MacMillan's Reading Books Part 30

"Away, away, my steed and I, Upon the pinions of the wind, All human dwellings left behind; We sped like meteors through the sky, When with its crackling sound the night Is chequer'd with the northern light: Town--village--none were on our track.

But a wild plain of far extent, And bounded by a forest black; And, save the scarce seen battlement On distant heights of some stronghold, Against the Tartars built of old, No trace of man. The year before A Turkish army had march'd o'er; And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, The verdure flies the b.l.o.o.d.y sod: The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, And a low breeze crept moaning by-- I could have answered with a sigh-- But fast we fled, away, away, And I could neither sigh nor pray; And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain Upon the courser's bristling mane; But, snorting still with rage and fear, He flew upon his far career: At times I almost thought, indeed, He must have slacken'd in his speed; But no--my bound and slender frame Was nothing to his angry might, And merely like a spur became; Each motion which I made to free My swoln limbs from their agony Increased his fury and affright: I tried my voice,--'t was faint and low.

But yet he swerved as from a blow; And, starting to each accent, sprang As from a sudden trumpet's clang: Meantime my cords were wet with gore, Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; And in my tongue the thirst became A something fiercer far than flame.

"We near'd the wild wood--'t was so wide, I saw no bounds on either side; 'T was studded with old st.u.r.dy trees, That bent not to the roughest breeze Which howls down from Siberia's waste, And strips the forest in its haste,-- But these were few and far between, Set thick with shrubs more young and green.

Luxuriant with their annual leaves, Ere strown by those autumnal eves That nip the forest's foliage dead, Discolour'd with a lifeless red, Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore Upon the slain when battle's o'er, And some long winter's night hath shed Its frost o'er every tombless head, So cold and stark the raven's beak May peck unpierced each frozen cheek: 'T was a wild waste of underwood, And here and there a chestnut stood, The strong oak, and the hardy pine; But far apart--and well it were, Or else a different lot were mine-- The boughs gave way, and did not tear My limbs; and I found strength to bear My wounds, already scarr'd with cold; My bonds forbade to loose my hold.

We rustled through the leaves like wind, Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; By night I heard them on the track, Their troop came hard upon our back, With their long gallop, which can tire The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire: Where'er we flew they follow'd on, Nor left us with the morning sun.

Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, At day-break winding through the wood, And through the night had heard their feet Their stealing, rustling step repeat.

"The wood was past; 'twas more than noon, But chill the air, although in June; Or it might be my veins ran cold-- Prolong'd endurance tames the bold; And I was then not what I seem, But headlong as a wintry stream, And wore my feelings out before I well could count their causes o'er: And what with fury, fear, and wrath, The tortures which beset my path, Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress.

Thus bound in nature's nakedness; Sprung from a race whose rising blood, When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, And trodden hard upon, is like The rattle-snake's, in act to strike, What marvel if this worn-out trunk Beneath its woes a moment sunk?

The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round.

I seem'd to sink upon the ground; But err'd, for I was fastly bound.

My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore.

And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more: The skies spun like a mighty wheel; I saw the trees like drunkards reel And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, Which saw no farther: he who dies Can die no more than then I died.

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, I felt the blackness come and go.

"My thoughts came back; where was I?

Cold, And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse Life rea.s.sumed its lingering hold, And throb by throb,--till grown a pang Which for a moment would convulse, My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill; My ear with uncouth noises rang, My heart began once more to thrill; My sight return'd, though dim; alas!

And thicken'd, as it were, with gla.s.s.

Methought the dash of waves was nigh; There was a gleam too of the sky, Studded with stars;--it is no dream; The wild horse swims the wilder stream!

The bright broad river's gushing tide Sleeps, winding onward, far and wide, And we are half-way, struggling o'er To yon unknown and silent sh.o.r.e.

The waters broke my hollow trance, And with a temporary strength My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized.

My courser's broad breast proudly braves, And dashes off the ascending waves.

We reach the slippery sh.o.r.e at length, A haven I but little prized, For all behind was dark and drear, And all before was night and fear.

How many hours of night or day In those suspended pangs I lay.

I could not tell; I scarcely knew If this were human breath I drew.

"With glossy skin and dripping mane, And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain Up the repelling bank.

We gain the top: a boundless plain Spreads through the shadow of the night, And onward, onward, onward, seems, Like precipices in our dreams To stretch beyond the sight: And here and there a speck of white, Or scatter'd spot of dusky green.

In ma.s.ses broke into the light.

As rose the moon upon my right: But nought distinctly seen In the dim waste would indicate The omen of a cottage gate; No twinkling taper from afar Stood like a hospitable star: Not even an ignis-fatuus rose To make him merry with my woes: That very cheat had cheer'd me then!

Although detected, welcome still, Reminding me, through every ill, Of the abodes of men.

"Onward we went--but slack and slow; His savage force at length o'erspent, The drooping courser, faint and low, All feebly foaming went.

A sickly infant had had power To guide him forward in that hour; But useless all to me: His new-born tameness nought avail'd-- My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd, Perchance, had they been free.

With feeble effort still I tried To rend the bonds so starkly tied, But still it was in vain; My limbs were only wrung the more, And soon the idle strife gave o'er, Which but prolonged their pain: The dizzy race seem'd almost done, Although no goal was nearly won: Rome streaks announced the coming sun-- How slow, alas! he came!

Methought that mist of dawning gray Would never dapple into day; How heavily it roll'd away-- Before the eastern flame Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, And call'd the radiance from their cars, And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne.

"Up rose the sun; the mists were curl'd Back from the solitary world Which lay around, behind, before.

What booted it to traverse o'er Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, Lay in the wild luxuriant soil; No sign of travel, none of toil; The very air was mute; And not an insect's shrill small horn.

Nor matin bird's new voice was borne From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, Panting as if his heart would burst.

The weary brute still stagger'd on: And still we were--or seem'd--alone.

At length, while reeling on our way.

Methought I heard a courser neigh, From out yon tuft of blackening firs.

Is it the wind those branches stirs?

No, no! from out the forest prance A trampling troop; I see them come!

In one vast squadron they advance!

I strove to cry--my lips were dumb.

The steeds rush on in plunging pride; But where are they the reins to guide A thousand horse, and none to ride!

With flowing tail, and flying mane, Wide nostrils never stretch'd by pain, Mouths bloodless to the bit of rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, A thousand horse, the wild, the free, Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on, As if our faint approach to meet; The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, A moment staggering, feebly fleet, A moment, with a faint low neigh, He answer'd, and then fell; With gasps and glaring eyes he lay, And reeking limbs immoveable, His first and last career is done!

On came the troop--they saw him stoop, They saw me strangely bound along His back with many a b.l.o.o.d.y thong: They stop, they start, they snuff the air, Gallop a moment here and there, Approach, retire, wheel round and round, Then plunging back with sudden bound, Headed by one black mighty steed, Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, Without a single speck or hair Of white upon his s.h.a.ggy hide; They snort, they foam, neigh, swerve aside.

And backward to the forest fly, By instinct, from a human eye.

They left me there to my despair, Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, Believed from that unwonted weight, From whence I could not extricate Nor him nor me--and there we lay, The dying on the dead!

I little deem'd another day Would see my houseless, helpless head.

BYRON.

[Notes: _Mazeppa_ (1645-1709) was at first in the service of the King of Poland, but on account of a charge brought against him suffered the penalty described in the poem. He afterwards joined the Cossacks and became their leader; was in favour for a time with Peter the Great; but finally joined Charles XII., and died soon after the battle of Pultowa (1709), in which Charles was defeated by Peter.

_Ukraine_ ("a frontier"), a district lying on the borders of Poland and Russia.

_Werst_. A Russian measure of distance.]

JOSIAH WEDGWOOD.

