Ballads of Bravery

“Curfew must not ring To-night.”

 
ENGLAND’S sun, bright setting o’er the hills so far away,
Filled the land with misty beauty at the close of one sad day;
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, —
He with step so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful; she, with lips so cold and white,
Struggled to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night.”
 
 
“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls so tall and gloomy, walls so dark and damp and cold, —
“I’ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew; and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset,” and her face grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night.”
 
 
“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poisoned dart),
“Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I’m old, I will not miss it. Girl, the curfew rings to-night!”
 
 
Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow;
And within her heart’s deep centre Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, —
“At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood must die.”
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, scarcely spoken, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”
 
 
She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, but, with cheek and brow aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”
 
 
She has reached the topmost ladder; o’er her hangs the great, dark bell,
And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; ’tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”
 
 
Out she swung, – far out. The city seemed a tiny speck below, —
There ’twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro;
And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell),
And he thought the twilight curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell.
Still the maiden, clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white,
Stilled her frightened heart’s wild beating: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”
 
 
It was o’er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted; and what she this night had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.
 
 
O’er the distant hills came Cromwell. Bessie saw him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, glows with sudden beauty now.
At his feet she told her story, showed her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, so haggard, with a look so sad and worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
“Go! your lover lives,” cried Cromwell. “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”
 

The Glove and the Lions

 
KING FRANCIS was a hearty king and loved a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court.
The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,
And ’mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed.
And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, —
Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another,
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air.
Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we’re better here than there.”
 
 
De Lorge’s love o’erheard the king, – a beauteous, lively dame,
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;
She thought, “The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be,
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me.
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I’ll drop my glove to prove his love. Great glory will be mine!”
She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked on him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild.
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place;
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face.
“By Heaven!” said Francis, “rightly done!” rising from where he sat.
“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.”
 

A Young Hero

 
ON Labrador, like coils of flame
That clasp the walls of blazing town,
The long, resistless billows came,
And swept the craggy headlands down;
Till ploughing in strong agonies
Their furrows deep into the land,
They carried rocks, and bars of sand
Past farthest margin of old seas,
And in their giant fury bore
Full thirty crowded craft ashore.
That night they pushed the darkness through,
O’er rocks where slippery lichens grew,
And swamps of slime and melted snow,
And torrents filled to overflow,
Through pathless wilds, in showers and wind,
Where woe to him who lags behind!
Where children slipped in ooze, and lay
Half frozen, buried half in clay;
Young mothers, with their babes at breast,
In chilly stupor dropped to rest.
 
 
A sailor lad of years fourteen
Had chanced, as by the waters thrown,
On four that made sad cry and moan
For parents they had lost between
The wreck and shore, or haply missed.
Cheerly and kind their cheeks he kissed,
And folded each in other’s arm.
Upon a sloping mound of moss
He dragged a heavy sail across,
Close-pinned with bowlders, rough yet warm;
And packing it with mosses tight,
Kept steadfast watch the livelong night,
Nor dared depart, lest e’er again
Was found this treasure he had hid,
Some sudden treacherous gust had slid
Beneath that rugged counterpane.
He knew not name or face of one.
He saved them. It was nobly done.
 
 
Day dawned at last. The storm had lulled;
And these were happy, sleeping yet.
A few fresh hands of moss he pulled,
Then traced with trembling steps the track
Of many footprints deeply set;
And pressing forward, early met
These children’s parents hasting back,
And filled their hearts with boundless joy,
As with blanched lips and chattering teeth
He told them of his night’s employ;
Feigned, too, he was not much distressed,
Although his dying heart, beneath
His icy-frozen shirt and vest,
 
 
Beat faint. They went; and o’er his eyes
A gathering film beclouded light;
And music murmured in his brain,
Such respite sang from toil and strain
That all his senses, wearied quite,
Were lapped to slumber, lulling pain;
Whilst soothing visions seemed to rise,
That brought him scenes of other times,
With cherub faces, beaming bright,
Of many children, and the rhymes
His mother taught him on her knee,
In happy days of infancy.
Then gentlest forms, with rustling wings,
Were wafting him a world of ease
Beneath those downy canopies,
Wherewith they shut out angry skies;
And they with winning beckonings —
Who looked so sweet and saintly wise —
His buoyant spirit drew afar
From creaking timbers, shivering sails,
And ships that strain in autumn gales,
And snow-mixed rains, and sleeting hails,
And wind and waves at endless war.
Oh! who will e’er forget the day,
The bitter tears, the voiceless prayer,
The thoughts of grief we could not say,
The shallow graves within the bay,
The fifteen dear ones buried there,
The grown, the young, who, side by side,
Without or coffin, shroud, or priest,
Were laid; and him we mourned not least, —
The boy that had so bravely died!
 

The Beggar Maid

 
HER arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the beggar maid
Before the king Cophetua.
In robe and crown the king stept down
To meet and greet her on her way.
“It is no wonder,” said the lords,
“She is more beautiful than day.”
 
 
As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen;
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace,
In all that land had never been;
Cophetua sware a royal oath, —
“This beggar maid shall be my queen.”
 

Bunker Hill

 
NOT yet, not yet! Steady, steady!”
On came the foe in even line,
Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine.
We looked into their eyes. “Ready!”
A sheet of flame, a roll of death!
They fell by scores: we held our breath.
Then nearer still they came.
Another sheet of flame,
And brave men fled who never fled before.
Immortal fight!
Foreshadowing flight
Back to the astounded shore.
 
 
Quickly they rallied, re-enforced,
’Mid louder roar of ships’ artillery,
And bursting bombs and whistling musketry,
And shouts and groans anear, afar,
All the new din of dreadful war.
Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed
The blood of those stout farmers, aiming
For freedom, manhood’s birthright claiming.
Onward once more they came.
Another sheet of deathful flame!
Another and another still!
They broke, they fled,
Again they sped
Down the green, bloody hill.
 
 
Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,
Stormed with commanders’ rage.
Into each emptied barge
They crowd fresh men for a new charge
Up that great hill.
Again their gallant blood we spill.
That volley was the last:
Our powder failed.
On three sides fast
The foe pressed in, nor quailed
A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks
They fought, and gave death-dealing knocks,
Till Prescott ordered the retreat.
Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet
From Bunker Hill and Breed,
Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read,
Led off the remnant of those heroes true,
The foe too weakened to pursue.
The ground they gained; but we
The victory.
 
 
The tidings of that chosen band
Flowed in a wave of power
Over the shaken, anxious land,
To men, to man, a sudden dower.
History took a fresh, higher start
From that stanch, beaming hour;
And when the speeding messenger, that bare
The news that strengthened every heart,
Met near the Delaware
The leader, who had just been named,
Who was to be so famed,
The steadfast, earnest Washington,
With hands uplifted, cries,
His great soul flashing to his eyes,
“Our liberties are safe! The cause is won!”
A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then
His steed he spurred, in haste to lead such noble men.