Successful Recitations Part 24

"The goodliest land on all this earth It is the Saxon land!

There have I as many maidens As fingers on this hand!"

"Hold your tongues! both Swabian and Saxon!"

A bold Bohemian cries; "If there's a heaven upon this earth, In Bohemia it lies:

"There the tailor blows the flute, And the cobbler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle, Over mountain gorge and bourn!"

And then the landlord's daughter Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, "Ye may no more contend-- There lies the happiest land."

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

September 24th, 1857.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills!

Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear;-- Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled and nearer crept; Round and round the jungle serpent Near and nearer circles swept.

"Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- Pray to-day!" the soldier said; "To-morrow, death's between us And the wrong and shame we dread."

Oh! they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer.

Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it?

The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Hushed the wounded man his groaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns.

But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true; As her mother's cradle crooning The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer,-- More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear,-- She knew the droning pibroch She knew the Campbell's call: "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's,-- The grandest o' them all."

Oh! they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast!

Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's; "G.o.d be praised!--the march of Havelock!

The piping of the clans!"

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life.

But when the far-off dust cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithsomely The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne; O'er the cruel roll of war-drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear; Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade, But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played!

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on.--

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time.--

But the might of England flush'd To antic.i.p.ate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly s.p.a.ce between.

"Hearts of Oak!" our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the s.h.i.+ps, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then ceased--and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.--

Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave; "Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save:-- So peace instead of death let us bring: But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king."--

Then Denmark bless'd our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day.

While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wild and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise!

For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, While the wine-cup s.h.i.+nes in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died,-- With the gallant good Riou, Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!

While the hollow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!

THE GRAVE SPOILERS.

BY HERCULES ELLIS.

They dragged our heroes from the graves, In which their honoured dust was lying; They dragged them forth--base, coward slaves And hung their bones on gibbets flying.

Ireton, our dauntless Ironside, And Bradshaw, faithful judge, and fearless, And Cromwell, Britain's chosen guide, In fight in faith, and council, peerless.

The bravest of our glorious brave!

The tyrant's terror in his grave.

In felon chains, they hung the dead-- The n.o.ble dead, in glory lying: Before whose living face they fled, Like chaff before the tempest flying.

They fled before them, foot and horse, In craven flight their safety seeking; And now they gloat around each corse, In coward scoff their hatred wreaking.

Oh! G.o.d, that men could own, as kings, Such paltry, dastard, soulless things.

Their dust is scattered o'er the land They loved, and freed, and crowned with glory; Their great names bear the felon's brand; 'Mongst murderers is placed their story.

But idly their grave-spoilers thought, Disgrace, which fled in life before them, By craven judges could be brought, To spread in death, its shadow o'er them.