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THE SACKING OF THE CITY by Victor Hugo
     ("La flamme par ton ordre, O roi!")

     {XXIII., November, 1825.}
     Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume,
       The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks;
     Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom,
       Seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks.

     Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high,
       Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel;
     Prostrate, the palaces, huge tombs of fire, lie,
       While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel!

     Died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms,
       O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight;
     With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms,
       At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight.

     Lo! where the city lies mantled in pall of death;
       Lo! where thy mighty hand hath passed, all things must bend!
     Priests prayed, the sword estopped blaspheming breath,
       Vainly their cheating book for shield did they extend.

     Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel
       Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian-kind,
     To kiss thy sandall'd foot, O King, thy people kneel,
       And golden circlets to thy victor-ankle bind.

     JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

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THE LOVER'S WISH by Victor Hugo
     ("Si j'étais la feuille.")

     {XXII., September, 1828.}
     Oh! were I the leaf that the wind of the West,
       His course through the forest uncaring;
     To sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast
       In a pendulous cradle is bearing.

     All fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would I haste,
       As the dewdrops upon me were glancing;
     When Aurora sets out on the roseate waste,
       And round her the breezes are dancing.

     On the pinions of air I would fly, I would rush
       Thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver;
     Past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush,
       And the murmuring fall of the river.

     By the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane,
       To catch the sweet breath of the roses;
     Past the land would I speed, where the sand-driven plain
       'Neath the heat of the noonday reposes.

     Past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky,
       Whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring;
     Past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh,
       And the turbulent whirlwind be roaring.

     On, on would I fly, till a charm stopped my way,
       A charm that would lead to the bower;
     Where the daughter of Araby sings to the day,
       At the dawn and the vesper hour.

     Then hovering down on her brow would I light,
       'Midst her golden tresses entwining;
     That gleam like the corn when the fields are bright,
       And the sunbeams upon it shining.

     A single frail gem on her beautiful head,
       I should sit in the golden glory;
     And prouder I'd be than the diadem spread
       Round the brow of kings famous in story.

     V., Eton Observer.

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EXPECTATION by Victor Hugo
     ("Moune, écureuil.")

     {xx.}
     Squirrel, mount yon oak so high,
     To its twig that next the sky
         Bends and trembles as a flower!
     Strain, O stork, thy pinion well,â€"
     From thy nest 'neath old church-bell,
     Mount to yon tall citadel,
         And its tallest donjon tower!
     To your mountain, eagle old,
     Mount, whose brow so white and cold,
         Kisses the last ray of even!
     And, O thou that lov'st to mark
     Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark,
     Mount, O mount, thou joyous larkâ€"
         Joyous lark, O mount to heaven!
     And now say, from topmost bough,
     Towering shaft, and peak of snow,
         And heaven's archâ€"O, can you see
     One white plume that like a star,
     Streams along the plain afar,
     And a steed that from the war
         Bears my lover back to me?

     JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

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ZARA, THE BATHER by Victor Hugo
     ("Sara, belle d'indolence.")

     {XIX., August, 1828.}
     In a swinging hammock lying,
           Lightly flying,
     Zara, lovely indolent,
       O'er a fountain's crystal wave
           There to lave
     Her young beautyâ€"see her bent.

     As she leans, so sweet and soft,
           Flitting oft,
     O'er the mirror to and fro,
       Seems that airy floating bat,
           Like a feather
     From some sea-gull's wing of snow.

     Every time the frail boat laden
           With the maiden
     Skims the water in its flight,
       Starting from its trembling sheen,
           Swift are seen
     A white foot and neck so white.

     As that lithe foot's timid tips
           Quick she dips,
     Passing, in the rippling pool,
       (Blush, oh! snowiest ivory!)
           Frolic, she
     Laughs to feel the pleasant cool.

     Here displayed, but half concealedâ€"
           Half revealed,
     Each bright charm shall you behold,
       In her innocence emerging,
           As a-verging
     On the wave her hands grow cold.

     For no star howe'er divine
           Has the shine
     Of a maid's pure loveliness,
       Frightened if a leaf but quivers
           As she shivers,
     Veiled with naught but dripping trees.

     By the happy breezes fanned
           See her stand,â€"
     Blushing like a living rose,
       On her bosom swelling high
           If a fly
     Dare to seek a sweet repose.

     In those eyes which maiden pride
           Fain would hide,
     Mark how passion's lightnings sleep!
       And their glance is brighter far
           Than the star
     Brightest in heaven's bluest deep.

     O'er her limbs the glittering current
           In soft torrent
     Rains adown the gentle girl,
       As if, drop by drop, should fall,
          One and all
     From her necklace every pearl.

     Lengthening still the reckless pleasure
           At her leisure,
     Care-free Zara ever slow
       As the hammock floats and swings
           Smiles and sings,
     To herself, so sweet and low.

     "Oh, were I a capitana,
           Or sultana,
     Amber should be always mixt
       In my bath of jewelled stone,
           Near my throne,
     Griffins twain of gold betwixt.

     "Then my hammock should be silk,
           White as milk;
     And, more soft than down of dove,
       Velvet cushions where I sit
           Should emit
     Perfumes that inspire love.

     "Then should I, no danger near,
           Free from fear,
     Revel in my garden's stream;
       Nor amid the shadows deep
           Dread the peep,
     Of two dark eyes' kindling gleam.

     "He who thus would play the spy,
           On the die
     For such sight his head must throw;
       In his blood the sabre naked
           Would be slakèd,
     Of my slaves of ebon brow.

     "Then my rich robes trailing show
           As I go,
     None to chide should be so bold;
       And upon my sandals fine
           How should shine
     Rubies worked in cloth-of-gold!"

     Fancying herself a queen,
           All unseen,
     Thus vibrating in delight;
       In her indolent coquetting
           Quite forgetting
     How the hours wing their flight.

     As she lists the showery tinkling
           Of the sprinkling
     By her wanton curvets made;
       Never pauses she to think
           Of the brink
     Where her wrapper white is laid.

     To the harvest-fields the while,
           In long file,
     Speed her sisters' lively band,
       Like a flock of birds in flight
           Streaming light,
     Dancing onward hand in hand.

     And they're singing, every one,
           As they run
     This the burden of their lay:
       "Fie upon such idleness!
           Not to dress
     Earlier on harvest-day!"

     JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

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THE GREEK BOY by Victor Hugo
     ("Les Turcs ont passés là.")

     {XVIII., June 10, 1828.}
     All is a ruin where rage knew no bounds:
     Chio is levelled, and loathed by the hounds,
         For shivered yest'reen was her lance;
     Sulphurous vapors envenom the place
     Where her true beauties of Beauty's true race
         Were lately linked close in the dance.

     Dark is the desert, with one single soul;
     Cerulean eyes! whence the burning tears roll
         In anguish of uttermost shame,
     Under the shadow of one shrub of May,
     Splashed still with ruddy drops, bent in decay
         Where fiercely the hand of Lust came.

