilous chasms our walls and 

our poor palisades. 
Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure 

that your hand is as true! 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed 

are your flank fusillades — 
Twice do we hurl them to earth from 

the ladders to which they had clung, 
Twice from the ditch where they shelter 

we drive them with hand-grenades ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner of England blew. 



V. 



Then on another wild morning another 

wild earthquake out-tore 
Clean from our lines of defence ten or 

twelve good paces or more. 
Riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there 

from the light of the sun — 
One has leapt up on the breach, crying 

out: 'Follow me, follow me!' — 



Mark him — he falls! then another, and 

him too, and down goes he. 
Had they been bold enough then, who 

can tell but the traitors had won? 
Boardings and rafters and doors — an em- 
brasure! make way for the gun! 
Now double-charge it with grape ! It is 

charged and we fire, and they run. 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let 

the dark face have his due! 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who 

fought with us, faithful and few. 
Fought with the bravest among us, and 

drove them, and smote them, and slew. 
That ever upon the topmost roof our 

banner in India blew. 

VI. 

Men will forget what we suffer and not 

what we do. We can fight! 
But to be soldier all day and be sentinel 

all through the night — 
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, 

their lying alarms. 
Bugles and drums in the darkness, and 

shoutings and soundings to arms. 
Ever the labour of fifty that had to be 

done by five. 
Ever the marvel among us that one 

should be left alive. 
Ever the day with its traitorous death 

from the loopholes around. 
Ever the night with its coffinless corpse 

to be laid in the ground, 
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge 

of cataract skies. 
Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite 

torment of flies. 
Thoughts of the breezes of May blow- 
ing over an English field, 
Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound 

that would not be healed. 
Lopping away of the limb by the piti- 
ful — pitiless knife, — 
Torture and trouble in vain, — for it never 

could save us a life. 
Valour of delicate women who tended 

the hospital bed, 
Horror of women in travail among the 

dying and dead. 
Grief for our perishing children, and 

never a moment for grief. 
Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering 

hopes of relief, 
Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butchered 

for all that we knew — 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Then day and night, day and night, com- 
ing down on the still-shattered walls 

Millions of musket-bullets, and thou- 
sands of cannon-balls — 

But ever upon the topmost roof our 
banner of England blew. 

VII. 

Hark cannonade, fusillade I is it true 

what was told by the scout, 
Out ram and Havelock breaking thdr 

way through the (ell mutineers? 
Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing 

Ail on a sudden the garrison utter a 

jubilant shout, 
Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer 

with conquering cheers, 
Sick from the hospital echo them, women 

and children come out. 
Blessing Ihe wholesome white faces of 

Havelock's good fusileers, 
Kissing the war-hardened hand of the 

Highlander wet with their tears! 
Dance to the pibroch !— saved I — we are 

saved! — is it you? is it you? 
Saved by the valour of Havelock, saved 

by the blessing of Heaven 1 
"Hold it for fifteen days!' we have held 

it for eighty-seven I 
And ever aloft on the palace roof the 

old banner of England blew. 

— Alfred Tennyson. 



November 18. 

BURIAL OF THE DUKE OF 
WELLINGTON. 

NDvember IB, 18G1. 



I. 

Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation. 
Let us bury ihe Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of i 
mighty nation, 
Mourning when their leaders fall. 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and halL 



n. 

Where shall we lay the man whom we 

deplore? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for. 
Echo round his bones for e 



m. 

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, 

As fits an universal woe. 

Let the long, long procession go. 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it 

And let the mournful martial music 

The last great Englishman is low. 

IV. 

Mourn, for to as he seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the 

Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute; 
Mourn for the man of long enduring 

The statesman- warrior, moderate, reso- 
lute, 
Whole in himself, a common good- 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence. 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 
Our greatest yet with least pretence. 
Great in council and great in war. 
Foremost captain of his time. 
Rich in saving common-sense. 
And, as the greatest only are. 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head which all men knew, 
O voice from which their omens all men 

drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fallen at length that tower of strength 
Which stood four-square to all the winds 

that blewt 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrilice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will be 
seen no more. 



378 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



V. 

All is over and done : 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the beU be tollU 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river. 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd: 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds: 

Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds. 

Dark in its fmieral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be 

knoird; 
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem 

roird 
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his 

loss; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom; 
When he with those deep voices wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 
With those deep voices our dead captain 

taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name, 
Which he has worn so pure of blame, 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attemper'd fame. 
O civic muse, to such a name. 
To such a name for ages long. 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-edioing avenues of song. 
— From Ode on the Death of the Duke. 

— Alfred Tennyson, 



November 19* 



EMMA LAZARUS. 



A young American poetess of great promise, 
who uied on Nov. 19, 1887, at an early age. 



Nor could the love wherewith we knred 
thee stay 
For one dear hour the flesh borne down 

by woe; 
But as the mortal sank; with what white 
glow 
Flamed thy eternal spirit, night and 

day; 
Untouched, unwasted, thoogli the 
crumbling clay 
Lay wrecked and ruined I Ah, is it not 

80» 

Dear poet-comrade, who from si^^t has 
gone; 
Is it not so that spirit hath a life 
Death may not conquer? But, O daimt- 
less one I 
Still must we sorrow. Heavy is the 
strife 
And thou not with us; thou of the old 

race 
That with Jehovah parleyed, face to face. 

— Richard Watson GUder, 



THE DEAD PLAYER. 



W. T. Florence was an American comedian 
who died on Nov. 19, 1891. 



When on thy bed of pain thou layest low 
Daily we saw thy body fade away, 



"Only a player dead I" 
How light the words are said! 
Each year the olden circle narrows 
down; 
The shadows gather less, 
The shoulders fewer press. 
Upon the shield that guards the actor's 
crown. 

If in some life there be 

A flitting memory, 
A tear for love, a prayer for home, a 
smile 

That these have made to come 

In hearts to music dumb. 
Is kinder deed engraved on tomb or pile? 

Good night ! The curtain falls : 
When last the prompter calls. 
Upon our eyes may grow another scene. 
Where all the players gray 
Shall fill the misty day. 
With songs in woodland valleys soft and 
green. 

—James /. Meehan, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



379 



TO THE KING ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 



Charles I, of England, born Nov. 19, 1600. 



This is King Charles his day. Speak ft, 
thou Tower, 
Unto the ships, and they from tier to 
tier. 
Discharge it lx)ut the island in an hour, 
As loud as thunder, and as swift as 
fire. 
Let Ireland meet it out at sea, half-way. 
Repeating all Great Britain's joy and 
more. 
Adding her own glad accents to this day, 
Like Echo playing from the other 
shore. 
What drums or trumpets, or great ord- 
nance can. 
The poetry of steeples, with the bells, 
Three kingdoms' mirth, in light and 
aeiy man, 
Made lighter with the wine. All noises 
else, 
At bonfires, rockets, fire-works, with the 
shouts 
That cry that gladness which their 
hearts would pray, 
Had they but grace of thinking, at these 
routs, 
On the often coming of this holy day: 
And ever close the burden of the 

song. 
Still to have such a Charles, and this 
Charles long. 
The wish is great; but where the prince 

is such. 
What prayers, people, can you think too 
much! 

— Ben Jonson. 



November 20* 



ST PAUL AT MELITA 



Shipwrecked at Melita, Nov. 20, A. D. 6S. 

"And when Paul had gathered a bundle of 
sticks and laid them on the fire, there came 
a viper out of the heat" 



Secure in his prophetic strength 

The water peril o'er. 
The many-gifted man at length 

Stepped on the promised shore. 



He trod the shore ; but not to rest, 
Nor wait till angels came ; 

Lo humblest pains the saint attest, 
The firebrands and the flame. 

But when felt the viper's smart. 
Then instant aid was given ; 

Christian I hence learn to do thy part 
And leave the rest to Heaven. 

— /. H. Newman. 



HAWKE. 



Quiberon Bay if a tmall arm of the Bay 
of Biscay. Here the British, under Hawke, 
gained a victory over the French, under Con- 
flans, on Nov. 20, 1769. 



In seventeen hundred and fifty-nine, 
When Hawke came swooping from the 
West, 
The French King's Admiral with twenty 
of the line 
Was sailing forth to sack us, out of 
Brest 
The ports of France were crowded, the 
quays of France a-hum 
With thirty thousand soldiers march- 
ing to the drum, 
For bragging time was over and fighting 
time was come 
When Hawke came swooping from the 
West 

'Twas long past noon of a wild Novem- 
ber day 
When Hawke came swooping from the 

West; 
He heard the breakers thundering in 

Quiberon Bay, 
But he flew the flag for battle, line 

abreast 
Dovn upon the quicksands roaring out 

of sight 
Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell 

the night. 
But they took the foe for pilot and the 

cannon's glare for light 
When Hawke came swooping from the 

West. 

The Frenchmen turned like a covey down 
the wind 
When Hawke came swooping from th<d 
West; 



38o 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



One he sank with all hands, one he 
caught and pinned, 
And the shallows and the storm took 
the rest 
The guns that should have conquered us 

they rusted on the shore 
The men that would have mastered us 
they drummed and marched no 
more, 
For England was England, and a mighty 
brood she bore 
When Hawke came swooping from the 
West. 

— Henry Newbolt 



CHATTERTON AT BRISTOL. 



Thomas Chatterton, the ill-fated poet, was 
born at Bristol, England, Nov. 80, 1768. 



Along this lane, grreen-walled and starred 
with flowers. 
He walked with heart not too be- 
numbed with pain 
To note the depths of green in tree- 
arched bowers 

Along this lane. 

And like a tethered lark his heart in 
vain. 
Captive to care that cankers or de- 
vours, 

Soared and fell back upon its fated chain. 

White daisies glistening from the fresh 
June showers, 
White hawthorne free as his own soul 
from stain — 
Could make all bright his fleeting day as 
ours 

Along this lane ? 

— Charles E, Russell. 



November 2U 



ON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG. 



Better known as the Ettrick Shepherd. He 
died Nov. 21» 1886. 



When first, descending from the moor- 
lands. 



I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 

Along a bare and open valley. 

The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 

When last along its banks I wandered. 
Through groves that had begun to shed 
Their golden leaves upon the pathways. 
My steps the Border-minstrel led. 

The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies; 
And death upon the braes •f Yarr«w, 
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes: 

Nor has the rolling year twice measured. 
From sign to sign, its steadfast course. 
Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead. 
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in 

earth: 
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle. 
Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 

Like clouds that rake the mountain- 
summits, 
Or waves that own no curbing hand. 
How fast has brother followed brother 
From sunshine to the sunless land I 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
"Who next will drop and disappear?" 

Our haughty life is crowned with dark- 
ness, 

Like London with its own black wreath. 

On which with thee, O Crabbe! forth- 
looking, 

I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 

As if but yesterday departed, 
Thou too art gone before ; but why. 
O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered. 
Should frail survivors heave a sigh? 

Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep; 
For Her who, ere her summer faded. 
Had sunk into a breathless sleep. 

No more of old romantic sorrows. 

For slaughtered Youth or love-bora 

Maid ! 
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten. 
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet 

dead, -miliam Wordsworth. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



381 



Dovemlier 22. 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST; 



OR, THE FOWEB or MUSIC. 



Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike aon: 
Aloft, in awful state. 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne; 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles 

(So should desert in arms be crowned) ; 
Tne lovely Thais by his side 
Sate, like a blooming eastern bride, 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair! 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 



Happy, happy, happy fairt 

None but the brave. 

None bttt the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair, 

Timotheus, placed on high 

Amid the tuneful quire, 

With flying fingers touched the lyre; 
The trembling notes ascend the sl^, 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the poivcr of mighty Love). 
A dragon's fiery fcim belied the god; 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode. 

When he to fair Olympia presset^ 

And while he sought her snow) 

Then, round her slender waist he curled. 
And stamped an image of himself, a sov- 
ereign of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty 

A present deity 1 they shout around; 
A present deity 1 the vaulted roofs re- 
bound 



With ravished ears 
The monarch hears, 

Assumes the god. 

Affects to nod. 
And seems to shake the aphero. 

CBOKUS. 

Ifitk ravished tars 
The monarch heart. 

Assumes the god, 

Affects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet 
musician fung — 
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young; 
The jolly god in triumph conies: 
Sound the tnmpets; beat the drums! 
Flushed with a purple grace, 
He shows his honest face; 
Now give the hautboys breath— he 
comes, he comes! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young. 

Drinking joys did first ordain; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasnre: 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure; 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 



Baeehus' blessings are a treasure; 
Drinking tt the soldier's pleasure; 

Rich the treasure. 

Sweet the pleasure; 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Soothed with the sound, the king grew 

Fought all his battle o'er again; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and 
thrice he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise — 
His glowung cheeks, his ardent eyes; 
And, while he Heaven and Earth de- 
tied, 
Changed his hand, and checked his 
pride. 
He chose a mournful Muse, 
Soft pity to intust, 
He sung Danus great and good. 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen- 
Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood ; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Deserted, at his utmost need. 
By those his former boimty fed; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor 

sate, 
Revolving in bis altered soul 

The various tuma of chance below 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole; 

And tears began to Sow. 



Rtvolving in Aii altered soul 
The variotu twmj of chance below; 

And, now and then, a tigh he stole; 
And tears began to How. 

The mighty master smiled, to sec 
That Love was in the next degree ; 
"Twas but a kindred sound to move. 
For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleas- 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble; 
Honor but an empty bubble — 

Never ending, still beginning — 
Fighting still, and still destroying; 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, O think it worth enjoying I 
1-ovely Thais sits beside thee— 
Take the goods the gods provide 
thee. 
The many rend the sky with loud ap- 
plause; 
So Love was crowned, but Music won 
the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and 

looked. 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 
At length, with love and wine at once 

oppressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her 
breast 



The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 
Cased on the fair 
Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and 
looked. 



Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 
At length, enM lave and wine at once 

oppressed. 
The vanquished victor ennk upon her 

Now strike the golden hre igain— 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 
Break his bands of steep asunder. 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of 
thunder. 

Haric, harkl the horrid sound 

Has raised up bis head I 

As awaked from the dead. 

And amazed, he stares around. 

Revenge I revenge I Timotheus cries; 

See the Furies arise 1 

See the snakes that they rear. 

How they hiss in their hair. 

And the sparkles that flash from their 

Behold a ghastly band. 
Each a torch in his handt 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle 

And unburied remain. 
Inglorious, on the plain 1 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on 
high. 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glittering temples of their hostile 

gods I 
The princes applaud with a furious joy. 
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal 
to destroy; 
Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen, fired another 
Troy. 



And the king seused a Sambeau with teal 
to destroy; 
Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey. 
And, like another Helen, Sred another 
Troy. 

Thus, long ago — 
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 

While organs yet were mute — 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute, 
And sounding lyre, 



EVKRY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



383 



Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle 
soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred 
store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts un- 
known before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown; 
He raised a mortal to the skies — 
She drew an angel down. 

GRAND CHOKUS. 

At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred 
store. 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
And added length to solemn sounds. 
With nature's mother-wit, and arts un- 
known before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prise. 

Or both divide the crown; 
He raised a mortal to the skies — 
She drew an angel down, 

— John Dryden. 



•Rovcml)cr 23* 



TO PHILIP MASSINGER, "A 
STRANGER." 



Born November 23, 1583. 



Alone thy spirit went, thy thoughts alone, 
Scorner of courts and pomps and tinsel 

kings, 
Watchman of morning and the light 
that brings 
Freedom to men, crushing of tyrant's 

throne. 
And retribution for the people's moan ! 
Beneath the shadow of the brooding 

wings 
In gloom and sorrow were thy wan- 
derings, 
And men to him that loved them gave — 
this stone; 



But now to us no more "a stranger" 
thou; 
From lands beyond thy dreaming come 
acclaim 
And hail of "Brother," after all 
these years — 
"Brother and seer!" Sweet face and 
mournful brow 
Are known and loved of all men, as 
thy name 
And sad soul-song and story, read 
through tears. 

— Charles E. Russell. 



RICHARD HAKLUYT'S MEN. 



Richard Hakluyt, who died in London, No- 
vember 23, 1616, was an English cleric, diplo- 
matist and geographer, with an enduring fame 
through his great work, "The Principal! Navi- 

Etions, Voiages, and Discoveries of the Eng' 
h Nation/' commemorating the dee^ of tiie 
Elizabethan sailors, many of whom were his 
personal friends and acquaintance. 



Here is the breath of the sea, 
And here sounds the boom of the wave, 
The crash of the surf on the beach, 
For ever, eternally ; 

And here, through the elements' 

reach. 

The lightning, the storm, and the spume. 

Comes the cry of the seamen who gave 

Their bones to the surges to bleach, 

Their souls to a billowy doom. 

What of grey dangers afar 
In spaces uncharted, untrod? 
What though the heav'ns arc 
a-change. 
And engulphed is the Cynosure-star? 
What though the sun has grown 
strange. 
And the deep has become molten brass? 
At their peak flies the Cross of their 
God 
And, wherever their rudders may 
range, 
Tis His voice in the tempests that pass. 

Never rolled breaker so high. 
Their courage rose not with its swell; 

Never roared thunder so loud. 
Their shouting fell short of the sl^; 

Never was mortal so proud, 



384 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



They brought not his pride to despair 1 

How they dared, how they fought, 

how they fell! 

And the Lords of the Earth, how 

they bowed 

To these Lords of the Sea and the Air! 

Fathers of Nations ride here, 
Their sails breasted out by the breeze, 
Their battle-flags bright in the sun. 
At their bidding vast regions appear 

To witness the race they have run. 
Woe to the foemen who seek 
To stay their march over the seas ! 
How gallant the victories won — 
And how mighty the message they 
speak! 

Here, from the page of a priest. 
The friend of these sailors of old, 
May be heard the reverberant cheer 
That the centuries have but increased 
Till it comes like a blast to the ear. 
Rest they well, these invincible dead, 
Ships' captains and companies bold, 
For the ocean itself is their bier, 
And the continents stones at their head. 

— Wallace Rice. 



November 24. 



THE BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS. 



"The day had been one of dense mists and 
rains, and much of General Hooker's battle 
was fought above the clouds, on the top of 
Lookout Mountain." — General Meigs' Report 
of the Battle before Chattanooga. 

A battle during the Civil War, fought on 
Nov. 24, 1863, when the Federals under Grant 
defeated the Confederates under Bragg. Ow- 
ing to the heavy mist on the mountain this 
battle is often called "the battle in the 
clouds." 



Where the dews and the rains of heaven 
have their fountain, 
Like its thunder and its lightning our 
brave burst on the foe, 
Up above the clouds on Freedom's Look- 
out Mountain 
Raining life-blood like water on the 
valleys down below. 
O, green be the laurels that grow, 
O sweet be the wild-buds that blow, 
In the dells of the mountain where the 
brave are lying low. 



Light of our hope and crown of our 
story, 
Bright as sunlight, pure as starlight 
shall their deed of daring glow. 
While the day and the night out of 
heaven shed their glory, 
On Freedom's Lookout Mountain 
whence they routed Freedom's foe. 
O, soft be the gales when they go 
Through the pines on the summit 
where they blow. 
Chanting solemn music for the souls that 
passed below. 

— ^. D. HowelU. 



THE BATTLE OF LOOKOUT 
MOUNTAIN. 



Then came a bloody battle in the 

clouds — 
Clouds that — alas! — to many proved 

their shrouds. 
A thousand feet above the Vale it 

raged — 
On Lookout Mountain desperately 

waged — 
And from the Valley those who viewed 

the fight, 
Ne'er saw a grander — more terrific — 

sight 
Till smoke and mist concealed it from 

the view — 
A fight from dawn to dark that hotter 

grew 
Till all the Rebel hosts were put to 

flight- 
Confused, disordered, and in awful 

plight ; 
For Bragg to check the Union army 

failed, 
And Lookout Mountain's rugged top was 

scaled, — 
Its fortress captured, and the vict'ry 

hailed. — 
And Missionary Ridge, from west to 

east. 
"On vict'ries now — behold — !" said 

Grant, "we feast !" 
Twas not till night the long clay's battle 

ceased, 
And then triumphant were the Boys in 

Blue, 
Who Chattanooga Valley captured, too, 
And with the stars and stripes adorned 
the view. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



385 



'Well done I" said Grant, "you climbed 

that Mountain well, 
Of harder fighting hist'ry ne'er will tell I" 
Grant led his forces grandly, and the foe 
Surrendered, died, or fled to plains be- 
low. 
Pursued by Sherman's and by Hooker's 

fire. 
Bragg and Rebellion met disaster dire. 

Kentucky now — with Tennessee — was 

freed 
From Rebel raids, while Bumside, much 

At Knoxville — gained not glory but re- 
lief. 

1 hail," said Grant, "one consequence 
as chief; 

It optas Georgia to the Union arms. 

And fills the groaning South with fresh 

For fifteen thousand men its battle cost — 

The captured, wounded and the dead it 
lost." 

November, 'Sixty-three, grew dark in- 
deed 

To Rebel eyes. Reverses gathered speed. 
— Kitiahan Contwallu. 



Tlovembec 25. 



Cuhcrine of BnypinB. the Wife 
IL. vu born on Nov. SS, 1«S8. 

This happy day two lights are seen — 

A glorious saint, a matchless queen; 

Both named alike, both crowned appear— 

The saint above, the Infanta here. 

May all those years which dtherine 

The martyr did for heaven resign 

Be added to the line 

Of your blest life among us here I 
For all the pains that she did feel. 
And all the torments of her wheel. 

May you as many pleasures share I 
May heaven itself content 
With Catherine the saint I 

Without appearing old, 

An hundred times may you. 
With eyes as bright as now, 

This happy day behold I 

—Mrt. Knighl. 



QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA. 



In the lone tent, waiting for victory 
She stands with eyes marred b^ the 

Like some wan lily overdrenched with 

The clamorous clang of arms, the en- 
sanguined sky. 
War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry. 
To her proud soul no common fear can 

Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the 
King. 
Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy. 
O Hair of Gold I O crimson Lips ! O 

Made for. the luring and the love of 

With thee do I forget the toil and 

The loveless road that knows no resting 

place 
Time's straightened pulse, the soul's 

dread weariness, 
My freedom and my life republican I 
-0«<w IVUdt. 



GAETANO DONIZETTI. 

Bom November IB, 1191. 

A thousand godsent melodies found 
birth. 
And, flower-like, sprang from thine 

angelic mind. 
To lull the unceasing sorrow of man- 
kind. 
And charm the changelets ennui of the 

earth. 
Then, when the soul was moved, thy 
reaper. Mirth. 
Usurped dark Melancholy's throne 

and twined 
Light sheaves of song as buoyant at 
the wind. 
Turning the dross of care to goldec 
worth 1 

Tliy deathless Fame before no tomt 
shall bowl 
No grave can close npon thy matcbleit 



386 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Cherished, supreme in palace as in 
mart, 
In proud, immortal calm thou standest 
now, 
With all the grace of Italy in thy 
heart, 
With all the glory of Song upon thy 
brow I 

— Francis Saltus Saltus. 



Hopcmbcr 26. 



HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. 



Prince William, the oldest loii of Henrj I, 
M returning from Prance with his retinue 
on board the White Ship when she struck on 
a rock and went down on Nor. 86, 1180. The 
prince was drowned and it is said that his 
father never smiled again. 



The bark that held a prince went down, 

The sweeping waves roll'd on; 
And what was England's glorious crown 

To him that wept a son ? 
He lived — for life may long be borne 

Ere sorrow break its chain; 
Why comes not death for those who 
mourn? — 

He never smiled again I 

There stood proud forms around his 
throne, 

The stately and the brave; 
But which could fill the place of one. 

That one beneath the wave? 
Before him pass'd the young and fair, 

In pleasure's reckless train; 
But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright 
hair — 

He never smiled again I 

He sat where festal bowls went round. 
He heard the minstrel sing, 

He saw the tourney's victor crown'd. 
Amidst the knightly ring: 

A murmur of the restless deep 
Was blent with every strain, 

A voice of winds that would not sleep- 
He never smiled again. 

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace 
Of vows once fondly pour'd, 

And strangers took the kinsman's place 
At many a joyous board; 



Graves, which true love had bathed with 
tears. 
Were left to heaven's bright rain. 
Fresh hopes were bom for other years — 
He never smiled again! 

— Felicia Hemans. 



Dovember 21. 



PHIUP VAN ARTEVELDE. 



Philip Van Arterelde was a Flemish popular 
leader. He was conquered and slain hj 
Charles VI. on Nov. 87, 1888. 



Dire rebel though he was. 
Yet with a noble nature and great gifts 
Was he endowed,— courage, discretion, 

wit. 
An equal temper, and an ample soul. 
Rock-bound and fortified against assaults 
Of transitory passion, but below 
Built on a surging subterranean fire 
That stirred and lifted him to high at- 
tempts. 
So prompt and capable, and yet so calm, 
He nothing lacked in sovereignty but the 

right. 
Nothing in soldiership except good for- 
tune. 
Wherefore with honor lay him in his 

grave, 
And thereby shall increase of honor come 
Unto their arms who vanquished one so 

wise. 
So valiant, so renowned. 

— ^i> Henry Taylor, 



HORACE. 



Died Nov. 87, B. C. 8. 



Horace still charms with graceful negli- 
gence. 
And without method talks us into sense. 
Will, like a friend, familiarly convey 
The truest notions in the easiest way. 
He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit. 
Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ. 
Yet judged with coolness, though he 

sung with fire; 
His Precepts teach but what his works 
inspire. ^Alexander Pope. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



387 



110961111)0: 28. 

ELEANOR OF CASTILE. 

Eleanor of Cutilt was the wife of Edwd I. 
of England, and accompanied hua to the Holj 
Lud and *lao to Scotland. She died on 
Not. ISih, and her huiband broushi her bod; 
to be buried at WeitDiiiuler Abber- WhercTci 
tne cortege halle^ for the night * cron wai 
raised to bcr mctaory and aome of theac 
crosBCa have been oreierved ontil ¥ct7 lately- 
CbiHng Croaa in Condon (Chfa« Reine), waa 
one of tbeae. 

Ohi fairer than vermilion 

Shed upon western skies. 
Was the blush of that aweet Castilian 

With the deep brown eyes ; 
As her happy heart grew firmer 

In the strange bright days of 3rore, 
When she heard young Edward 

"I love thee Eleanor I" 



They twain went forth together. 

Away o'er the Midland Main, 
Through the golden summer weather, 

To Syria's mystic plain. 
Together, toil and danger 

And the loss of their loved onea bore. 
And perils from Paynim, stranger 

Than death to Eleanor. 

Where Lincoln's towers of wonder 

Soar high o'er the valea of Trent, 
Their lives were torn asunder, 

To her home the good queen went. 
Her corse to the tomb he carried. 

With grief at his heart's stem core, 
And wherever at night they tarried. 

Rose a cross to Eleanor. 

As ye trace a meteor's onset 

By a line of silver rain. 
As ye trace a royal sunset 

By streaks of a saffron stain. 
So to the minster holy 

At the west of London's roar, 
Mark ye how sadly, slowly, 

Passed the corse of Eleanor. 
Back to where lances quiver, 
' Straight back, by tower and town. 
By hill and wold and river. 

For the love of Scotland's crown; 
But ah ! there is woe within him 

For the face he shall see no more; 
And conquests can not win him 

From the love of Eleanor. 



Years after, stemly dying 

In his tent by the Solway sea. 
With the breezes of Scotland flying 

O'er the gray sands wild and free. 
His dim thoughts sadly wander 

To the happy days of yore. 
And he sees in the blue sky yonder 

The eyes of his Eleanor. 

Time must destroy those crosses 

Raised by the poet king ; 
But as long as the blue sea tosses. 

As long as the skylarks sing; 
As long as London's river 

Glides stately down to the Nore, 
Men shall remember ever 

How he loved Queen Eleanor. 

—Anonymoiu. 



noDember 29. 

AT CHAPPAQUA. 
Horace Grecler died Nov. », ISTt. 



His cherished woods are mnte. The 

stream glides down 
The hill as when I knew it years a^; 
The dark, pine arbor with its pncstly 

Stands hushed, as if our grief it still 

would show; 
The stiver springs are cupless, and the 

Of friendly feet no more bereaves the 
grass. 

For he is absent who was wont to pass 

Along this wooded path. His axe's blow 

No more disturbs the impertinent bole 
or bough; 

Nor moves his pen our heedless nation 
now. 

Which, sworn to justice, stirred the peo- 
ple so. 

In some far world his much-loved face 
must gk>w 

With rapture still. This breeze once 
fanned his brow. 

This is the peaceful Mecca all men know I 
—Joel BentOH. 



388 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



flovemI)er 30* 

JEFFERSON DAVIS. 

Died November SO, 1879. 



No paltry promptings of tmgltitted hate 
The Nation feels for him who erst 
assailed 
Her life, and strove against the will of 

fate 
To found an Empire and destroy a 
State. 
She stands to-day magnificently mailed 
In loyal love, too gloriously great 
For thought of vengeance that were all 
too late. 

And he whose death her sons would once 
have hailed 
With joy, now slinks through the dark 
Oblivion's gate. 
With this his epitaph: When others 
quailed, 
He staked his all upon one cast of fate 
And lost — and lived to know that he had 
failed I — Harry Thurston Peck. 



WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS IN- 
TENDED TO THE CITY. 



On Nov. 80. 1642, the troops of Charles I. 
reached Brentford on their march to London, 
and it was on this occasion that Milton wrote 
this well*known sonnet 



Captain or Colonel, or Knight in arms, 
Whose chance on these defenceless 

doors may seize, 
H deed of honour did thee ever please, 
Guard them, and him within protect 

from harms. 
He can requite thee, for he knows the 
charms 
That call fame on such gentle acts as 

these, 
And he can spread thy name o'er lands 
and seas, 
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle 

warms. 
Lift not thy spear against the Muses 
bow'r : 
The great Emathian conqueror bid 
spare 
The house of Pindarus, when temple and 
tow'r 
Went to the ground : and the repeated 
air 



Of sad Electra's poet had the pow*r 
To save the Athenian walls from min 
bare. .^john MUton. 



'SHOT THROUGH THE HEART.' 



In memory of Lieatenant John R. Porter* 
of Alabama, mho feU. shot throuffa the heart, 
at the battle of Franklin, Tenn., Nov. SO, 1M4. 



Across the brown and wintry mom, 

Borne on the soft wind's wing. 
The weird sweet chords of a New Year's 
Song 
Are struck bv the coming Spring — 
Ah, would twere last year's Spring! 

Under the leaves the violet bends. 

Laden with scented breath; 
Do they bend and blow thus sweetly 

Where the wooing air is death? 
Can flowers bloom in death? 

Out in the bridal robe of white 

Sweet hawthome dedcs the lane; 
Who tuned the windharp's thrilling 
string 
To the sad, sad minor strain? 
Hark ! that sad minor strain I 

I think, as I see the whitening bloom 
Drift down in a fleecy cloud. 

Not of the mist of bridal veils, 
But the chill of an icy shroud — 
Snow is the soldier's shroud. 

There's a whisper of crocus and hyacinth 
Where fairies watch their birth; 

Methinks like little white babes they lie. 
Still-bom on their mother-earth — 
Dead babes on the mother-earth. 

Where the dear warm blood flowed out 
so free. 
Did the wild wind steal its moans 
That fill me with an anguish of unshed 
tears ? 
'Tis the Banshee's shivering groans! 
List! it shivers, and sobs, and 
groans ! 

O spirit of sorrow. Banshee white! 

Wail on, for I cannot sleep; 
Coldness and darkness wander with me^ 

The vigil of woe to keep — 
Pale woe her watch must keep. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



389 



In the long, Jong march, did he track the 
snow 
With his weary bleeding feet? 
Was his dear face cold in the pelting 

Or numbed by the blinding sleet? 
Barefoot through the blinding sleet I 

Was he pale from the pain, the hunger 

Or did he step proud and strong 
To the onward note from the bugle's 

When the boys cheered loud and long? 
Oh, the march was long, so long I 

Where, where is the sword whose gleam- 
ing blade 
Flashed up against the sky, 
And wrote in a broad white quivering 



Ho I Walthall's men and Brantley's line I 
The good steel must not rust; 

His name must be the battle-cry. 
His murderers bite the dust I 
They yet shall gnaw the dust I 

'Shot through the heart I" My own 

stands still, 

With its breaking, breaking patn; 

All, all grows dark, but the words of fire 

That burn my reeling braln^ 

Rent heart and aching brain. 

Who sprang to his side in the foremost 
ranks. 
And over him bent the knee. 
To smooth from his brow the dark damp 

And kiss him again for me? 
Who kissed his dear lips for me? 

Kind stranger, guard that sacred spot; 

He died to free thy land; 
His name thou'lt find on rude head- 
board. 
Carved there by pitying hand — 
God bless that soldiePs hand] 

We've watched and nursed yonr dying 
Have wreathed their graves with flow- 
Will any gentle band thus wreathe 



Oh, the parching thirst and numbing 
cold 
And the hunger-pain are o'er; 
The weary feet, fresh sandalled now. 
Rest on the golden shore — 
Fair, God-lit, healing shore. 

In his threadbare snit, with its honor- 

They laid him down to rest; 
Did they (old our flag, with its spotless 

On my poor dead brother's breast? 
Oh, dear, dear bleeding breast I 

Ob, say that I'm mad or dreaming — 

That Joy will come once more! 
Then the Summer woods of the bright 
Southland 
May leaf as they leaved of yore I 
With Life they sprung of yore! 

Then the hills may don their arabesque, 

And the arcenciel may shine. 
While the rose on the cheek of the blush- 
ing year 
Wooes the roses back to mine : 
The roses have died on mine. 

No, the Spring will pass, and Summer 
fruit. 
And Fall sheaves gild the ground ; 
B'lt the sad weird song the Banshee 
sings 
Will follow the whole year round- 
Dark Winter the whole year round 1 

Down in the glen the dogwood white. 

By the maple's living red. 
But brings to mind the cold, cold sheet 

That shrouds the living dead! — 
Snow shrouds our darling dead I 

Oh, weary Winter has almost gone, 
With its Christmas berries swung; 

They seem but drops of human blood 
From human anguish wrung I 
O God, our hearts are wrung I 

"KilUd OKlrigAtr— Oh, wretched dream I 

When, when shall I awake? 
If the words ring on, thus wildly on, 
My tortured heart must break! — 
God help me ere it break I 

~Ina iiorie Porttr. 



390 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



JDcccmJKv t 



A POET'S EPITAPH. 



Ebeneser Elliott, the author of these lines. 
was an English poet, author of the Corn-Law 
Rhymes. He died Dec 1, 1849. 



Stop, Mortal I Here thy brother lies — 

The Poet of the Poor. 
His books were rivers, woods and skies. 

The meadow and the moor; 
His teachers were the torn heart's wail. 

The tyrant and the slave, 
The street, the factory, the jail. 

The palace — and the gravel 
Sin met thy brother every where! 

And is thy brother blamed? 
From passion, danger, doubt, and care. 

He no exemption claimed. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest 
worm, 

He feared to scorn or hate ; 
But, honoring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great, 
He blessed the steward, whose wealth 
makes 

The poor man's little, more ; 
Yet loathed the haughty wretch that 
takes 

From plundered Labor's store. 
A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare — 
Tell Man's worst foes, here lies the man 
Who drew them as they are. 

— Ebenezer Elliott. 



©cccmbcr 2. 



THE LAST CiESAR. 
1851-1870. 



On December 2. 1861, Louis Napoleon, 
then President of the French Republic, seized 
the government by force of arms. This "coup 
d'etat," as it was called, led to the plebiscite 
by which he became Emperor of the Prendi. 



L 

Now there was one who came in later 

days 
To play at Emperor ; in the dead of night 



Stole crown and sceptre, and stood foitfa 
to light 

In sudden purple. The dawn's strag- 
gling rays 

Showed Paris fettered, murmuring in 
amaze. 

With red hands at her throat— a piteont 
sight 

Then the new Caesar, stricken with 
affright 

At his own daring, shrank from public 
gaze. 

In the Elys^e, and had lost the day 
'But that around him flocked his birds 

of prey. 
Sharp-beaked, voracious, hungry for the 

deed. 
'Twixt hope and fear behold great 

Caesar han^; 
Meanwhile, methmks, a ghostly laughter 

rang 
Through the rotunda of the Invalides. 

II. 

What if the boulevards, at the set of 
sun. 

Reddened, but not with sunset's kindly 
^low? 

What if from quai and square the mur- 
mured woe 

Swept heavenward, pleadingly? The 
prize was won, 

A kingling made and Liberty undone. 

No Emperor, this, like him a while ago. 

But his Name's shadow; that one 
struck the blow 

Himself, and sighted the street-sweeping 
gunt 

III. 

I see him as men saw him once — a face 
Of true Napoleon pallor; round the 

eyes 
The wrinkled care; moustache spread 

pinion-wise. 
Pointing his smile with odd sardonic 

grace 
As wearily he turns him in his place. 
And bends before the hoarse Parisian 

cries — 
Then vanishes, with glitter of gold-lace 
And trumpets blaring to the patient 

skies. 
Not thus he vanished later! On his 

path 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Then fell the day, O day of dreadful 

wrath t 
Bow down in shame, O crinuon-girt 

Weep, fair Alaacel weep loveliest Lor- 



lel 



IV. 



So mused I, sitting underneath the 

In that old garden of the Tuileries, 
Watching the dust of twilight sifting 

Through chestnut boughs just touched 

with autumn's brown — . 
Not twilight yet, but that illusive bloom 
Which holds before the deep-etched 

shadows come; 
For still the garden stood in golden mist, 
Still, like a river of molten amethyst. 
The Seine slipped through its spans of 

fretted stone, 
And near the grille that once fenced in 

The fountains still unbraided to the 
The unsubstantial silver of their spray. 

V. 
A spot to dream in, love in, waste one's 

hours I 
Temples and palaces, and gilded towers. 
And fairy terraces 1— and yet, and yet 
Here in her woe came Marie Antoinette, 
Came sweet Corday, Du Barry with 

shrill cry. 
Not learning from her betters how to 

die I 
Here, while the nations watched with 

bated breath. 
Was held the saturnalia of Red Death) 
For where that slim Egyptian shaft up- 
lifts 
Its point to catch the dawn's and sun- 
set's drifts 
Of various gold, the busy Headsman 

TO, the Place of 



And all so peaceful now! One can- 
Imagination to accept the thing. 



Lies, all of itt some dreamer's wild 

romance — 
High-hearted, witty, laughter-loving 

France I 
In whose brain was it that the legend 

grew 
Of Maenads shrieking in this avenue, 
Of watch-fires burning, Famine standing 

guard. 
Of long-speared Uhlans in that palace- 

yard I 
What ruder sound this soft air ever 

Than a bird's twitter or a bugle's note? 
What darker crimson ever 'splashed 

these walks 
Than that of rose-leaves dropping from 

the sulks ? 

VJ-L 
And yet — what means that charred and 

broken wall. 
That sculptured marble, splintered, like 

to fall. 
Looming among the trees there? . . . 

And you say 
This happened, as it were, but yesterday? 
And here the Commune stretched a 

barricade. 
And here the final desperate stand was 

Such things have been 7 How all things 

change and fede ! 
How little lasts in this brave world be- 

Love dies; hate cools; the Cxsars come 

Gaunt Hunger fattens, and the weak 

grow strong. 
Even Republics are not here for long! 

Ah, who can tell what hour may bring 

the doom, 
The lighted torch, the tocsin's heavy 

—Thomas B. AUrich. 



TO LOUIS NAPOLEON. 

O, shameless thief I a nation trusted thee 
With all the wealth her bleeding hands 

had won. 
Proclaimed thee guardian of her 

liberty: 
So proud a title never la^ upon 



392 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Thy uncle's forehead: thou wast linked 
with one, 
First President of France, whose 

name shall be 
Fixed in the heavens, like God's 

eternal sun — 
Second to him alone — ^to Washington! 
Was it for thee to stoop unto a crown? 
Pick up the Bourbon's leavings? yield 

thy height 
Of simple majesty, and totter down 
Full of discovered frailties — sorry sight! 
One of a mob of kings? or, baser 

grown, 
Was it for thee to steal it in the night? 

— George H, Boker, 



AUSTERLITZ. 



The battle of Austerlitz has sometimes been 
called the "Battle of Three Emperors" from 
the presence of the Emperors Alexander I., of 
Russia, Napoleon of France and Francis of 
Austria. It was fought on Dec 2» 1806, and 
resulted in a victory for the French over the 
Russians and Austrians. 



On to the goal the impatient legions 
come! 
Ulm haloes with success an army's 

might ; 
Far mid the mists and gloom of Aus- 
trian night. 
Hear the advancing steeds, the ominous 
drum! 

Europe cowers shuddering, and strong 
kings are dumb ; 
A Caesar leads a nation to the fight. 
And o'er the allied camps the flaming 
light 
Of his great star strikes the rude masses 
numb! 

Five hundred thundering cannon boom 
and glow, 
A sun of victory on the keen steel 
slants. 
There on the gore-strewn plains of pine 
and snow 
Russ clutches Gaul in labyrinths of 
lance, 
While o'er the hurrying hell of war and 
woe 
Floats the Imperial, blood-stained flag 
of France. 

— Francis Saltus Saltus. 



2>eceml)er 3. 



A GRAVE IN SAMOA. 



Robert Louis Stevenson died Dec. 8, 1804. 



The wild birds strangely call. 
And silent dawns and purple eves are 

here. 
Where Southern stars upon his grave 
look down. 
Calm-eyed and wondrous clear ! 

No strife his resting mars ! 
And yet we deem izr off from tropic 

steeps 
His spirit cleaves the pathway of the 
storm. 
Where dark Tantallon keeps. 

For still in plaintive woe, 
By haunting mem'ry of his yearning led. 
The wave-worn Mother of the misty 
strand 

Mourns for her absent dead : 

Ah ! bear him gently home, 
To where Dunedin's streets are quaint 

and gray. 
And ruddy lights across the steaming 
rains 
Shine soft at close of day ! 

— John Macfarlane. 



TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. 



There is naught that is new, saith the 
Preacher ; 

Death is old, 

Love is cold. 
And the hate of the gods for the creature 

Waxes dull as the aeons unfold. 

Who shall find a new gem in the shingle. 

Tempest driven. 

Storm riven, 
Where the foams of the centuries mingle 

And the seekers of jetsam have 
Striven? 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



He alone of the searchers, he only. 

In the rift 

Of the drift, 
With torn hands, uncompanioned and 

Could the pearls from the nothing- 
ness sifL 
O finder of infinite treasure I 

For the spoil 

Of thy moil. 
Is it Rrateful, the respite of leisure 

That comes with the surcease of toil ? 



From the dross 
Picked the marvelous beauty that lingers 
But to tell us anew of our loss. 

Sleep well in thy ocean bound island 1 

Sleep and rest 

Clothe thy breast. 
Blow gently, thou gale of the Highland, 

Sigh softly, thou Wind of the West. 
Weep low o'er the bier of thy master. 

Salt breeze 

Of the seas, 
With the sound of thy sport or disaster. 

Disturb not his limitless ease. 

God hath granted thy guerdon, my 
brother, 

And the head 

Cold and dead, 
Bears the mystical crown and none other. 

And the bays on thy coflin are 

And the tears and the prayers of a 

That start 
From the heart. 
Reach over the distance and span it 
From us to the land where thou art 
— Herman Knickerbocker Viele. 



HOHENLINDEN. 

A Tillice in Banri* wfaere the Prencf u 
det Morau defeated Ibe AuMriuu under tl 
Arcbdnke John, on Dec S, IBOO. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rollbg rapidly. 



But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat, at dead of night. 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her sccneiy. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
^ch horseman drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neighed 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven; 
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet those fires shall glow 
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow. 
And darker yet shall be the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis mom; but scarce yon lurid sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave. 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich I all thy banners wave. 
And charge with all tfay chivalry I 

Few, few shall part where many meet 1 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet; 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

— Tkomat Campbell. 



Becemftec 4. 



Behold the man I ye crowned and 

ermined train. 
And learn from him the royal art to 

reign; 
No guards surround him, or his walks 

No cuirass meanly shields his noble 

His the defence which despots ne'er can 
find. 



394 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



The love, the prayers, the interest of 
mankind. 

Illustrious man, adieu! yet ere we part. 
Forgive our factions which have wrung 

our heart; 
Still with indulgent eyes thy country see, 
Whose ceaseless prayers ascend to 

heaven for thee ; 
Go, midst the shades of tranquil Vernon 

stray. 
In vain attempt to shun the piercing ray 
Of circumambient glory, till refined 
All that could clog to earth the heaven- 
lent mind. 
Then soar triumphant to the blest abodes, 
And Join those chiefs whom virtue raised 
to gods. 

— St, John Honeywood. 



©cccmbcr 5* 



KILLING OF MACBETH. 



Slain by Macduff, Dec. 6, 1056. 



Enter Macduff. 

Macduff: Turn, hell-hound, turnl 
Macbeth: Of all men else I have 
avoided thee: 
But get thee back; my soul is too much 

charged 
With blood of thine already. 

Macduff: I have no words: 

My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier 

villain 
Than terms can give thee out! [They 
fight. 
Macbeth: Thou losest labour: 

As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air 
With thy keen sword impress as make 

me bleed : 
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; 
I bear a charmed life, which must not 

yield 
To one of woman bom. 

Macduff: Despair thy charm: 

And let the angel whom thou still hast 

served 
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's 

womb 
Untimely rippc. 
Macbeth: Accursed be that tongue 
that tells me so. 
For it hath cow'd my better part of man ! 



And be these juggling fiends no more 

believed, 
That palter with us in a double sense ; 
That keep the word of promise to our 

ear. 
And break it to our hope. I'll not fight 

with thee. 
Macduff: Then yield thee, coward. 
And live to be the show and gaze o' the 

time: 
We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters 

are. 
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, 
'Here may you see the tyrant.' 

Macbeth: I will not 3rield, 

To kiss the ground before young Mal- 
colm's feet, 
And to be baited with the rabble's curse. 
Though Bimam wood be come to Dunsi- 

nane. 
And thou opposed, being of no woman 

bom. 
Yet I will try the last. Before my body 
I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, 

MacdufF, 
And damn'd be him that first cries *Hold, 

enough!' [Exeunt, fighting. 

Alarums. . 

Macbeth, Act V. Scene 8. 
— Shakespeare. 



MOZARTS REQUIEM. 



Died Dec 6, 1701. 



A requiem! — and for whom? 
For beauty in its bloom ? 
For valor fallen — a broken rose or 
sword ? 
A dirge for king or chief. 
With pomp of stately grief, 
Banner, and torch, and waving plume 
deplored ? 

Not so, it is not sol 
That warning voice I know, 
From other worlds a strange mysterious 
tone; 
A solemn funeral air 
It caird me to prepare, 
And my heart answer'd secretly — my 
own! 

One more then, one more strain. 
In links of joy and pain 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Mighty the troubled spirit to enthral ! 

And let me breathe my dower 

Of passion and of power 
Full into that deep lay— the last of all I 

The last I— and I most go 

From this bright world below. 
This realm of sunshine, ringing with 
sweet sound ! 

Must leave its festal skies. 

With all their melodies. 
That ever in my breast glad echoes 

Yet have I known it long; 

Too restless and too strong 
Within this clay hath been the o'ermas- 
tering flame; 

Swift thoughts, that came and went. 

Like torrents o'er me sent. 
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling 

Uke perfumes on the wind, 
Which none may staj; or bind, 
The beautiful comes floating througji my 

I strive with yearnings vain. 
The spirit to detain 
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll I 

Therefore disturbing dreams 
Trouble the secret streams 
And founts of music that o'erflow my 

Something far more divine 
Than may on earth be mine, 
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let 
me rest 

Shall I then fear the tone 

That breathes from wo rids un- 
known F— 
Surely these feverish aspirations there 

Shall grasp their full desire, 

And this unsettled fire. 
Bum calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 

Once more then, one more strain. 
To earthly joy and pain 
A rich, and deep, and passionate fare- 
well I 
I ^ur each fervent thought 
With fear, hope, trembling fraught, 
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall 
swell. 

— Felicia Hemans. 



Becember 6. 

KITTY CLIVE. 

EiHt Ctive wu an Iriih utren who died 
on Dec 6. ITSO. She acted wilh Girridc, 
And, »fleT ncr retirement from Ibe lU^, lived 
for muiy jttLit in ■ hDiue which Horace WbI- 

Sle aiiTe ber, neu Striwl»err]r Hill, oiled 
iTeden. 



