Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight; And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night. Trumpet and fife swelling choral along,
The triumph already sweeps marching in song. Farewell, fallen brothers; though this life be o'er,
There's another, in which we shall meet you once more!
24. THE GLOVE. - Schiller. Born, 1759; died, 1805.
BEFORE his lion-garden gate, The wild-beast combat to await,
King Francis sate: Around him were his nobles placed, The balcony above was graced
By ladies of the court, in gorgeous state : And as with his finger a sign he made,
The iron grating was open laid,
And with stately step and mien A lion to enter was seen.
With fearful look
His mane he shook,
And yawning wide,
Stared around him on every side;
And stretched his giant limbs of strength, And laid himself down at his fearful length
And the king a second signal made, - And instant was opened wide A second gate, on the other side, From which, with fiery bound, A tiger sprung. Wildly the wild one yelled, When the lion he beheld; And, bristling at the look, With his tail his sides he strook, And rolled his rabid tongue. And, with glittering eye, Crept round the lion slow and shy Then, horribly howling, And grimly growling,
Down by his side himself he laid.
And the king another signal made:
The opened grating vomited then
Two leopards forth from their dreadful den,
They rush on the tiger, with signs of rage,
Eager the deadly fight to wage,
Who, fierce, with paws uplifted stood,
And the lion sprang up with an awful roar, Then were still the fearful four:
And the monsters on the ground Crouched in a circle round, Greedy to taste of blood.
Now, from the balcony above, A snowy hand let fall a glove: Midway between the beasts of prey, Lion and tiger, - there it lay, The winsome lady's glove!
And the Lady Kunigund, in bantering mood, Spoke to Knight Delorges, who by her stood: - "If the flame which but now to me you swore Burns as strong as it did before, Go pick up my glove, Sir Knight." And he, with action quick as sight, In the horrible place did stand; And with dauntless mien, From the beasts between
Took up the glove, with fearless hand; And as ladies and nobles the bold deed saw, Their breath they held, through fear and awe. The glove he brings back, composed and light. His praise was announced by voice and look, And Kunigund rose to receive the knight With a smile that promised the deed to requite; But straight in her face he flung the glove, - " I neither desire your thanks nor love;"
And from that same hour the lady forsook.
25. THE FATE OF VIRGINIA.*
"WHY is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in Rome?" "Claimed as a slave, a free-born maid is dragged here from her home: On fair Virginia, Claudius has cast his eye of blight; The tyrant's creature, Marcus, asserts an owner's right. O, shame on Roman manhood! Was ever plot more clear? But, look! the maiden's father comes! Behold Virginius here!"
Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide. Hard by a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down, - Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.
And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice, he spake, "Farewell, sweet child!
The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls, - The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls, - Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom, And, for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this way! See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey! With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left; He little deems, that, in this hand, I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave; Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow, - Foul outrage, which thou knowest not, - which thou shalt never
Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this!" With that, he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side, And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.
Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath; And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death; And in another moment brake forth from one and all A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall; Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife on high. "O, dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain; And e'en as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!" So spake the slayer of his child; then, where the body lay, Pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went his way.
Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead! Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head!" He looked upon his clients, - but none would work his will; He looked upon his lictors, - but they trembled and stood still. And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left. And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,
And there ta'en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done in Rome.
26. HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. - Adapted from Macaulay. THE Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. "Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?"
Then out spoke brave Horatius, the Captain of the gate: "To every man upon this earth death cometh, soon or late. Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play.
"In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?" Then out spake Spurius Lartius, - a Ramnian proud was he, - "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius, - of Titian blood was he, - "I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee." "Horatius," quoth the Consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be." And straight against that great array, forth went the dauntless Three.
Soon all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless Three. And from the ghastly entrance, where those bold Romans stood, The bravest shrank like boys who rouse an old bear in the wood.
But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied, And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cried the Fathers all: "Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!"
Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back; And, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, and on the further shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed once more.
But, with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream: And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam.
And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free, And battlement, and plank, and pier, whirled headlong to the sea.
Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsěna, "now yield thee to our grace."
Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see ; Naught spake he to Lars Porsěna, to Sextus naught spake he; But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home, And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome.
"O, Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!" So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his side, And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank; But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, stood gazing where he sank ; And when above the surges they saw his crest appear, Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer.
But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain : And fast his blood was flowing; and he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, - but still again he rose.
Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place: But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within, And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin.
"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sacked the town!" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsěna, "and bring him safe to
For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before."
And now he feels the bottom; - now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands. And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River Gate, borne by the joyous crowd.
27. THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE, 1645. - Aytoun.
There is no ingredient of fiction in the historical incidents recorded in the following ballad. The perfect serenity of Montrose, the "Great Marquis," as he was called, in the hour of trial and death, the courage and magnanimity which he displayed to the last, have been dwelt upon, with admiration, by writers of every class. The following has been slightly abridged from the original.
COME hither, Evan Cameron; come, stand beside my knee, - I hear the river roaring down towards the wintry sea. There's shouting on the mountain-side, there's war within the blast; Old faces look upon me, old forms go trooping past. I hear the pibroch wailing amidst the din of fight, And my dim spirit wakes again, upon the verge of night.
'Twas I that led the Highland host through wild Lochaber's snows, What time the plaided clans came down to battle with Montrose. I've told thee how the Southrons fell beneath the broad claymore, And how we smote the Campbell clan by Inverlochy's shore. I've told thee how we swept Dundee, and tamed the Lindsays' pride; But never have I told thee yet how the Great Marquis died.
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