     "Soft and sweet urchin, still red with the lash
     Of rein and of scabbard of wild Kuzzilbash,
         What lack you for changing your sobâ€"
     If not unto laughter beseeming a childâ€"
     To utterance milder, though they have defiled
         The graves which they shrank not to rob?

     "Would'st thou a trinket, a flower, or scarf,
     Would'st thou have silver? I'm ready with half
         These sequins a-shine in the sun!
     Still more have I moneyâ€"if you'll but speak!"
     He spoke: and furious the cry of the Greek,
         "Oh, give me your dagger and gun!"

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THE LOST BATTLE by Victor Hugo
     ("Allah! qui me rendra-")

     {XVI., May, 1828.}
     Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array?
     My emirs and my cavalry that shook the earth to-day;
     My tent, my wide-extending camp, all dazzling to the sight,
     Whose watchfires, kindled numberless beneath the brow of night,
     Seemed oft unto the sentinel that watched the midnight hours,
     As heaven along the sombre hill had rained its stars in showers?
     Where are my beys so gorgeous, in their light pelisses gay,
     And where my fierce Timariot bands, so fearless in the fray;
     My dauntless khans, my spahis brave, swift thunderbolts of war;
     My sunburnt Bedouins, trooping from the Pyramids afar,
     Who laughed to see the laboring hind stand terrified at gaze,
     And urged their desert horses on amid the ripening maize?
     These horses with their fiery eyes, their slight untiring feet,
     That flew along the fields of corn like grasshoppers so fleetâ€"
     What! to behold again no more, loud charging o'er the plain,
     Their squadrons, in the hostile shot diminished all in vain,
     Burst grandly on the heavy squares, like clouds that bear the storms,
     Enveloping in lightning fires the dark resisting swarms!
     Oh! they are dead! their housings bright are trailed amid their gore;
     Dark blood is on their manes and sides, all deeply clotted o'er;
     All vainly now the spur would strike these cold and rounded flanks,
     To wake them to their wonted speed amid the rapid ranks:
     Here the bold riders red and stark upon the sands lie down,
     Who in their friendly shadows slept throughout the halt at noon.
     Oh, Allah! who will give me back my terrible array?
     See where it straggles 'long the fields for leagues on leagues away,
     Like riches from a spendthrift's hand flung prodigal to earth.
     Lo! steed and rider;â€"Tartar chiefs or of Arabian birth,
     Their turbans and their cruel course, their banners and their cries,
     Seem now as if a troubled dream had passed before mine eyesâ€"
     My valiant warriors and their steeds, thus doomed to fall and bleed!
     Their voices rouse no echo now, their footsteps have no speed;
     They sleep, and have forgot at last the sabre and the bitâ€"
     Yon vale, with all the corpses heaped, seems one wide charnel-pit.
     Long shall the evil omen rest upon this plain of dreadâ€"
     To-night, the taint of solemn blood; to-morrow, of the dead.
     Alas! 'tis but a shadow now, that noble armament!
     How terribly they strove, and struck from morn to eve unspent,
     Amid the fatal fiery ring, enamoured of the fight!
     Now o'er the dim horizon sinks the peaceful pall of night:
     The brave have nobly done their work, and calmly sleep at last.
     The crows begin, and o'er the dead are gathering dark and fast;
     Already through their feathers black they pass their eager beaks.
     Forth from the forest's distant depth, from bald and barren peaks,
     They congregate in hungry flocks and rend their gory prey.
     Woe to that flaunting army's pride, so vaunting yesterday!
     That formidable host, alas! is coldly nerveless now
     To drive the vulture from his gorge, or scare the carrion crow.
     Were now that host again mine own, with banner broad unfurled,
     With it I would advance and win the empire of the world.
     Monarchs to it should yield their realms and veil their haughty brows;
     My sister it should ever be, my lady and my spouse.
     Oh! what will unrestoring Death, that jealous tyrant lord,
     Do with the brave departed souls that cannot swing a sword?
     Why turned the balls aside from me? Why struck no hostile hand
     My head within its turban green upon the ruddy sand?
     I stood all potent yesterday; my bravest captains three,
     All stirless in their tigered selle, magnificent to see,
     Hailed as before my gilded tent rose flowing to the gales,
     Shorn from the tameless desert steeds, three dark and tossing tails.
     But yesterday a hundred drums were heard when I went by;
     Full forty agas turned their looks respectful on mine eye,
     And trembled with contracted brows within their hall of state.
     Instead of heavy catapults, of slow unwieldy weight,
     I had bright cannons rolling on oak wheels in threatening tiers,
     And calm and steady by their sides marched English cannoniers.
     But yesterday, and I had towns, and castles strong and high,
     And Greeks in thousands, for the base and merciless to buy.
     But yesterday, and arsenals and harems were my own;
     While now, defeated and proscribed, deserted and alone,
     I flee away, a fugitive, and of my former power,
     Allah! I have not now at least one battlemented tower.
     And must he flyâ€"the grand vizier! the pasha of three tails!
     O'er the horizon's bounding hills, where distant vision fails,
     All stealthily, with eyes on earth, and shrinking from the sight,
     As a nocturnal robber holds his dark and breathless flight,
     And thinks he sees the gibbet spread its arms in solemn wrath,
     In every tree that dimly throws its shadow on his path!

         Thus, after his defeat, pale Reschid speaks.
         Among the dead we mourned a thousand Greeks.
         Lone from the field the Pasha fled afar,
         And, musing, wiped his reeking scimitar;
         His two dead steeds upon the sands were flung,
         And on their sides their empty stirrups hung.

     W.D., Bentley's Miscellany, 1839.

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THE PASHA AND THE DERVISH by Victor Hugo
     ("Un jour Ali passait.")

     {XIII, Nov. 8, 1828.}
     Ali came riding byâ€"the highest head
     Bent to the dust, o'ercharged with dread,
         Whilst "God be praised!" all cried;
     But through the throng one dervish pressed,
     Aged and bent, who dared arrest
         The pasha in his pride.

     "Ali Tepelini, light of all light,
     Who hold'st the Divan's upper seat by right,
         Whose fame Fame's trump hath burstâ€"
     Thou art the master of unnumbered hosts,
     Shade of the Sultanâ€"yet he only boasts
         In thee a dog accurst!

     "An unseen tomb-torch flickers on thy path,
     Whilst, as from vial full, thy spare-naught wrath
         Splashes this trembling race:
     These are thy grass as thou their trenchant scythes
     Cleaving their neck as 'twere a willow witheâ€"
         Their blood none can efface.

     "But ends thy tether! for Janina makes
     A grave for thee where every turret quakes,
         And thou shalt drop below
     To where the spirits, to a tree enchained,
     Will clutch thee, there to be 'mid them retained
         For all to-come in woe!

     "Or if, by happy chance, thy soul might flee
     Thy victims, after, thou shouldst surely see
         And hear thy crimes relate;
     Streaked with the guileless gore drained from their veins,
     Greater in number than the reigns on reigns
         Thou hopedst for thy state.