Easy, as if at home, the stage she trod. 
Nor sought the critic's praise, nor feared 

his rod. 
Original in spirit and in ease. 
She pleased by hiding all attempts to 

please: 
No comic actress ever yet could raise, 
On humour's base, more merit or more 

praise. 

—CharUs ChmrchiU. 



December 7. 

EPITAPH ON ALGERNON SIDNEY. 

Algernon Sidney wo* the younger *on of 
the lecond Earl of IiCkoter. Me •enred m 
the PirliuaenUiry army during ihe Civil War 
■nd after hatding many hononble ofiicea was 
urtned on the diaeoverT of the Kye Houie 
Plot (with which he had no coanectiOD) and 
wa* executed on Dec T, 108S. 

Here Sidney lies, he whom perverted 

The pliant jury, and the bloody judge, 
Doom'd to a traitor's death. A tyrant 

King 
Required, an abject country saw and 

The crime. The noble cause of Liberty 
He loved in life, and to that noble cause 
In death bore witness. But his Country 

Like Samson from her sleep, and broke 

her chains. 
And proudly with her worthies she ea- 

roll'd 
Her murder'd Sidney's name. The vmce 

of man 



396 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Gives honor or destroys; but earthly 
power 

Gives not, nor takes away, the self-ap- 
plause 

Which on the scaffold suffering virtue 
feels, 

Nor that which God appointed its 
reward. 

— Robert Southey. 



2>ecemDer 8* 



TO CHRISTINA OF SWEDEN. 



Supposed to be written by Cromwell and 
sent with his picture. Christina was bom on 
Dec 8, 162e. 



Christina, maiden of heroic mien ! 

Star of the North ! of northern stars the 

queen ! 
Behold what wrinkles I have earned, and 

how 
The iron casque still chafes my veteran 

brow, 
While, following Fate's dark footsteps, 

I fulfil 
The dictates of a hardy people's will. 
But softened in thy sight my looks 

appear. 
Not to all queens or kings alike severe. 
— From the Latin and Italian poems of 
Milton, 

Trans, by Wm. Cowper, 



December 9* 



MILTON. 



Born Dec. 9. 1608. 



He left the upland lawns and serene air 
Wherefrom his soul her noble nurture 

drew. 
And reared his helm among the un- 
quiet crew 
Battling beneath; the morning radiance 
rare 



Of his young brow amid the tumult 
there 
Grew grim with sulphurous dust and 

sanguine dew; 
Yet through all soilure they who 
marked him knew 
The signs of his life's dayspring, calm 

and fair. 
But when peace came, peace fouler far 
than war. 
And mirth more dissonant than battle's 

tone. 
He, with a scornful sigh of his clear 
soul, 
Back to his motmtain domb, now bleak 
and frore. 
And with the awful Night he dwelt 
alone, 
In darkness, listening to the thunder's 
roll. 

— Ernest Myers 



MILTON. 



For thrice ten years the paladin's hand 
and brain 

Upheld thine altar, Freedom, o'er thy 
land ! 

Then Heaven those later lustres did 
command, 

That orb of song that set without a 
stain. 

Then rose in power perpetual, doth re- 
main 

Unshorn of glory, destined to expand 

Supreme o'er Heaven and Hell, voicing 
the grand 

Oceans of knowledge, sacred and pro- 
fane. 

Beside the laureled Tuscan doth he rest 

O'erlooking all the worlds, and on his 
brow 

The amaranth of God, the poet's vow. 

And the deep love for England in his 
breast. 

O, Samson of our Israel, would that 
thou 

Wert living still to strike for earth's 
oppressed ! 

— Craven L. Betts. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



MILTON'S SONNETS. 



ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THB AGB or 
TWENTY-THBEE. 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of 

Stolen on his wing my three-and- 

twentieth yearl 
My hasting days fly on with full 

But my late spring no bud or blossom 

showeth. 
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 

truth, 
That I to manhood am arrived so near ; 
And inward ripeness doth much less 

appear 
That some more timely-happy spirits 

indu'th. 
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, 
It shall be still in strictest measure 

even 
To that same lot, however mean or 

high. 
Toward which Time leads me, and the 

will of Heaven: 
All i«, if I have grace to use it so. 
As ever in my great Task-master's eye. 

ON BIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world 

And that one talent which is death to 

hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my 

soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and 

My true account, lest he returning 

chide— 
"Doth God exact day-labor, light de- 

I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies : "God doth 
not need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts; 

who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him 
best; his state 
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding 

And post o'er land and ocean without 



2>eceml>er to. 



THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW. 






B certiin AbM. at War- 



The yellow snow-fog curdled thid^ 

Dark, brooding, dull, and brown. 
About the ramparts, hiding all 

The steeples of the town ; 
The icicles, as thick as beams, 

Hung down from every roof. 
When all at once we heard a sound 

As of a muffled hoof. 

"Twas nothing but a soldier's horse. 

All riderless and torn 
With bullets; scarce his bleeding legs 

Could reach the gate. A mom 
Of horror broke upon us then; 

We listened, but no drum — 
Only a sullen, distant roar. 

Telling us that they come. 



Next, slowly st^gering through the 
fog, 

A grenadier reeled pas^ 
A bloody turban round his head. 

His pallid face aghast. 
Behind him, with an arm bound up 

with half a Russian flag, 
Came one — then threer— the last one 
sopped 

His breast with crimson rag. 

All day the frozen, bleeding men 

Came pouring through the place; 
Drums broken, colours torn to shreds. 

Foul wounds on every face. 
Black powder-wagons, scorched and 
split. 

Broad wheels caked thick with sti^w. 
Red bayonets bent, and swords that still 

Were reeking from the blow. 

The ground was strewn with epaulettes. 

Letters, and cards, and songs; 
The barrels, leaking drops of gold. 

Were trampled by the throngs. 
A brutal, selfish, goring mob, 

Yet here and there a trace 
Of the divine shone out, and lit 

A gashed and suffering face 



398 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR, 



Here came a youth, who on his back. 

His dying father bore ; 
With bandaged feet the brave youth 
limped. 

Slow, shuddering, dripping gore. 
And even 'mid the trampling crowd. 

Maimed, crippled by the frost, 
I found that every spark of good 

Was not extinct and lost 

Deep in the ranks of savage men 

I saw two grenadiers 
Leading their corporal, his breast 

Stabbed by the Cossack spears. 
He saved that boy, whose tearful eyes 

Were fixed upon the three-^ 
Although too weak to beat his drum 

Still for his company. 

Half-stripped, or wrapped in furs and 
gowns. 

The broken ranks went on; 
They ran if any one called out 

"The Cossacks of the Don !" 
The whispered rumour, like a fire. 

Spreads fast from street to street, 
With boding look and shaking head 

The staring gossips meet. 

"Ten thousand horses every night 

Were smitten by the frost ; 
Full thirty thousand rank and file 

In Beresina lost. 
The Cossacks fill their caps with gold 

The Frenchmen fling away. 
Napoleon was shot the first. 

And only lived a day — 

"They say that Caulaincourt is lost — 

The guns are left behind ; 
God's curse has fallen on these thieves — 

He sent the snow and wind." 
Tired of the clatter and the noise, 

I sought an inner room, 
Where twenty wax-lights, starry clear. 

Drove off the fog and gloom. 

I took my wanton Ovid down, 

And soon forgot the scene, 
As through my dreams I saw arise 

The rosy-bosomed queen. 
My wine stood mantling in the glass 

(The goblet of Voltaire), 
I sipped and dozed, and dozed and 
sipped, 

Slow rocking in my chair. 
When open flew the bursting door, 



And Coulaincourt stalked 
Tall, gaunt, and wrapped in frozen furs 
Hard frozen to his skin. 

The wretched hag of the low inn 

Puffed at the sullen fire 
Of spitting wood, that hissed and 
smoked ; 

There stood the Jove whose ire 
But lately set the world aflame, 

Wrapped in a green pelisse, 
Fur-lined, and stiff with half-burnt lace, 

Trying to seem at ease. 

"Bah! Du sublime au ridicule 

II n*y a qu'un pas," 
He said. "The rascals think the/ve 
made 

A comet of my star. 
The army broken ? — dangers ? — pish ! 

I did not bring the frost. 
Levy ten thousand Poles, Duroc — 

Who tells me we have lost? 

"I beat them everywhere, Murat — 

It is a costly game ; 
But nothing venture, nothing lyin — 

I'm sorry now we came. 
That burning Moscow was a deed 

Worthy of ancient Rome — 
Mind that I gild the Invalides 

To match the Kremlin dome. 

"Well ? well as Beelzebub himself !" 

He leaped into the sleigh 
Sent for to bear the Caesar off 

Upon his ruthless way. 
A flash of fire ! — the court-yard stones 

Snapped out — the landlord cheered — 
In a hell-gulf of pitchy dark 

The carriage disappeared. 

— Walter Thornbury. 



THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 



Dec 10, 1812. 



Humanity, delighting to behold 
A fond reflection of her own decay, 
Hath painted Winter like a traveler old. 
Propped on a staff, and, through the sul- 
len day. 
In hooded mantle, limping o'er the plain. 
As though his weakness were disturbed 

by pain; 
Or, if a juster fancy should allow 
An undisputed symbol of command. 
The chosen sceptre is a withered bough. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Infirmly grasped within a paUied hand 
These emblems suit the helpless and 

forlorn, 
But mighty Winter the device shall 



That host, when from the regioni of the 

Pole 
They shrunk, insane ambition's barren 

goal— 
That host, as huge and strong as e'er 

defied 
Their God, and placed their trust in 

human pride I 
As fathers persecute rebellious sons. 
He smote the blossoms of their warrior 

youth ; 
He called on Frost's inexorable tooth 
Ijfe to consume in Manhood's firmest 

hold; 
Nor spared the reverend blood that 

^ebly runs; 
For why — unless for liberty enrolled 
And sacred home — ah I why should 

hoary Age be bold? 
Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed. 
But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind 
Which from Siberian caves the Monarch 

freed. 
And sent him forth, with squadrons of 

his kind, 
And bade the Snovv their ample backs 

bestride. 

And to the battle ride. 
No pitying voice commands a halt. 
No courage can repel the dire assault; 
Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and 

blind. 
Whole legions sink — and, in one instant, 

find 
Burial and death; look lor them— and 

When mom returns, heneath the clear 

blue sky, 
A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy! 
— William Wordtworih. 



Deceml>er il. 



I wtih I 



Art reigned incarnate in thy lofty soul. 
Tuning that voice which was Rubini's 

And whose delicious accents, firm and 

Could hold each changing passion in 
control 

But thou wast greatest in some thrilling 
role 
That shook the heart or drew the rebel 



And memories of thee, forever dear. 
Will live and linger now from pole to 

Death cannot ravage thy eternal fame. 
Nor can it snatch the laurel from Uiy 

The ermine of Hay life is free of stain. 

And, for all time, thy ever-glorious name. 

Shrined in the future, as 'lis honored 

now. 
Will pure, supreme, and beautiful 

—Francis Sattui Saltiu. 



CHARLES XII. OF SWEDEN. 



On what foundation stands the warrior's 

^ride. 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles 

A frame of adamant, a sonl of fire. 

No dangers fright him, and no labors 

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide 

domain, 
Unconquered lord of pleasure and of 

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield. 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the 

field; 
Behold, surrounding kings their powers 

combine. 
And one capitulate, and one resign; 
Peace courts his band, but spreads her 



400 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the 

field; 
Behold, surrounding kings their powers 

combine, 
And one capitulate, and one resign; 
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her 

charms in vain ; 
"Think nothing gained/' he cries, "till 

naught remain; 
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards 

fly, 

And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 
The march begins in military state, 
And nations on his eye suspended wait; 
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast. 
And Winter barricades the realms of 

frosts ; 
He comes, nor want nor cold his course 

delay : — 
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's 

day I 
The vanquished hero leaves his broken 

bands, 
And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 
Condemned a needy supplicant to wait; 
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 
But did not chance at length her error 

mend? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end? 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
Or hostile millions press him to the 

ground ? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand: 
He left the name, at which the world 

grew pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 

— Samuel Johnson, 



©cccmbcr 12* 



ROBERT BROWNING. 



Died Dec 12, 1889. 



There is delight in singing, though none 

hear 
Beside the singer; and there is delight 
In praising, though the praiser sit alone 
And see the praised far off him, far 

above. 
Shakespeare is not our poet, but the 

>^orld*s, 



Therefore on him no speech! and brief 

for thee, 
Browning I Since Chaucer was alive and 

hale. 
No man hath walked along our roads 

with step 
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
So varied in discourse. But warmer 

climes 
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing; 

the breeze 
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, 

borne on 
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 
The Siren waits thee, singing song for 

song. 

— Walter Savage Landor. 



THE TWELFTH OF DECEMBER. 



On this day Browning died? 
Say, rather : On the tide 
That throbs against those glorious 

palace walls ; 
That rises — ^pauses — falls 

With melody and myriad-tinted 
gleams ; 
On that enchanted tide. 
Half real, and half poured from 

lovely dreams, 
A soul of beauty, — a white rhythmic 

flame, — 
Passed singing forth into the Eternal 
Beauty whence it came. 

— Richard Watson Gilder, 



December 13* 



THE BATTLE OF FREDERICKS- 

BURG. 



One of the severest battles of the Chril War* 
fought on Dec. IS, 1862. The Confederates 
under Lee repulsed an attack made on them 
by the Federals under Bumside. 



Still onward swept the hurricane of 

strife, 
The duel of the North and South for 

life, 
And Fredericksburg its lurid haroc 

wrought, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



401 



And Death, or glory, heroes bravely 

soughL 
Ah, bright was war's wild devastating 

Thunder and lightning seemed to play 

Ne'er greater than in this vras Battle's 

stress. 
With Lee And Bumsidc moving, as in 

chess. 
But Bumside, sadly failing of success, 
Resigned the reins, and Hooker took 

command. 
The army iieeded there a master hand. 
And femed for daring deeds was "Figbt- 

Who, 

death or foe; 
And soon the tide of battle swelled 

And loud and long the roar of cannon 
grew. 

— Kinahait Comwallis. 



THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. LUCY. 
St. Lucy*! Dir, Dee. IS. 



"His rod and His staff they comfort me," 

The virgin martyr said. 
It was at the setting of the sun. 

And her voice waxed faint and low. 
And we knew that her race was well 
nigh run. 

And her time drew near to go. 

We could almost deem the douds that 
rolled 

In the ruddy sun's decline. 
To be chariots of fire and horses of gold 

On the steep of Mount Aventine; 
Yea, guardian angels bent their way 

From their own skies' cloudless blue. 
And a triumph more glorious was thine 

Than ever the Cesar knew 1 

We lay thee here in the narrow cell 
Where thy friends and brethren sleep; 

And we carve the palm of thy lot to tell. 
And we do not dare to weep. 

Hopefully wait we God'i holy time 
That shall call us to share thy rest. 

Till then, we must dwell in an alien 

While thou art in Abraham's breast 
—NeaU. 



We watched, as she lingered all the day 

Beneath the torturer's skill; 
And we prayed that the spirit might pass 

And the weary frame be still. 
'Twas a long, sharp struggle from dark- 
ness to light. 

And the pain waxed fierce and sore, 
But she, we knew, in her latest fight. 

Would be more than conqueror. 

Oh, what a change had the prison 
wrought 
Since we gazed upon her last. 
And mournful the lessons her thin frame 

Of the sufferings she had passed. 
Of pain and sickness, not of fear, 

TTiere was courage in her eye. 
As she entered the amphitheatre 

As to triumph, and not to die I 

And once, when we could not bear to 
see 
Her sufferings, and turned the head. 



ON DR. JOHNSON. 



I own 1 like not Johnson's turgid style. 
That gives an inch the importance of a 

Casts of manure a wagon-load around 
To raise a simple daisy from the ground ; 
Uplifts the club of Hercules— for what? 
To crush a butterfly, or brain a gnat I 
Creates a whirlwind, from the earth to 

A goose's feather, or exalt a straw ; 
Sets wheels on wheels in motion — such a 

clatter !— 
To force up one poor nipperkin of water ; 
Bids ocean labor with tremendous roar 
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore: 
Alike in every theme his pompous art — 
Heaven's awful thunder or a rumbling 

cart! 

~Jokn Wokot. 



402 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



ON THE DEATH OF DR. JOHNSON. 



Here Johnson lies — ^a sage by all allowed. 

Whom to have bred may well make 
England proud, 

Whose prose was eloquence by wisdom 
taught, 

The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought ; 

Whose verse may claim — grave, mascu- 
line, and strong, 

Superior praise to the mere poet's song ; 

Who many a noble gift from heaven 
possessed. 

And faith at last— alone worth all the 
rest. 

O man immortal by a double prize. 

By fame on earth — ^by glory in the skies ! 

— Wm. Cowper, 



December 14* 



TO THE PRINCESS ALICE. 



Second daughter of Queen Victoria. She 
died on Dec. 14, 1878, exactly seventeen years 
after her father. Prince Albert. 



Dead Princess, living Power, if that, 
which lived 

True life, live on — and if the fatal kiss. 

Born of true life and love — divorce thee 
not 

From earthly love and life — if what we 
call 

The spirit flash not all at once from out 

This shadow into Substance — then per- 
haps 

The mellowed murmur of the people's 
praise 

From thine own State, and all our 
breadth of realm, 

Where Love and Longing dress thy 
deeds in light, 

Ascends to thee; and this March mom 
that sees 

Thy Soldier-brother's bridal orange- 
bloom 

Break through the yews and cypress of 
thy grave, 

And thine Imperial mother smile again, 



May send one ray to thee ! and who cao 

tell— 
Thou — England's England-loving daug^ 

ter — ^thou 
Dying so English thou wouldst have her 

flag 
Borne on thy coffin — ^where is he caa 

swear 
But that some broken gleam from our 

poor earth 
May touch thee, while remembering thee, 

Ilay 
At thy pale feet this ballad of the deeds 
Of England, and her banner in the East? 

— Alfred Tennyson. 



THE PRINCE CONSORT. 



Prince Albert, husband of Queen 
He died Dec. 14, 1861. 



We know him now; all narrow jeal- 
ousies 

Are silent ; and we see him as he moved. 

How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, 
wise. 

With what sublime repression of him- 
self. 

And in what limits, and how tenderly; 

Not swaying to this faction or to that ; 

Not making his high place the lawless 
perch 

Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage- 
ground 

For pleasure; but thro' all this tract 
of years 

Wearing the white flower of a blameless 
life. 

Before a thousand peering littlenesses. 

In that fierce light which beats upon a 
throne. 

And blackens every blot: for where is 
he. 

Who dares foreshadow for an only son 

A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than 
his? 

Or how should England dreaming of 
his sons 

Hope more for these than some inheri- 
tance 

Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 

Thou noble Father of her Kings to be. 

Laborious for her people and her poor— 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



403 



Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler 

Far-sighted summoatr of War and 
Waste 

To fruitful strifes and rivalries of 
peace — 

Sweet nature gilded by the gradona 
gleam 

Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 

Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince in- 
deed, 

Beyond all titles, and a household name, 

Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the 

From the Dedicalum to the Idylls of 
the King. 

— Alfred TennytoH. 



WASHINGTON. 

Died Dccosber U, ITM. 

Wbere may the wearied eye repose 

When gazing on the Great; 
Where neither guilty glory glows. 

Nor despicable state? 
Yes — one— the first — the last— the beat— 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath the name of Washington, 
To make men blush there was bat one! 
-"Lord Byron. 



ON THE DEATH OF WASH- 
INGTON. 



But who can speak, what accents can 

relate, 
The solemn scenes which marked the 

great man's fate I 
Ye andent sages, who ao loudly claim 
The brightest station on the list of Fame, 
At his approach with dididence retire. 
His higher worth acknowledge and ad- 

When keenest anguish racked his 
mighty mind. 

And the fond he^it the joys of life re- 
signed. 



No guilt, nor terror stretched its hard 

control. 
No doubt obscured the sunshine of the 

Prepared for death, his calm and steady 



> a peaceful 



Looked fearless upward t 

sky: 
While wondering angela point the airy 

Which leads the Christian to the honae 
of God 

— Theodore Dwighl. 



Once in the leafy prime o( Spring, 
When blossoms whitened every thorn, 

I wandered through the Vale of Orb« 
Where Agassiz was bora. 

The birds in boyhood he had known 
Went flitting through the air of May, 

And happy songs he loved to hear 
Made all the landscape gay. 

I saw the streamlet from the hills 
Ran laughing through the valleys 
green. 

And, as I watched it run, 1 said, 
"This hit dear eyes liave ^eenl" 

Far cliffs of ice his feet have climbed 
That day outspoke of him to me; 

The avalanches seemed to sound 
The name of Agaasiz I 

And standing on the mountain eras 
Where loosened waters rush and toaiUi 

I felt that, though on Cambridge side, ' 
He made that spot my home. 

And looking round me as I mused, 
I knew no pang of fear or care, 

Or homesick weariness, because 
Once Agassiz stood there! 

I walked beneath no alien skies, 
No foreign heights I came to tread. 

For everywhere I looked, I saw 
His grand, beloved head. 



♦04 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



His smile was stamped on every tree, 
The glacier shone to gild his name, 

And every image in the lake 
Reflected back his fame. 

Great keeper of the magic keys 
That could unlock the guarded gates 

Where Science like a Monarch stands, 
And sacred Knowledge waits, — 

Thine ashes rest on Auburn's banks. 
Thy memory all the world contains, 

For thou couldst bind in human love 
All hearts in golden chains! 

Thine was the heaven-bom spell that 
sets 

Our warm and deep affections free, — 
Who knew thee best must love thee best. 

And longest mourn for thee! 

— James T, Fields. 



IDcccmbcr 15* 



THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON 
FROM ST. HELENA. 



Nineteen years after the death of Napoleon 
his body was removed from St. Helena and 
p^ven a splendid funeral in Paris where it was 
interred in the Church of IrCS Invalides, on 
Dec. 15, 1840. 



Ho! City of the gay! 

Paris! what festal rite 
Doth call thy thronging million forth, 

All eager for the sight? 
Thy soldiers line the streets 

In fixed and stern array. 
With buckled helm and bayonet. 

As on the battle-day. 

By square, and fountain side, 

Heads in dense masses rise. 
And tower and battlement and tree 

Are studded thick with eyes. 
Comes there some conqueror home 

In triumph from the fight, 
With spoil and captives in his train, 

The trophies of his might? 

The Arc de Triomphe glows! 
A martial host is nigh ; 



France pours in long succession forth 

Her pomp of chivalry. 
No clarion marks their way. 

No victor trump is blown ; 
Why march they on so silently, 

Told by their tread alone? 



Behold, in glittering show, 

A gorgeous car ot state ! 
The white-plumed steeds in cloth of 
gold, 

Bow down beneath its weight; 
And the noble war-horse, led 

Caparisoned along, 
Seems fiercely for his lord to ask. 

As his red eye scans the throng. 



Who rideth on yon car? 

The incense flameth high, — 
Comes there some demi-god of old? 

No answer! — No reply! 
Who rideth on yon car? — 

No shout his minions raise. 
But by a lofty chapel dome 

The muffled hero stays. 



A king is standing there. 

And with uncovered head 
Receives him in the name of France: 

Receiveth whom ? — The dead ! 
Was he not buried deep 

In island cavern drear, 
Girt by the sounding ocean surge? 

How came that sleeper here? 



Was there no rest for him 

Beneath a peaceful pall. 
That thus he brake his stony tomb. 

Ere the strong angel's call? 
Hark! hark! the requiem swells, 

A deep soul-thrilling strain! 
An echo, never to be heard 

By mortal ear again. 

A requiem for the chief. 

Whose fiat millions slew, — 
The soaring eagle of the Alps, 

The crushed at Waterloo: — 
The banished who returned, 

The dead who rose again. 
And rode in his shroud the billows 
proud 

To the sunny banks of Seine, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



They laid him there in slate. 

That warrior strong and bold, — 
The imperial crown with jewels bright, 

Upon his ashes cold. 
While round those columns proud 

The blazoned banners wave. 
That on a hundred fields he won 

With the heart 's-blood of the brave; 

And sternly there kept guard 

His veterans scarred and old, 
Whose wounds on Lodi's cleaving 

Or purple LeipMc told. 
Yes, there, with arms reversed, 

Slow pacing, night and day. 
Close watch beside the coffin kept 

Those veterans grim and gray. 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead. 
Or memory of the fearful strife 

Where their country's legions fled? 
Of Borodino's blood? 

Of Beresina's wail? 
The horrors of that dire retreat. 

Which turned old History pale? 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead. 
Or a shuddering at the wintry shaft 

By Russian tempests sped? 
Where countless mounds of snow 

Marked the poor conscript's grave, 
And, pierced by frost and famine, sank 

The bravest of the brave. 

A thousand trembling lamps 

The gathered darkness mock, 
And velvet drapes his hearse, who died 

On bare Helena's rock; 
And from the altar near, 

A never-ceasing hymn 
Is lifted by the chanting priests 

Beside the taper dim. 

Mysterious one, and proud ! 

In the land where shadows reign. 
Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of 

Who at thy nod were slain? 
Oh. when the cry of that spectral host 

Like a rushing blast shall be, 
What will thine answer be to themF 

And what thy God's to thee? 

—Lydia H. Sigoitmty. 



December 16. 



TO THE AUTHORESS OF "OUR 

. VILLAGE." 

Mary Ruucll Mitford, remembtred u the 
author of "Rienii," "Our Vil1»B«." elt, wu 
born at Almfocd, Eni., Dccnnber ID, ITSS. 

The single eye, the daughter of the 

light ; 
Well pleased to recognize ia lowliest 

Some glimmer of its parent beam, and 

By daily draughts of brightness, inly 

bright 
The taste severe, yet graceful, trained 

In classic depth and clearness, and re- 

By thanks and honour from the wise 

and staid. 
By pleasant skill to blame, and yet de- 



And high communion with the eloquent 

throng 
Of those who purified our speech and 

song- 
All these are yours. The same examples 

You in each woodland, me on bree^ 



t path 



With kindred aim the s: 
To knit in loving knowledge rich and 
—Charles Kingsley. 



BEETHOVEN. 

Born Dtecmbcr Ifl, ITTO. 



Nor yet of joy: thy fateful measures 

flow 
From springs too deep to sparkle, over- 



4o6 



EVERY DAY IN TRE YEAR. 



Is not thy theme, for all thy concords 

glow 
With living fervor. And this present 

show 
Seems lost in thy infinity at last 

What is thy message, what thy mys- 
tery? 

— Or shall we ask what doctrine gilds 
the day; 

What creed the clouds unfold, — the hills, 
the sea? 

All things they tell, — or nothing. He 
alone 

Who loves can learn, when Nature 
points the way 

Or thou dost breathe the beautiful in 
tone. 

II. 

Yet thou hast gentler moments when 

thy might. 
No longer tuned to a supernal key, 
Is modulated by humanity; 
And in thy symphony the other night 
A hero's clarion sounded through the 

fight. 
A maiden's laughter rippled peacefully. 
And love and sorrow woke a threnody 
To speed a deathless spirit in its flight. 

O sweetly human, splendidly divine! — 
Not like a turbid torrent threading far 
And fathomless abysses, thou dost shine 
A clear, full flood wherein we joy to 

scan 
The cloud, the snowy summit and the 

star, — 
The flower, the forest and the face of 

man. —John Hall Ingham. 



IDcccmbcr 17* 



BOLIVAR. 



A famous Venezuelan g^cncral and statesman. 
He died Dec. 17. 1830. 



Build up a column to Bolivar! 
Build it under a tropic star! 
Build it high as his mounting fame! 
Crown its head with his noble name! 
Let the letters tell, like a light afar, 
"This is the column of Bolivar!" 



Soldier in war, in peace a man. 
Did he not all that a hero can? 
Wasting his life for his country's care. 
Laying it down with a patriot prayer. 
Shedding his blood like the summer 

ram, 
Loving the land, though he loved in 

vain! 

Man is a creature, good or ill. 
Little or great, at his own strong will; 
And he grew good, and wise, and grea^ 
Albeit he fought with a tyrant fate. 
And showered his golden grifts on men. 
Who paid him in basest wrongs again! 

Raise the column to Bolivar! 
Firm in peace, and fierce in war! 
Shout forth his noble name! 
Shout till his enemies die in shame! 
Shout till Columbia's woods awaken. 
Like seas by a mighty tempest shaken, — 
Till pity and praise and great disdain, 
Sound like an Indian hurricane! 
Shout, as ye shout in conquering war, 
While ye build the column to Bolivar! 

— Barry Cornwall. 



December 18. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 



Died December 18, 1855. 



Absent or present, still to thee. 
My friend, what magic spells belong! 

As all can tell, who share, like me. 
In turn thy converse, and thy song. 

But when the dreaded hour shall come. 
By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, 

And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb 
Shall weep that aught of thee can die. 

How fondly will she then repay 
Thy homage oflfer'd at her shrine. 

And blend, while ages roll away. 
Her name immortally with thine! 

—Lord Byron, 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



407 



iDcccmhcv ta 



TO BAYARD TAYLOR BEYOND 

US. 



Written on Chrittmas Eve. Died Dec. 19, 
1878. 



As here within I watch the fervid coals, 
While the chill heavens without shine 
wanly white, 
I wonder, friend! in what rare realm of 
souls, 
You hail the uprising Christmas-tide 
to-night ! 

I leave the fire-place, lift the curtain's 
fold, 
And peering past these shadowy win- 
dow-bars. 
See through broad rifts of ghostly clouds 
unrolled. 
The pulsing pallor of phantasmal 
stars. 

Phantoms they seem, glimpsed through 
the clouded deep. 
Till the winds cease, and doudland's 
ghastly glow 
Gives place above to luminous calms of 
sleep. 
Beneath, to glittering amplitudes of 
snow! 

Some stars like steely bosks on blazoned 
shields. 
Stud constellations measureless in 
might ; 
Some lily-pale, make fair the ethereal 
fields. 
In which, O fnend, art thou ensphered 
to-night ? 

Where'er mid yonder infinite worlds it 
be. 
Its souls, I know, are clothed with 
wings of fire; 
How wouTdst thou scorn even Immor- 
tality, 
In whose dull rest thou couldst not 
still aspire! 

There, Homer raised where genius can 
not nod, 
Hears the orbed thunders of celestial 
seas; 



And Shakespeare, lofty almost as t God« 
Smiles his large smile at Aristoph- 
anes; 

With earth's supremest souls, still 
grouped apart. 
Great souls made perfect in the eter- 
nal noon. 
There thy loved Goethe holds thee to 
his heart, 
R'e-bom to youth and all life's chords 
in tune. 

While in the liberal air of that wide 
heaven, 
He whispers: "Come! we share the 
self-same height; 
To me on earth thy noblest toils were 
given. 
Brothers, henceforth, we walk these 
paths of light'' 



n 



Clear and more clear the radiant vision 
gleams t 
More bright grand shapes and glor- 
ious faces grow ; 
While like deep fugues of victory, heard 
in dreams, 
A thousand heavenly clarions seem to 
blow! 

—Paul H. Hayne. 



TDccembet 20* 



THE LITTLE CHURCH ROUND 
THE CORNER. 



When George Holland, the well-known actor, 
died on Dec 80, 1870, one of his friends 
called upon the minister of a church on Fifth 
avenue to make arrangements for the funeral. 
On learning what the dead man's profession 
had been the minister refused to allow the 
funeral to be held at his church, but said 
"there is a little church around the comer 
where they will do what you want" This was 
the Church of the Transfiguration, which has 
ever since been known by that name. 



"Bring him not here, where our sainted 
feet 
Are treading the path of glory; 
Bring him not here, where our Saviotir 
sweet 
Repeats for us his story. 



4o8 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Go, take him where such things are 
done 
(For he sat in the seat of the scorn- 

To where they have room, for we have 
none, — 
To the little church round the corner." 

So spake the holy man of God, 
Of another man, his brother. 
Whose cold remains, ere they sought the 
sod, 
Had only asked that a Christian rite 
Might be read above them by one whose 
light 
Was, "Brethren, love one another;" 
Had only asked that a prayer be read 
Ere his flesh went down to join the 

dead, 
While his spirit looked with suppliant 

eyes. 
Searching for God throughout the skies. 
But the priest frowned "No," and his 
brow was bare 
Of love in the sight of the mourner, 
And they looked for Christ and found 
him — where ? 
In that little church round the comer. 

Ah ! well, God grant when with aching 
feet, 
We tread life's last few paces. 
That we may hear some accents sweet, 

And kiss, to the end, fond faces. 
God grant that this tired flesh may rest 

('Mid many a musing mourner), 
While the sermon is preached and the 

rites are read 
In no church where the heart of love is 

dead. 
And the pastor's a pious prig at best. 
But in some small nook where God's 
confessed, — 
Some little church round the corner. 

— A. E, Lancaster. 



December 21* 



A NOCTURNAL UPON ST. LUCIE'S 

DAY. 



(Being the Shortest Day, December 21.) 



'Tis the year's midnight, and 'tis the 
day's, 



Lucie's who scarce seven hours herself 
unmasks ; 
The Sun is spent, and now his flasks 
Send forth light squibs, no constant 

rays; 
The whole world's sap is sunk; 

The general balm th* hydroptic earth 
hath drunk. 

Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is 
shrunk. 

Dead and interred ; yet all these seem to 
laugh. 

Compared with me, who am their epi- 
taph. , 

— John Donne, 



THE WINTER SOLSTICE. 



December 21. 



In the month of December, when, naked 
and grim 

The tree -tops thrust at the snow-cloud 
gray, 

And frozen tears fill the lids of day; 

Then, in heavy teen, each breath be- 
tween. 

We sigh, "Would the winter were well 
away !" 

Whatever the sun and the dial say, 
This is the longest day! 

— Edith Thomas, 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 
FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND. 



December 21, 1020. 



"Look now abroad — another race has filled 
Those populous borders — wide the wood re* 

cedes, 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are 

tilled; 
The land is full of harvests and grecs 
meads." 

— Bryant. 



The breaking waves dashed high, 
On a stern and rock-bound coast. 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed; 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



409 



And the heavy night hung dark. 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moored their 
bark 

On the wild New-England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 
They, the true-hearted, came; 

Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 
And the trumpet that sings of fame; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear; — 
They shook the depths of the desert 
gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 
And the stars heard, and the sea; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim 
woods rang 
To the anthem of the free! 



The ocean eagle soared 
From his nest by the white wave's 
foam; 
And the rocking pines of the forest 
roared — 
This was their welcome home! 



There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band: 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye. 
Lit by her deep love's truth; 

There was manhood's brow serenely 
high, 
And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afarl 

Bright jewels of the mine? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 
The soil where first they trod. 

They have left unstained what there 
they found — 
Freedom to worship God. 

— Felicia Hemans. 



Becem&er 22. 



OH MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR 
INVISIBLE. 



George Eliot, known in private life as Mary 
Ann Evans Cross, the author of "The Mill on 
the Floss," "Adam Bede" and other novels, 
died Dec 22, 1880. 

Longum illud tempus qnum non ero, magis 
me movet» quam hoc exigmun. — Cicero, ad 
Att, XII., 18. 



Oh may I join the choir invisible 

Of those immortal dead who live 
again 
In minds made better by -their presence: 

live 
In pulses stirred to generosity. 

In deeds of daring rectitude, in 
scorn 
For miserable aims that end with self, 
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night 

like stars, 
And with their mild persistenee urge 

man's search 
To vaster issues. 

So to live is heaven : 
To make undying music in the world. 
Breathing as beauteous order that con- 
trols 
With growing sway the growing life of 

man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, failed and 

agonized 
With widening retrospect that bred de- 
spair. 
Rebellious flesh that would not be sub- 
dued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child. 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dis- 
solved ; 
Its discords, quenched by meeting har- 
monies, 
Die in the large and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, better, truer self. 
That sobbed religriously in yearning song, 
That watched to ease the burden of the 

world, 
Laboriously tracing what must be, 
And what may yet be better— saw 

within 
A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
And shaped it forth before the multitude 
Divinely human, raising worship «o 



410 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



To higher reverence more mixed with 

love — 
That better self shall live till human 

Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb 
Unread forever. 



This is life to come, 
Which martyred men have made more 

glorious 
For us who strive to follow. May I 

reach 
That purest heaven, be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony. 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
And in diffusion ever more intense. 
So shall I join the choir invisible 
Whose music is the gladness of the 

world. 
1867 — George Eliot, 



GEORGE ELIOT. 



"Thy prayer is granted : thou hast joined 

the Choir 
Invisible; the Qioir whose music makes 
Life's discords grow to harmonies, and 

takes 
Us unawares with sounds that are as 

fire 
And light and melody in one. We tire 
Of weary noon and night, of dawn that 

breaks 
Only to bring again the cares, the aches. 
The meannesses that drag us to the 

mire: 

When lo! amid life's din we catch thy 

clear 
Large utterances from the lucid upper 

air, 
Bidding us wipe away the miry stain, 
And scale the stainless stars, and have 

no fear 
Save the one dread of forfeiting our 

share 
In the deep joy that follows noble pain." 

— James A. Noble, 



SHAN VAN VOCHT. 



On Dec. 83, 1796, a French fleet, under tbe 
command of General Hoche, appeared off the 
coast of Ireland and cast anchor in Bantry 
Bay. It had been invited over by Wolfe Tone 
to assist in the struggle for the separation of 
Ireland from English rule. A terrific w^orm 
came up» accompanied by a dense fog so that 
the expedition was unable to land and the ships 
were obliged to seek safety in the open 



O! the French are on the say. 

Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
The French are on the say. 

Says the Shan Van Vocht! 
O! the French are in the bay; 
They'll be here without delay. 
And the Orange will decay. 
Says the Shan Van Vocht 
O! the French are in the bay. 
They'll be here by break of day. 
And the Orange will decay. 
Says the Shan Van Vocht, 

And where will they have their camp? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
Where will they have their camp? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
On the Currach of Kildare; 
The boys they will be there 
With their pikes in good repair. 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
To the Currach of Kildare 
The boys they will repair. 
And Lord Edward will be there. 
Says the Shan Van Vocht, 

Then what will the yeoman do? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
What will the yeomen do? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
What should the yeomen do, 
But throw off the Red and Blue, 
And swear that they'll be true 
To the Shan Van Vocht ? 
What should the yeomen do. 
But throw, off the Red and Blue, 
And swear that they'll be true 
To the Shan Van Vocht/ 

And what color will they wear? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
What color will they wear? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
What color should be seen. 
Where our fathers' homes have been. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



But our own immortal Green? 
Says the Shan Van VochL 
H^hat color ihould be teen. 
Where our father^ homes have been, 
Bui our own immortal Green? 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

And will Ireland then b« free? 

Says the Shan Van Voeht ; 
Will Ireland then be free? 

Says Ihe Shan Van Vocht I 
Yes I Ireland shall be free. 
From the centre to the sea; 
Then hurra 1 for Liberty! 
Says the Shan Van Vocht 
Yesl Ireland ihall be free. 
From the centre to the sea; 
Then hurra! for Libertyl 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

— Anonymous. 



'Bcccm'bcc 23. 

SAVANNAH. 

Occupied b; the Fcdcrali under Shennu, 
on Dec IS, 1B94. 

Thou hast not drooped thy stately head. 
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shedl 
Not like a Iamb to slaughter led, 
But with the lion's monarch tread, 
Thou comest to thy battle bed. 
Savannah 1 O Savannah 1 

Thine arm of flesh is girded strong; 
The blue veins swell beneath thy wrong; 
To thee the triple cords belong 
Of woe and death and shameless wrong. 
And spirit vaunted long, too long I 
Savannah I O Savannah I 

No blood-stains spot thy forehead fair; 
Only the martyrs blood is there; 
It gleams upon thy bosom bier 
It moves thy deep, deep soul to prayer. 
And tunes a dirge for thy sad ear. 
Savannah I O Savannah I 

Thy dean white hand is opened wide 
For weal or woe, thou Freedom Bride; 

The sword-sheath sparkles at thy side. 
Thy plighted troth, whate'er betide. 
Thou hast but Freedom for thy guide. 
Savannah 1 O Savannah 1 



411 
n-cloud 



What though the heavy i 

Still at thy feet the old oak towers; 
Still fragrant are thy jessamine bowers, 
And things of beauty, love, and flowers 
Are smiling o'er this land of ours. 
My sunny home. Savannah I 

There is no film before thy sight, — 
Thou seest woe and death and night. 
And bloc>d upon thy banner bright; 
But in thy full wrath's kindled might 
What carest thou for woe or night? 
My rebel home. Savannah I 

Come — for the crown is on thy head I 
Thy woes a wondrous beauty shed; 
Not like a Iamb to slaughter led. 
But with the lion's monarch tread, 
Ohi come unto thy battle bed. 
Savannah! O Savannah! 

—Aleihea S. Btirroughj. 



December 24. 

ADSUM. 

Williuo Makepeue Thackerar died 



The at^el came by night 

(Such angels still come down), 

And like a winter cloud 
Passed over London town; 

Along its lonesome streets. 
Where Want had ceased to weep. 

Until it reached a hous 



Who knew the most of men. 
The soundest head and heart. 

The sharpest, kindest pen. 
It paused beside his bed, 

And whispered in his ear; 
He never turned his head. 

But answered, "I am here." 

Into the night they went. 

At morning, side by side, 
They gained the sacred Place 

Where the greatest Dead abide. 
Where grand old Homer sits 

In godlike state benign; 



412 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Where broods in endless thought 

The awful Florentine; 
Where sweet Cervantes walks, 

A smile on his grave face ; 
Where gossips quaint Montaigne, 

The wisest of his race; 
Where Goethe looks through all 

With that calm eye of his ; 
Where — little seen but Light— 

The only Shakespeare is! 
When the new Spirit came. 

They asked him, drawing near, 
"Art thou become like us?" 

He answered, "I am here." 

— Richard H, Stoddard, 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



(Christmas Eve.) 



It was the calm and silent night ! 

Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Rome been growing up to might, 

And now was queen of land and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wars — 
Peace brooded o'er the hushed do- 
main: 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars 
Held undisturbed their ancient reign, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 

'T was in the calm and silent night! 

The senator of haughty Rome, 
Impatient, urged his chariot's flight. 

From lordly revel rolling home; 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 
His breast with thoughts of boundless 
sway ; 
What recked the Roman what befell 
A paltry province far away. 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago? 

Within that province far away 

Went plodding home a weary boor; 
A streak of light before him lay, 

Fallen through a half-shut stable-door 
Across his path. He passed — for naught 

Told what was going on within; 
How keen the stars, his only thought — 

The air how calm, and cold, and thin. 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago! 



O, strange indifference! low and high 

Drowsed over common joys and cares; 
The earth was still — but knew not why 

The world was listening, unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede 
One that shall thrill the world for 
ever! 
To that still moment, none would heed, 
Man's doom was linked no more to 
sever — 

In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago! 

It is the calm and solemn night ! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 
The darkness — charmed and holy 
now! 
The night that erst no shame had worn. 

To it a happy name is given; 
For in that stable lay, new-bom. 
The peaceful Prince of earth and 
heaven, 

In the solemn midnight. 
Centuries ago! 

— Alfred Dommeti, 



A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 



December 24. 



'Twas the night before Christmas, when 

all through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a 

mouse; 
The stockings were hung by the chim- 
ney with care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would 

be there; 
The children were nestled all snug in 

their beds. 
While visions of sugar-plums danced in 

their heads ; 
And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in 

my cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long 

winter's nap — 
When out on the lawn there arose such 

a clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was 

the matter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the 

sash. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



413 



The moon, on the breast of the new- 
fallen snow. 
Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects be- 
low; 
When, what to my wondering eyes 

should appear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny 

reindeer. 
With a little old driver, so lively and 

quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles his coursers they 

came, 
And he whistled, and shouted, and called 

them by name; 
"Now, Dasher! now. Dancer! now, 

Prancer and Vixen! 
On ! Comet, on ! Cupid, on ! Donder and 

Blitzen — 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the 

wall! 
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away 

all !'' 
As dry leaves that before the wild hur- 
ricane fly, 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount 

to the sky, 
So, up to the house-top the coursers they 

flew, 
With the sleigh full of toys — ^and St. 

Nicholas too. 
And then in a twinkling I heard on the 

roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little 

hoof. 
As I drew in my head, and was turning 

around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came 

with a bound. 
He was dressed all in fur from his head 

to his foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with 

ashes and soot; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his 

back, 
And he looked like a pedler just open- 
ing his pack. 
His eyes how they twinkled ! his dimples 

how merry ! 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like 

a cherry; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up 

like a bow, 
And the beard on his chin was as white 

as the snow. 
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his 

teeth, 



And the smoke, it encircled his head like 

a wreath. 
He had a broad face and a little round 

belly 
That shook, when he laughed, like a 

bowl full of jelly. 
He was chubby and plump — a right jolly 

old elf; 
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite 

of myself. 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his 

head, 
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to 

dread. 
He spoke not a word, but went straight 

to his work, 
And filled all the stockings ; then turned 

with a jerk. 
And laying his finger aside of his nose. 
And giving a nod, up the chimney he 

rose. 
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave 

a whistle, 
And away they all flew like the down of 

a thistle; 
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove 

out of sight, 
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a 

goodnight !" 

—Clement C. Moore, 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



A Scandinavian I,egend. 



Christ was bom upon this night 

Mistress, spin no more. 
Master, seven good candles light; 

The dead are at the door. 

He, that with his ship was lost. 

Happed in the salt sod. 
She, that at white Pentecost 

Left as for her God. 

One that went long time ago, 

One for bridal clad; 
One with golden locks a-flow. 

Just a little lad. 

Master, the long grave is sweet 
By the old sea-wall; 

Mistress, they that part shall meet- 
Christ was bom for all 



4^4 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Spread the doth as white as snow; 

Sprigs of rosemary set, 
That the blessed dead may know 

We remember yet. 

Pour the wine and break the bread; 

Put green boughs about; 
We too be remembered 

When our day is outl 

—London "Public Opinion, 



JDccemlKV 25. 



THE EVE OF MARY. 



Sing out, and with rejoicing bring 
Shepherds and neatherds to their King — 

Their King who lies in stable stall, 
With straw for all his plenishing; 
Who in His hands most weak and 

small 
Doth hold the earth and heavens all; 
Sing loud, the Eve of Mary! 

Bring in the soft ewes and their rams, 
A;id bring the little crying lambs; 
The stable's wide enough for all. 
Bring hither all the bleating dams, 
And bid them crouch around the stall. 
And watch the wonders that befall 
Earth, on the Eve of Mary. 

This mother-maid with drooping head 
Hath but a straw-heap to her bed. 

Yet, did she list, would angels come 
And make a palace of her shed, 
With myrrh and music bring Him 

home, 
'Mid these glad months the one month 
dumb — 
Here, on the Eve of Mary. 

But rather would she lie below 
Thatched roof, and hear the north wind 
blow. 
And pattering footsteps of the rain. 
Ay, rather would she pay her throe 
And take her joy; to quit all pain 
His lips are on her breast again — 
Sing low, the Eve of Mary ! 

Sing low. indeed; and softly bleat. 
Yon lambing ewes, about her feet. 



Lest ye should wake the Child from 
sleep. 
No other hour so still and sweet 

Shall fall for Mary's heart to keep 
* Until her death-hour on her creep- 
Sing soft, the Eve of Mary ! 

— Nora Hopper. 



A CHRISTMAS SONG. 



When mother-love makes all things 

bright, 
When joy comes with the morning light. 
When children gather round their tree, 

Thou Christmas Babe, 

We sing of Thee 1 

When manhood's brows are bent in 

thought 
To learn what men of old have taught. 
When eager hands seek wisdom's key 

Wise Temple Child, 

We learn of Thee! 

When doubts assail, and perils fritcrht, 
When, groping blindly in the night, 
We strive to read life's mystery, 

Man of the Mount, 

We turn to Thee! 

When shadows of the valley fall. 
When sin and death the soul appall. 
One light we through the darkness see — 

Christ on the Cross 

We cry to Thee! 

And when the world shall pass away. 
And dawns at length the perfect day. 
In glory shall our souls made free. 

Thou God enthroned. 

Then worship Thee. 

— Tudor Jenks. 



THE MAHOGANY TREE. 



