Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer.

Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it?

The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Hushed the wounded man his groaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns.

But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true;-- As her mother's cradle crooning The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear, She knew the droning pibroch, She knew the Campbell's call: "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's, The grandest o' them all!"

Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast!

Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's; "G.o.d be praised!--the march of Havelock!

The piping of the clans!"

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life.

But when the far-off dust cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithesomely The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne.

O'er the cruel roll of war drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear.

Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE RESIDENCY, LUCKNOW, INDIA.]

COMPANIONSHIP WITH NATURE.

Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home; Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, He had the pa.s.sion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, Were unto him companionship; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake For Nature's pages gla.s.sed by sunbeams on the lake.

LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.

_From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_

THE GLADIATOR.

I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand--his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low-- And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder shower; and now The arena swims around him--he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not--his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother--he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday-- All this rushed with his blood--Shall he expire, And unavenged?--Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire.

LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.

_From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX."

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the c.o.c.ks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Duffield, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church steeple we heard half the chime, So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each b.u.t.ting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other p.r.i.c.ked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!

And the thick heavy spume flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Ha.s.selt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughs a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight.

"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

ROBERT BROWNING.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

SANDALPHON.

Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air, Have you read it,--the marvelous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express.

But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpa.s.sioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless To sounds that ascend from below;--

From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervor and pa.s.sion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Too heavy for mortals to bear.