     "This so will be! and neither fleet nor fort
     Can stay or aid thee as the deathly port
         Receives thy harried frame!
     Though, like the cunning Hebrew knave of old,
     To cheat the angel black, thou didst enfold
         In altered guise thy name."

     Ali deemed anchorite or saint a pawnâ€"
     The crater of his blunderbuss did yawn,
         Sword, dagger hung at ease:
     But he had let the holy man revile,
     Though clouds o'erswept his brow; then, with a smile,
         He tossed him his pelisse.

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THE FAVORITE SULTANA by Victor Hugo
     ("N'ai-je pas pour toi, belle juive.")

     {XII., Oct. 27, 1828.}
     To please you, Jewess, jewel!
       I have thinned my harem out!
     Must every flirting of your fan
       Presage a dying shout?

     Grace for the damsels tender
       Who have fear to hear your laugh,
     For seldom gladness gilds your lips
       But blood you mean to quaff.

     In jealousy so zealous,
       Never was there woman worse;
     You'd have no roses but those grown
       Above some buried corse.

     Am I not pinioned firmly?
       Why be angered if the door
     Repulses fifty suing maids
       Who vainly there implore?

     Let them live onâ€"to envy
       My own empress of the world,
     To whom all Stamboul like a dog
       Lies at the slippers curled.

     To you my heroes lower
       Those scarred ensigns none have cowed;
     To you their turbans are depressed
       That elsewhere march so proud.

     To you Bassora offers
       Her respect, and Trebizonde
     Her carpets richly wrought, and spice
       And gems, of which you're fond.

     To you the Cyprus temples
       Dare not bar or close the doors;
     For you the mighty Danube sends
       The choicest of its stores.

     Fear you the Grecian maidens,
       Pallid lilies of the isles?
     Or the scorching-eyed sand-rover
       From Baalbec's massy piles?

     Compared with yours, oh, daughter
      Of King Solomon the grand,
     What are round ebon bosoms,
      High brows from Hellas' strand?

     You're neither blanched nor blackened,
       For your tint of olive's clear;
     Yours are lips of ripest cherry,
       You are straight as Arab spear.

     Hence, launch no longer lightning
      On these paltry slaves of ours.
     Why should your flow of tears be matched
      By their mean life-blood showers?

     Think only of our banquets
       Brought and served by charming girls,
     For beauties sultans must adorn
       As dagger-hilts the pearls.

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THE SISTER by Victor Hugo

     What has happened, my brothers? Your spirit to-day
         Some secret sorrow damps
     There's a cloud on your brow. What has happened? Oh, say,
     For your eyeballs glare out with a sinister ray
         Like the light of funeral lamps.
     And the blades of your poniards are half unsheathed
         In your beltâ€"and ye frown on me!
     There's a woe untold, there's a pang unbreathed
         In your bosom, my brothers three!

     ELDEST BROTHER.

     Gulnara, make answer! Hast thou, since the dawn,
     To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn?

     THE SISTER.

     As I came, oh, my brother! at noonâ€"from the bathâ€"
         As I cameâ€"it was noon, my lordsâ€"
     And your sister had then, as she constantly hath,
     Drawn her veil close around her, aware that the path
         Is beset by these foreign hordes.
     But the weight of the noonday's sultry hour
     Near the mosque was so oppressive
     Thatâ€"forgetting a moment the eye of the Giaourâ€"
         I yielded to th' heat excessive.

     SECOND BROTHER.

     Gulnara, make answer! Whom, then, hast thou seen,
     In a turban of white and a caftan of green?

     THE SISTER.

     Nay, he might have been there; but I muflled me so,
         He could scarcely have seen my figure.â€"
     But why to your sister thus dark do you grow?
     What words to yourselves do you mutter thus low,
         Of "blood" and "an intriguer"?
     Oh! ye cannot of murder bring down the red guilt
         On your souls, my brothers, surely!
     Though I fearâ€"from the hands that are chafing the hilt,
         And the hints you give obscurely.

     THIRD BROTHER.

     Gulnara, this evening when sank the red sun,
     Didst thou mark how like blood in descending it shone?

     THE SISTER.

     Mercy! Allah! have pity! oh, spare!
         See! I cling to your knees repenting!
     Kind brothers, forgive me! for mercy, forbear!
     Be appeased at the cry of a sister's despair,
         For our mother's sake relenting.
     O God! must I die? They are deaf to my cries!
         Their sister's life-blood shedding;
     They have stabbed me each oneâ€"I faintâ€"o'er my eyes
         A veil of Death is spreading!

     THE BROTHERS.

     Gulnara, farewell! take that veil; 'tis the gift
     Of thy brothersâ€"a veil thou wilt never lift!

     "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY).

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MOONLIGHT ON THE BOSPHORUS by Victor Hugo
     ("La lune était sereine.")

     {X., September, 1828.}
     Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave;
       At the cool casement, to the evening breeze flung wide,
       Leans the Sultana, and delights to watch the tide,
     With surge of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets lave.

     From her hand, as it falls, vibrates the light guitar.
       She listensâ€"hark! that sound that echoes dull and low.
       Is it the beat upon the Archipelago
     Of some long galley's oar, from Scio bound afar?

     Is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by one,
       Cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls?
       Is it some hovering sprite with whistling scream that hurls
     Down to the deep from yon old tower a loosened stone?

     Who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio?
       'Tis no dark cormorants that on the ripple float,
       'Tis no dull plume of stoneâ€"no oars of Turkish boat,
     With measured beat along the water creeping slow.

     'Tis heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless dusky slaves;
       And could you dare to sound the depths of yon dark tide,
       Something like human form would stir within its side.
     Bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave.

     JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN.

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THE TURKISH CAPTIVE by Victor Hugo
     ("Si je n'était captive.")

     {IX., July, 1828.}
     Oh! were I not a captive,
       I should love this fair countree;
     Those fields with maize abounding,
       This ever-plaintive sea:
     I'd love those stars unnumbered,
       If, passing in the shade,
     Beneath our walls I saw not
       The spahi's sparkling blade.

     I am no Tartar maiden
       That a blackamoor of price
     Should tune my lute and hold to me
       My glass of sherbet-ice.
     Far from these haunts of vices,
       In my dear countree, we
     With sweethearts in the even
       May chat and wander free.

     But still I love this climate,
       Where never wintry breeze
     Invades, with chilly murmur,
       These open lattices;
     Where rain is warm in summer,
       And the insect glossy green,
     Most like a living emerald,
       Shines 'mid the leafy screen.

     With her chapelles fair Smyrnaâ€"
       A gay princess is she!
     Still, at her summons, round her
       Unfading spring ye see.
     And, as in beauteous vases,
       Bright groups of flowers repose,
     So, in her gulfs are lying
       Her archipelagoes.

     I love these tall red turrets;
       These standards brave unrolled;
     And, like an infant's playthings,
       These houses decked with gold.
     I love forsooth these reveries,
       Though sandstorms make me pant,
     Voluptuously swaying
       Upon an elephant.

     Here in this fairy palace,
       Full of such melodies,
     Methinks I hear deep murmurs
       That in the deserts rise;
     Soft mingling with the music
       The Genii's voices pour,
     Amid the air, unceasing,
       Around us evermore.

     I love the burning odors
       This glowing region gives;
     And, round each gilded lattice,
       The trembling, wreathing leaves;
     And, 'neath the bending palm-tree,
       The gayly gushing spring;
     And on the snow-white minaret,
       The stork with snowier wing.

     I love on mossy couch to sing
       A Spanish roundelay,
     And see my sweet companions
       Around commingling gay,â€"
     A roving band, light-hearted,
       In frolicsome array,â€"
     Who 'neath the screening parasols
       Dance down the merry day.
     But more than all enchanting
       At night, it is to me,
     To sit, where winds are sighing,
       Lone, musing by the sea;
     And, on its surface gazing,
       To mark the moon so fair,
     Her silver fan outspreading,
       In trembling radiance there.

     W.D., Tait's Edin. Magazine

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PIRATES' SONG by Victor Hugo
     ("Nous emmenions en esclavage.")

     {VIII., March, 1828.}
     We're bearing fivescore Christian dogs
       To serve the cruel drivers:
     Some are fair beauties gently born,
       And some rough coral-divers.
     We hardy skimmers of the sea
       Are lucky in each sally,
     And, eighty strong, we send along
       The dreaded Pirate Galley.

     A nunnery was spied ashore,
       We lowered away the cutter,
     And, landing, seized the youngest nun
       Ere she a cry could utter;
     Beside the creek, deaf to our oars,
       She slumbered in green alley,
     As, eighty strong, we sent along
       The dreaded Pirate Galley.

     "Be silent, darling, you must comeâ€"
       The wind is off shore blowing;
     You only change your prison dull
       For one that's splendid, glowing!
     His Highness doats on milky cheeks,
       So do not make us dally"â€"
     We, eighty strong, who send along
       The dreaded Pirate Galley.

     She sought to flee back to her cell,
       And called us each a devil!
     We dare do aught becomes Old Scratch,
       But like a treatment civil,
     So, spite of buffet, prayers, and callsâ€"
       Too late her friends to rallyâ€"
     We, eighty strong, bore her along
       Unto the Pirate Galley.

     The fairer for her tears profuse,
       As dews refresh the flower,
     She is well worth three purses full,
       And will adorn the bowerâ€"
     For vain her vow to pine and die
       Thus torn from her dear valley:
     She reigns, and we still row along
       The dreaded Pirate Galley.

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THE SCOURGE OF HEAVEN by Victor Hugo
     ("Là, voyez-vous passer, la nuée.")

     {I., November, 1828.}
     I.

     Hast seen it pass, that cloud of darkest rim?
     Now red and glorious, and now gray and dim,
         Now sad as summer, barren in its heat?
     One seems to see at once rush through the night
     The smoke and turmoil from a burning site
         Of some great town in fiery grasp complete.

     Whence comes it? From the sea, the hills, the sky?
     Is it the flaming chariot from on high
         Which demons to some planet seem to bring?
     Oh, horror! from its wondrous centre, lo!
     A furious stream of lightning seems to flow
         Like a long snake uncoiling its fell ring.

     II.

     The sea! naught but the sea! waves on all sides!
     Vainly the sea-bird would outstrip these tides!
         Naught but an endless ebb and flow!
     Wave upon wave advancing, then controlled
     Beneath the depths a stream the eyes behold
         Rolling in the involved abyss below!

     Whilst here and there great fishes in the spray
     Their silvery fins beneath the sun display,
         Or their blue tails lash up from out the surge,
     Like to a flock the sea its fleece doth fling;
     The horizon's edge bound by a brazen ring;
         Waters and sky in mutual azure merge.

     "Am I to dry these seas?" exclaimed the cloud.
     "No!" It went onward 'neath the breath of God.

     III.

       Green hills, which round a limpid bay
         Reflected, bask in the clear wave!
       The javelin and its buffalo prey,
         The laughter and the joyous stave!
       The tent, the manger! these describe
       A hunting and a fishing tribe
       Free as the airâ€"their arrows fly
       Swifter than lightning through the sky!
       By them is breathed the purest air,
         Where'er their wanderings may chance!
       Children and maidens young and fair,
         And warriors circling in the dance!
       Upon the beach, around the fire,
       Now quenched by wind, now burning higher,
       Like spirits which our dreams inspire
         To hover o'er our trance.

       Virgins, with skins of ebony,
         Beauteous as evening skies,
       Laughed as their forms they dimly see
         In metal mirrors rise;
       Others, as joyously as they,
       Were drawing for their food by day,
       With jet-black hands, white camels' whey,
         Camels with docile eyes.

       Both men and women, bare,
         Plunged in the briny bay.
       Who knows them? Whence they were?
         Where passed they yesterday?
       Shrill sounds were hovering o'er,
       Mixed with the ocean's roar,
       Of cymbals from the shore,
         And whinnying courser's neigh.

     "Is't there?" one moment asked the cloudy mass;
     "Is't there?" An unknown utterance answered: "Pass!"

     IV.

     Whitened with grain see Egypt's lengthened plains,
     Far as the eyesight farthest space contains,
         Like a rich carpet spread their varied hues.
     The cold sea north, southwards the burying sand
     Dispute o'er Egyptâ€"while the smiling land
         Still mockingly their empire does refuse.

     Three marble triangles seem to pierce the sky,
     And hide their basements from the curious eye.
         Mountainsâ€"with waves of ashes covered o'er!
     In graduated blocks of six feet square
     From golden base to top, from earth to air
         Their ever heightening monstrous steps they bore.

     No scorching blast could daunt the sleepless ken
     Of roseate Sphinx, and god of marble green,
         Which stood as guardians o'er the sacred ground.
     For a great port steered vessels huge and fleet,
     A giant city bathed her marble feet
         In the bright waters round.

     One heard the dread simoom in distance roar,
     Whilst the crushed shell upon the pebbly shore
         Crackled beneath the crocodile's huge coil.
     Westwards, like tiger's skin, each separate isle
     Spotted the surface of the yellow Nile;
         Gray obelisks shot upwards from the soil.

     The star-king set. The sea, it seemed to hold
     In the calm mirror this live globe of gold,
         This world, the soul and torchbearer of our own.
     In the red sky, and in the purple streak,
     Like friendly kings who would each other seek,
         Two meeting suns were shown.

     "Shall I not stop?" exclaimed the impatient cloud.
     "Seek!" trembling Tabor heard the voice of God.

     V.

     Sand, sand, and still more sand!
     The desert! Fearful land!
      Teeming with monsters dread
     And plagues on every hand!
     Here in an endless flow,
     Sandhills of golden glow,
     Where'er the tempests blow,
       Like a great flood are spread.
     Sometimes the sacred spot
     Hears human sounds profane, when
     As from Ophir or from Memphre
       Stretches the caravan.
     From far the eyes, its trail
     Along the burning shale
     Bending its wavering tail,
       Like a mottled serpent scan.
     These deserts are of God!
       His are the bounds alone,
     Here, where no feet have trod,
       To Him its centre known!
     And from this smoking sea
     Veiled in obscurity,
     The foam one seems to see
       In fiery ashes thrown.

