Successful Recitations Part 20

The abbess died; and in her pride Her parting mandate said They should her final rest provide, The alabaster couch beside, Where slept the sainted dead.

The abbess came of princely race; The nuns might not gainsay; And sadly pa.s.sed the timid band, To execute the high command They dared not disobey.

The monument was opened then; It gave to general sight The alabaster couch alone; But all its lucid substance shone With preternatural light.

They laid the corpse within the shrine; They closed its doors again; But nameless terror seemed to fall, Throughout the livelong night, on all Who formed the funeral train.

Lo! on the morrow morn, still closed The monument was found; But in its robes funereal drest, The corse they had consigned to rest Lay on the stony ground.

Fear and amazement seized on all; They called on Mary's aid; And in the tomb, unclosed again, With choral hymn and funeral train, The corse again was laid.

But with the incorruptible Corruption might not rest; The lonely chapel's stone-paved floor Received the ejected corse once more, In robes funereal drest.

So was it found when morning beamed; In solemn suppliant strain The nuns implored all saints in heaven, That rest might to the corse be given, Which they entombed again.

On the third night a watch was kept By many a friar and nun; Trembling, all knelt in fervent prayer, Till on the dreary midnight air Rolled the deep bell-toll "One!"

The saint within the opening tomb Like marble statue stood; All fell to earth in deep dismay; And through their ranks she pa.s.sed away, In calm unchanging mood.

No answering sound her footsteps raised Along the stony floor; Silent as death, severe as fate, She glided through the chapel gate, And none beheld her more.

The alabaster couch was gone; The tomb was void and bare; For the last time, with hasty rite, Even 'mid the terror of the night, They laid the abbess there.

'Tis said the abbess rests not well In that sepulchral pile; But yearly, when the night comes round As dies of "one" the bell's deep sound She flits along the aisle.

But whither pa.s.sed the virgin saint?

To slumber far away, Destined by Mary to endure, Unaltered in her semblance pure, Until the judgment day!

DAVID SHAW, HERO.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.

The saviour, and not the slayer, he is the braver man.

So far my text--but the story? Thus, then, it runs; from Spokane Rolled out the overland mail train, late by an hour. In the cab David Shaw, at your service, dressed in his blouse of drab.

Grimed by the smoke and the cinders. "Feed her well, Jim," he said; (Jim was his fireman.) "_Make up time!_" On and on they sped;

Dust from the wheels up-flying; smoke rolling out behind; The long train thundering, swaying; the roar of the cloven wind; Shaw, with his hand on the lever, looking out straight ahead.

How she did rock, old Six-forty! How like a storm they sped.

Leavenworth--thirty minutes gained in the thrilling race.

Now for the hills--keener look-out, or a letting down of the pace.

Hardly a pound of the steam less! David Shaw straightened back, Hand like steel on the lever, face like flint to the track.

G.o.d!--look there! Down the mountain, right ahead of the train, Acres of sand and forest sliding down to the plain!

What to do? Why, jump, Dave! Take the chance, while you can.

The train is doomed--save your own life! Think of the children, man!

Well, what did he, this hero, face to face with grim death?

Grasped the throttle--reversed it--shrieked "_Down brakes!_" in a breath.

Stood to his post, without flinching, clear-headed, open-eyed, Till the train stood still with a shudder, and he--went down with the slide!

Saved?--yes, saved! Ninety people s.n.a.t.c.hed from an awful grave.

One life under the sand, there. All that he had, he gave, Man to the last inch! Hero?--n.o.blest of heroes, yea; Worthy the shaft and the tablet, worthy the song and the bay!

BROTHERHOOD.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

I am my brother's keeper, And I the duty own; For no man liveth to himself Or to himself alone; And we must bear together A common weal and woe, In all we are, in all we have, In all we feel and know.

I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can be, Of high and pure example, Of true integrity; A guide to go before him, In darkness and in light; A very cloud of snow by day, A cloud of fire by night.

I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can say, To help him on his journey To cheer him by the way; To succour him in weakness, To solace him in woe; To strengthen him in conflict, And fit him for the foe.

I am my brother's keeper, In all that I can do To save him from temptation, To help him to be true; To stay him if he stumble, To lift him if he fall; To stand beside him though his sin Has severed him from all.

I am my brother's keeper, In sickness and in health; In triumph and in failure, In poverty and wealth; His champion in danger, His advocate in blame, The herald of his honour, The hider of his shame.

And though he prove unworthy, He is my brother still, And I must render right for wrong And give him good for ill; My standard must not alter For folly, fault, or whim, And to be true unto myself I must be true to him.

And all men are my brothers Wherever they may be, And he is most my proper care Who most has need of me; Who most may need my counsel, My influence, my pelf, And most of all who needs _my_ strength To save him from _myself_.

For all I have of power Beyond what he can wield, Is not a weapon of offence But a protecting s.h.i.+eld, Which _I_ must hold before him To save him from his foe, E'en though _I_ be the enemy That longs to strike the blow.

I am my brother's keeper, And must be to the end-- A neighbour to the neighbourless, And to the friendless, friend; His weakness lays it on me, My strength involves it too, And common love for common life Will bear the burden through.

THE STRAIGHT RIDER.

_(FROM "BLACK AND WHITE?" BY PERMISSION.)_

"My _dear_ Mabel, how pale you look! It is this hot room. I am sure Lord Saint Sinnes will not mind taking you for a little turn in the garden--between the dances."

My Lord Saint Sinnes--or Billy Sinnes as he is usually called by his friends--shuffled in his high collar. It is a remarkable collar, nearly related to a cuff, and it keeps Lord Saint Innes in remembrance of his chin. If it were not that this plain young n.o.bleman were essentially a gentleman, one might easily mistake him for a groom. Moreover, like other persons of equine tastes, he has the pleasant fancy of affecting a tight and horsey "cut" in clothes never intended for the saddle.

The girl, addressed by her somewhat overpowering mother as Mabel, takes the proffered arm with a murmured acquiescence and a quivering lip. She is paler than before.