Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 41

They died, ay, they died! and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwellings a transient abode Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together in suns.h.i.+ne and rain; And the smile, and the tear, and the song and the dirge Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath From the blossoms of health to the paleness of death; From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud-- Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!

_William Knox._

How He Saved St. Michael's

'Twas long ago--ere ever the signal gun That blazed before Fort Sumter had wakened the North as one; Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their heart's desire.

On roofs and glittering turrets, that night, as the sun went down, The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled crown, And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes, They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's rise High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall; First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor round, And last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound.

The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning light; The children prayed at their bedsides as they were wont each night; The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone, And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on.

But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet; Men stared in each other's faces, thro' mingled fire and smoke, While the frantic bells went clas.h.i.+ng clamorous, stroke on stroke.

By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless mother fled, With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in nameless dread; While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and cap-stone high, And painted their glaring banners against an inky sky.

From the death that raged behind them, and the crush of ruin loud, To the great square of the city, were driven the surging crowd, Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, With its heavenward pointing finger the church of St. Michael's stood.

But e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden wail, A cry of horror blended with the roaring of the gale, On whose scorching wings updriven, a single flaming brand, Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a b.l.o.o.d.y hand, "Will it fade?" the whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lips; Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the s.h.i.+ps.

A baleful gleam, that brighter and ever brighter shone, Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-the-wisp to a steady beacon grown.

"Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand, For the love of the periled city, plucks down yon burning brand!"

So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard, But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word, Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky-- Clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his eye?

Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible, sickening height, Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight?

But see! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his feet and his hands, And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath him, he stands!

Now once, and once only, they cheer him--a single tempestuous breath, And there falls on the mult.i.tude gazing a hush like the stillness of death.

Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire, Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire: He stops! Will he fall? Lo! for answer, a gleam like a meteor's track, And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shattered and black!

Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air; At the church door mayor and council wait with their feet on the stair, And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand-- The unknown savior whose daring could compa.s.s a deed so grand.

But why does a sudden tremor seize on them as they gaze?

And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and amaze?

He stood in the gate of the temple he had periled his life to save, And the face of the unknown hero was the sable face of a slave!

With folded arms he was speaking in tones that were clear, not loud, And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the crowd.

"Ye may keep your gold, I scorn it! but answer me, ye who can, If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a _man?_"

He stepped but a short s.p.a.ce backward, and from all the women and men There were only sobs for answer, and the mayor called for a pen, And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran, And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from its door a man.

_Mary A.P. Stansbury._

Bingen on the Rhine

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen--at Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.

And 'midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant b.r.e.a.s.t.s the last of many scars: But some were young--and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; And one had come from Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty h.o.a.rd, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to s.h.i.+ne, On the cottage-wall at Bingen--calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen--dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another--not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry--too fond for idle scorning-- Oh, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain--my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight s.h.i.+ne On the vine-clad hills of Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along--I heard, or seemed to hear.

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me as we pa.s.sed with friendly talk Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine: But we'll meet no more at Bingen--loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoa.r.s.er,--his grasp was childish weak,-- His eyes put on a dying look,--he sighed and ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-- The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land--was dead!

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with b.l.o.o.d.y corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to s.h.i.+ne As it shone on distant Bingen--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

_Caroline Norton._

College Oil Cans

On a board of bright mosaic wrought in many a quaint design, Gleam a brace of silver goblets wreathed with flowers and filled with wine.

Round the board a group is seated; here and there are threads of white Which their dark locks lately welcomed; but they're only boys tonight.

Some whose words have thrilled the senate, some who win the critic's praise-- All are "chums" to-night, with voices redolent of college days.

"Boys," said one, "do you remember that old joke--about the wine-- How we used to fill our oil cans and repair to 'No. 9'?

But at last the old professor--never long was he outdone-- Opened up our s.h.i.+ning oil cans and demolished all our fun!"

In the laugh that rings so gayly through the richly curtained room, Join they all, save one; Why is it? Does he see the waxen bloom Tremble in its vase of silver? Does he see the ruddy wine s.h.i.+ver in its crystal goblet, or do those grave eyes divine Something sadder yet? He pauses till their mirth has died away, Then in measured tones speaks gravely: "Boys, a story, if I may, I will tell you, though it may not merit worthily your praise, It is bitter fruitage ripened from our pranks of college days,"

Eagerly they claim the story, for they know the LL.D.

With his flexible voice would garnish any tale, whate'er it be.

"Just a year ago to-night, boys, I was in my room alone, At the San Francisco L---- House, when I heard a plaintive moan Sounding from the room adjoining. Hoping to give some relief To the suffering one, I entered; but it thrilled my heart with grief Just to see that wreck of manhood--bloated face, disheveled hair-- Wildly tossing, ever moaning, while his thin hands beat the air.

Broken prayers, vile oaths and curses filled the air as I drew near; Then in faint and piteous accents, these words I could plainly hear: 'Give me one more chance--one only--let me see my little Belle-- Then I'll follow where they lead me, be it to the depths of h.e.l.l!'

When he saw me he grew calmer, started strangely--looked me o'er-- Oh, the glory of expression! I had seen those eyes before!

Yes, I knew him; it was Horace, he who won the college prize; Naught remained of his proud beauty but the splendor of his eyes.

He whom we were all so proud of, lay there in the fading light.

If my years should number fourscore, I shall ne'er forget that sight.

And he knew me--called me 'Albert,' ere a single word I'd said-- We were comrades in the old days; I sat down beside the bed.

"Horace seemed to grow more quiet, but he would not go to sleep; He kept talking of our boyhood while my hand he still would keep In his own so white and wasted, and with burning eyes would gaze On my face, still talking feebly of the dear old college days.

'Ah,' he said, 'life held such promise; but, alas! I am to-day But a poor degraded outcast--hopes, ambition swept away, And it dates back to those oil cans that we filled in greatest glee.

Little did I think in those days what the harvest now would be!'

"For a moment he was silent, then a cry whose anguish yet Wrings my heart, burst from his white lips, though his teeth were tightly set, And with sudden strength he started--sprang from my detaining arm, Shrieking wildly, 'Curse the demons; do they think to do me harm?