Standard Selections Part 16

We have won great glory, my men!

And a day less or more At sea or ash.o.r.e, We die--does it matter when?

Sink me the s.h.i.+p, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain!

Fall into the hands of G.o.d, not into the hands of Spain!"

And the gunner said: "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: "We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives.

We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow."

And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

And the stately Spanish men to their flags.h.i.+p bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last.

And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: "I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty, as a man is bound to do; With a joyful spirit, I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!"

And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap, That he dared her with one little s.h.i.+p and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss, and long'd for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave, and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island crags, To be lost evermore in the main.

THE RIDER OF THE BLACK HORSE

GEORGE LIPPARD

It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle.

It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky was cloudless, the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and gold, the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But the tread of legions shook the ground, from every bush shot the glimmer of the rifle barrel, on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet.

Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground and a chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart.

Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on which they stood came a rider on a black horse, rus.h.i.+ng towards the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and his rider that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the sharp blade quivers through the air, he points to the distant battle and lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, there through intervals of cannon-smoke you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that n.o.ble black horse das.h.i.+ng, like a meteor, down the long columns of battle?

Let us look for a moment into those dense war-clouds. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer-coats stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee before that company of red-coat hirelings, who come rus.h.i.+ng forward, their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. At this moment of their flight, a horse comes cras.h.i.+ng over the plains. The unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now, cowards! advance another step and I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you down!"

This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. "Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer.

They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown rider was heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused conflict, a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers.

Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At last, towards the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too steep--that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here, cras.h.i.+ng on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that black steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on towards the fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec!

come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now, British cannon, pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred b.a.l.l.s; but his rider, as the British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball.

Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the storming of Quebec. The rider of the black horse was Benedict Arnold.

SAILING BEYOND SEAS

JEAN INGELOW

Methought the stars were blinking bright, And the old brig's sails unfurl'd; I said: "I will sail to my love this night, At the other side of the world."

I stepp'd aboard--we sail'd so fast-- The sun shot up from the bourn; But a dove that perch'd upon the mast Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.

O fair dove! O fond dove!

And dove with the white, white breast-- Let me alone, the dream is my own, And my heart is full of rest.

My true love fares on this great hill, Feeding his sheep for aye; I look'd in his hut, but all was still, My love was gone away.

I went to gaze in the forest creek, And the dove mourn'd on apace; No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek Rose up to show me his place.

O last love! O first love!

My love with the true, true heart, To think I have come to this your home, And yet--we are apart!

My love! He stood at my right hand, His eyes were grave and sweet; Methought he said: "In this far land, O, is it thus we meet?

Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; I have no place, no part, No dwelling more by sea or sh.o.r.e, But only in thy heart."

O fair dove! O fond dove!

Till night rose over the bourn, The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast, Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.

THE SANDS OF DEE

CHARLES KINGSLEY

"O Mary go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee!"

The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land-- And never home came she.

"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress o' golden hair, O' drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, Among the stakes o' Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam,-- To her grave beside the sea; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee.

THE SCHOOL OF SQUEERS[13]

CHARLES d.i.c.kENS

The following advertis.e.m.e.nt appeared in the morning papers:

EDUCATION.--At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorks.h.i.+re, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra, single-stick, if required, writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other branch of cla.s.sical literature. Terms twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr.

Squeers is in town and attends daily, from one till four, at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able a.s.sistant wanted. Annual salary, five pounds. A Master of Arts would be preferred.

Nicholas Nickleby obtained the above situation, having found that it was not absolutely necessary to have acquired the degree, and arrived at the inn, to join Mr. Squeers, at eight o'clock of a November morning. He found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with five little boys in a row on the opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys.

"This is two penn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said Squeers, looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accurate view of the quant.i.ty of liquid contained in it.

"That's two penn'orth, sir," replied the waiter.