Ils arrivent trois à trois,
Montent l'escalier de bois
Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme Peut permettre ce vacarme, Bons amis,
À la porte d'Agassiz!
"Ouvrez donc, mon bon Seigneur, Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur; Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes
Gens de bien et gentilshommes, Bons amis,
De la famille Agassiz."
Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous ! C'en est trop de vos glouglous Épargnez aux Philosophes Vos abominables strophes ! Bons amis,
Respectez mon Agassiz!
He is dead, the beautiful youth, The heart of honour, the tongue of truth,- He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was as blithe as a bugle call Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word, Hushed all murmurs of discontent.
Only last night, as we rode along, Down the dark of the mountain gap,
To visit the picquet-guard at the ford, Little dreaming of any mishap,
He was humming the words of some old song:
"Two red roses he had on his cap,
And another he bore at the point of his sword."
Sudden and swift a whistling ball
Came out of the wood, and the voice was still; Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill: I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room when some one is lying dead; But he made no answer to what I said.
We lifted him on his saddle again,
And through the mire, and the mist, and the rain Carried him back to the silent camp,
And laid him as if asleep on his bed;
And I saw, by the light of the surgeon's lamp,
Two white roses upon his cheeks,
And one just over his heart blood-red!
And I saw in a vision how far and fleet That fatal bullet went speeding forth, Till it reached a town in the distant North, Till it reached a house in a sunny street, Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;
And a bell was tolled in that far-off town, For one who had passed from cross to crown,— And the neighbours wondered that she should die.
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent The hearthstones of a continent, And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said; "For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead! nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Shall surround thee on every side, And attend thee night and day." But the sullen Scribe replied: "Our pathways here divide; Mine leadeth not thy way."
And even as he spoke Fell a sudden scimitar stroke, When no one else was near; And the Scribe sank to the ground, As a stone, pushed from the brink Of a black pool, might sink With a sob and disappear: And no one saw the deed; And in the stillness around
No sound was heard but the sound Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed, As forward he sprang with a bound.
Then onward he rode and afar, With scarce three hundred men, Through river and forest and fen, O'er the mountains of Argentar; And his heart was merry within When he crossed the river Drin, And saw in the gleam of the morn The White Castle Ak-hissar, The city Croia called, The city moated and walled, The city where he was born,- And above it the morning star.
Then his trumpeters in the van On their silver bugles blew, And in crowds about him ran Albanian and Turkoman, That the sound together drew. And he feasted with his friends, And when they were warm with wine, He said: "O friends of mine, Behold what fortune sends, And what the fates design! King Amurath commands That my father's wide domain,
This city and all its lands, Shall be given to me again."
Then to the Castle White He rode in regal state, And entered in at the gate In all his arms bedight, And gave to the Pasha Who ruled in Croia
The writing of the King, Sealed with his signet ring. And the Pasha bowed his head, And after a silence said: "Allah is just and great!
I yield to the will divine, The city and lands are thine; Who shall contend with fate?"
Anon from the castle walls The crescent banner falls, And the crowd beholds instead, Like a portent in the sky, Iskander's banner fly,
The Black Eagle with double head; And a shout ascends on high,
For men's souls are tired of the Turks, And their wicked ways and works, That have made of Ak-Hissar
A city of the plague;
And the loud, exultant cry That echoes wide and far Is: "Long live Scanderbeg!"
It was thus Iskander came Once more unto his own; And the tidings, like the flame Of a conflagration blown By the winds of summer, ran, Till the land was in a blaze, And the cities far and near, Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir,
In his Book of the Words of the Days, "Were taken as a man
Would take the tip of his ear."
THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER.
Ir was Sir Christopher Gardiner, Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, From Merry England over the sea, Who stepped upon this continent As if his august presence lent A glory to the colony.
You should have seen him in the street Of the little Boston of Winthrop's time, His rapier dangling at his feet, Doublet and hose and boots complete, Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume, Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume, Luxuriant curls and air sublime, And superior manners now obsolete !
He had a way of saying things That made one think of courts and kings, And lords and ladies of high degree; So that not having been at court Seemed something very little short Of treason or lese-majesty, Such an accomplished knight was he.
His dwelling was just beyond the town, At what he called his country seat; For, careless of Fortune's smile or frown, And weary grown of the world and its ways,
He wished to pass the rest of his days In a private life and a calm retreat.
But a double life was the life he led ; And, while professing to be in search Of a godly course, and willing, he said, Nay, anxious to join the Puritan Church, He made of all this but small account, And passed his idle hours instead With roystering Morton of Merry Mount, That pettifogger from Furnival's Inn, Lord of misrule and riot and sin, Who looked on the wine when it was red.
This country-seat was little more Than a cabin of logs; but in front of the door
A modest flower-bed thickly sown With sweet alyssum and columbine Made those who saw it at once divine The touch of some other hand than his
And first it was whispered, and then it was known,
That he in secret was harbouring there A little lady with golden hair,
Whom he called his cousin, but whom he had wed
In the Italian manner, as men said; And great was the scandal everywhere.
But worse than this was the vague surmise
Though none could vouch for it or averThat the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre Was only a Papist in disguise;
And the more to embitter their bitter lives,
And the more to trouble the public mind, Came letters from England, from two other wives,
Whom he had carelessly left behind; Both of them letters of such a kind As made the governor hold his breath; The one imploring him straight to send The husband home, that he might amend; The other asking his instant death, As the only way to make an end.
The wary governor deemed it right, When all this wickedness was revealed, To send his warrant signed and sealed, And take the body of the knight.
Armed with this mighty instrument, The marshal, mounting his gallant steed, Rode forth from town at the top of his speed,
And followed by all his bailiffs bold, As if on high achievement bent, To storm some castle or stronghold, Challenge the warders on the wall, And seize in his ancestral hall A robber-baron grim and old.
But when through all the dust and heat He came to Sir Christopher's country-seat, No knight he found, nor warder there, But the little lady with golden hair, Who was gathering in the bright sunshine The sweet alyssum and columbine;
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