The Ontario Readers Part 33

"A miracle!--a miracle!" exclaimed Richard.

"Of Mahound's working, doubtless," said Thomas de Vaux.

"That I should lose my learned Hakim," said Richard, "merely by absence of his cap and robe, and that I should find him again in my royal brother Saladin!"

"Such is oft the fas.h.i.+on of the world," answered the Soldan: "the tattered robe makes not always the dervish."

SCOTT: "The Talisman."

ENGLAND'S DEAD

Son of the Ocean Isle!

Where sleep your mighty dead?

Show me what high and stately pile Is reared o'er Glory's bed.

Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free, the white sail spread!

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

On Egypt's burning plains, By the pyramid o'erswayed, With fearful power the noonday reigns, And the palm trees yield no shade;--

But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!-- There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might Along the Indian sh.o.r.e, And far by Ganges' banks at night, Is heard the tiger's roar;--

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone,-- There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods The Western wilds among, And free, in green Columbia's woods, The hunter's bow is strung;--

But let the floods rush on!

Let the arrow's flight be sped!

Why should they reck whose task is done?-- There slumber England's dead.

The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky Like rose-leaves on the breeze;--

But let the storm rage on!

Let the fresh wreaths be shed!

For the Roncesvalles' field is won,-- There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose 'Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the s.h.i.+p the ice-fields close, And the northern night-clouds lower;--

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread!

Their course with mast and flag is done, Even there sleep England's dead.

The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave!

Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and sh.o.r.es their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep-- Free, free the white sail spread!

Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.

FELICIA HEMANS

HOHENLINDEN

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed Each 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 steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

THE DREAM OF THE OAK TREE

There stood in a wood, high on the bank near the open sea-sh.o.r.e, such a grand old oak tree! It was three hundred and sixty-five years old; but all this length of years had seemed to the tree scarcely more than so many days appear to us men and women, boys and girls.

A tree's life is not quite the same as a man's: we wake during the day, and sleep and dream during the night; but a tree wakes throughout three seasons of the year, and has no sleep till winter comes. The winter is its sleeping time--its night after the long day which we call spring, summer, and autumn.

It was just at the holy Christmas-tide that the oak tree dreamed his most beautiful dream. He seemed to hear the church-bells ringing all around, and to feel as if it were a mild, warm summer day. Fresh and green he reared his mighty crown on high, and the sunbeams played among his leaves. As in a festive procession, all that the tree had beheld in his life now pa.s.sed by.

Knights and ladies, with feathers in their caps and hawks perching on their wrists, rode gaily through the wood; dogs barked, and the huntsman sounded his bugle.

Then came foreign soldiers in bright armour and gay vestments, bearing spurs and halberds, setting up their tents, and presently taking them down again. Then watch-fires blazed up and bands of wild outlaws sang, revelled, and slept under the tree's outstretched boughs; or happy lovers met in quiet moonlight and carved their initials on the grayish bark.