Voices for the Speechless Part 12

For Daher shouted, laughed, and, giving rein, Said, "You will never see your horse again!"

"Take him," said Nebar, "but, for Mercy's sake, Tell no man in what way you choose to take, Lest others, seeing what has happened me, Omit to do some needed charity."

Pierced by these words, the robber's keen remorse Thwarted his plan, and he returned the horse, Shame-faced and sorrowful; then slunk away As if he feared the very light of day!

ANON.

FROM "THE LORD OF BUTRAGO."

Your horse is faint, my King, my lord! your gallant horse is sick,-- His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly!

Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace,--their trampling hoofs are nigh!

My King, my King! you're wounded sore,--the blood runs from your feet; But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat; Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!--I hear their coming cry,-- Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,--I'll save you, though I die!

Stand, n.o.ble steed! this hour of need,--be gentle as a lamb; I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,--thy master dear I am,-- Mount, Juan, mount; whate'er betide, away the bridle fling, Drive on, drive on with utmost speed,--My horse shall save my King!

LOCKART'S _Spanish Ballads._

"BAY BILLY."--(Extracts.)

At last from out the centre fight Spurred up a general's aid.

"That battery must silenced be!"

He cried, as past he sped.

Our colonel simply touched his cap, And then, with measured tread,

To lead the crouching line once more The grand old fellow came.

No wounded man but raised his head And strove to gasp his name, And those who could not speak nor stir, "G.o.d blessed him" just the same.

This time we were not half-way up, When, midst the storm of sh.e.l.l, Our leader, with his sword upraised, Beneath our bayonets fell.

And, as we bore him back, the foe Set up a joyous yell.

Just then before the laggard line The colonel's horse we spied, Bay Billy with his trappings on, His nostrils swelling wide, As though still on his gallant back The master sat astride.

Right royally he took the place That was of old his wont, And with a neigh that seemed to say, Above the battle's brunt, "How can the Twenty-second charge If I am not in front?"

No bugle-call could rouse us all As that brave sight had done.

Down all the battered line we felt A lightning impulse run.

Up! up! the hill we followed Bill, And we captured every gun!

And then the dusk and dew of night Fell softly o'er the plain, As though o'er man's dread work of death The angels wept again, And drew night's curtain gently round A thousand beds of pain.

At last the morning broke. The lark Sang in the merry skies As if to e'en the sleepers there It bade awake, and rise!

Though naught but that last trump of all Could ope their heavy eyes.

And as in faltering tone and slow, The last few names were said, Across the field some missing horse Toiled up with weary tread, It caught the sergeant's eye, and quick Bay Billy's name he read.

Not all the shoulder-straps on earth Could still our mighty cheer; And ever from that famous day, When rang the roll-call clear, Bay Billy's name was read, and then The whole line answered, "Here!"

FRANK H. Ga.s.sAWAY.

We cannot kindle when we will, The fire that in the heart resides; But tasks in hours of insight willed, Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.

M. ARNOLD.

THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES.--(Extracts.)

AN INCIDENT OF THE FLOOD IN Ma.s.sACHUSETTS, MAY 16, 1874.

What was it, that pa.s.sed like an ominous breath-- Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death?

What is it? The valley is peaceful still, And the leaves are afire on top of the hill.

It was not a sound--nor a thing of sense-- But a pain, like the pang of the short suspense That thrills the being of those who see At their feet the gulf of Eternity!

The air of the valley has felt the chill: The workers pause at the door of the mill; The housewife, keen to the shivering air, Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, Instinctive taught by the mother-love, And thinks of the sleeping ones above.

Why start the listeners? Why does the course Of the mill-stream widen? Is it a horse-- Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say-- That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way!

G.o.d! what was that, like a human shriek From the winding valley? Will n.o.body speak?

Will n.o.body answer those women who cry As the awful warnings thunder by?

Whence come they? Listen! And now they hear The sound of galloping horse-hoofs near; They watch the trend of the vale, and see The rider who thunders so menacingly, With waving arms and warning scream To the home-filled banks of the valley stream.

He draws no rein, but he shakes the street With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet; And this the cry he flings to the wind; "To the hills for your lives! The flood is behind!"

But onward still, In front of the roaring flood is heard The galloping horse and the warning word.

Thank G.o.d! the brave man's life is spared!

From Williamsburg town he n.o.bly dared To race with the flood and take the road In front of the terrible swath it mowed.

For miles it thundered and crashed behind, But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind; "They must be warned!" was all he said, As away on his terrible ride he sped.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in pa.s.sing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: That was all! and yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

He heard the crowing of the c.o.c.k, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weatherc.o.c.k Swim in the moonlight as he pa.s.sed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the b.l.o.o.d.y work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown.