"Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, And the wrong and shame we dread." Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, Hushed the wounded man his groaning, Alone they heard the drum roll But to sounds of home and childhood, Like the march of soundless music Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last, Faint and far beyond the Goomtee, Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, But when the far-off dust cloud Round the silver domes of Lucknow, O'er the cruel roll of war-drums Rose that sweet and home-like strain, And the tartan clove the turban As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. Dear to the lowland reaper And plaided mountaineer, J. G. Whittier. APOSTROPHE TO WATER. PAUL DENTON, a Methodist preacher in Texas, advertised a barbecue, with better liquor than is usually furnished. When the people were assembled, a desperado in the crowd walked up to him, and cried out: "Mr. Denton, your reverence has lied. You promised not only a good barbecue, but better liquor. Where's the liquor?” "There!" answered the preacher, in tones of thunder, and pointing his motionless finger at a spring gushing up in two strong columns, with a sound like a shout of joy, from the bosom of the earth. "There!" he repeated, with a look terrible as lightning, while his enemy actually trembled at his feet; "there is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his children. Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires, choked with poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench of sickening odors and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life pure, cold water; but in the green glade and glassy dell, where the red deer wanders and the child loves to play there God brews it; and down, down in the deepest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high upon the mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sunlight, where the storm-clouds brood and the thunder-storms crash; and far out on the wide, wide sea, where the hurricanes howl music, and the mighty waves roar the chorus, sweeping the march of Godthere He brews it, that beverage of life-health-giving water. "And everywhere it is a thing of life and beauty whether gleaming in the dew-drop, pattering in the summer rain, shining in the ice-gem till the trees all seem turned into living jewels, spreading a golden veil over the setting sun, or a bright halo around the midnight moon, roaring in the cataract, sleeping in the glaciers, dancing in the hail-storm, folding its pearly white mantle gently about the wintry world, or weaving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all checkered over with celestial flowers by the mystic hand of radiation-still always it is beautiful, that blessed life-water! "There are no poison-bubbles on its brink! Its foam brings no sadness or sorrow! There are no blood-stains in its limpid glass! Broken-hearted wives, pale widows, and starving orphans shed no tears in its depths! No drunkard's shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in words of eternal despair! But it is beautiful, pure, blest, and glorious! Give me forever the sparkling, pure, heavenly water!" Paul Denton. THE GRENADIERS. TWO grenadiers travell'd towards France, one day, On leaving their prison in Russia, And sadly they hung their heads in dismay For there they first heard the story of woe, The grand army had met with an overthrow, They had captured their Emperor cherish'd. Then both of the grenadiers wept full sore And one of them said: "Alas! once more The other one said: "The game's at an end, But I've wife and child, whom at home I should tend, "What matters my child, what matters my wife; Let them beg, if they're hungry, all their lives — "Dear brother, pray grant me this one last prayer; O take my corpse to my country fair, "The legion of honor, with ribbon red, And put in my hand my musket dread, "And so in my grave will I silently lie, And watch like a guard o'er the forces, Until the roaring of cannon hear I, And the trampling of neighing horses. "My Emperor then will ride over my grave, While the swords glitter brightly and rattle; Then armed to the teeth will I rise from the grave, For my Emperor hasting to battle."-Heine. |