We make our first introduction to Wedgwood about the year 1741, as the youngest of a family of thirteen children, and as put to earn his bread, at eleven years of age, in the trade of his father, and in the branch of a thrower. Then comes the well-known small-pox: the settling of the dregs of the disease in the lower part of the leg: and the amputation of the limb, rendering him lame for life. It is not often that we have such palpable occasion to record our obligations to the small-pox. But, in the wonderful ways of Providence, that disease, which came to him as a two-fold scourge, was probably the occasion of his subsequent excellence. It prevented him from growing up to the active vigorous English workman, possessed of all his limbs, and knowing right well the use of them; it put him upon considering whether, as he could not be that, he might not be something else, and something greater. It sent his mind inwards; it drove him to meditate upon the laws and secrets of his art. The result was, that he arrived at a perception and a grasp of them which might, perhaps, have been envied, certainly have been owned, by an Athenian potter. Relentless criticism has long since torn to pieces the old legend of King Numa, receiving in a cavern, from the Nymph Egeria, the laws that were to govern Rome. But no criticism can shake the record of that illness and mutilation of the boy Josiah Wedgwood, which made for him a cavern of his bedroom, and an oracle of his own inquiring, searching, meditative, and fruitful mind.

From those early days of suffering, weary perhaps to him as they went by, but bright surely in the retrospect both to him and us, a mark seems at once to have been set upon his career. But those, who would dwell upon his history, have still to deplore that many of the materials are wanting. It is not creditable to his country or his art, that the Life of Wedgwood should still remain unwritten. Here is a man, who, in the well-chosen words of his epitaph, "converted a rude and inconsiderable manufacture into an elegant art, and an important branch of national commerce." Here is a man, who, beginning as it were from zero, and unaided by the national or royal gifts which were found necessary to uphold the glories of Sevres, of Chelsea, and of Dresden, produced works truer, perhaps, to the inexorable laws of art, than the fine fabrics that proceeded from those establishments, and scarcely less attractive to the public taste. Here is a man, who found his business cooped up within a narrow valley by the want of even tolerable communications, and who, while he devoted his mind to the lifting that business from meanness, ugliness, and weakness, to the highest excellence of material and form, had surplus energy enough to take a leading part in great engineering works like the Grand Trunk Ca.n.a.l from the Mersey to the Trent; which made the raw material of his industry abundant and cheap, which supplied a vent for the manufactured article, and opened for it materially a way to the outer world. Lastly, here is a man who found his country dependent upon others for its supplies of all the finer earthenware; but who, by his single strength, reversed the inclination of the scales, and scattered thickly the productions of his factory over all the breadth of the continent of Europe. In travelling from Paris to St. Petersburg, from Amsterdam to the furthest point of Sweden, from Dunkirk to the southern extremity of France, one is served at every inn from English earthenware. The same article adorns the tables of Spain, Portugal, and Italy; it provides the cargoes of ships to the East Indies, the West Indies, and America.

_Speech by_ MR. GLADSTONE.

THE CRIMEAN WAR.

There is one point upon which I could have wished that the n.o.ble Lord had also touched--I know there were so many subjects that he could not avoid touching that I share the admiration of the House at the completeness with which he seemed to have mastered all his themes; but when the n.o.ble Lord recalled to our recollection the deeds of admirable valour and of heroic conduct which have been achieved upon the heights of Alma, of Balaklava, and of Inkermann, I could have wished that he had also publicly recognized that the deeds of heroism in this campaign had not been merely confined to the field of battle. We ought to remember the precious lives given to the pestilence of Varna and to the inhospitable sh.o.r.es of the Black Sea; these men, in my opinion, were animated by as heroic a spirit as those who have yielded up their lives amid the flash of artillery and the triumphant sound of trumpets. No, Sir, language cannot do justice to the endurance of our troops under the extreme and terrible privations which circ.u.mstances have obliged them to endure. The high spirit of an English gentleman might have sustained him under circ.u.mstances which he could not have antic.i.p.ated to encounter; but the same proud patience has been found among the rank and file. And it is these moral qualities that have contributed as much as others apparently more brilliant to those great victories which we are now acknowledging.