     "Shall desert change to lake?" cried out the cloud.
     "Still further!" from heaven's depths sounded that Voice aloud.

     VI.

     Like tumbled waves, which a huge rock surround;
     Like heaps of ruined towers which strew the ground,
         See Babel now deserted and dismayed!
     Huge witness to the folly of mankind;
     Four distant mountains when the moonlight shined
         Seem covered with its shade.

     O'er miles and miles the shattered ruins spread
     Beneath its base, from captive tempests bred,
         The air seemed filled with harmony strange and dire;
     While swarmed around the entire human race
     A future Babel, on the world's whole space
         Fixed its eternal spire.

     Up to the zenith rose its lengthening stair,
     While each great granite mountain lent a share
         To form a stepping base;
     Height upon height repeated seemed to rise,
     For pyramid on pyramid the strainèd eyes
         Saw take their ceaseless place.

     Through yawning walls huge elephants stalked by;
     Under dark pillars rose a forestry,
         Pillars by madness multiplied;
     As round some giant hive, all day and night,
     Huge vultures, and red eagles' wheeling flight
         Was through each porch descried.

     "Must I complete it?" said the angered cloud.
     "On still!" "Lord, whither?" groaned it, deep not loud.

     VII.

     Two cities, strange, unknown in history's page,
     Up to the clouds seemed scaling, stage by stage,
     Noiseless their streets; their sleeping inmates lie,
     Their gods, their chariots, in obscurity!
     Like sisters sleeping 'neath the same moonlight,
     O'er their twin towers crept the shades of night,
     Whilst scarce distinguished in the black profound,
     Stairs, aqueducts, great pillars, gleamed around,
     And ruined capitals: then was seen a group
     Of granite elephants 'neath a dome to stoop,
     Shapeless, giant forms to view arise,
     Monsters around, the spawn of hideous ties!
     Then hanging gardens, with flowers and galleries:
     O'er vast fountains bending grew ebon-trees;
     Temples, where seated on their rich tiled thrones,
     Bull-headed idols shone in jasper stones;
     Vast halls, spanned by one block, where watch and stare
     Each upon each, with straight and moveless glare,
     Colossal heads in circles; the eye sees
     Great gods of bronze, their hands upon their knees.
     Sight seemed confounded, and to have lost its powers,
     'Midst bridges, aqueducts, arches, and round towers,
     Whilst unknown shapes fill up the devious views
     Formed by these palaces and avenues.
     Like capes, the lengthening shadows seem to rise
     Of these dark buildings, pointed to the skies,
     Immense entanglement in shroud of gloom!
     The stars which gleamed in the empyrean dome,
     Under the thousand arches in heaven's space
     Shone as through meshes of the blackest lace.
     Cities of hell, with foul desires demented,
     And monstrous pleasures, hour by hour invented!
     Each roof and home some monstrous mystery bore!
     Which through the world spread like a twofold sore!
     Yet all things slept, and scarce some pale late light
     Flitted along the streets through the still night,
     Lamps of debauch, forgotten and alone,
     The feast's lost fires left there to flicker on;
     The walls' large angles clove the light-lengthening shades
     'Neath the white moon, or on some pool's face played.
     Perchance one heard, faint in the plain beneath,
     The kiss suppressed, the mingling of the breath;
     And the two sister cities, tired of heat,
     In love's embrace lay down in murmurs sweet!
     Whilst sighing winds the scent of sycamore
     From Sodom to Gomorrah softly bore!
     Then over all spread out the blackened cloud,
     "'Tis here!" the Voice on high exclaimed aloud.

     VIII.

     From a cavern wide
     In the rent cloud's side,
     In sulphurous showers
     The red flame pours.
     The palaces fall
       In the lurid light,
     Which casts a red pall
       O'er their facades white!

     Oh, Sodom! Gomorrah!
     What a dome of horror
     Rests now on your walls!
     On you the cloud falls,
     Nation perverse!
       On your fated heads,
     From its fell jaws, a curse
       Its lightning fierce spreads!

     The people awaken
       Which godlessly slept;
     Their palaces shaken,
       Their offences unwept!
     Their rolling cars all
       Meet and crash in the street;
     And the crowds, for a pall,
       Find flames round their feet!

     Numberless dead,
     Round these high towers spread,
     Still sleep in the shade
     By their rugged heights made;
     Colossi of rocks
     In ill-steadied blocks!
     So hang on a wall
     Black ants, like a pall!

     To escape is in vain
     From this horrible rain!
       Alas! all things die;
     In the lightning's red flash
     The bridges all crash;
     'Neath the tiles the flame creeps;
     From the fire-struck steeps
     Falls on the pavements below,
     All lurid in glow,
       Rolling down from on high!

     Beneath every spark,
       The red, tyrannous fire
     Mounts up in the dark
       Ever redder and higher;
     More swiftly than steed
       Uncontrolled, see it pass!
         Horrid idols all twist,
         By the crumbling flame kissed
     In their infamous dread,
       Shrivelled members of brass!

     It grows angry, flows on,
     Silver towers fall down
     Unforeseen, like a dream
     In its green and red stream,
     Which lights up the walls
     Ere one crashes and falls,
     Like the changeable scale
     Of a lizard's bright mail.
     Agate, porphyry, cracks
     And is melted to wax!
     Bend low to their doom
     These stones of the tomb!
     E'en the great marble giant
     Called Nabo, sways pliant
     Like a tree; whilst the flare
       Seemed each column to scorch
       As it blazed like a torch
     Round and round in the air.

     The magi, in vain,
     From the heights to the plain
     Their gods' images carry
       In white tunic: they quakeâ€"
       No idol can make
     The blue sulphur tarry;
     The temple e'en where they meet,
     Swept under their feet
     In the folds of its sheet!
     Turns a palace to coal!
     Whence the straitened cries roll
     From its terrified flock;
       With incendiary grips
     It loosens a block,
       Which smokes and then slips
     From its place by the shock;
       To the surface first sheers,
       Then melts, disappears,
     Like the glacier, the rock!
     The high priest, full of years,
     On the burnt site appears,
       Whence the others have fled.
     Lo! his tiara's caught fire
     As the furnace burns higher,
       And pale, full of dread,
     See, the hand he would raise
     To tear his crown from the blaze
       Is flaming instead!

     Men, women, in crowds
     Hurry onâ€"the fire shrouds
       And blinds all their eyes
     As, besieging each gate
     Of these cities of fate
     To the conscience-struck crowd,
     In each fiery cloud,
       Hell appears in the skies!

     IX.

     Men say that then, to see his foe's sad fall
     As some old prisoner clings to his prison wall,
     Babel, accomplice of their guilt, was seen
     O'er the far hills to gaze with vision keen!
     And as was worked this dispensation strange,
     A wondrous noise filled the world's startled range;
     Reached the dull hearing that deep, direful sound
     Of their sad tribe who live below the ground.

     X.

     'Gainst this pitiless flame who condemned could prevail?
     Who these walls, burnt and calcined, could venture to scale?
         Yet their vile hands they sought to uplift,
     Yet they cared still to ask from what God, by what law?
     In their last sad embrace, 'midst their honor and awe,
         Of this mighty volcano the drift.
     'Neath great slabs of marble they hid them in vain,
     'Gainst this everliving fire, God's own flaming rain!
         'Tis the rash whom God seeks out the first;
     They call on their gods, who were deaf to their cries,
     For the punishing flame caused their cold granite eyes
         In tears of hot lava to burst!
     Thus away in the whirlwind did everything pass,
     The man and the city, the soil and its grass!
         God burnt this sad, sterile champaign;
     Naught living was left of this people destroyed,
     And the unknown wind which blew over the void,
         Each mountain changed into a plain.

     XI.

     The palm-tree that grows on the rock to this day,
     Feels its leaf growing yellow, its slight stem decay,
         In the blasting and ponderous air;
     These towns are no more! but to mirror their past,
     O'er their embers a cold lake spread far and spread fast,
         With smoke like a furnace, lies there!

     J.N. FAZAKERLEY


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THE PERI by Vicror Hugo
     Beautiful spirit, come with me
     Over the blue enchanted sea:
       Morn and evening thou canst play
     In my garden, where the breeze
     Warbles through the fruity trees;
       No shadow falls upon the day:
     There thy mother's arms await
     Her cherished infant at the gate.
     Of Peris I the loveliest farâ€"
     My sisters, near the morning star,
     In ever youthful bloom abide;
     But pale their lustre by my sideâ€"
     A silken turban wreathes my head,
     Rubies on my arms are spread,
     While sailing slowly through the sky,
     By the uplooker's dazzled eye
     Are seen my wings of purple hue,
     Glittering with Elysian dew.
       Whiter than a far-off sail
         My form of beauty glows,
       Fair as on a summer night
       Dawns the sleep star's gentle light;
         And fragrant as the early rose
       That scents the green Arabian vale,
         Soothing the pilgrim as he goes.

     THE FAY.

     Beautiful infant (said the Fay),
       In the region of the sun
     I dwell, where in a rich array
     The clouds encircle the king of day,
       His radiant journey done.
     My wings, pure golden, of radiant sheen
       (Painted as amorous poet's strain),
     Glimmer at night, when meadows green
       Sparkle with the perfumed rain
       While the sun's gone to come again.
     And clear my hand, as stream that flows;
       And sweet my breath as air of May;
       And o'er my ivory shoulders stray
       Locks of sunshine;â€"tunes still play
     From my odorous lips of rose.

     Follow, follow! I have caves
     Of pearl beneath the azure waves,
     And tents all woven pleasantly
     In verdant glades of Faëry.
     Come, belovèd child, with me,
     And I will bear thee to the bowers
     Where clouds are painted o'er like flowers,
     And pour into thy charmed ear
     Songs a mortal may not hear;
       Harmonies so sweet and ripe
       As no inspired shepherd's pipe
       E'er breathed into Arcadian glen,
       Far from the busy haunts of men.

     THE PERI.

     My home is afar in the bright Orient,
     Where the sun, like a king, in his orange tent,
     Reigneth for ever in gorgeous prideâ€"
       And wafting thee, princess of rich countree,
       To the soft flute's lush melody,
     My golden vessel will gently glide,
     Kindling the water 'long the side.

     Vast cities are mine of power and delight,
       Lahore laid in lilies, Golconda, Cashmere;
     And Ispahan, dear to the pilgrim's sight,
       And Bagdad, whose towers to heaven uprear;
       Alep, that pours on the startled ear,
     From its restless masts the gathering roar,
     As of ocean hamm'ring at night on the shore.

     Mysore is a queen on her stately throne,
       Thy white domes, Medina, gleam on the eye,â€"
         Thy radiant kiosques with their arrowy spires,
         Shooting afar their golden fires
           Into the flashing sky,â€"
     Like a forest of spears that startle the gaze
     Of the enemy with the vivid blaze.

     Come there, beautiful child, with me,
     Come to the arcades of Araby,
     To the land of the date and the purple vine,
     Where pleasure her rosy wreaths doth twine,
     And gladness shall be alway thine;
     Singing at sunset next thy bed,
     Strewing flowers under thy head.
       Beneath a verdant roof of leaves,
         Arching a flow'ry carpet o'er,
       Thou mayst list to lutes on summer eves
         Their lays of rustic freshness pour,
         While upon the grassy floor
       Light footsteps, in the hour of calm,
       Ruffle the shadow of the palm.

     THE FAY.

     Come to the radiant homes of the blest,
     Where meadows like fountain in light are drest,
     And the grottoes of verdure never decay,
     And the glow of the August dies not away.
     Come where the autumn winds never can sweep,
     And the streams of the woodland steep thee in sleep,
     Like a fond sister charming the eyes of a brother,
     Or a little lass lulled on the breast of her mother.
     Beautiful! beautiful! hasten to me!
     Colored with crimson thy wings shall be;
     Flowers that fade not thy forehead shall twine,
     Over thee sunlight that sets not shall shine.

     The infant listened to the strain,
     Now here, now there, its thoughts were drivenâ€"
       But the Fay and the Peri waited in vain,
       The soul soared above such a sensual gainâ€"
     The child rose to Heaven.

     Asiatic Journal

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MADELAINE by Victor Hugo
     ("Ecoute-moi, Madeline.")

     {IX., September, 1825.}
     List to me, O Madelaine!
     Now the snows have left the plain,
         Which they warmly cloaked.
     Come into the forest groves,
     Where the notes that Echo loves
         Are from horns evoked.

     Come! where Springtide, Madelaine,
     Brings a sultry breath from Spain,
       Giving buds their hue;
     And, last night, to glad your eye,
     Laid the floral marquetry,
       Red and gold and blue.

     Would I were, O Madelaine,
     As the lamb whose wool you train
       Through your tender hands.
     Would I were the bird that whirls
     Round, and comes to peck your curls,
       Happy in such bands.

     Were I e'en, O Madelaine,
     Hermit whom the herd disdain
       In his pious cell,
     When your purest lips unfold
     Sins which might to all be told,
       As to him you tell.

     Would I were, O Madelaine,
     Moth that murmurs 'gainst your pane,
       Peering at your rest,
     As, so like its woolly wing,
     Ceasing scarce its fluttering,
       Heaves and sinks your breast.

     If you seek it, Madelaine,
     You may wish, and not in vain,
       For a serving host,
     And your splendid hall of state
     Shall be envied by the great,
       O'er the Jew-King's boast.

     If you name it, Madelaine,
     Round your head no more you'll train
       Simple marguerites,
     No! the coronet of peers,
     Whom the queen herself oft fears,
       And the monarch greets.
     If you wish, O Madelaine!
     Where you gaze you long shall reignâ€"
       For I'm ruler here!
     I'm the lord who asks your hand
     If you do not bid me stand
       Loving shepherd here!

