Crown Jewels: Or Gems of Literature, Art and Music ; Being Choice Selections ...

And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began | Then up sprang Appius Claudius: “Stop him, alive or to swell, dead!

And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings sweet child, farewell! his head!"

The house that was the happiest within the Roman He looked upon his clients-but none would work his wallswill;

The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's mar- He looked upon his lictors-but they trembled and ble halls, stood still.

Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal And as Virginius through the press his way in silence gloom,

cleft,

Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left;
And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,
And there taken horse to tell the camp what deeds are
done in Rome.
LORD MACAULAY.

GOFFE, THE REGICIDE.

N the course of Philip's war, which involved almost all the Indian tribes in New England, and among others those in the neighborhood of Hadley, the inhabitants thought it proper to observe the 1st of September, 1675, as a day of fasting and prayer. While they were in the church, and employed in their worship, they were surprised by a band of savages. The people instantly betook themselves to their arms,—which, according to the custom of the times, they had carried with them to the church, -and, rushing out of the house, attacked their invaders. The panic under which they began the conflict was, however, so great, and their number was so disproportioned to that of their enemies, that they fought doubtfully at first, and in a short time began evidently to give way. At this moment an ancient man, with hoary locks, of a most venerable and dignified aspect, and in a dress widely differing from that of the inhabitants, appeared suddenly at their head, and with a firm voice and an example of undaunted resolution, reanimated their spirits, led them again to the conflict, and totally routed the savages.

And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife When the battle was ended, the stranger disappeared; on high:

"O dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;

and no person knew whence he had come, or whither he had gone. The relief was so timely, so sudden, so unexpected, and so providential; the appearance and the retreat of him who furnished it were so unac

And e'en as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and countable; his person was so dignified and commine, manding, his resolution so superior, and his interDeal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian ferance so decisive, that the inhabitants, without any line!" uncommon exercise of credulity, readily believed him So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, and went to be an angel sent by Heaven for their preservation his way; Nor was this opinion seriously controverted until it But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body was discovered, several years afterward, that Goffe lay, and Whalley had been lodged in the house of Mr. And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, and then, Russell. Then it was known that their deliverer was with steadfast feet, Goffe, Whalley having become superannuated some Strode right across the market-place unto the Sacred time before the event took place.

street.

TIMOTHY DWight.

JOHNNY BARTHOLOMEW.

'HE journals this morning are full of a tale
Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail;
And people are called on to note and ad-
mire

How a hundred or more, through the smoke-cloud and fire,

Were borne from all peril to limbs and to lives— Mothers saved to their children, and husbands to

wives,

But of him who performed such a notable deed
Quite little the journalist gives us to read.
In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold,
There is nothing except, in few syllables told,
His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew.
Away in Nevada-they don't tell us where,
Nor does it much matter—a railway is there,
Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines,
With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes-
Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread,
Now shooting past cliffs that impend o'er the head,
Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within,
Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din;
And ran every day with its train o'er the road,
An engine that steadily dragged on its load,

And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew.
With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train,
While the sparks fell around and behind him like
rain,

As he came to a spot where a curve to the right Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight,

And peering ahead with a far-seeing ken,

Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then.
Was a train on the track? No! A peril as dire-
The further extreme of the tunnel on fire!
And the volume of smoke as it gathered and rolled,
Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold,

But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew.
Beat faster his heart, though its current stood still,
And his nerves felt a jar but no tremulous thrill;
And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly
closed lashes,

And his lips-not with fear-took the color of ashes.
"If we falter, these people behind us are dead!
So close the doors, fireman-we'll send her ahead!
Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings!
Open the throttle-valve! Give her her wings!"
Shouted he from his post in the engineer's room,
Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom,

This man they call Johnny Bartholomew.
Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath,
On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death,
On, on through that horrible cavern of hell,
Through flames that arose and through timbers that
fell,

Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire That writhed and that hissed in their anguish and

ire,

With a rush and a roar like a wild tempest's blast,
To the free air beyond them in safety they passed!
While the clang of the bell and the steam pipe's shrill
yell,

Told the joy at escape from that underground hell
Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew.
Did the passengers get up a service of plate?
Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate?
Women kiss him? Young children cling fast, to h
knees?

Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze?
And where was he born? Is he handsome? Has he
A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee?

Is he young? Is he old? Is he tall? Is he short?
Well, ladies, the journals tell naught of the sort,
And all that they give us about him to-day,
After telling the tale in a commonplace way,
Is-the man's name is Johnny Bartholomew.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

THE FRENCH ARMY RETREATING FROM MOSCOW.

AGNIFICENCE of ruin! what has time
In all it ever gazed upon of war,

Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime,
Seen, with that battle's vengeance to com-
pare?

How glorious shone the invader's pomp afar! Like pampered lions from the spoil they came; The land before them silence and despair, The land behind them massacre and flame; Blood will have tenfold blood. What are they now? A name.

Homeward by hundred thousands, column-deep, Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like the flood, When mighty torrents from their channels leap, Rushed through the land the haughty multitude, Billow on endless billow; on through wood, O'er rugged hill, down sunless, marshy vale, The death-devoted moved, to clangor rude Of drum and horn, and dissonant clash of mail, Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam pale.