Christmas is here; 
Winds whistle shrill. 
Icy and chill, 
Little care we; 
Little we fear 
Weather without. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



415 



Sheltered about 

The Mahogany Tree. 

Once on the boughs 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom; 
Night-birds are we; 
Here we carouse. 
Singing, like them, 
Perched round the stem 
Of the jolly old tree. 

Here let us sport. 
Boys, as we sit — 
Laughter and wit 
Flashing so free. 
Life is but short — 
When we are gone, 
Let them sing on, 
Round the old tree. 

Evenings we knew, 
Happy as this; 
Faces we miss. 
Pleasant to see. 
Kind hearts and true. 
Gentle and just, 
Peace to your dust ! 
We sing round the tree. 

Care, like a dun, 
Lurks at the gate: 
Let the dog wait; 
Happy we'll be! 
Drink, every one; 
Pile up the coals; 
Fill the red bowls, 
Round the old tree! 

Drain we the cup. — 
Friend, art afraid? 
Spirits are laid 
In the Red Sea. 
Mantle it up ; 
Empty it yet; 
Let us forget. 
Round the old tree. 

Sorrows, begone! 
Life and its ills. 
Duns and their bills. 
Bid we to flee. 
Come with the dawn. 
Blue-devil sprite; 
Leave us to-night. 
Round the old tree 1 

WiUiam Makepeace Thackeray, 



A HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF 
MY SAVIOUR. 



I sing the birth was born to-night, 
The author both of life and light; 

The angels so did sound it 
And like the ravished shepherds said. 
Who saw the light, and were afraid. 

Yet searched, and true they, found it 

The Son of God, the Eternal King, 
That did us all salvation bring. 
And freed the soul from danger ; 
He whom the whole world could not 

take. 
The Word, which heaven and earth did 
make. 
Was now laid in a manger. 

The Father's wisdom will'd it so. 
The Son's obedience knew no No, 

Both wills were in one stature; 
And as that wisdom had decreed, 
The Word was now made Flesh indeed, 

And took on Him our nature. 

What comfort by Him do we win. 
Who made Himself the price of sin. 

To make us heirs of glory! 
To see this Babe, all innocence 
A martyr bom in our defence; 

Can man forget this story? 

— Ben Jonson, 



THE END, OF THE PLAY. 

The play is done — the curtain drc^s. 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell; 
A moment yet the actor stops. 

And looks around, to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task; 

And, when he's laughed and said his 
say. 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that's any thing but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends — 

Let's close it with a parting rhyme; 
And pledge a hand to all young friends. 

As fits the merry Christmas time : 
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. 

That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
Good night ! — ^with honest gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway! 



4i6 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Good night ! — Vd say the griefs, the joys. 

Just hinted in this mimic page, 
The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age. 
I*d say your woes were not less keen. 

Your hopes more vain, than those of 
men — 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

Fd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys — 
With grizzled beards at forty-five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys. 
And if, in time of sacred youth. 

We learned at home to love and pray. 
Pray Heaven that early love and truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I'd say how fate may diange and 
shift— 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift. 
The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown, 
The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design? 

Blessed be He who took and gave! 
Why should your mother, Charles, not 
mine. 

Be weeping at her darling's grave? 
We bow to Heaven that willed it so. 

That darkly rules the fate of all. 
That sends the respite or the blow, 

That's free to give or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and 
wit — 

Who brought him to that mirth and 
state ? 
His betters, see, below him sit, 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
Who bade the mud from Dives* wheel 

To spurn the rags of Lazarus? 
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel. 

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance, 
Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely 
killed— 

Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 
And longing passion unfulfilled. 



Amen! — whatever fate be sent. 
Pray God the heart may kindly glow. 

Although the head with cares be bent. 
And whitened with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill. 

Let young and old accept their part. 
And bow before the awful will. 

And bear it with an honest heart. 
Who misses, or who wins the prize — 

Go, lose or conquer as you can; 
But if you fail, or if you rise. 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays;) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas dlays; 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then: 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said. 

And peace on earth to gentle men! 

My song, save this, is little worth; 

I lay the weary pen aside. 
And wish you health, and love, and 
mirth. 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
As fits the holy Christmas birth. 

Be this, good friends, our carol still- 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. 

To men of gentle will. 

— William Makepeace Thackeray. 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT OF '62. 



(In the Army of Northern Virginia.) 



The wintry blast goes wailing by. 
The snow is falling overhead; 
I hear the lonely sentry's tread. 

And distant watch-fires light the sky. 

Dim forms go flitting through the 
gloom ; 
The soldiers cluster 'round the blazr. 
To talk of other Christmas days, 

And softly speak of home and home. 

My sabre swinging overhead 
Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow. 
While fiercely drives the blinding 
snow. 

And memory leads me to the dead. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



417 



My thoughts go wandering to and fro, 

Vibrating 'twixt the Now and Then; 

I see the low-brow'd home agen, 
The old hall wreathed with mistletoe. 
And sweetly from the far-off years 

Comes borne the laughter faint and 
low, 

The voices of the Long Ago ! 
My eyes are wet with tender tears. 

I feel agen the mother-kiss, 
I see agen the glad surprise 
That lightened up the tranquil eyes 

And brimmed them o'er with tears of 
bliss. 

As^ rushing from the old hall-door, 
She fondly clasp'd her wayward boy — 
Her face all radiant with the joy 

She felt to see him home once more. 

My sabre swinging on the boush 
Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow» 
While fiercely drives the blinding 
snow 

Aslant upon my sadden'd brow. 

Those cherished faces all are gone! 
Asleep within the quiet graves 
Where lies the snow in drifting 
waves, — 

And I am sitting here alone. 

There's not a comrade here to-night 
But knows that lov'd ones far away 
On bended knees this night will pray : 

"God bring our darling from the fight" 

But there are none to wish me back, 
For me no yearning prayers arise, 
The lips are mute and closed the 
eyes — 

My home is in the bivouac. 

— IV. Gordon McCdbe, 



December 26* 



THE BATTLE OF TRENTON. 



A victory gained bj the Americans under 
Washington over the British on Dec. 26, 1770. 



On Christmas-day in seventy-six. 
Our ragged troops, with bayonets 
fixed. 



For Trenton marched away. 
The Delaware see! the boats below! 
The light obscured by hail and snow! 
But no signs of dismay. 

Our object was the Hessian band. 
That dared invade fair freedom's land. 

And quarter in that place. 
Great Washington he led us on. 
Whose streaming Hag, in storm or sun, 

Had never known disgrace. 

In silent march we passed the night. 
Each soldier panting for the fight, 

Though quite benumbed with frost 
Greene on the left at six began. 
The right was led by Sullivan, 

Who ne'er a moment lost 

Their pickets stormed, the alarm was 

spread. 
That rebels risen from the dead. 

Were marching into town. 
Some scampered here, some • scampered 

there, 
And some for action did prepare; 
But soon their arms laid down. 

Twelve hundred servile miscreants. 
With all their colors, guns and tents. 

Were trophies of the day. 
The frolic o'er, the bright canteen. 
In centre, front, and rear was seen 

Driving fatigue away. 

Now, brothers of the patriot bands, 
Let's sing deliverance from the hands 

Of arbitrary sway. 
And as our life is but a span. 
Let's touch the tankard while we can. 

In memory of that day. 

— Anon, 



December 21. 



CHARLES LAMB. 



Died December 27. 1884. 



Though our great love a little wrong his 

fame. 
And seeing him with such familiar eyes 
We say how kind" more often than 

"how wise," 



4i8 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



Such is the simple reverence he would 

claim; 
He would not have us call him by a 

name 
Higher than that of friend, — ^yet by this 

grave 
We feel the saint not pure, nor hero 

brave, 
And all the martyr's patience put to 

shame. 
Brother, we leave thee by thy sister's 

side; 
Whom such a love bound let not death 

divide ! 

— Pakenham Beatty, 



Z)eceml)er ze. 



THE DEATH OF QUEEN MARY. 



Eldest child of James II. She reisned with 
her husband William of Orange and died on 
Dec. 28, 1094. 



TO THE SISTER OF "ELIA." 



Mary Ann Lamb, sister of Charles and the 
object of his life-long devotion. 



Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet 

awhile ! 
Again shall Elia's smile 
Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache 
no more. 
What is it we deplore? 

He leaves behind him, freed from griefs 
and years, 
Far worthier things than tears. 
The love of friends without a single 
foe: 
Unequalled lot below! 

His gentle soul, his genius, these are 
thine ; 
For these dost thou repine? 
He may have left the lowly walks of 
men; 
Left them he has; what then? 

Are not his footsteps followed by the 
eyes 
Of all the good and wise? 
Tho* the warm day is over, yet they 
seek 
Upon the lofty peak 

Of his pure mind the roseate light that 
glows 
O'er death's perennial snows. 
Behold him! from the region of the 
blest 
He speaks: he bids thee rest. 

— Walter Savage Landor, 



In mourning, in mourning the kingdom 
appears, 

And the eyes of true subjects are flow- 
ing with tears. 

For our grief and our sorrow, alas it is 
great. 

Since our gracious Queen Mary depart- 
ed of late; 

By the hand of cold Death she was 
snatched from the throne. 

Having left our most gracious King 
William alone. 

♦ ^(♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦^ 

Her soul is conveyed to the regions of 

joy. 
Where there's nothing her comfort nor 

peace can annoy, 
It is we that are left in sad sorrowful 

tears, 
For the loss of a Queen in the prime of 

her years: 
By the hand of cold Death she was 

snatched from the throne. 
Leaving gracious King William to 

govern alone. 

For gracious King William let's send up 
our prayers, 

That the Lord would support him in all 
his affairs, 

That he still may be able our laws to 
defend. 

He has been to the nation, a fatherly 
friend : 

Therefore Heaven, we hope, will estab- 
lish his throne, 

In the spite of his foes though he gov- 
erns alone. 

—Old Ballad, 



iDtcmbzx 29* 



TO CARMEN SYLVA. 



Under the name of "Carmen Sylva** ti>e 
Queen of Roumania has published tioth prose 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



419 



•nd poetry of great merit She was bom on 
Dec. 29. 1848. 



Oh, that the golden lyre divine 
Whence David smote flame-tones were 



mme! 
Oh, that the silent harp which hung 

Untuned, unstrung, 
Upon the willows by the river. 
Would throb beneath my touch and 

quiver 
With the old song-enchanted spell 
Of Israel! 

Oh, that the large prophetic Voice 
Would make my reed-piped throat its 

choice ! 
All ears should prick, all hearts should 

spring, 
To hear me sing 
The burden of the isles, the word 
Assyria knew, Damascus heard. 
When, like the wind, while cedars 

shake, 
Isaiah spake. 

For I would frame a song to-day 
Winged like a bird to cleave its way 
O'er land and sea that spread between. 

To where a Queen 
Sits with a triple coronet. 
Genius and Sorrow both have set 
Their diadems above the gold — 

A Queen three- fold! 

To her the forest lent its lyre. 

Hers are the sylvan dews, the fire 

Of Orient suns, the mist-wreathed 

gleams 
Of mountain streams. 
She, the imperial Rhine's own child. 
Takes to her heart the wood-nymph 

wild. 
The gypsy Pelech, and the wide. 
White Danube's tide. 

She who beside an infant's bier 
Long since resigned all hope to hear 
The sacred name of "Mother" bless 

Her childlessness. 
Now from a people's sole acclaim 
Receives the heart-vibrating name, 
And "Mother, Mother, Mother !" fills 

The echoing hills. 

Yet who is he who pines apart. 
Estranged from that maternal heart. 



Ungraced, unfriended, and forlorn. 

The butt of scorn? 
An alien in his land of birth. 
An outcast from his brethren's earth, 
Albeit with theirs his blood mixed well 

When Plevna fell? 

When all Roumania's chains were riven. 
When unto all his sons was given 
The hero's glorious reward, 

Reaped by the sword, — 
Wherefore was this poor thrall, whose 

chains 
Hung heaviest, within whose veins 
The oldest blood of freedom streamed, 

Still unredeemed? 

O Mother, Poet, Queen in one I 
Pity and save — he is thy son. ' 
For poet David's sake, the king 

Of all who sing; 
For thine own people's sake who share 
His law, his truth, his praise, his prayer ; 
For his sake who was sacrificed — 

His brother— Christ ! 

— Emma Lasarus. 



Z)eceml>er 30* 



BLUCHER ON THE RHINE. 



At a consultation of the officers of the 
Prussian arm^ held Dec. 80, 1818, Blucher 
announced his determination to cross the 
Rhine into France. 



'Twas on the Rhine the armies lay; 
To France or not? Is't yea or nay? 
They pondered long and pondered welL 
At length old Bliicher broke the spell : 
"Bring here," he said, "the map to me! 
The road to France is straight and free; 
Where is the foe?" "The foe! why, 

here !" 
"We'll beat him! Forward! Never 
And where lies Paris?" "Paris? Here I" 
"We'll take it ! Forward ! Never fear I 
So throw the bridge across the Rhine. 
Methinks the Frenchman's sparkling 

wine 
Will taste the best where grows the 

vme ! 

^August Kopisch. 



420 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



ON HIS MARRIAGE TO MARY 

GODWIN. 



December 80, 1816. 



Upon my heart thy accents sweet 
Of peace and pity fell like dew 

On flowers half dead; thy lips did meet 
Mine tremblingly: thy dark eyes 
threw 

Their soft persuasion on my brain, 

Charming away the dream of pain. 

We are not happy, sweet ! our state 
Is strange, and full of doubt and fear ; 

More need of words that ills abate ; — 
Reserve or censure come not near 

Our sacred friendship, lest there be 

No solace left for ttiee and me. 

Gentle and good and mild thou art: 
Nor can I live if thou appear 

Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart 
Away from me, or stoop to wear 

The mask of scorn, although it be 

To hide the love thou feel'st for me. 

— Percy B, Shelley. 



WICLIFFE. 



Wicliffe was a celebrated English religious 
reformer, called "The Morning Star of the 
Reformation." He died on Dec 81, 1884. 



Once more the Church is seized with 
sudden fear. 

And at her call is Wicliffe disinhumed: 

Yea, his dry bones to ashes are con- 
sumed 

And flung into the brook that travels 
near; 

Forthwith, that ancient Voice which 
Streams can hear 

Thus speaks (that Voice which walks 
upon the wind, 

Though seldom heard by busy human 
kind) — 

"As thou these ashes, little Brook! wilt 
bear 

"Into the Avon, Avon to the tide 

"Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas. 
Into main Ocean they, this deed ac- 
curst 



€i 



"An emblem 3rields to friends and ene- 
mies 

"How the bold Teacher's Doctrine, 
sanctified 

"By truth, shall spread, throughout the 
world dispersed." 

—William Wordsworth. 



December 31* 



MONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC 



Richard Montgomery was an AmericaB 
Revoutionary general who was killed on Dee. 
81, 1776, while leading an attack on Quebec. 



Round Quebec's embattled walls 

Moodily the patriots lay; 
Dread disease within its thralls 

Drew them closer day by day; 
Till from suffering man to man. 
Mutinous, a murmur ran. 

Footsore, they had wandered far. 
They had fasted, they had bled; 

They had slept beneath the star 
With no pillow for the head; 

Was it but to freeze to stone 

In this cruel icy zone? 

Yet their leader held his heart. 
Naught discouraged, naught dismayed; 

Quelled with unobtrusive art 
Those that muttered; unafraid 

Waited, watchful, for the hour 

When his golden chance should flower. 

'Twas the death-tide of the year; 

Night had passed its murky noon; 
Through the bitter atmosphere 

Pierced nor ray of star nor moon; 
But upon the bleak earth beat 
Blinding arrows of the sleet. 

While the trumpets of the storm 

Pealed the bastioned heights around, 

Did the dauntless heroes form. 
Did the low, sharp order sound. 

"Be the watchword Liberty!" 

Cried the brave Montgomery. 

Here, where he had won applause. 
When Wolfe faced the Gallic foe. 

For a nobler, grander cause 
Would he strike the fearless blow,— 

Smite at Wrong upon the throne, 

At Injustice giant grown. 



EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR. 



421 



"Men, you will not fear to tread 
Where your general dares to lead! 

On, my valiant boys!" he said. 
And his foot was first to speed; 

Swiftly up the beetling steep. 

Lion-hearted, did he leap. 

Flashed a sudden blinding glare; 

Roared a fearsome battle-peal; 
Rang the gloomy vasts of air; 

Seemed the earth to rock and reel; 
While adown that fiery breath 
Rode the hurtling bolts of death. 

Woe for him, the valorous one. 
Now a silent clod of clay! 

Nevermore for him the sun 
Would make glad the paths of day; 

Yet 'twere better thus to die 

Than to cringe to tyranny! — 

Better thus the life to yield. 
Striking for the right and God, 

Upon Freedom's gory field, 
Than to kiss oppression's rod! 

Honor, then, for all time be 

To the brave Montgomery! 

—Clinton ScoUard, 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 



Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
The flying cloud, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the night — 

Ring out, wild bells, and let nim die. 



Rin^ out the old, ring in the new — 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those thit here we see no more; 
Rin^ out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring m redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful 
rhymes. 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 
The civic slander and the spite; 
Ritif in the love of truth and right. 

Ring m the conmion love of good. 

Rin^ out old shapes of foul disease, 
Rmg out the narrowing lust of gold; 
Rinp: out the thousand wars of old. 

Ring m the thousand years of peace. 

Rine in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Rin^ out the darkness of the land — 

Ring m the Christ that is to txe. 

-^Alfred Tennyson. 



INDEXES. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



A being cleaves the moonlit air, 86S. 

A cheer and salute for the admiral, and here's 

to the capuin bold, 280. 
A cloud possessed the hollow field, 8St. 
A day of clouds and darkness I a day ol wrath 

and woe! 218. 
A flash of light across the night, M. 
A fleet with flags arraved, 841 
A hundred, a thousand to one; eren ••; IM. 
A hundred rears ago this morn, 20. 
A little, rudel:^ sculptured bed, 214. 
A lord of lyric song was bom, 176. 
**A man so various, that he seemed to be, ISf. 
A mein of modest loveliness, 897. 
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power, 287. 
A mist was driving down the British channel, 

808. 
A requiem l^^nd for whom? 804. 
A rose of perfect red, embossed, 268. 
A soul inhuman? No, not human all, 162. 
A sudden conflict rises from the swell, 101. 
A thousand godsent melodies found birtii, 886. 
A voice, from long expecting thousands scat, 

224. 
A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew — 66. 
About a mile outside the city-gate, 271. 
Above the pines the moon was slowly driftiag, 

104. 
Absent or present, still to thee, 406. 
Across the brown and wintry mom, 888. 
Advance our waving colours on the walls; 168. 
Ah, Bent 266. 
Ahl not because our soldier died before hk 

field was won; 222. 
All summer long the people knelt. 818. 
All pomps and gorgeous rites, all visions old, 

111. 
Alone thv spirit went, thy thoughts alone, 888. 
Along this fane, green-walled and starred with 

flowers, 880. 
Although a curtain of the salt sea-mist, 187. 
An American Frigate: — a frisate of fame, 810. 
An Angel came and cried to him by nig^t, 811. 
An eye with the piercing eagle's fire, 278. 
And thou, too, gone! one more bright soul 

away, 284. 
As here within I watch the fervid coals, 407. 
As o'er the laughter-moving page, 186. 
As the wind at play with a spark, 70. 
As when a man along piano keys, 221. 
Asleep at last! For four score years, 880. 
Art reigned incarnate in thy lofty soul, 809. 
As, flake by flake, the beetling avalanches, 60. 
Astronomers and star-gazers this year, 86. 
At Eutaw Springs the valiant died: 800. 
At Flores *n the Azores Sir Richard Grenville 

lay, 204. 
At Mantua in chains, 67. 
At midnight, in his guarded tent, 280. 
At Quatre jBras, when the fight ran high, 208. 



Attend, all ye who list to hear. 860. 
Avenge, O Cord, thy slaughterea saints, whose 

bones, 124. 
Avid of life and love, insatiate vagabond, 0. 
Awake, awake, O mcious heart, 48. 
Awake, arise, you dead men all---dead women 

waken you, 860. 
Ay^— down to me dost with them, slaves as they 

are— 08. 
Ay, let it reatl And give vs peace, 866. 

Back to the flower-town, aide by side, 811. 
Banner of En^^land, not for a season, O banner 

of Britain, hast thou, 876. 
Beautiful face of a child, 84. 
Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 866. 
Behold the man I ye crowned and ermmed train, 

808. 
Behind him lay the gray Azores, 886. 
Beloved, on the shwe of this n-ay world, 280. 
Beneath this stone two David Hallidays, 67. 
Beside that tent and under guard. 200. 
Beyond the north wind lay the land of old, 

160. 
Bom on the day he died, the eleventh of June, 

106. 
Bom to the purple, lying stark and dead, 188. 
Brief was Uie rdgn of pure poetic truth; 00. 
Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, 

6. 
Bring him not here, where oor sainted feet, 

407. 
Bring me my dead! 887. 
Build up a column to Bolivar! 406. 
Burgoyne is rushinff on in quest of blood, 888. 
Bury Berangerl Well for you, 246. 
Bury the Great Duke, 877. 
But vain the magic lay, the warbling lyre, 260. 
But was it thou,— I think, 64. 
But who can speak, what accents can relate, 

408. 
Bot yesterday he was, and lot to-day, 862. 
By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle around, 820. 
By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore, 

42. 
By the flow of the inland river, 178. 
By tiie rade bridge that arched the flood, 128. 
By the ahrouded gleam of the western skies, 

146. 

Cesar's arms have thrown down all distinc- 
tion; 88. 

Calm as an under-current, strong to draw, 47 

Came the morning of that day, 116. 

Captain or Colond, or Knight in Arms, 888. 

Cheerly with us that great November mom, 
862. 

Christ was bom upon this night, 418. 

Christina, maiden of heroic mein I 806. 

Christmas is here; 414. 



/ 



436 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Qose his eyes; his work b done I 297. 

Come let us rejoice, 8S2. 

Come, listen all unto my song; 257. 

Come listen to the Story of brave I^throp and 

his Men — 806. 
Come shepherds, weMl follow the hearse, 44. 
Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails, 167. 
Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile! 

418. 
Conffrevel the justest glory of our aget 80. 
Could I pass those lounging sentries, 168. 
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear, 844. 

Dark as the clouds of even, 176. 

Dark Lily without blame, 182. 

Deadl dead! in sooth his marbled brow is cold, 

247. 
Dead is Columba; the world's arch, 198. 
Deadl one of them shot by the sea in the 

east, 48. 
Dead Princess, living Power, if that, which 

lived, 402. 
Dead, with his harness on him: 91. 
Dear Doctor, whose blandly invincible pen, 

291. 
Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces TOwed, 

163. 
Deep on the convent-roof the snows, 80. 
Defiled is mv name full sore, 167. 
Dire rebel though he was, 386. 
Do not lift him from the bracken, 45. 
Dove that found birth within an eagle's nest, 

254. 
Down came the rain with steady pour, 4S. 
Down with rosemary and bayes, 86. 
Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the 

Devon seas: 32. 
Drink, comrades, drink; give loose to mirth! 

293. 

Eagle of Austerlitzl where were thy wings, 

188. 
Early in foreign fields he won renown, 245. 
E'en such is time! which takes in trust, 356. 
Eight volunteers! on an errand of death! 189. 
Ere Murfrcesboro's thunders rent the air — 4. 
Esteemed, admired, beloved, — farewell! 64. 
Eternal spirit of the chainless mind! 172. 

Fair maiden, thou didst wait for me; 46. 

Fair stood the wind for France, 350. 

Fair were our visions! Oh, they were as 

grand, 113. 
Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe 

rings, 198. 
Fallen that mighty form. 27. 
Far in the East by Ganges' tide, 179. 
Farewell, beloved France to thee, 282. 
Farewell, great piinter of mankind, 854. 
Farewell to my Kppie, 279. 
Farewell to pleasant Dilston Hall, 62. 
Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my 

glory, 244. 
Farragfut, Farragut, 264. 
Fast and furious falls the snow; 41. 
Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree, 864. 
Fee, faw, fumi bubble and squeak 1 7. 
"Fiat!" the flaming word, 95. 
Fie on ambition! fie on myself. 241. 
Fierce raged the combat — the toeman pressed 

nigh, 9(3. 
First in the list behold the caustic Dean, 348. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 

273. 
Fold thy hands, thy work is over: 190. 



For months and years, witii penury and 

101. 
For thrice ten years the paladin's hand and 

brain, 896. 
Friends! 880. 
Friends, Romans, cotintrymen, lend me your 

ears; 88. 
Prom dawn to dark they stood, 898. 
From dusk till dawn the livelons nifl^t. 800. 
From him did forty million serfs, endowed, 

80. 
Pull on his forehead fell the expiring lifl^t, 81. 
Purl that Banner, for 'tis weary, 118. 

Gather the garlands rare to-da^; 181. 
Gaunt in the midst of the prauie, S81. 
Genius and its rewards are briefly told; 40. 
Gentle and generous, brave-hearted, kind, 809. 
Gentle folks, in my time, I've made many a 

rhyme, 186. 
Give honor and love for evermore, 108. 
Give honor unto Luke Evangelist; 844. 
Ghosts of dead soldiers in the battle slain, 98. 
Glory and honor and fame and everlasting 

laudation, 60. 
God of oiu- Fathers, known of old — 814. 
God save the King! Not from those things, 81. 
God works through man, not hills or snows 1 

101. 
Gone at last, 866. 

Great, good, and just! could I but rate, SS. 
Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and waU their 

loss, 149. 
Great men grow greater by the lapse of time: 

162. 
Green be the turf above thee, 816. 

Hal Bully for me, again, when my turn for 

picket is over; 146. 
Hail, happy Genius of this ancient pile! 24. 
Hail, happy saint, on thine immortal throne, 

324. 
Hail to Hobson! hail to Hobson, hail to all 

the valiant set! 189. 
Hail to the Crar Alexander! 67. 
Half a league, half a league, 353. 
Happy are they and charmed in life, 818. 
Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 

363. 
Hark, hark! down the century's long reaching 

slope, 345. 
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, 118. 
Harp of Mennon! sweetly strung, 78. 
He IS coming! he is coming! 168. 
He left the upland lawns and serene air, 396. 
He lies low in the levelled sand, 806. 
He sleeps not here; in hope and prayer, 66. 
He took a thousand islands and he didn't lose 

a man — 142. 
He went his way to rest with weary feet, 889. 
Hear through the morning drums and trumpets 

sounding, 12. 
Hearken, ye bards who err by rigid rules, 861. 
Here burns my candle out; av, here it dies, 98. 
Here find the poet's scrip, — his ready pen, 15. 
Here for the world to see men brou{^t their 

fairest. 240. 
Here in the bi:eath of the sea, 883. 
Here, in my rude log cabin, 10. 
Here, in this leafy place, 297. 
Here Johnson lies — a sage by all allowed, 402. 
Here let us stand — windows, and roo^ and 

leads, 257. 
Here lies Fred, 100. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



427 



Here lies the noble warrior that never blunted 

sword; 299. 
Here rests the heart whose throbbing shook 

the earth I 54. 
Here Sidney lies, he whom perverted law, 896. 
His cherished woods are mute. The stream 

glides down, 887. 
His Christ came unto him, and from the pain, 

78. 
His grandeur he derived from Heaven alone; 

298. 
He rests from toil; the portals of the tomb, 

867. 
His verse was carved in ivory forms undying, 

246. 
His work is done, his toil is o'er; 809. 
Ho, ancient bully, beaten to your knees, 858. 
Hoi City of the Kay! 404. 
Hobson went towards death and hell, 189. 
Hooker's across! Hooker's across! 144. 
Horace still charms with graceful negligence. 

886. 
How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy 

sovereign, 115. 
How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled! 

848 
"How I should like a birthday" said the chUd, 

871. 
How long he sat — this Caesar of the stage, 14. 
How must the soldier's tearful heart expand, 

163. 
How shall we honour the young, 99. 
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 

897. 
How yet resolves the governor of the town? 

822. 
Humanity, delighting to behold, 898. 

am the expiation, 286. 
Am! yet what I am who cares, or knows? 
167. 

Iberian! palter no more! Bv thine hands, 
thine alone, they were slain! 180. 
came to a ^eat city. Palaces, 96. 
can see him, pale and slender, 818. 
hear again the tread of war go thundering 

through the land. 106. 
heard a sick man's dying sigh^ 2. 
own I like not Johnson's turgid style, 401. 
read last night of the Grand Review, 171. 
remember, 1 remember, 169. 
paced upon my beat, 143. 
sailed by Tenedos, in sight of Troy, 804. 
saw him last on this terrace proud, 88. 
saw — 'twas in a dream the other night — 849. 
shiver. Spirit fierce and bold, 252. 
sing the birth was bom tonight, 416. 
stood beside the grave of him who blazed, 
862. 

talia, mother of the souls of men^ 78. 
've watched him stroll with Raleigh by the 
wood, 16. 
weep for ADONAIS— he is dead! 69. 
f I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth, 

253. 
n battle-line of sombre gray, 51. 
n him Demosthenes was heard again; 169. 
In his mouth nation's spake; his tongue might 

be, 198. 
n honour to thy memory, blessed shade! 870. 
n mourning, in mourning the Kingdom ap- 
pears, 418. 
n one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 

832. 
n one rich drop of blood, ah, what a sea, 169. 



u 



n Paco town and in Paco tower, 88. 

n seventeen hundred and fifty-nine, 879. 

n spite of outward blemishes, she shone, 896. 

n sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, 371. 

n the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was 

heard, 160. 
n the garden of death, where the singers 

whose names are deathless, 826. 
n the gloomy ocean bed, 36. 
n the lone tent^ waiting for victory, 886. 
n the month of December, when, naked and 

grim, 408. 
n the month of June, when the world is green, 

811. 
n the ranks of the Austrians you found him, 

217. 
n the stagnant pride of an outworn race, 227. 
n the worst inn's room, with mat half-hung, 

124. 
n their dark House of Cloud, 818. 
n thickest fight triumphantly he fell, 107. 
n yonder grave a Druid lies, 290. 
nto the night she steamed away, 190. 
s it not well, my brethren? They whose 

sleep, 50. 
t is a place where poets crowned, 186. 
t is done! 85. 

t is needless I should tell you, 181. 
t is no joy to me to sit, 826. 
t is the day when he was bom, 86. 
'It's the flag of France! the flag of Prance, I 

see! 346. 
t was a Summer evening — 276. 
t was the calm and silent night! 418. 

r, joy in London now! 286. 
fuly the First, of a morning clear, one thou- 
sand six hundred and ninety, 226. 
Just as the earliest flowers be^n to blow, 58. 
ust as the spring came laughing through the 
strife, 88. 
Just for a handful of silver he left us, 104. 

King Philip had vaunted his claims; 270. 

Lashed to his flagship's mast, 192. 

Last of a stalwart time and race gone by, 68. 

Laureate of the Gentle Heart! 19. 

Laurels, bring laurels, sheaves on sheaves, 848. 

Lay him beneath his snows. 64. 

Lead, kindly Light, amid th encircling gloom, 

208. 
Leave me a little while alone, 126. 
Let England, and Ireland, and Scotland re- 
joice, 188. 
Let Protestants freely allow, 116. 
Lie heavy on him, earth! for he, 96. 
Life's fragile bonds united, 800. 
Life may give for love to death, 140. 
Light of our father's eyes, and in our own, 90. 
Lights out! And a prow turned toward the 

South, 89. 
Like as the armed knight, 246. 
Like burnt out torches by a sick man's bed, 

288. 
Lot there he lies, our Patriarch Poet, dead I 

197. 
Loe where he shineth yonder, 66. 
"Long live our king, good Henry of Navarre!" 

162. 
Long the tyrant of our coast, 280. 
Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 276. 
Love gilds thy laurel — ^love was found thy 

blame; 79. 
Lover of children! Fellow heir with those, 

17. 



428 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



"Blake way for liberty!" be cried. 280. 
Man, Blake was fine; ev'ry word that he tpoke, 

27. 
Men of the North and West, 117. 
Michael, awful angel of the world's laat 8es< 

sion. 100. 
Michael, the leader of the hosts of God, 224. 
Miraculous genius, grasping at the whole! 226. 
Mixed with the masque of death's old comedy, 

848. 
Mortals there are who seem, all over, flame, 26. 
Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day, 

110. 
My brother Jack was nine in May, 884. 
My patron saint, St. Valentine, 48. 
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares. 814. 
Nature and Nature's Laws lay hid in Kight: 

01. 

News of battle! — news of battle! 801. 

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 

108. 
Night of the Tomb! He has entered thy portal; 

840. 
No harbor of all harbors 'neath God's sun, 866. 
No more the pleasing jest, the genial flow, 68. 
No paltrv promptings of unslutted hate, 888. 
Nor Bethlehem nor Nazareth, 277. 
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 18. 
Not any of earth's happiness she knew, 00. 
Not as when some great Captain falls, 120. 
Not by the ball or brand, 264. 
Not from his throat there came, 07. 
Not here! the white North has thy bones; and 

thou, 106. 
Not like the tombs where sleep Egyptian 

Kings, 188. 
Not 'mid the lightning of the stormy fight, 160. 
Not 'mid the world's vain objects that enslave, 

202. 
Not on some despot drunk with slaughtering, 

216. 
Not only that thy puissant arm could bind, 800. 
Not the last struggles of the Sun, 02. 
Not with a craven spirit he, 206. 
Not yet I No, no — you would not quote, 872. 
"Now for a brisk and cheerful fight 1" 188. 
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom 

all glories are! 82. 
Now, if to be an April-fool, 101. 
Now is the city great! That deep-voiced bell, 

868. 
Now let the solemn minute gun,^ 164. 
Now there was one who came in later days, 

800. 

O Albuera, glorious field of grief! 164. 

bear him where the rain can fall, 206. 

01 Breathe not his name! let it sleep in the 

shade, 316. 
O broad-breasted Queen among Nations! 868. 
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is 

done; 110. 
O Fame, thy laurels graced a blighted pall! 

130. 
O God, the cleanest offering, 118. 
O granite nature; like a mountain height, 88. 
O Land, of every land the best — 111. 
O large of heart, and grand, and calm, 868. 
O martyr-soul, the infamy they speak, 802. 
O, Mother Earth, thy task is done, 68. 
O my daughter! lead mc forth to the bastion 

on the north. 258. 
O, shameless thief! a nation trusted thee, 801. 
O strong soul, by what shore. 107. 



O! the French are on the say, 410. 

Thou, that sendest out the man, 2S4. 

01 wherefore come ye forth in triumph from 

the North, 108. 
O. whither sail you. Sir John Fkvnklis? 164. 
Qrtr the rough main with flowing sheet* SlOi 
O'er the waste of waters cmising, 109. 
Of Nelson and the North. IDS. 
Of Salisbury, who can report of him, 148L 
Oh, band in the pine-wood, ccssel 88. 
Ohl fairer than vermilion, 887. 
Oh may I join the choir inTisiUe, 409L 
Oh sacred Truth! thy triumph ccssed cwluk, 

886. 
Oh, sa^, can yoo see, by the dawn's csrly 

light, 810. 
Oh solemn harmonies that sound, 866. 
Ohl St. Patrick was a gentlemaii, 86. 
Oh, that the golden lyre divine, 410. 
Ohl weep for Moncontourl Ohl weep for the 

hour, 826. 
Old lion the Hermitage, again, 108. 
On Christmas-day in seventy^six, 417. 
On Linden, when the sun was low, 80S. 
On the bluff of the Little Big-Hom, 810 
On the heights of Killiecranlne. 866. 
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred 

ninety-two, 184. 
On the white head of the old man divine, 6. 
On this fair valleys frusy breast, 278. 
On to the goal the unpatient legions come! 

802. 
On Vorska's glittering waves, 220. 
On what foundation sUnds the warrior's pride. 

300. 
One ballade more before we say goodnight, 80. 
One more great Voice gone silent! Friends or 

foes, 16. 
One young life lost, two happy young lives 

blighted, 17. 
Once in the leafy prime of Spring, 408. 
Once more the Church is seized with sudden 

fear, 420. 
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once 

more; 812. 
One feast, of holy days the crest, 860. 
**Only a woman's hair!" We may not guess, 

46. 
"Only a player dead!" 878. 
Open his books and bid them forth; — 248. 
Our men fought well at Moratt They fought 

like lions, boy, 212. 
Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death, 807. 
Our warrior was conquer'd at last; 116. 
Out of the Latin Quarter, 207. 
Outstretching flameward his upbraided hand. 

01. 
Over his millions Death has lawful power, 245w 
Over the happy mother's bed, 177. 

Pale is the February sky, 68. 

Parading near Saint Peter's flood, 808. 

Paris, from throats of iron, silver, brass, 86. 

"Partly work and partly play, 0. 

Peace, peace, peace, do you sav? 240. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twaa his. 

137. 
Peace to the virgin heart, the crystal brain! 

272. 
Perhaps we do not know how much of God. 

26. 
Prejudged by foes determined not to spare, 16. 
Prince Eugene, our noble leader, 888. 
Prophet, whose straining eyes, 104. 
Pshaw! away with leaf and berry, 6 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



429 



Queen of the lute and layl whose song of yore, 

168. 
Quietly, like a chUd, 266. 

Rare voice, the last from vernal Hellas sent, 

58. 
"Read out the names 1" and Burke sat back, 68. 
Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 250. 
Remember us poor Mayers all I 148. 
Revered, beloved — O you that hold, 172. 
Rhymers and writers of our day, 816. 
Rid of the world's injustice, and his pain, 69. 
Right on our flank the crimson sun went down; 

68. 
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 421. 
Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly; 271. 
Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Roes: 

866. 
Roll forth, my C3ng, II!:e the rushins river, 209. 
Roman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's lofty 

temples robed in fire, 817. 
Round Quebec's embattled walls, 420. 

Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might 

come ; 70. 
Sambre and Maese their waves ma^ join; 299. 
Scarce grown to womanhood, to die a Queen 1 

220. 
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled — 215. 
Sea-kingi^s daughter from over the sea, 77. 
Secure in bis prophetic strength, 879. 
Shade of our greatest, O look down todayl 288. 
Shake off your heavy trance, 60. 
Shall pride a heap ot sculptured marble raise, 

89. 
Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, 

296. 
She has gone to the bottom I the wrath of the 

Tide, 207. 
"She is dead" they say; "she is robed for the 

grave; there are lilies upon her breast; 

249. 
She is far from the land where her young hero 

sleeps, 815. 
Shout for the mighty men, 268. 
Shut fast the door I Let not one vulgar din, 

87. 
Silence and Solitude may hint, 162. 
Silent it stands, the shrine within whose walls, 

220. 
Since thou art dead, Clifton, the world may 

see, 854. 
Sing, bird, on ^een Missouri's plain, 272. 
Sing out, and with rejoicing bring, 414. 
Sir, I desire you to do me right and justice; 

211. 
So fallen 1 so lost! the light withdrawn, 72. 
So fell our statesman — for he stood sublime, 

17. 
Some in the promise of an early prime, 166. 
Some opulent force of genius, soul and race, 

44. 
Son of the Brittannia's isle, 29. 
Souls of the patriot dead, 197. 
Spain's hour has struck. No more her flag, 

130. 
Spare all who yield; alas, that we must pierce 

one English heart for England I 215 
Spruce Macaronis, and pretty to see, 289. 
Sprung from the blood of Israel's scattered 

race, 4. 
St. Anthony at church. 19. 
St Patrick, slave to Milcho of the herds, 1. 
St Stephen's cloistered hall was proud, 887. 
"Stack Armsl" We gladly heard the cry, 112. 



Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! 

204. 
States are not great, 842. 
Statesman, I thank thee! and, if yet dissent, 

15. 
Steadfast as sorrow, fiery sad, and sweet, 81. 
Still and dark along the sea, 287. 
Still onward swept the hurricane of strife, 

400. 
Stop Christian passers*by — stop child of God, 

255. 
Stop, Mortal! Here thv brother lies — 890. 
Straight to his heart the bullet crushed; 127. 
Sturdy saint militant, stout genial soul, 86. 
Sweet heart, that no taint of the throne or the 

stage, 372. 
"Sweet is the holiness of Youth"— so felt, 

285. 
Sweet scented flowers on beauty's grave, 98. 
Swift to the dust descends each honored name, 

68. 
Sunset and evening star, 829. 

Take away that star and garter — 128. 

Take back into thv bosom. Earth, 147. 

Tell ye the story far and wide, 88. 

That Charles himself might chase, 88. 

That high-gifted man, 287. 

Then came a bloody battle in the clouds — 884. 

The actor's dead, and memory alone, 192. 

The angel came by night, 411. 

The banner of freedom high floated unfurled, 

851. 
The bark that held a prince went down, 886. 
The billowy headlands swiftly fly, 90. 
The boy stood on the burning deck, 262. 
The branches creaked on the |;arret roof, 47. 
The breaking waves dashed high, 408. 
The castle clock had tolled midnight, 88.^ 
The captain of the Shannon came sailing up 

tne bay, 187. 
The cold hands call npon abysmal Gloom: 

141. 
The Danube to the Severn gave, 810. 
The door is shut — I think the fine old face, 

8. 
The fan no longer flutters, 827. 
The figure that thou here seest put, 184. 
The first great fight of the war is fought! 142. 
The forest leaves lay scattered cold and dead. 

The fourteenth of July had come, 248. 

The ghostly wind of Weber's northern pines, 

06. 
"Th3 glorious days of September. 298. 
The guardian pines upon the hill, 800. 
The guns are hushea. On every field once 

{lowing, 180. 
The heart of Merrie England sang in thee, 

864. 
The heart leaps with the pride of their story, 

229. 
The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's 

King, 217. 
The lightning rends the goodly tree, 97. 
The Man who fiercest charged in fight, 157. 
The morning of the launch was fair and 

bright, 188. 
Thy marvelous genius, perfect as the sun, 

242. 
The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen, 262. 
The New-World's sweetest singer! Time may 

lay, 64. 
' The play is done— the curtain drops, 416. 



430 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



The presences of woods informed his soul: 

186. 
The Prussian eagle in its eyrie screamed, S89. 
The rays of waning sunlight steal, 81. 
The same majestic pine is lifted high, 887. 
The shroud is yet unspread, 210. 
The single eve, the daughter of the light; 405. 
The Son of him with whom we strove for 

power, 25. 
The soul of Man, evolving more and more, 

18. 
The South-wind brings, 80. 
The stars above will make thee known, 82. 
The stars of Night contain the glittering Day, 

156. 
The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's 

hundred isles, 208. 
The sun has stricken the armor splendid, 291. 
The sun shines on the chamber wadl, 208. 
The tempest over and gone, the calm begun, 

110. 
The time shall come when wrong shall end, 

114. 
The tyrannous and bloody deed is done, 279. 
The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew, 287. 
The wail of Irish winus, 828. 
The wall is high, and yet will I leap down; 

108. 
The white-rose garland at her fret, 224. 
The wild birds strangely call, 892. 
The windows of heaven were open wide, 182. 
The wine-month shone in its golden prime, 

373. 
The wintry blast goes wailing by, 416. 
The word of the X,ord by night, 1. 
The yellow snow-fog curdled thick, 897. 
Thee I would think one of the many wise, 

44. 
There came at night a clarion call from 

Heaven, 52. 
There fell a King. Not King alone in blood, 

202. 
There in stupendous horror grew, 141. 
There is a tomb in Argua; rear'd in air, 248. 
There is an old tradition sacred held in Wex- 
ford town, 369. 
There is naught that is new, saith the 

Preacher; 392. 
There sits he with the wits around his chair, 

271. 
There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 

205. 
There was a sound of revelry by night, 201. 
There's a blare of bugles blowing, 12. 
They are free at last! They can face the sun; 

5. 
They call thee Nightingale, who know thee 

not! 361. 
They fling their flags upon the morn, 231. 
They have met at last — as storm-clouds, 253. 
They knelt around the cross divine — 836. 
They rode from the camp at morn, 28. 
They win who never near the goal, 274. 
They'll talk of him for years to come, 151. 
This happy day two lights are seen — 385. 
This is King Charles his day. Speak it, thou 

Tower, 379. 
This is the loggia Browning loved, 400. 
This is the rugged face. 71. 
This is Vimeiro; yonder stream, which flows, 

283. 
This man loved Lincoln, him did Lincoln love; 

321. 
This was our poet— one who strode, 106. 



This was the man God gave us when the boor, 

67. 
This wot ye all whom it concerns* M9. 
Those spirits God ordained, 826. 
Thou dost not sing of sorrow, berns too wvL 

406. 
Thou grim and haggard wanderer, who doit 

look, 866. 
Thou hast not drooped thy stately head, 41L 
Thou shalt not all die; for, wmle lov^s fire 

shines. 841. 
Thou should^st have had more faith! thy hand 

did shed, 40. 
Thou that on every field of earth and aky, 18. 
Thou thrice denied, yet thrice beloved, 222. 
Thou tiny solace of these prison days, 2<M). 
Thou too, art worthy of all praise, whose pen, 

206. 
Though all things breathe or sound of fifl^t, 40. 
Though our great love a little wronf his fame. 

417. 
Though till now ungraced in story, scant al- 
though thy waters be, 814. 
Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English 

column failed, 168. 
Through the packed horror of the night, 89. 
Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course, 

117. 
Thus days of Minstrels — may they be the 

last!— 276. 
Thus lieth the dead, that whilome lived here, 

835. 
Thus, some tall tree that long has stood. 125, 
Thy breath was firel And fire was on thy 

brow! 278. 
"Thy prayer is granted: thou hast joined the 

Choir. 410. 
Time was, ere thy bright presence bathed the 

"Place" 243. 
Tired with the toils that know no end, 94. 
'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, 

154. 
•Tis the year's midnight, and 'tis the day's. 

408. 
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 24. 
'Tis night, and storms continually roar, 87. 
'Tis true that when the dust of death has 

choked. 170. 
To arms, to arms I my jolly grenadiers! 288. 
To drum-beat and heart-beat. 317. 
To eastward ringing, to westward ringing, o'er 

miles of mapTess sea, 282. 
To God my soul I do bequeath, because it is 

His own, 192. 
To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion's 

note is high; 226. 
To live a hero, then to stand, 276. 
To shore the sea-nymphs buoyed their captive 

dead, 238. 
To-day is theirs — the unforgotten dead — 859. 
Toll for the brave — 292. 
Torches were blazing clear, 236. 
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men! 13S. 
Turn with me from the city's clamorous street. 

255. 
Turn, hell-hound, turn! 894. 
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won, 881. 
'Twas Friday morn: the train drew near. 127. 
'Twas hurry and scurry at Monmouth town. 

221. 
'Twas in the prime of summer time, 265. 
'Twas May upon the Mountains, and on the 

airy wing, 154. 
'Twas night — mirk night — the sleet beat on, 
75. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



43' 



'Tis noonday by the button wood, with slen- 
der-shadowed bud; 129. 
'Twas on board the sloop of war Wasp, boys, 

845. 
'Twas on the Rhine the armies lay; 419. 
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all 

through the house, 412. 
T'wixt clouded heights Spain hurls to doom, 

229. 
Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 

364. 
Two hours, or more, beyond the prime of a 

blithe Aoril day, 108. 
"Two months,^' the questioned healer said, 

76. 

Under this stone doth lie, 370. 

Underneath this sable herse, 321. 

Unmannered March hath many a prank, 101. 

Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, 
336. 

IJpon my heart thy accents sweet. 420. 

titter the song, O my soult the flight and re- 
turn of Mohamet, 192. 

Various his subjects, yet they jointly warm, 

67. 
Voice of the deeps thou artt But not the wild, 

172. 

