Journeys Through Bookland Volume Vii Part 18

What care I for the men, sailor?

I'm not their mother-- How's my boy--my boy?

Tell me of him and no other!

How's my boy--my boy?"

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

_By_ THOMAS CAMPBELL

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf-scaring f.a.got that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas Autumn--and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

"Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!"-- And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;-- But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

MAKE WAY FOR LIBERTY!

_By_ JAMES MONTGOMERY

NOTE.--In the fourteenth century the Swiss people rose against their Austrian oppressors, and at Sempach they won, on July 9, 1386, a complete victory over an army which greatly exceeded them in numbers. According to tradition, a Swiss hero, Arnold Winkelried, seeing that the Austrian line was well-nigh unbreakable, gathered the spears of several of his enemies in his arms and pressed the points against his breast, thus making a way for his companions. A monument was erected in his honor five centuries after the battle.

"Make way for Liberty!"--he cried; Made way for Liberty, and died!

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood.

A living wall, a human wood!

A wall, where every conscious stone Seemed to its kindred thousands grown; A rampart all a.s.saults to bear, Till time to dust their frames should wear; A wood, like that enchanted grove In which with fiends Rinaldo strove, Where every silent tree possessed A spirit prisoned in its breast, Which the first stroke of coming strife Would startle into hideous life; So dense, so still, the Austrians stood, A living wall, a human wood!

Impregnable their front appears, All horrent with projected spears, Whose polished points before them shine, From flank to flank, one brilliant line, Bright as the breakers' splendors run Along the billows to the sun.

Opposed to these, a hovering band Contended for their native land: Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke From manly necks the ign.o.ble yoke, And forged their fetters into swords, On equal terms to fight their lords, And what insurgent rage had gained In many a mortal fray maintained; Marshaled once more at Freedom's call, They came to conquer or to fall, Where he who conquered, he who fell, Was deemed a dead or living Tell!

Such virtue had that patriot breathed, So to the soil his soul bequeathed, That wheresoe'er his arrows flew Heroes in his own likeness grew, And warriors sprang from every sod Which his awakening footstep trod.

And now the work of life and death Hung on the pa.s.sing of a breath; The fire of conflict burnt within, The battle trembled to begin; Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, Point for attack was nowhere found, Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, The unbroken line of lances blazed; That line 't were suicide to meet, And perish at their tyrants' feet,-- How could they rest within their graves, And leave their homes the homes of slaves?

Would they not feel their children tread With clanging chains above their head?

It must not be: this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power; All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yield,-- She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date.

Few were the number she could boast; But every freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on _one_ indeed; Behold him,--Arnold Winkelried!

There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a n.o.bler name.

Unmarked he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face, And by the motion of his form Antic.i.p.ate the bursting storm, And by the uplifting of his brow Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 't was no sooner thought than done, The field was in a moment won:--

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp.

"Make way for Liberty!" he cried; Their keen points met from side to side; He bowed amongst them like a tree, And thus made way for Liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly; "Make way for Liberty!" they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; While, instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, scattered all; An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free; Thus death made way for Liberty!

THE OLD CONTINENTALS

_By_ GUY HUMPHREYS MCMASTER

In their ragged regimentals Stood the old continentals, Yielding not, When the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon-shot; When the files Of the isles, From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn, And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn!

Then with eyes to the front all, And with guns horizontal, Stood our sires; And the b.a.l.l.s whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly Blazed the fires; As the roar On the sh.o.r.e, Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gun-powder, Cracking amain!

Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red Saint George's Cannoneers; And the "villainous saltpetre"

Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears; As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horseguards' clangor On our flanks.

Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks!

Then the old-fashioned colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud; And his broad sword was swinging And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet loud.

Then the blue Bullets flew, And the trooper jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder, Hurling death!

THE PICKET-GUARD

_By_ MRS. ETHEL LYNN BEERS

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say, "Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'T is nothing: a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle; Not an officer lost--only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard--for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed, Far away in the cot on the mountain.