Again they reached thee, Borodino ! still Upon the loaded soil the carnage lay, The human harvest, now stark, stiff, and chill, Friend, foe, stretched thick together, clay to clay; In vain the startled legions burst away; The land was all one naked sepulchre; The shrinking eye still glanced on grim decay, Still did the hoof and wheel their passage tear, Through cloven helms and arms, and corpses mould ering drear.

GEORGE CROLY.

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

The fire bust out as she cleared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,

And quick as a flash she turned, and made
For that willer-bank on the right.

There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out
Over all the infernal roar,

"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last galoot's ashore !"

Thro' the hot, black breath of the burning boat
Jim Bludso's voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And knowed he would keep his word.
And sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smoke-stacks fell,
And Bludso's ghost went up alone

In the smoke of the "Prairie Belle."

He warn't no saint-but at judgment
I'd run my chance with Jim
'Longside of some pious gentlemen

That wouldn't shook hands with him.

"To the man who sets them free,"
Cried the foreman, Harry Lee-

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mins-
"Brings them out and sets them free,
I will give that man," said he,
"Twice that sum, who with a rope
Face to face with death shall cope.
Let him come who dares to hope!"
"Hold your peace!" some one replied,
Standing by the foreman's side;

"There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!" Then they held their breath with awe, Pulling on the rope, and saw

Fainting figures re-appear,

On the black rope swinging clear,

Fastened by some skilful hand from below;

Till a score the level gained,
And but one alone remained-
He the hero and the last,

He whose skilful hand made fast

The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!

Haggard, gasping, down dropped he

At the feet of Harry Lee

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine; "I have come," he gasped, "to claim Both rewards. Señor, my name

Is Ramon!

I'm the drunken engineer

I'm the coward, Señor-" Here

He fell over, by that sign

Dead as stone!

BRET HARTE.

DEATH OF GAUDENTIS.

The following inscription was found in the Catacombs upon the tomb of the Architect of the Coliseum:

Thus thou keepest thy promises, O Vespasian! the rewarding with death of him, the crown of thy glory in Rome. Do rejoice,

O Gaudentis! the cruel tyrant promised much, but Christ gave thee all, who prepared thee such a mansion.

EFORE Vespasian's regal throne

Skilful Gaudentis stood;

"Build me," the haughty monarch cried,
"A theatre for blood.

I know thou'rt skilled in mason's work,
Thine is the power to frame
Rome's Coliseum vast and wide,
An honor to thy name.

"Over seven acres spread thy work,

And by the gods of Rome,
Thou shalt hereafter by my side
Have thy resplendent home.

A citizen of Roman rights,

Silver and golden store,

These shall be thine; let Christian blood

But stain the marble floor."

So rose the Amphitheatre,

Tower and arch and tier;

There dawned a day when martyrs stood Within that ring of fear.

But strong their quenchless trust in God, And strong their human love,

Their eyes of faith, undimmed, were fixed On temples far above.

And thousands gazed, in brutal joy,

To watch those Christians die

But one beside Vespasian leaned,
With a strange light in his eye.

What thoughts welled up within his breast,

As on that group he gazed,

What gleams of holy light from heaven,

Upon his dark soul blazed!

Had he by password gained access

To the dark Catacomb,

And learned the hope of Christ's beloved,
Beyond the rack, the tomb?

The proud Vespasian o'er him bends,
"My priceless architect,
To-day I will announce to all

Thy privilege elect

A free-made citizen of Rome."
Calmly Gaudentis rose,

And folding, o'er his breast, his arms,
Turned to the Saviour's foes;
And in a strength not all his own,
With life and death in view,
The fearless architect exclaimed,
"I am a Christian too."

Only a few brief moments passed,
And brave Gaudentis lay

Within the Amphitheatre,
A lifeless mass of clay.
Vespasian promised him the rights
Of proud Imperial Rome;

But Christ with martyrs crowned him king,
Beneath heaven's cloudless dome.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

OW glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all
glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King
Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, O pleasant land of France!

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 joyous in our joy, For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war.

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre !

Oh, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long ar

ray;

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish

spears!

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our | And then we thought on vengence, and all along our land!

van,

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in "Remember St. Bartholomew !" was passed from man his hand; to man;

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's em- But out spake gentle Henry, then-" No Frenchman is purpled flood,

my foe;

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his Down, down with every foreigner! but let your brethblood; ren go."

war,

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate Oh, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Na varre?

lance!

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest.

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Na

varre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath

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;

History and poetry celebrate no sublimer act of devotion than that of Albert G. Drecker, the watchman of the Passaic River draw-bridge, on the New York and Newark Railroad. The train was due, and he was closing the draw when his little child fell into the deep water. It would have been easy enough to rescue him, if the father could have taken the time, bu. already the thundering train was at hand. It was a cruel agony. His child could be saved only at the cost of other lives committed to his

care. The brave man did his duty, but the child was drowned.

The pass at Thermopyla was not more heroically kept.

RECKER, the draw-bridge keeper opened wide

The dangerous gate to let the vessel
through;

His little son was standing by his side,
Above Passaic river, deep and blue;
While in the distance, like a moan of pain,
Was heard the whistle of the coming train.

At once brave Drecker worked to swing it back—
The gate-like bridge, that seems a gate of death;
Nearer and nearer, on the slender track,

Came the swift engine, puffing its white breath.
Then, with a shriek, the loving father saw
His darling boy fall headlong from the draw.

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and Either at once down in the stream to spring

cloven mail.

And save his son, and let the living freight

« Edellinen Jatka »

-kirjat