Warrior of God, man's friend, and tyrant's foe, 

80. 
We are coming. Father Abraham, three hundred 

thousana more, 226. 
Wc are only common people, 858. 
We could not pause, while yet the noontide 

air, 160. 
''We had taken the head of King Capet, 842. 
We know him now; all narrow jealousies, 402. 
We mustered at midnight, in darkness we 

formed, 194. 
We sailed to and fro in Erie's broad lake, 803. 
We sighing said, "Our Pan is dead; 152. 
We watched, as she lingered all the day, 401. 
We were not many — ^we who stood, 821. 
We were ordered to Samoa from the coast of 

Panama, 85. 
Weep not for Scio's children slain; 106. 
Well worthy to be magnified are they, 299. 
What a wonder seems the fear of death, 888. 
What! alive and so bold, O Earth? 150. 
What are the thoughts that are stirring his 

breast? 155. 
What means yon trampling? What that light, 

92. 
What needs my Shakespeare for his honored 

bones — 134. 
What say the Bells of San Bias. 79. 
What shall my gift be to the dead one lying, 

277. 
What songs found voice upon those lips, 874. 
What, what, what, 23. 

When distant thunders rend the skies, 72. 
When first I looked into thy glorious eyes, 

329. 
When Freedom from her mountain height. 200. 
When first, descending from the moorlands, 

880. 
When George the King would punish folk, 118. 



When Goethe's death was told, we said: 92. 
When he who adores thee has left but the 

name, 315. 
When I beneath the cold, red earth am sleep* 

ing, 360. 
When I consider how my light is spent, 897. 
When Irish hills were fair and green, 87. 
When mother-love makes all things bright, 414. 
When on thy bed of pain thou layest low, 878. 
When Richelieu learned that Wallenstein was 

dead, 63. 
When that great Kings return to clay, or Em- 
perors in their pride, 96. 
When the gray Emperor at the Gates of Death, 

74. 
When was their contract better driven by Fate, 

95. 
Where may the wearied eye repose, 408. 
Where shall we seek for a hero, and where 

shall we find a story? 69. 
Where the dews and the rains of heaven have 

their fountain. 384. 
Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground; 

828. 
Which of the angels sang so well in Heaven, 

223. 
While England sees not her old praise dim, 

348. 
While every age is crowned with rhyme, 828. 
While George in sorrow bows his laurelled 

head, 807. 
While Sherman stood beneath the hottest fire, 

234. 
Who comes — with rapture greeted, and car- 
essed, 177. 
Who dares deny, that all first-fruits are due, 

161. 
Who dares to say the dead men were not glad, 

284. 
Who has not heard of the dauntless Varuna, 

135. 
Who is this, with calm demeanor, 242. 
Who, or why, or which, or what, 22. 
Who shall lament to know thy aching head, 

268. 
Wild was the night! 150. 
With death doomed to grapple, 26. 
With shot and shell, like a loosened hell, 226. 
Within the minster's venerable pile. 268. 
Worn with the battle, by Stamfora town, 889. 
Why do ye wonder at my wish? 108. 

Ye Genii of the nation, 189. 

Ye sons of M a s sa ch usetts, all who love that 

honored name, 181. 
Yes, "Let the tent be struck": Victorious 

morning, 838. 
"You all know the Place de la Concorde? 21. 
You have called to me, my brothers, from your 

far-off eastern sea, 175. 
You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, 

121. 
You know that day at Peach Tree Creek, 250. 
You know we French stormed Ratisbon: 134. 
You knew — ^who knew not Astrophel? 820. 
You that on stars do look. 178. 
Young to the end through sympathy with 

vouth, 874. 
Your favorite picture rises up before me, 285. 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Abdieatioii of NapolcoiL (From the 

Otonicle of the Diuni) 

U^. U. riacliTOy 

Abraham Lincoln J. Btnlon 

AhrahBm Lincoln K. H. Stoddard . 

Abraham Lincoln T. Taylor 

Acquittal of the BiihoM.H'. Iferitnwrth i 

Addison ktaabitk J. Bamtt : 

Adieui A. MV7 Sluail...1. C. Swinbumt 

Adium R. H. Stoddard 

After the Lecture on Spion Kop 

/. /. C. Clark* 

Aguiii /. T. Fitldt ■ 

Aland of Swat, The B. Liar 

Alabama, Th a. Bill : 

Albert Sidne; Johnaton. .fC. B. Shfrmod 
Aleiander'i i'eait; Or, The Fooer of 

Muiic J. Drydtn I 

Aleiaoder II D. G. Raisttti 

Alfred W. WoTdmorth i 

All-Sainu' Day /. R. Loviill . 

AU Soula' Day R. U. iValion . 

Alma R. C. Trtwk ; 

Ameriqsn FUg, The J. R. Draki \ 

Andrew Hofer J. Mom 

Anne Clough B. Coti* 

AnnuDciation, The Falhtr Talb 

Anton Setdl /. H. Inrham 

Apocal/pie -., . ^ . , . -R. Rrolf 

Armada, The Lord Macaniaj I 

Arthur Henrr Hallam (From "In 

Memoriam") A. Tmnyton 

Arthur Henry Hallam. (From "In 

Memoriam ) A. Tnnyien ; 

At Chappaqua /. Button ; 

At His Grave A. Amtin : 

At Luther-a Grave, Willenherg 

if. IV. Cildrr 

Al the Pirragut Sutue R. Bridgtt I 

At the Crave of Bumi..»'. Wordimnh I 

At the Crave of WaUiei /, Idilltr i 

At the President's Crave. . . .R. W. Ciliir \ 

Aaiumptioa, The Pathtr Tabb I 

Anaterfiii F. S. JoJt.j ; 

Ave Atque Vale A. C. Swinbumt ■. 

Ballad of Agincourt, The M. Drafto* : 

Ballade To BanvOlc E. (font 

Ballad of Paco Town, The. . . .C. Scollard 

Ballad to Queen Eliiabeth A. Dobton i 

Ballad of Sir John Franklin, A. 

G. H. Boktr 
Ballad of the Conemauah Flood, A 

H. D. Rawntlry 
Ballad of the French Fleet. A 

H. W. LantftUom \ 
Batfle in the Clouds. The.lf. D. fiomllt I 
Battle of Albuera (From "Chnde 
HM'old"} Lard Bfnm 



Battle of Alexandria, The 

/. Menbfemtry Tt 
Battle of Banet (King Henry Vl, 
Part 8, Act V, Scene t). 

W. Skairtftart IIT 

Battle of BenningtoD, The.fT. C. Br>mt ITS 

Battle of Blenheim, The K. Soutk*y 1TB 

Battle of Charleslown Harbor, The 

P. H. Haynt IDS 

Battle of Eylao, The /. MeUUM 41 

Battle of Frednkksburi, The 

K. ComwallU 400 
Battle of Lake Champiato, The 

P. Prtnnm SOS 
Battle of Limerick, The 

W. U. Thaektray ISB 
Battle of Lookout Mountain, The 

JC. Cemwallit 8Bi 

Battle of Hadejovice, ThcT. CamfbM IIB 
Battle of Moncontour, The 

Lcrd Macouiay flflS 

Battle of Mont, The tf. (C. Slory 111 

Battle of Murfee«boTo, The 

K. ComtBoUis t 
Battle of New Orleana, The 

T. D. Bnrliih 10 

Battle of New Orleana, The W. Rict U 

Battle of Pultowa, The R. Soutkty MO 

Battle of SbrewAurv (Henrr IV., 
Part IM, Act v., Secae 4) 

W. Shak*tptan 158 
Battle of St Albans (Henry VL, 
Part IL. Act v., Scene B) 

FC. ShaktipMr* Itf 
Battle of TewksbuiT (Henry VL, 
Part IIL Act v., Scuie 4) 

W. Shakttptm* 149 

Battle of the Baltic T. CamfbM IM 

Barile of Towton (Henry VL. Part 

Sicl, Art II., Scene 6)..H'. Skakaptart M 

KalUe of Trenton, Tbc Amm 41T 

Halllcr-Song oC the Oregon IV. Rin M 

Baby's DebuC. The H. and J. Smith tt* 

Band in the Fines, The J. B. Cookt M 

liannockburn R. Burnt 111 

Bayard Taylor C. L. Btttt It 

Beethoven ft. W. Gildtr 9B 

Beethoven /. H. Ingkam 405 

Before Sedan A. Dobion MT 

Before the Convent of Ynste, lEGfl 

(From the Cerman of Count Platen) IT 

Before Vicksburg G. H. Boktr IS4 

BelU at Midnight, Tbe....r. B. Aldriek (It 

Bella of Sin BUs H. W. Longftllow It 

Benjamin HarriHja C. B. Rtunfl SI 

Bethel A. J. H. Dugmn* 194 

Betsy's Battle Flag U. IrvtHt SOO 

Bishop Pstieraan M. B. Smedliy Sll 

Black Regiment, The C. H. Boktr IK 



INDEX OF TITX^ES. 



Blue and the Gny, Tbe....f. U. AkA 

=.:- ™.^_ o ^ 1. p_ ^_ Qifoed 

•B. CantwaU 
- O'Rtiiiy 



Baton Muucre, The (Prom Cri*- 

pna Atnicki"} J. B. OStUtj 

Bone Water, The OU BaUml I 

Bner-wood Pipe, Th C. D. Skimlj : 

Srotiklya at Santiago, The tC, Kict 1 

BrowDiug at Aaolo R. V. jokmiim i 

Btyani^eadl P. H, Haynt ] 

Burial March of Dundee, The 

grom "L«ri of the Scottish 
™liera"> W. B. Ag^um 1 

Burial of Beianier, The A. Waut I 

Burial of Sir John Moore C. Wtifi 

Burial of the Duke of Weltiniton 
(From Ode on the Death of the 

Dnlie) A. Tm 

Burton A. C. Smna> 

B^Ton C. L. I 






ttitution 

Cardinal Manninc. .i'foiii London P%n... 

Carlvle P. H. Hayni 

Caubianca P. Htmani ■■ 

Ctd) Rhode* R. Kifline 

Cedar Mountain A. Piilji 

Cervantei W. C. Brymtt ' 

Character of the Duke of Man- 
mduih (From "AbMlom and 

Achilophel") J. Dnit* 1 

Chancter of Zimri /. Drydn 

Charge at Sinliaso, The...W. H. Hayni : 
Charge of the I,igbt Brigade, 'Die 

Chad™ H. Spurff 



of Sweden S. JoMmen . 

t-narioiie uronle C. Bickrr 

Oiarlotie^Cordar „ . . .Anen I 



Charlea > 
Charlotte 

Charlotte 

Chartist Song . 



C. L. BtlU 

E Tichebome C. Tirhtbomi 

/. B. ORtilly ■ 



Hrnin. A A. Dammtit • 

Nighi Of ■82..H'. G. UcCabt ■ 

Snna. A ...T. Jnkt < 

Lnrd Byran ! 



Cocur De Lion at the Bi 

Coleridge'a Epiuph on'iiiiiiielf' 

S. T. Coliridf ! 

Colonel Bunub)' A. Lang 

Columbus J. Uaitr I 

Columbus L. H. Sitournty i 

Column of Julr, The C. C. McCmt : 

Comedian's Last Night, The 

B. C. Sitdmm : 

Cnmfnrt of the Trees, The. .R. W. Gitdir i 

(. }. Ryan \ 



n Weatminata' Ahber, 

me S. CpUridgt 1 

Cnnmer W. Wordtmarth 

Cniasing the Bar A. TtMtytom I 



Dante Gabriel HoKtti.. 
DcadCaiinonceT, 1 



Dead Men's BoUdaj L. C. iSamlUm I 

Dead Player, The J. J, Ifnkam ; 

Deul Singer, The 3. B. O'RwUty : 



Hour VI, Fart Ind, ^^Act^ 
EC^^li^' 



Ode XXXVlfT 



a Uai^iiL ' 



../. Addito* U 



Sir Sitfkft B. dt Vm Ml 



■ChUde Harol<_ 

Death of Goethe. _ 

Death of Hampden, The P. Btatty I 

Death of Jack Cade (Henry VI, 
Pan ind. Act IV, Scene 10) 

W. Shaktiptart I 
Death of Julius Cnar, The 

W. Shaktipean 

Destb of King Boniba, The Anon : 

Death of LiTinMiooe, Th* R. Nott : 

Duih of Louu Napoleon (From 

Napoleon") C. P. Craneh 



Death of Lyo 



C. W. Ttamtmry Ml 



..7. McLtltan ISO 



Death of Prince Arthur (King John, 

Act IV, Scene S) If. Shoknpeart 

Death of Queen (^oline. The 

T. N. Talfamrd I 
Death of Queen Mary, The. .Old BaUad i 
Deadi of Robespierre, The 

H. H. BrownM 1 
Death of Savonarola (From "(Uaa 

Guidi Windows").... B. B. BtorvmiKt I 
Death of Schiller. The... W. C. Bryant 1 
Death of Sir Walter BateLgfa 

iu- W. Raltith I 
Death of Stonewall Jackson.. H. Z.. Plaih 1 
Death of the Duke D'Enghein, The 

H. K. Wtiitt 
Death of the Duke o' ~ ' ' ' 



of Wallace. The. 



The . 
- ■ If (he PtiBiesi (Jharlotte 

ilde Harold"). .Li»rf Byron : 
'■— ■^- ■> Soutkry ; 

Irenqnill 

Ueteat ot Uurgoyne, The W. Catt : 

Defeat of Napoleon (From "Cfailde 

Hsrald") Lord Byron ; 

Defeoae of Lucknow. The. .A. Tnnyton : 

Defense of the Alamo, The }. Miller 

Derwentwater's Farewell Old Ballad 



INDEX OF TITLES. 









..«. . 



Dirge For m Soldier G. H. Bvkrr : 

Donne H. CaUridtt 

Dralie'i Dnun H. NmtoU 

Dram of Euffene Ann, The...T. Hood : 

Dtejbit J. H. Ingham I 

DtyitB C. L.SM* '■ 

Dsuil Word! of StoDcmll Jac ' 



EMter EvCD C. C. RaiittH ; 

Butci Morning B. Sptnitr : 

EdfET W. Njre M. F. Ham 

Edmbur^ After Flodden (Fiom 

"I^ym of the Scotdib CtvaOio*"} 

W. B. AyUmn 1 

Edwerd VI If. Wordiwank I 

Eight Voluntetri laming C. Bailtj : 

Elemor of Culile '-- ' 

Eleg; OD the Death of Joh 

An (Prom "Adon.ii").... 

Etecr on William Cobbett.. 

Eliila Kent Kue C. H. Bokrr 

Rmenon C. L. Bmt : 

Emm* I.aianii R, W. Gildtr 

tM at the PliT, The-.K'. M. Tkacktray 
Enflud and America A. Ttnnyion I 



n kat^ 
P. B. Sli 



iktlltj 



! (Tr« 



Epiuph OD Algernon Sidney.. R. Seulhty I 

Epitaph on Prince Fiederidi A*on : 

Epilapb on Sir Iu« Newton....^. Pep* 
Epitaph on Sir Thomu Fairfax 

Gtnrgt yiUitri, Daki of Bllckinthtm I 
Epiuph on the Admirable Dramatic 

Poet. W. Shakespeare. An. ...7. Uillctt : 
Epitaph on the Coonleu of Pem- 



Epiuph on the ^t of Lcicetler 

Sir W. Raltitk : 

Eugene Field M. I'. Ham I 

Eutaw Springs P. Prtiuaa \ 

E« of Mary. The N. Hofptr ■ 

Eve of Quartie Bn« (From "Childe 

Huold'').. Lord Byron 1 

Everett T. W. Param 

EiKutioD of Charles I A. Uarvil 

Execution of Louis XVI (Prom 

"The Chronicle of the !>««■■) 

W, M. Tkaektror 
Execation of Marie Anioioette 

<Froni "The Chronicle of the 

Drum") fC. U. TliacktrOf 1 

Execution of Mcmtroae. The (From 

"Un of the Scoiiiih Cayaliers") 

W. B. Ayhmn 1 
E«ecution of the PrinceM De Lam- 

balle (From "The Chronicle of the 

l>rum") W. M. Thaektrof 1 

Execution of Ugo BaBi...H. B. H. King 1 

Fwlhtui Unto Death. .». N. TUktrimtlon 1 
Fall of Woiiejr (Henry VIII, Act 

III, Scene B) W. ikaktiptart 1 



Farewell to Saltini H. C. Bamwr : 

Field of the Grounded Arms, The 

P. HaUick I 
Field of Wagram, The (From 
"X.'AJglm'') Edmond Roataad 

rrou. of Lenii Parkir I 
Fifteenth of February, The. .C. B. Ruiitll 
Fight at San Jaciato, The. ./. W. Palmtr ] 

Fighting Race, The ;. I. C. Cloth* 

Firat News From ViUafranca 

B. B. Brvmiiitig 1 

Firrt of April. The M. CoUita : 

Pishennen of Wexf Old, The 

/. B. O'RtiUy I 

Fiti James O'Brien A. B. Wetrotu 1 

Fleet at Santiaao. The C. B. Ruiiill i 



For a 



A. C. Snii<tbui 
/. M. IV. Tur 



For the Picture 

Forced Reemit, The.. 

Frederick III....*.'.'.V.'.'.'.'J^dT'Cod/6S(A i 
French Annr in Rui«ia, The 

If. Wordjoorl* I 

From "The Fifht of Faiib" A. Aiiew 1 



George Eliot J. A. NobFt • 

Geotge Washington J. H. Ingham 

" ■- - .B. McGaHrty 1 



God Save the Kingl.. 

"Gone Forward" n. i. rrtaon 

Gordon B. Tnnyion 

Gospel of Peace, The /, /. Rockt . 

Grandmother'a Valentine U. Irving 

Grant at Rest /. /. Urthan 

Crattan A. T. DtVtrt 

GrsTc in Samoa, A 7. Macfarlant 

Grave of Keau, The 0. Wildt 

Ciave of Shelley, The O. WUdt : 

Gunpowder Plot W. WordtwortK 

Gona of Peace D. M. Cnmk 



' E'.™. 



...N. Hopptr 8S» 

....£. Gout tU 

, M. Nmboll STB 

...M. Arnold M 



H™l Riel-'* 
High Tide 



1. /maid 

../. CoolbrUh \ 
..P. S. Sallut 



R, Browning 

'f^. N. TkomHan I 

Hobson and Hia Men R. Lovtman 

Hohenlinden. T. Campbtlt \ 

Holy-Cross Day R. flrowfiiiif 

Haider's Acroaa G. H. Boktr 

Horace A. Popt \ 

How Cyrus Laid the Cable /. G. Saxi I 

How We Became a Nation.H. P. Spoffi^d : 
How We Burned the "Philadelphia." 

B. Eaitmaa 

Hymn R. W. Brntrten '. 

Hnnn on the Nativity of my Sav- 
iour, A B. Ionian • 

I An! Yet What I Am /. Clara : 



43^ 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



In Memoriam — ^J. O A. B. IVairout 927 

In Memoriam — Prince Leopold 

H, HaUanm 97 
In MemOf7 of Barry Cornwall 

A, C Stuinbwmt 126 
In Memory of Lewis Carroll 

From London Punch 17 
In Memory of Walter Savage Landor 

A. C, Swintmnut Sll 
In the Land Where We Were 

Dreaming D. B. Lueat 118 

In the Round Tower at Jhansi 

C. G, RosittH lOS 

Inkerman R, C. Trtnck S69 

Inscription for a Monument at 

Vimeiro R, Southty 288 

International Kpiaode, An C. Duer 86 

I Remember, I Remember T. Hood 169 

Ivry r. B. MaemUay 



Oa •■•••■•••••••■«•••« •/]• Oa onnnoT xvs 

/ackton at New Orleans W, Rice 12 

, ames McCosh R, BridgM 874 

, eiferson Dayis H. L. Peek 888 

, ena P, S. Saltus 889 

, ohn A. Andrews L. C. Moulton 858 

, ohn Brown IronquiU 842 

/ohn George Nicolay R, W. GUder 821 

, ohn Henry Newman B. Gosse 272 

, ohn Mitchell /. B. O'Reilly 91 

, oseph Rodman Drake P, Halleck 816 

. udas The Second P, S, Salhu 78 

Kearsarge, The /. J. Roche 86 

Keats C. L. Betts 68 

Keats B. H. Brodie 58 

Keenan's Charge G. P. Lathrop 145 

Kidnapping of Sims, The /. Pierpont 197 

Killing of Macbeth (Macbeth, Act 

V, Scene 8) W. Shakespeare 894 

Kilmarnock's Lament Old Ballad 279 

King Henry V at Harfleur (Henry 

V7 Act III, Scene 1)..^. Shakespeare 818 

Kinship of the Celt, The. .././. C. Clarke 846 

Kitchen May-Day Song Old Ballad 148 

Kitty Clive C. ChurchUl 895 

Lady Franklin Blieabeth Whittier 196 

Lady Penelope Clifton P. Beaumont 864 

Lament for Sir Philip Sidney. Af. Roy den 880 
Lament of Anne Boleyn on the Eve 

of Her Execution A, Boleyn 167 

Lamentable Ballad of the Bloody 

Brook. The E. B. Hale 806 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in 

New England, The P. Hemans 408 

Last (Zaesar, The T. B. Aldrich 890 

Last of the New Year's Callers, The 

H. C. Bunner 8 

Latimer and Ridley W. Wordsworth 848 

Laud W. Wordsworth 15 

Launching of Corter* Ships, The 

(From ^*The Conquest of Mexico") 

K. Cornwallis 188 

Laus Deo /. G. Whittier 85 

Lay of the Brave Cameron, The 

/. S. Blackie 208 

Lead, Kindly Light. /. H, Newman 208 

Leconte de Lisle H. Gosse 246 

Leonidas G. Croly 268 

Lillian Adelaide Neilson C. Scott 277 

Little Church Round the Comer, The 

A. B. Lancaster 407 

Little Dead Prince, A D. M. Craik 177 

Lines P, B. Shelley 150 



Lmcs on a Late Hospicioiis Bwent 

W. M. Thackeray Itt 
Lines on the Death of Gen. Joseph 

Reed P. rrtufom 68 

Lines on the Death of Sheridan. 7". Moort SIT 
Lines on the Prince of Wales 

H. Frederick 88 

Lines Upon Himself R, Merrick ttt 

Logan at Peach Tree Creek. .H. Gariand 260 

Lohengrin. A» S. IVatrons 291 

Longfellow C. L. Betts 64 

Lord Chatham W, Cawper Ifit 

Loss of the Birkenhead, Tha.F. H. D^^ €8 
Loss of the Emigrants, The 

/. B. (TReiUy 101 

Loss of the Enrydice, The B. Gosse M 

Lost Leader. The R. Bramming 104 

Lonis Napoleon Oscar Wiide 188 

Louisa May Aloott L. C. Uomltan TO 

M. Camofs Death /. 7. Ingkam 818 

Madame Roland Jinan 807 

Madcap April T. Jenks 101 

Mahogany Tree, The...fF. M. Thackeray 414 

Mahomet S. T. Coleridge 182 

Man of Ross, The A. Pohe 800 

Manila Bay H. B. W„ Jr. 148 

Msnsssss C. if. War^ld 268 

Man's Name. A R, Reaif 88 

Marathon (Frrai "Childe Harold") 

Lord Byron 828 

Marco Bozzaris Pits-Green Halleck 280 

Mario P. S, Saltus 899 

Martyrdom of St Lucy, The Neaie 401 

Martyrdom of the Archbishop of 

Paris. The /. Af. Neate 218 

Mary Queen of Scots. .. .If^. Wordsworth 168 

Maryland Battalion. The../. W. Palmer 289 

Massacre at Scio, The W. C. Brvant 105 

Maximilian /. G. Saxe 206 

Memorial Day Cy. Warman 181 

Men Behind the Guns, The. ./. /. Rooney 280 

Men of Monomoy, The /. Cone 88 

Men of the Merrimac, The...C. Scollard 189 
Men of the North and West 

R. H, Stoddard 117 

Mercedes T. W, Parsons 220 

Michael Angelo Buonarotti..C. P. Cranch 71 

Michael the Archangel D. Af. Craik 824 

Miles Keoghs' Horse /. Hay 219 

Millais's *%uguenots" From the 

London Spectator 285 

Milton B. Myers 896 

Milton C. L. Betts 396 

Milton's Sonnets /. Milton 397 

Minute Men of Northboro, The..^. Rice 129 

Mirabeau Dying W. R. Wallace 103 

Miss Nightingale A. Smith 168 

Mollie Pitcher K. B, Sherwood 221 

Montefiore A. Bierce 849 

Monterey C. P. Hoffman 321 

Montgomerv at Quebec C. Scollard 420 

Mother ana Poet B. B. Brotvning 48 

Mozart's Requiem P. Hemans 894 

Mrs. Hemans B. Hallock 163 

Murder of Darnley, The (From 

"Bothwell") W. B. Aytoun 43 

Murder of Riccio, The W. B. Aytoun 75 

Murder of the Princes in the Tower 

(Rich. Ill, Act IV, Scene 8) 

W. Shakespeare 279 

Nameless One, The /. C. Mangan 209 

Napoleon R. W, Gilder 15S 

Napoleon P. S. Saltus 278 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Napoleon'. Farewell Lord Byrnn . 

