There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the fitful mirage is lifted in air,
And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river was fair.
Oh! remembered for aye be that blesséd isle,
All the day of our life until night;
And when evening glows with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing in slumber the while,
May the "Greenwood" of soul be in sight.
44.-HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.
MRS. E. B. BROWNING.
Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if there any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this-
He giveth His beloved, sleep!
What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?—
He giveth His beloved, sleep.
What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to overweep,
And bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake.-
He giveth His beloved, sleep.
"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,
But have no charm to wile away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His beloved, sleep.
O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His belovéd, sleep.
His dews drop mutely on the hill;
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap.
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth His belovéd, sleep.
Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard-
"He giveth His belovéd, sleep."
For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose
Who giveth His belovéd, sleep.
And, friends, dear friends,-when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall;
He giveth His belovéd, sleep!"
45. ROBIN HOOD.
JOHN KEATS.
No! those days are gone avрy,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have Winter's shears,
Frozen North and chilly East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew not rent nor leases.
No! the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the horn so shrill,
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars, to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John or Robin bold.
So it is yet let us sing
Honor to the old bow-string!
Honor to the bugle-horn!
Honor to the woods unshorn!
Honor to the Lincoln green!
Honor to the archer keen!
Honor to light Little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honor to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honor to Maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood clan!
Though their days have hurried by,
Let us two a chorus try.
46.-LAS CASAS DISSUADING FROM BATTLE.
Is then the dreadful measure of your cruelty not yet complete? Battle! Gracious Heaven! against whom? Against a king, in whose mild bosom your atrocious injuries, even yet, have not excited hate! but who, insulted or victorious, still sues for peace. Against a people who never wronged the living being their Creator formed; a people who received you as cherished guests, with eager hospitality and confiding kindness. Generously and freely did they share with you their comforts, their treasures, and their homes: you repaid them by fraud, oppression, and dishonor.
Pizarro, hear me! Hear me, chieftains! And Thou, Allpowerful! whose thunder can shiver into sand the adamantine rock, whose lightnings can pierce the core of the riven and quaking earth,-oh! let Thy power give effect to Thy servant's words, as Thy spirit gives courage to his will! Do not, I implore you, chieftains,—do not, I implore you,-renew the foul barbarities your insatiate avarice has inflicted on this wretched, unoffending race! But hush, my sighs! fall not, ye drops of useless sorrow! heart-breaking anguish, choke not mine utterance! Oh God! Thou hast anointed Thy servant rot to curse, but to bless my countrymen: yet now my blessing on their
force were blasphemy against Thy goodness. No! I curse your purpose, homicides! I curse the bond of blood, by which you are united. May fell division, infamy and rout, defeat your projects and rebuke your hopes! On you, and on your children, be the peril of the innocent blood, which shall be shed this day! I leave you, and for ever! No longer shall these aged eyes be seared by the horrors they have witnessed. In caves, in forests will I hide myself; with tigers and with savage beasts will I commune; and when at length we meet again, before the blessed tribunal of that Deity whose mild doctrines and whose mercies ye have this day renounced, then shall you feel the agony and grief of soul which now tear the bosom of your weak accuser!
47.—THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER.
"I serve the strongest!" So spake Offerus,
A mighty giant of the olden time,
Who, striding forth from out the savage wilds
Of Scythia, gazed down with scorn upon
The puny Southrons. Seven full feet in height,
With brawny shoulders, limbs of rugged strength,
His arms with muscles knotted like tough steel,
In one huge hand he bore a sapling pine,
Which, with a dextrous twist, he had uptorn
From out its native earth in unknown wilds
Where Volga's flood distils from Ural's snows.
He used it half as weapon, half as staff,
Or swung it, careless, with an idle touch,
Or sent it groaning through the air to crush
An iron helmet like a paper cap.
"Who is the strongest?" So asked Offerus;
And each one pointed to the Emperor,
Who, with a single nod, controlled a world,
Who gathered treasures from a hundred lands,
Who held within his grasp a myriad lives.
He seemed the strongest; so great Offerus
Bowed at his throne and followed him to war.
Full well he pleased his master; gruff, but gay,
With frank good-nature beaming on his face,
His massive features lighted with a smile,
Grim, hard, but kindly. Full of merry jest,
But ever ready for the serious work
Of war that was no playing. East and West
His name was feared; at banquet, as at fight,
Others, compared with him, were weakly boys.
One eve the Emperor pitched his tent beside
A mighty forest; one whose ancient pines
Made midnight of the noonday, night itself
Palpable darkness. But within the tent,
Where, canopied with crimson, couched on silk,
The monarch and his giant quaffed their wine,
Rang out coarse laughter, interspersed at times
With merry music, which a harper drew
From out his harp, and joined to it his voice
In bacchanalian song. But, as he sang,
It chanced, 'mid oaths and jests, that he let fall
The Devil's name, at which his half-drunk lord,
Muttering low words, with trembling finger drew
A cross upon his forehead. "How!" said Offerus,
Unto his comrades, "what new jest is this
The Prince is making now?" But he replied,
"Good giant, this I did because of one-
An Evil One-who haunts this darksome wood
With rage and fury." "Ha!" cried Offerus,
"I have a fancy for wild things, you know;
Come, let us hunt this forest.' “Nay,”
In horror cried the Prince, lowering his voice
To a hoarse whisper, "Thou might'st truly fill
Thy larder, but meanwhile destroy thy soul !''
The giant's mighty laugh rang out full loud
And echoed 'mid the pine-trees; bitter scorn
Was in each note. "Ha! say you so, my lord?
Thou fearest, then! Then I at last have found
A stronger master; him I henceforth serve,
No other. Fare thee well!"
The giant strode, swinging his pine-tree staff
And humming cheerily. He sought not far,
For in a desolate spot where, long before,
A thunder-bolt had cleared a little space,
Leaving but blackened stumps to mark the spot
Where once reigned forest kings, an altar stood,
Built of black cinders, plastered on each side
With noisome pitch and brimstone. On it lay
A heap of polished skulls and whitened bone,
Glistening in horrid contrast as the moon
Threw a pale glance upon the weirdsome sight.
The giant knew no fear; he strode along
Close to the altar, then drew slowly in
A mighty breath, and sent it forth again
In one long echoing call, at the same time
Brandishing high his ponderous staff in air,
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