The Universal Reciter Part 46

Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe.

Whence came they? from yon temple where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

The dim funereal tapers throw A holy l.u.s.tre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of light The ma.s.s of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress?

No thrilling fingers seek its clasp?

It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow She murmurs forth her anguish now.

But hark! the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the b.l.o.o.d.y street; Nearer and nearer yet they come With clanking arms and noiseless drum.

Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep; The gate is burst; a ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child; Then with pale cheek and flas.h.i.+ng eye Shouted with fearful energy, "Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead; Nor touch the living boy--I stand Between him and your lawless band.

Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child!"

"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side, And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door.

"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one!

Will land or gold redeem my son?

Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russian thrall!

Take these!" and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there; Her cross of blazing rubies last Down at the Russian's feet she cast.

He stooped to seize the glittering store-- Upspringing from the marble floor, The mother, with a cry of joy, s.n.a.t.c.hed to her leaping heart the boy.

But no! the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp.

Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony.

But the brave child is roused at length, And breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.

Proudly he towers; his flas.h.i.+ng eye, So blue, and yet so bright, Seems kindled from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its light.

His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks; With a full voice of proud command He turned upon the wondering band: "Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can!

This hour has made the boy a man!

I knelt before my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.

I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept! I was a child; but now-- My n.o.ble mother, on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me!"

He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jeweled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight.

"Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave!

Think ye my n.o.ble father's glaive Would drink the life-blood of a slave?

The pearls that on the handle flame Would blush to rubies in their shame; The blade would quiver in thy breast, Ashamed of such ign.o.ble rest.

No! Thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain!"

A moment and the funeral light Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood.

Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang: "Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!

The choice was death or slavery.

Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!

His freedom is forever won; And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss-- One last embrace, one blessing--one!

To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.

What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er my heart congeal?

Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!

What! silent still? Then art thou dead?

----Great G.o.d, I thank Thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee--and thus--to die!"

One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom--dead.

THAT HIRED GIRL.

ANON.

When she came to work for the family on Congress street, the lady of the house sat down and told her that agents, book-peddlers, hat-rack men, picture sellers, ash-buyers, rag-men, and all that cla.s.s of people, must be met at the front door and coldly repulsed, and Sarah said she'd repulse them if she had to break every broomstick in Detroit.

And she did. She threw the door open wide, bluffed right up at 'em, and when she got through talking, the cheekiest agent was only too glad to leave. It got so after awhile that peddlers marked that house, and the door-bell never rang except for company.

The other day, as the girl of the house was wiping off the spoons, the bell rang. She hastened to the door, expecting to see a lady, but her eyes encountered a slim man, dressed in black and wearing a white necktie. He was the new minister, and was going around to get acquainted with the members of his flock, but Sarah wasn't expected to know this.

"Ah--um--is--Mrs.--ah!"

"Git!" exclaimed Sarah, pointing to the gate.

"Beg pardon, but I would like to see--see--"

"Meander!" she shouted, looking around for a weapon; "we don't want any flour-sifters here!"

"You're mistaken," he replied, smiling blandly. "I called to--"

"Don't want anything to keep moths away--fly!" she exclaimed, getting red in the face.

"Is the lady in?" he inquired, trying to look over Sarah's head.

"Yes, the lady is in, and I'm in, and you are out!" she snapped; "and now I don't want to stand here talking to a fly-trap agent any longer!

Come lift your boots!"

"I'm not an agent," he said, trying to smile. "I'm the new--"

"Yes, I know you--you are the new man with the patent flat-iron, but we don't want any, and you'd better go before I call the dog."

"Will you give the lady my card, and say that I called?"

"No, I won't; we are bored to death with cards and handbills and circulars. Come, I can't stand here all day."

"Didn't you know that I was a minister?" he asked as he backed off.

"No, nor I don't know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a dollar chromo for eighteen s.h.i.+llings."

"But here is my card."

"I don't care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!"

"I will call again," he said, as he went through the gate.