Napoleon II, Duke of Reichstadt 

F. S. SallHi : 

Jlaieby T. B. Macavlay 

JIaUuD Hale P. U. PincU : 

Nalfaan Hale /. Cant : 

14cll Gwrnn A. C. Sainburni \ 

Mew Yeir-. Eve A. Tniyton 

NiliHn S. LoBiVr ! 

KikolMin-i Nek C. E. RMiitll : 

Noctunl Upon St. Lucie'i Day, A 

i. Donnt ■ 

Ol Breathe Nol Ilia yame....r. Moorr \ 
O CapUiDi My Capuin I . . . IC. Whiimn 
Dblequiea of Stuart..../. R. Thompion 

October D. if. Croifc : 

Oecupation ol Naplei by the Au<- 

Ode on the bealh of Thonuon 

ff. Collini ; 

Ode to France /. R. Lnwill 

Of Henry George R. W. GUdir : 

Off Havana /. H. Inghlm 

Oh May I Join the Choir Invisible 

C. Eliot . 

Old Admiral. The S. C. Slidman : 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. . W. H. Haynt i 
On a Portrait of Servetui..R. IV. Cildtr i 
On Captain Barney'a Victory Over 

the Ship General Monk. ..P. F'tntayi : 
On Dr. /ohMon ...../. ffoJcol ■ 

On Hii Uarriage lo Mary Codwin 

P. B. ShMtJ < 

On Laurence Sterne AnoHvmaMi 

On Lord Uacon'a Birthday B. Joiuon 

On My Tbirty-itevenlli Birthday 

Lord Byron 
On Sir John Vanbragfa—Poet and 

Architect Dr. Eviuu 

On Sir Kenelm Digby Anon : 

On the Birthday of Catherine of 

Bragania Uri. Knigkl I 

On tbe Coronation of Queen Vic; 

On the Death of' Benjamin Franklin 

P. Prtntai, : 

On the Death of Buibage MiddlrtoH 

On the Death of Burni If. Rotcoi J 

On the ueath of Canon fCingsley 

P. Jf. Hay>f 
On the Deslh of Captain Nichotaa 

Biddle P. Prmau 

On the Death of Chstlerton (Prom 
■'MoQody an Challenon") 

S. T. Coliridgr 1 
On the Death of Dealnr. . , . W. Crafli 
On the Dfaih of Dr. Johnson. [V. Cnaper • 
On the Death of General Worth 

C. H'. Cullir I 
On the Death of George the Third 

H. Smith 
On the Death of Jamea HoBg 

W. Wordnecnk ! 
On the Deitb of Lard Hailing* 

J. Dry an 1 
On the Death of M. D'Ouoli end 
Hii Wife, Riargaret Poller 

W. S. Landor 1 
On the Death of Mr. Fox.. Lard Byron I 
On the Dcith of Mr. Perceval T. Moor* 1 
On the Death of Mrs. Brainini 

5. Dpbell ! 
On the Death of Oliver Cromwell 

/. Dfydtn i 



1 the Denih of the Rev. George 

Whitefield P. Wkntlty '. 

I the Death of Richard Brinaley 

Sheridan Lord Byro* : 

On the Death of Southey. .H'. 5. Landor 
On the Death of Wssh{nalon . T. DvdthI 
On the Freeing of the Secfi 

E, D. PrBCtBT 

On the Funeral of tJiarle* the 
First W. L. Bsa/Us 

On the Late M»B>«ere in Pied- 
mont /4hll MillBH 

On the Lord General Fairfax../. AfilleH 
On the Loss of the Royal George 

W. Covptr : 
On the Monument Erected to Mai- 

lini at Genoa A. C. SviinbHrm 

On the Portrait of Shakespeare 

Btn Janjan 
On the Slain at Chiekanuuga 

H. Milvillt : 
On the Taking of Nainur by the 

King of Great Britain M. Prior : 

On the Union B. Jonion 

On Waabington-s Farewell Address 

S. /. Nontywoed 1 
On William Hogarth— In CheawidT 

Churchyard Anon 1 

One Counity— One Sacrifice, R. fC. Gilitr : 

Only a Woman'a Hair J. A. Nobit 

"Our Uft" F. 0. Ticknor 1 

Psmell L. Johnien I 

Parsifal— At Baireutb 7. Browm 1 

PasBsrord Patriota, The../. UaMtomirj i 

Paul Janes' Victory Anon I 

Peace P. Cory : 

Penft Victorjr Old Ballad 1 

Peter Cooper /. UUItr : 

Petrarch's Tomb (From "Childe 

Harold") Lord Byron I 

Philip My King D. Af. (Trail 1 

"-'■ip Van Anevelde Sir H. Taylor I 

lips Brooks /. H. Iitham 

Pbillipa Brooks H. S. SpaHord 

Pilgrim Falhera, The tf. IVordrtvorlh I 

Pio Nono /. IV. How* 

Poet's epitaph, A E. atliolt 1 

Popular Recollection* of Bonaparte 

Puthcr Proul iPrancii Makontyy 1 
Prince Consort, Tbe (From the 
Dedication to tbe Idylls of tbe 

King) A. Ttnnysan f 

Prince Eugene (Trans, of John 

Prisn?er"of Chiilon.'Tbe.'.'.'.tirjfljro" I 

Ptoclamalion. The /. C. WiilHtr 

Protcstant'i Joy. The Old Ballad 1 

Queen Henrietta Haria 0. Wildt I 

Race af the Ortcon, Tbe.../. /. MhImii 

Rachel it. Arnold 

Raglan E. Arnold i 

Rear Guard, Tbe /. P. Brown 1 

Reason Why, The ,4R<ifl 1 

Recessional R. KifiHnt 1 

Reduction of Hirfleur, The (Henry 

V, Act in. Scene S)..^. Shottifirort 1 

Releaaed /. B. CRallj 

Relief of Orleans (Henry VI, 

Part 1st. Act I, Scene fli 

Reopening of the Drory Lane The- 
atre Lord Byron I 

Retreat from IfoMow, The.l*'. Thernbury t 



438 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



Return of Napoleon from St Helena, 

The L. H. Sigourney 404 

Reveille, The B. Harte 118 

Revenge, The A, Tennyson 294 

Rhymed Will of Hunnis, Tht,.,Hunnis 192 

Richard Hakluyt's Men IV, Rice 883 

Richard III P. S, Saitus 826 

Rienzi's Address to the Romans 

M. R. Mitford 880 
Robert Southey (From "English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers*') 

Lord Byron 278 

Robin Burns G. Massey 29 

Robinson of Leyden O. W. Holmes 66 

Rossini /. Todhunter 66 

Royal Victory Over the Dutch, The 

Old Ballad 188 

Rugby Chapel M, Arnold 197 

Sacheverel IV, Wordsworth 191 

Sack of Baltimore, The. ...T. O. Davis 208 

Saint Columba I,, Johnson 198 

Santiago T, A, Janvier 227 

Savannah A, S. Burroughs 411 

Saxon Grit R, Collyer 889 

Scot to Jeanne D'Arc, A A. Lang 182 

Second Review of the Grand Army 

Bret Harte 171 

Shan Van Vocht Anon 410 

"Shannon" and the ••Chesapeake", 

The r. r. Bouve 187 

She Is Far from tlie Land.-.T. Moore 815 

Shellev C. L. Betts 288 

Sheridan R. W. Gilder 266 

Sherman R. IV. Gilder , 60 

Short Hymn Upon the Birth of 

Prince Charles, A H. Wotton 178 

"Shot Through the Heart"../. M. Porter 888 

Sidney Godolphin C, Scollard 28 

Sidney Lanier W. H. Hayne 800 

Siege of Dcrry, Thc....C. F. Alexander 268 
Siege of Havana, The (From Riv- 

in^ton's Gazette, 1779) Anon 832 

Sinking the Mcrrimac /. Cone 190 

Sixty-second Birthday of Swin- 
burne, The C. E. Russell 104 

Sir John Franklin A. Tennyson 196 

Sir Nicholas at Marston Moor 

IV. M. Praed 226 

Sir Sidney Smith T. Dibdin 126 

Sir Thomas Wyatt Sir A. Sentleger 836 

Sir Walter Raleigh to a Caged 

Linnet E. Lee Hamilton 260 

Sir Walter Scott (From "English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers') 

Lord Byron 276 

Sir Walter Scott R. IV. Gilder 816 

Song F. Beaumont 60 

Song of Braddock*s Men, The 

Old Ballad 288 
Song of the Battle of Morgarten 

F. Hemans 873 
Song of the Railroad, The 

R. M. Miltics {Lord Houghton) 823 

Spain's Hour of Doom A. R. Haven 180 

Spain's Last Armada W. Rice 231 

vSpenser C. L. Betts 16 

Sphinx of the Tuileries, The /. Hay 297 

Spirit of the Maine, The T. Jenks 61 

St. Agnes* Kve A. Tennyson 20 

St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes 

Anonymous 19 

St. DistaflF's Day R. Herrick 9 

St. John the Baptist W. Drummond^ 217 

St. Luke the Pamter D. G. Rossetti 844 

St Martin's Day B, Willis 870 



St Patrick Was a Gendeman.H. Bennett 86 

St Paul at MeliU /. H. Nevoman 879 

St Peter's Day 7. Keble 88t 

St Simeon Stylites fi. Nencione 6 

St Valentine's Eve B. McGaffey 46 

"Stack Armsl" /. B. Alston 112 

Stanzas on the Death of Thomas 

Gray Anonymous 840 

Stanzas to the Memory of Thomas 

Hood B. Simtnons 147 

Star Spangled Banner, The...F. S, Key 810 

Stevenson's Birthday #C. Miller 871 

Stonewall Jackson H, Melville 167 

Stonewall Jackson's Way../. W, Palmer 167 

Sudbury Fight, The fV, Rice 181 

Summer Solstice, The B. M. Thomas 811 

Sumter B. C, Stedman llf 

Surprise at Ticonderoga, The 

M, A, P, Stansbury 154 

Swift H. Coleridge 848 

Taking of Sebastopol, The.T. W. Parsons 804 

Tasso C, L. Betts 79 

Tasso (From "ChUde Harold") 

Lord Byron 187 

Tennyson T. H. Huxley 887 

Thackeray's Birthday R» C, Rogers 848 

Thaddeus Stevens P, Cory 871 

Theophile (^autier A, C. Swifibums 848 

Thomas 'A. Kempis R. R, Bowker 865 

Thomas Car 1 y le. .. .From London Punch 87 

Thomas Moore R. H. Stoddard 176 

Thoreau's Flute L. M. Alcott 162 

Thought, A /. H. Ingham 18 

Three Hundred Thousand MoT^.,.Anon 226 
Three Portraits of Prince Charles 

A. Lang 34 

Threnody R. W. Emerson 80 

Threnody, A G. T. Lanigan 23 

Threnody of the Pines W, H, Hayne 800 

Through Baltimore B. Taylor 127 

To Alexander H. Stephens.. P. H. Hayne 68 

To Andrew Jackson G. H. Boker 198 

To Austin Dobson R. W, Gilder 19 

To Bayard Taylor Beyond Us 

P. H. Hayne 407 

To Ben Jonson R. Herrick 266 

To Bryant on His Birthday. (7. H. Boker 361 

To Carmen Sylvia E. Lasarus 418 

To Celia Thaxter A. Field 289 

To Charles Dickens T. Hood 6 

To Charles Dickens /. Forster 40 

To Charles Lamb Lord Houghton 44 

To Christina of Sweden (From the 
Latin and Italian Poems of Mil- 
ton) Trans, by W. Coxvper 896 

To Dr. John Brown A. C. Swnburne 159 

To E. B. B James Thomson 224 

To Edgar A. Poe S. H. Whitman 829 

To Jenny Lind H. Gosse 361 

To John Boyle O'Reilly /. B. Bensell 221 

To Louis Napoleon C. H. Boker 391 

To Louis Kossuth A. C. Swinburne 90 

To King Charles and Queen Mary 
for the Loss of their First-Born, 

An Epigram Consolatory. .. .B. Jonson 161 

To Mr. Congreve E. Toilet 20 

To O. W. Holmes P. H. Hayne 291 

To Phillip Massinger, "A Stranger" 

C. E. Russell 888 

To Robert Browning W. S. Landor 158 

To Robert Louis Stevenson. .H. K. Viele 892 

To Samuel Rogers. Esq Lord Byron 406 

To Spain — A Last Word..B. Af. Thomas ISO 
To the Authoress of "Our Village" 

C. Kingsley 405 



INDEX OF TITLES. 



439 



To the King on His Birthday. .B. Jonson 879 
To the Memory of Channing 

A. C. Lynch 825 
To the Memory of Sydney Dobell 

/. S. Blackie 884 

To the Princess Alice A. Tennyson 408 

To the Queen A, Tennyson 178 

To the Swter of "Elia" W, S. Landor 418 

To the Spirit of Abraham Lincoln 

R. W. Gilder 888 
To Toussaint UOuverture 

W. Wordsworth 188 

To Virgil A. Tennyson 817 

To WUfiam H. Seward /. G. WhUt^ 16 

Tower of Flame» The R, W. Gilder 840 

Trafalgar Day E. Nesbit 848 

Traveller at the wource of the Nile, 

The P. Hemans 871 

Trial of Queen Katharine (Henry 
VIII, Act il. Scene IV) 

W, Shakespeare 811 

Tricoteuse La G. W, Thombury 848 

Twenty-eight and Twenty-nine 

W. M, Praed 8 
Twenty-second of February, The 

W. C. Bryant 58 

Twilight on Sumter R. H, Stoddard 887 

Two Angels, The H, W, Longfellow 854 

Ulric Dahlgren K. B. Sherwood 60 

Under the Pine P. H, Hayne 827 

Under the Shade of the Trees 

M. /. Preston 166 

Uninscribed Monument on One of 
the Battlefields of the Wilderness, 

An H. Melville 158 

"United btates** and 'Macedonian," 

The Old Ballad 861 

Unter Den Linden H. T. Peck 81 

Upon the Death of King Charles I 

Marquis of Montrose 88 

Valentine, A P, D, Sherman 48 

Valentine Verses T. N, Page 48 

Vanquished P. P. Browne 864 

Varuna, The Anon 186 

Verlaine B. Carman 9 

Victor Hugo A. C. Swinburne 169 



Victory of the *'Bonhomme Rich- 

ard**^ Over the "Serapis". .P. Preneam 819 

Vigil, The (From London Punch) 880 

Visit From St Nicholas, A.. C. C. Moore 418 
Voice of the Oregon, The 

H. /. D. Browne 176 

Wanderer. The B. PUld 880 

WaUenstein's Death O. Meredith OS 

Wanted— Saint Patrick. .. .F. /. O'Brien 87 
Warden of the Cinque Ports. The 

H, IV, Longfellow 808 

Warren's Address /. Pterpont 804 

Washington Lord Byron 408 

Wasp's Frolic The (From "Naval 

Songster" 1816) Anon 846 

Webster .,. E. Sargent 849 

Welcome to Alexandra, A.. A. Tennyson 77 
Welcome to the Duke said Duchess 

of Edinburgh, A A. Tennyson 86 

Wellington Lord BeaconsHeld 809 

Wexford Massacre, The U, J. Barry 886 

Wha'U Be King But CharUe? 

Lady Naime 808 

When He Who Adores Thee..r. Moore 816 
When I Beneath the Cold, Red 

Earth Am Sleeping. -v^- Motherwell 800 
When the Assault Was Intended to 

the City /. Milton 888 

When the Great Gray Snips Come 

In G. W. Carryl 888 

WidiflFe W. Wordsworth 420 

Widow of Glencoe, The ^From Lays 

of the Scottish Cavaliers") 

« W, E. Aytoun 46 
Wilnelm I, Emperor of Germany 

H, C. Bunner 74 

William Blake B. Gosse 874 

William E. Gladstone (From Lon- 
don Punch) 100 

William The Third W. Wordsworth 47 

Winter Solstice, The B. Thomas 408 

Wordsworth (From "English Bards 

and Scotch Reviewers") ...Lord Byron 108 

Wordsworth C. L. Betts 186 

Yorktown Centennial Lyric. .P. H. Hayne 846 

Young Queen, Tne B. B. Browning 810 



H 



3 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Addison, Jossph 88 

Alcott, m>uisa M 162 

AumicH, Thomas B 818, 890 

Alkxandcb, Cecil F 258 

Alston, Jossph Blynth 118 

Anonymous: 

" (From London Punch) 18 

" (From London Punch) 17 

19 

" (From London Punch) 86 

" (From London Punch) 87 

•• 67 

iOld Ballad) 62 

" 89 

" 100 

(OW BaUad) 116 

•• 186 






«< 



<« 
<« 

M 
«« 



M 

«» 

• C 



•• iOld Ballad) 148 

*• (From London Punch) 166 

•• 168 

" 179 

" (Old Ballad) 188 

" 196 

•• (From London Punch) 220 

" iOld Ballad) 826 

*• 226 

iOld Ballad) 288 

242 

260 

" . . 272 

(o/jBoi/id);;;.*;!;;!;;;;!; 279 

283 

(From London Spectator),., 286 

iOld Ballad) 803 

807 

819 

(From Rivington's Gasette) , , 882 

(From Naval Songster) 846 

" {Old Ballad) 861 

864 

867 

887 

410 

(From London Public Opinton) 

418 

417 

iOld Ballad) 418 

Arnou>, Edwin 222 

Arnold, Matthew 4, 64, 92, 99, 197 

Askew, Anne 246 

Austin, Alpked 126 

Aytoun, W. E 

43, 45, 75, 123, 168, 256, 287, 801 

Bailey, Lansing C 189 

Ballad, Old 

62, 116, 143. 188, 225. 288, 279, 808, 861 

Bauy, M. J 886 

Beaconspield, Lord 809 



Beatty, Pakenham . . . • 815, 417 

Beaumont. Francis 60, 864 

Becker, Charlotte 99 

Bell, Maurice 207 

Bennett, Henry 86 

Bensell, James Berry 281 

Benton, Joel 44, 887 

Betts, Craven L 15, 16, 

68, 64, 79, 180, 185, 172, 288, 271, 864, 896 

BiERCE, Amrrose 849 

Blackib, John Stuart 208, 284 

BoKER, George H 

68, 144, 164, 176, 193, 284, 297, 361, 891 

BoLEYN, Anne. 167 

BouvE, Thomas Tracy 187 

BowKER, R. R 265 

Bowles, William Lisle 83 

Bridges, Robert 276, 874 

Brodie, Erasmus H 58 

Brown, Irene Fowler 180 

Browns. Francis F 254 

Browne, H. J. D 1^5 

Browne, Irving i'55 

Brownell, Henry Howard 257 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 

48, 186, 170, 210, 217. 240 

Browning. Robert 7, 104, 184, 184 

Bryant, Cullen, Wiixiam 

68, 106, 186, 154, 278 
Buckingham, Duke op. — See George 

Villiers. 

BuNNER, H. C 8, 74, 187, 198 

Burns, Robert 214, 349 

Burroughs. Althea S 411 

Byron, Lord 24, 26, 108, 187, 

164, 172, 201, 206, 287, 244, 248, 278, 

276, 807, 820, 828, 882, 862, 868, 408, 406 

Campbell, Thomas 102, 885, 898 

Carman, Bliss 9, 868 

Carryi^ Guy Wetmore. 288 

Cary, Phoebe Ill, 278 

Case. Rev. W 888 

Churchill, Charles 895 

Clare, John 167 

Clarke. Joseph I. C 87, 52, 846 

Coleridge, Hartley 99, 848 

(^LERiDCB. Samuel Taylor 192, 256, 888 

Collins, Mortimer 101 

Collins, William 890 

CoLLYER, Robert 889 

Cone, Jos 88, 190, 818 

Coolbrith. Ina D 202, 274 

CooLiDGE. Susan 814 

Cooke, John Esten 88 

(Cooper. Thomas 114 

Cornwall, Barry 406 

cornwallis, kinahan 4, 188, 884, 400 

Cowley 88 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



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078 


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iso 


soo 


SOS, 8tO 


Macau lAir, Tkomas Baiihotoh 






US 




100 


iQ9 








IB. 60, Bi. oa, lai, 188, 
M5, aao. sia. ai8, ssi. 


i33, 
BSE, 


140, 

aS8, 878 








2u» 










ei, 80, 01, 111, m. 


£S3. 


B7!, 

Vso, 


S74, Sfll 
.... 808 
818. 343 










































MlLVII.1.1, ilnUAN 


.SB, 

162 


m 




HA1.L01IAN, H... 




.Via 


■SJS 


318 




























.LJIB. 807 


.«.tU.. JOAOUIB flfl 

Miij:.m, KiTiKsiME 

MltNIM, RlCIIAKD MOHCKTOB.— 

Heunlit-n. 
MlLM^. IoB»..^...„M4, 184. 


S«' 

198, 


3,ia, 

Laid 

388, 


871 








AB, 68, IOB. 197, S*T, 
BAvirt. Wjiauk Haxii-M 


.BM 


aoo 


viffi 






BTS, 


, 3e 


334, 408 


MoNTGoiinr, Jakm 




,73. 


;S9 


















.-■ 


.850. 414 


Moons, TnoiiA.....03. 100, 337 

SSSiErwii.-,.^:;::;:;;: 


31S. 


816. 


SIS 


HoTm. NoitA 








MOULTOK. LOMM CHAKnLM 


■TO. 


!34. 


35S 






































::;: =S3 


NitAul, J. M 




SIR, 





INDEX OF AUTHORS. 







848 

ils 

140 

87 

8«9 
9S 

289 

804 
8BS 
tiS 
899 

411 

810 

8M 

88 

ISS 

i«e 
ISO 

185 
810 

lis 

B 

480 

886 
140 

480 

881 
404 




147 




■■:;;;i5! 

*■. 


SulDLET. UekILLA BUTI 


.... 811 








s;s'-B/;.r..f"^.-.v.v.v. 


Shitii, HoracI and Jahu 

SouTiiSY, RoiMT ..280. 8711, 888 


VSS, S95 
















i. ei, 91, lai, ifli, 249 


811. SflS, 


Sted-.h, Ephukd CiMKHCt'.'.'.'iii 


; : is5 










117, 180. 170 


837, 411 


PALMIB, JOHM WIU.I1IWKIII . . . 


■■;?•;!; 








ffiSil't/.r-Si.-.v.-d;; 


™vr 














184. 8S8 








tI™:: s."hw;;:::::::::::::::: 

Taiuii. Ton 






















P«ODr. e^xaa—Francil U<Ab« 
■■Pt>»l.ic OuNloB" ILondan). P 
"Pukch" (LendexJ. Pram 


ao, 26, an, 30, 77. 17a, i9fl, M4, 

SlO, SIT. 3i9. 363. STS, 17T, 408, 

Thacuui. William Maiip«acc-.. 

91, lie, 139, 148. 198,843 

Tkoba.. Ewtb M 110 


»94. 
408, 481 


Saihch. S.. W«.t« 

SSf'^iSSC-.v.-.v. 


!9» 


811. 408 
IflO 


.'.V.V.ai 


Thoukih. Jawe. 

THO.N.USV. r,Bo.oi[ Wai,tb«....B03 


aVs. S97 




aaa, sai 














































Vt«li. HniiAH Kbickbudckto 

ViLLieKE, GUJRCR — DUUI OF BUCKIH 










RosntTi, Chititiha C 


.17, ll* 










RDtSILU Chailm E 


'Bii'sM 
















Saliw, Fbabcw Sawus 

Iflt. lit. 25*. 878. iSG, U9, 


n 

»M. I9t 


Watbous. Andbkw E 1«, 891 


187, ISO 


















. «s. ill 








Wkhman, Walt 

Wnirtin. EuiAimi 

W^lpT O^CA™" . '^■*^^:M,'i8S 




























88, 98, 103, IIB, IIT. US. 
_.»11, »*1. SES. »T9. 81!, 


149. tsa 

ii, 844, 










WorroB, H 

WOUDSWOKH, W1U.IAM.. 

47, 91. 188, 108, 177, 191. 884, 

ise. 198, m, ut, s», sa, uo, 










iSSS.Vi".';™';™::;; 


.M, IM. 


898. tlO 



>.,. ' (- '---2 



1