But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain: Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sacked the town!" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsěna, "and bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before." And now he feels the bottom;-now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands. And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River Gate, borne by the joyous crowd. 87. THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.-Dimond. Effusive O., poetic monotone. In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay, His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,— With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, Joy quickens his pulse—all his hardships seem o'er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest"O God! thou hast blest me,-I ask for no more.' Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye? Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell; In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save;Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, And the death-angel flaps his dark wings o'er the wave. O sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss; Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright, Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss. O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again Shall love, home or kindred thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge. On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid, Days, months, years and ages shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul! Med. Low. Med. 88. THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.-Robert Lowell. P., O. and A., all kinds of force, High. Med. Low. Med. Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort! We knew that it was the last: That the enemy's lines crept surely on, And the end was coming fast. To yield to that foe was worse than death, There was one of us, a corporal's wife, And her mind was wandering. She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid, "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, She slept like a child on her father's floor When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, And hopeless waiting for death; And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, I sank to sleep; and I had my dream Of an English village-lane High. And wall and garden; — but one wild scream Low. Med. A. Brought me back to the roar again. There Jessie Brown stood listening, All over her face, and she caught my hand High. "The Hielanders! Oh! dinna ye hear The slogan far awa? The McGregor's? Oh! I ken it weel; "God bless the bonny Hielanders! We're saved! we're saved!" she cried; Med. O. And fell on her knees, and thanks to God A. Along the battery-line her cry Had fallen among the men, And they started back; - they were there to die; They listened for life: the rattling fire Low 0. Were all; and the colonel shook his head, High. But Jessie said, "The slogan's done; Low. Med. Low. Med. The Campbells are comin'! It's nae a dream; We heard the roar and the rattle afar, So the men plied their work of hopeless war. It was not long ere it made its way,- High. It was the pipes of the Highlanders! A. And now they played Auld Lang Syne; And they wept, and shook one another's hands, And every one knelt down where he stood Med. O. That happy time, when we welcomed them, And the general gave her his hand, and cheers And the pipers' ribbons and tartans streamed, 89. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.-Alfred Tennyson. Explosive O., medium pitch, poetic monotone. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, Rode the six hundred. "Charge," was the captain's cry; Theirs not to reason why, Theirs not to make reply, Theirs but to do and die: Cannon to right of them, Cannon in front of them, Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well; Into the jaws of Death, Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke, Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke |