Successful Recitations Part 30

The tumult of battle was hush'd for awhile,-- Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle, The sword of the conqueror slept in its sheath, His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath; The princes of Erin despair'd of relief, And knelt to the lawless Norwegian chief.

His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile; But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful isle, Did he know with what mild, yet resistless control, That sweet smile can conquer a conqueror's soul: And oh! 'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthral, He soon met with one--he thought sweetest of all.

The brave Prince of Meath had a daughter as fair As the pearls of Loch Neagh which encircled her hair; The tyrant beheld her, and cried, "She shall come To reign as the queen of my gay mountain home; Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson'd the sea, Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!"

Awhile paused the Prince--too indignant to speak, There burn'd a reply in his glance--on his cheek: But quickly that hurried expression was gone, And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone.

He answered--"Ere sunset hath crimson'd the sea, To-morrow--I'll send my young daughter to thee.

"At sunset to-morrow your palace forsake, With twenty young chiefs seek the isle on yon lake; And there, in its coolest and pleasantest shades, My child shall await you with twenty fair maids: Yes--bright as my armour the damsels shall be I send with my daughter, Turgesius, to thee."

Turgesius return'd to his palace; to him The sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim; And tediously long was the darkness of night, And slowly the morning unfolded its light; The sun seem'd to linger--as if it would be An age ere his setting would crimson the sea.

At length came the moment--the King and his band With rapture push'd out their light boat from the land; And bright shone the gems on the armour, and bright Flash'd their fast-moving oars in the setting sun's light; And long ere they landed, they saw though the trees The maiden's white garments that waved in the breeze.

More strong in the lake was the dash of each oar, More swift the gay vessel flew on to the sh.o.r.e; Its keel touch'd the pebbles--but over the surf The youths in a moment had leap'd to the turf, And rushed to a shady retreat in the wood, Where many veiled forms mute and motionless stood.

"Say, which is Melachlin's fair daughter? away With these veils," cried Turgesius, "no longer delay; Resistance is vain, we will quickly behold Which robe hides the loveliest face in its fold; These clouds shall no longer o'ershadow our bliss, Let each seize a veil--and my trophy be this!"

He seized a white veil, and before him appear'd No fearful, weak girl--but a foe to be fear'd!

A youth--who sprang forth from his female disguise, Like lightning that flashes from calm summer skies: His hand grasp'd a weapon, and wild was the joy That shone in the glance of the warrior boy.

And under each white robe a youth was conceal'd, Who met his opponent with sword and with s.h.i.+eld.

Turgesius was slain--and the maidens were blest, Melachlin's fair daughter more blithe than the rest; And ere the last sunbeam had crimson'd the sea, They hailed the boy-victors--and Erin was free!

GLENARA.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?

'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear, And her sire and her people are called to the bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud: Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence--they looked to the ground.

In silence they reached over mountains and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and h.o.a.r: "Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?"

So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed!

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud,"

Cried a voice from the kinsmen all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

Oh, pale grew the cheek of the chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen!

Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn-- 'Twas the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief, I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem:-- Glenara! Glenara! now read me MY dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne; Now joy to the house of the fair Ellen of Lorn!

A FABLE FOR MUSICIANS.

BY CLARA DOTY BATES.

He grew as a red-headed thistle Might grow, a mere vagabond weed-- Little Frieder--as gay with his whistle As water-wagtail on a reed-- Blithe that was indeed!

He had a little old fiddle, A shabby and wonderful thing, Patched at end, patched and glued in the middle Oft lacking a key or a string, But, oh, it could sing!

Barber's 'prentice was Frieder, but having No sense of the true barber's art, He cut every face in the shaving, Pulled hair, and left gashes and smart, Getting blows for his part.

Blows he liked not, and so off he started One morning, his fortune to seek, Comb and fiddle his all, yet light-hearted As long as his fiddle could squeak, Be it ever so weak.

Ran away! Highway rutted or dusty Seemed velvety gra.s.s to his feet; Sang the birds; his own stout legs were trusty; To his hunger a black crust was sweet, And life seemed complete.

Towards twilight he came to a meadow Where a lovely green water, outlaid Like a looking-gla.s.s, held in clear shadow Low iris-grown sh.o.r.es--every blade Its double had made.

Neck, the Nixie, lived under this water, In a palace of gla.s.s, far below Where fishes might swim, or the otter Could dive, or a sunbeam could go, Or a lily root grow.

And, lo, Frieder spied him that minute In a little red coat, sitting there By the pond, with his feet hanging in it, And clawing his knotted green hair In a comic despair.

Green hair, full of duck weed, and tangled With snail sh.e.l.ls, and moss and eel-gra.s.s It was, and it straggled and dangled Over forehead and shoulders--alas, A wild hopeless ma.s.s.

"Good evening," hailed Frieder, "I know you, Sir Neck, the Pond Nixie! I pray You will come to the sh.o.r.e, and I'll show you How hair should be combed, if I may, The real barber's way."

Neck swam like a frog to him, grinning, And Frieder attacked the green mane That had neither end nor beginning!

Neck bore like a hero the strain Of the pulling and pain.

Till at length, without whimper or whining The task of the combing was done, And each lock was as smooth and as s.h.i.+ning As long iris leaves in the sun-- Soft as silk that is spun.

Then Neck thrust his hand in the rushes And pulled out his own violin, And played--why, it seemed as if thrushes Had song-perches under his chin, So sweet was the din.

The barber boy's heart fell to throbbing; "Herr Neck"--this was all he could say, Between fits of laughing and sobbing-- "Herr Neck, oh, pray teach me to play In that wonderful way!"

Neck glanced at the comb. "Will you give it For this little fiddle?" he cried.

"My comb--why, of course you can have it, And jacket and supper beside!"

Eager Frieder replied.

Neck flung down his fiddle, and catching The comb at arm's length, dived below.

And Frieder, the instrument s.n.a.t.c.hing Across the weird strings drew the bow, To and fro--to and fro!

Till out of the forest came springing Roebuck and rabbit and deer; Till the nightingale stopped in its singing And the black flitter-mice crowded near, The sweet music to hear.