Golden Numbers Part 71

_From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_

_Hohenlinden_

On Linden when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And darker yet shall be the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

_Incident of the French Camp_

You know we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the p.r.o.ne brow Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans That soar, to earth may fall Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,"-- Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through,) You looked twice e'er you saw his breast, Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by G.o.d's grace We've got you Ratisbon!

The marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him." The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes: "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said; "I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

_Marco Bozzaris_

At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power; In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams, his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet-ring; Then press'd that monarch's throne--a king: As wild his thoughts, as gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood, On old Plataea's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquer'd there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far, as they.

An hour pa.s.s'd on: the Turk awoke: That bright dream was his last.

He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!"

He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud, And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike!--till the last arm'd foe expires; Strike!--for your altars and your fires; Strike!--for the green graves of your sires; G.o.d, and your native land!"

They fought like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquer'd;--but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their loud hurrah, And the red field was won; Then saw in death his eyelids close, Calmly as to a night's repose,-- Like flowers at set of sun.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee: there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime.

She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hea.r.s.e wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb; But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone;

For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed; Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thee her evening prayer is said At palace-couch and cottage-bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys,-- And even she who gave thee birth Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, One of the few, th' immortal names That were not born to die.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

_The Destruction of Sennacherib_

The a.s.syrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pa.s.s'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal!

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

INTERLEAVES

_Tales of the Olden Time_

These ancient ballads have come down to us from the long ago, having been told, like the old nursery tales, from generation to generation, altered, abbreviated, patched, and added to, as they pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth of poet, high harper, gleeman, wandering minstrel, ballad-monger, and camp-follower. Some of them were repeated by the humble stroller who paid for a corner in the chimney-nook by the practice of his rude art; others were sung by minstrels of the court; most of them were chanted to a tune which served for a score of similar songs, while the verses were frequently interrupted by refrains of one sort or another, as, for instance, in "Hynde Horn," which is sometimes printed as follows:

"Near the King's Court was a young child born _With a hey lillalu and a how lo lan;_ And his name it was called Young Hynde Horn _And the birk and the broom blooms bonnie."_

Many of the ballads are gloomy and tragic stories, but told simply and with right feeling; others are gay tales of true love ending happily.

Some, like "Sir Patrick Spens" and "Chevy Chace," are built upon historical foundations, and others, while not following history, have a real personage for hero or heroine. Lord Beichan, for instance, is supposed to be Gilbert Becket, father of the famous Saint Thomas of Canterbury, while Glenlogie is Sir George, one of the "gay Gordons," but whoever they are, wise abbots, jolly friars, or n.o.ble outlaws, they are always bold fellows, true lovers, and merry men.