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BATTLE OF THE NORSEMEN AND THE GAELS by Victor Hugo
     ("Accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!")

     {VII., September, 1825.}
     Ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey!
     Ye wolves of war, make no delay!
     For foemen 'neath our blades shall fall
     Ere night may veil with purple pall.
     The evening psalms are nearly o'er,
       And priests who follow in our train
       Have promised us the final gain,
     And filled with faith our valiant corps.

     Let orphans weep, and widows brood!
     To-morrow we shall wash the blood
     Off saw-gapped sword and lances bent,
     So, close the ranks and fire the tent!
     And chill yon coward cavalcade
       With brazen bugles blaring loud,
       E'en though our chargers' neighing proud
     Already has the host dismayed.

     Spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds!
     On Gaelic spear the Northman bounds!
     Through helmet plumes the arrows flit,
     And plated breasts the pikeheads split.
     The double-axe fells human oaks,
       And like the thistles in the field
       See bristling up (where none must yield!)
     The points hewn off by sweeping strokes!

     We, heroes all, our wounds disdain;
     Dismounted now, our horses slain,
     Yet we advanceâ€"more courage show,
     Though stricken, seek to overthrow
     The victor-knights who tread in mud
       The writhing slaves who bite the heel,
       While on caparisons of steel
     The maces thunderâ€"cudgels thud!

     Should daggers fail hide-coats to shred,
     Seize each your man and hug him dead!
     Who falls unslain will only make
     A mouthful to the wolves who slake
     Their month-whet thirst.  No captives, none!
       We die or win! but should we die,
       The lopped-off hand will wave on high
     The broken brand to hail the sun!

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THE CYMBALEER'S BRIDE by Victor Hugo
     ("Monseigneur le Duc de Bretagne.")

     {VI., October, 1825.}
     My lord the Duke of Brittany
         Has summoned his barons boldâ€"
     Their names make a fearful litany!
     Among them you will not meet any
         But men of giant mould.

     Proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep,
         And steel-clad knight and peer,
     Whose forts are girt with a moat cut deepâ€"
     But none excel in soldiership
         My own loved cymbaleer.

     Clashing his cymbals, forth he went,
         With a bold and gallant bearing;
     Sure for a captain he was meant,
     To judge his pride with courage blent,
         And the cloth of gold he's wearing.

     But in my soul since then I feel
         A fear in secret creeping;
     And to my patron saint I kneel,
     That she may recommend his weal
         To his guardian-angel's keeping.

     I've begged our abbot Bernardine
         His prayers not to relax;
     And to procure him aid divine
     I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine
         Three pounds of virgin wax.

     Our Lady of Loretto knows
         The pilgrimage I've vowed:
     "To wear the scallop I propose,
     If health and safety from the foes
         My lover be allowed."

     No letter (fond affection's gage!)
         From him could I require,
     The pain of absence to assuageâ€"
     A vassal-maid can have no page,
         A liegeman has no squire.

     This day will witness, with the duke's,
         My cymbaleer's return:
     Gladness and pride beam in my looks,
     Delay my heart impatient brooks,
         All meaner thoughts I spurn.

     Back from the battlefield elate
         His banner brings each peer;
     Come, let us see, at the ancient gate,
     The martial triumph pass in stateâ€"
         With the princes my cymbaleer.

     We'll have from the rampart walls a glance
         Of the air his steed assumes;
     His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance,
     And on his head unceasing dance,
         In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes!

     Be quick, my sisters! dress in haste!
         Come, see him bear the bell,
     With laurels decked, with true love graced,
     While in his bold hands, fitly placed,
         The bounding cymbals swell!

     Mark well the mantle that he'll wear,
         Embroidered by his bride!
     Admire his burnished helmet's glare,
     O'ershadowed by the dark horsehair
         That waves in jet folds wide!

     The gypsy (spiteful wench!) foretold,
         With a voice like a viper hissing.
     (Though I had crossed her palm with gold),
     That from the ranks a spirit bold
         Would be to-day found missing.

     But I have prayed so much, I trust
         Her words may prove untrue;
     Though in a tomb the hag accurst
     Muttered: "Prepare thee for the worst!"
         Whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue.

     My joy her spells shall not prevent.
         Hark! I can hear the drums!
     And ladies fair from silken tent
     Peep forth, and every eye is bent
         On the cavalcade that comes!

     Pikemen, dividing on both flanks,
         Open the pageantry;
     Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks,
     And silk-robed barons lead the ranksâ€"
         The pink of gallantry!

     In scarfs of gold the priests admire;
         The heralds on white steeds;
     Armorial pride decks their attire,
     Worn in remembrance of some sire
         Famed for heroic deeds.

     Feared by the Paynim's dark divan,
         The Templars next advance;
     Then the tall halberds of Lausanne,
     Foremost to stand in battle van
         Against the foes of France.

     Now hail the duke, with radiant brow,
         Girt with his cavaliers;
     Round his triumphant banner bow
     Those of his foe. Look, sisters, now!
         Here come the cymbaleers!

     She spokeâ€"with searching eye surveyed
         Their ranksâ€"then, pale, aghast,
     Sunk in the crowd! Death came in aidâ€"
     'Twas mercy to that loving maidâ€"
         The cymbaleers had passed!

     "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY)


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THE GIANT IN GLEE by Victor Hugo
     ("Ho, guerriers! je suis né dans le pays des Gaules.")

     {V., March 11, 1825.}
     Ho, warriors! I was reared in the land of the Gauls;
     O'er the Rhine my ancestors came bounding like balls
     Of the snow at the Pole, where, a babe, I was bathed
     Ere in bear and in walrus-skin I was enswathed.

     Then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow,â€"
     A bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow.
     He is weak, very oldâ€"he can scarcely uptear
     A young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear;

     But here's to replace him!â€"I can toy with his axe;
     As I sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax,
     And my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees.
     How they shiver, yea, quake if I happen to sneeze!

     I was still but a springald when, cleaving the Alps,
     I brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps,
     And my head, o'er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds,
     Where I captured the eagles and caged them by crowds.

     There were tempests! I blew them back into their source!
     And put out their lightnings! More than once in a course,
     Through the ocean I went wading after the whale,
     And stirred up the bottom as did never a gale.

     Fond of rambling, I hunted the shark 'long the beach,
     And no osprey in ether soared out of my reach;
     And the bear that I pinched 'twixt my finger and thumb,
     Like the lynx and the wolf, perished harmless and dumb.

     But these pleasures of childhood have lost all their zest;
     It is warfare and carnage that now I love best:
     The sounds that I wish to awaken and hear
     Are the cheers raised by courage, the shrieks due to fear;

     When the riot of flames, ruin, smoke, steel and blood,
     Announces an army rolls along as a flood,
     Which I follow, to harry the clamorous ranks,
     Sharp-goading the laggards and pressing the flanks,
     Till, a thresher 'mid ripest of corn, up I stand
     With an oak for a flail in my unflagging hand.

     Rise the groans! rise the screams! on my feet fall vain tears
     As the roar of my laughter redoubles their fears.
     I am naked. At armor of steel I should jokeâ€"
     True, I'm helmedâ€"a brass pot you could draw with ten yoke.

     I look for no ladder to invade the king's hallâ€"
     I stride o'er the ramparts, and down the walls fall,
     Till choked are the ditches with the stones, dead and quick,
     Whilst the flagstaff I use 'midst my teeth as a pick.

     Oh, when cometh my turn to succumb like my prey,
     May brave men my body snatch away from th' array
     Of the crowsâ€"may they heap on the rocks till they loom
     Like a mountain, befitting a colossus' tomb!

     Foreign Quarterly Review (adapted)

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THE GRANDMOTHER by Victor Hugo
     ("Dors-tu? mère de notre mère.")

     {III., 1823.}

     "To dieâ€"to sleep."â€"SHAKESPEARE.
     Still asleep! We have been since the noon thus alone.
         Oh, the hours we have ceased to number!
     Wake, grandmother!â€"speechless say why thou art grown.
     Then, thy lips are so cold!â€"the Madonna of stone
         Is like thee in thy holy slumber.
     We have watched thee in sleep, we have watched thee at prayer,
         But what can now betide thee?
     Like thy hours of repose all thy orisons were,
     And thy lips would still murmur a blessing whene'er
         Thy children stood beside thee.

     Now thine eye is unclosed, and thy forehead is bent
         O'er the hearth, where ashes smoulder;
     And behold, the watch-lamp will be speedily spent.
     Art thou vexed? have we done aught amiss? Oh, relent!
         Butâ€"parent, thy hands grow colder!
     Say, with ours wilt thou let us rekindle in thine
         The glow that has departed?
     Wilt thou sing us some song of the days of lang syne?
     Wilt thou tell us some tale, from those volumes divine,
         Of the brave and noble-hearted?

     Of the dragon who, crouching in forest green glen,
         Lies in wait for the unwaryâ€"
     Of the maid who was freed by her knight from the den
     Of the ogre, whose club was uplifted, but then
         Turned aside by the wand of a fairy?
     Wilt thou teach us spell-words that protect from all harm,
         And thoughts of evil banish?
     What goblins the sign of the cross may disarm?
     What saint it is good to invoke? and what charm
         Can make the demon vanish?

     Or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book,
         So feared by hell and Satan;
     At its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look,
     At the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook,
         And the hymns and the prayers in Latin.
     Oft with legends of angels, who watch o'er the young,
         Thy voice was wont to gladden;
     Have thy lips yet no languageâ€"no wisdom thy tongue?
     Oh, see! the light wavers, and sinking, bath flung
         On the wall forms that sadden.

     Wake! awake! evil spirits perhaps may presume
         To haunt thy holy dwelling;
     Pale ghosts are, perhaps, stealing into the roomâ€"
     Oh, would that the lamp were relit! with the gloom
         These fearful thoughts dispelling.
     Thou hast told us our parents lie sleeping beneath
         The grass, in a churchyard lonely:
     Now, thine eyes have no motion, thy mouth has no breath,
     And thy limbs are all rigid! Oh, say, Is this death,
         Or thy prayer or thy slumber only?

     ENVOY.

     Sad vigil they kept by that grandmother's chair,
         Kind angels hovered o'er themâ€"
     And the dead-bell was tolled in the hamletâ€"and there,
     On the following eve, knelt that innocent pair,
         With the missal-book before them.

     "FATHER PROUT" (FRANK S. MAHONY).


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THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD by Victor Hugo
     ("Oui, ce front, ce sourire.")

     {Bk. V. xxii., November, 1825.}
     That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair,
       Beseem my child, who weeps and plays:
       A heavenly spirit guards her ways,
     From whom she stole that mixture rare.
       Through all her features shining mild,
     The poet sees an angel there,
       The father sees a child.

     And by their flame so pure and bright,
       We see how lately those sweet eyes
       Have wandered down from Paradise,
     And still are lingering in its light.

     All earthly things are but a shade
       Through which she looks at things above,
     And sees the holy Mother-maid,
       Athwart her mother's glance of love.

     She seems celestial songs to hear,
     And virgin souls are whispering near.
       Till by her radiant smile deceived,
         I say, "Young angel, lately given,
       When was thy martyrdom achieved?
         And what name lost thou bear in heaven?"

     Dublin University Magazine.

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BELOVED NAME by Victor Hugo
     ("Le parfum d'un lis.")

     {Bk. V. xiii.}
     The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light,
       The latest murmur of departing day,
     Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight,
     The mystic farewell of each hour at flight,
       The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay,â€"

     The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow
       As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun;
     The thrilling accent of a voice we know,
     The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow,
       An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run,â€"

     The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh,
       Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame,â€"
     The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die,â€"
     The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie,
       Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME!

     Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine,
       Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound;
     Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine,
     The sacred word which at some hidden shrine,
       The selfsame voice forever makes resound!

     O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame,
       My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide,
     With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim,
     Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name,
     Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,â€"

     Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing,
       Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear;
     To solemn harmonies attuned the string,
     As, music show'ring from his viewless wing,
       On heavenly airs some angel hovered near.

     CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY)

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THE MORNING OF LIFE by Victor Hugo
     ("Le voile du matin.")

     {Bk. V. viii., April, 1822.}
     The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks,
       Old towers gleam white in the ray,
     And already the glory so joyously seeks
       The lark that's saluting the day.

     Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair,
       Though, were you swept hence in the night,
     From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare
       At the sun rising newly as bright.

     But out of earth's trammels your soul would have flown
       Where glitters Eternity's stream,
     And you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown,
       As sunshine disperses a dream.


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REGRET by Victor Hugo
     ("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passé.")

     {Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.}
     Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!
       Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when
     We've sunk to rest within its arms entwined,
     Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find
       Ourselves alone again.

     Then, through the distant future's boundless space,
       We seek the lost companion of our days:
     "Return, return!" we cry, and lo, apace
     Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place
       Of that we mourn always.

     I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now,
       Will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "Begone!
     Respect the cypress on my mournful brow,
     Lost Happiness hath left regretâ€"but thou
       Leavest remorse, alone."

     Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire,
       O friends, that in your revelry appears!
     With you I'll breathe the air which ye respire,
     And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre
       When it is wet with tears.

     Each in his secret heart perchance doth own
       Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed;â€"
     Sufferers alike together and alone
     Are we; with many a grief to others known,
       How many unrevealed!

     Alas! for natural tears and simple pains,
       For tender recollections, cherished long,
     For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains,
     We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains
       Only for sport and song!

     Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace:
       In vain I strove their parting to delay;
     Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space,
     Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face
       Lightens, and fades away.

     Fraser's Magazine

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MANILA â€" Bohol’s Panglao Island is planning to reopen its shores to tourists in the fourth quarter of 2020, once its local government unit (LGU) finalizes preparations for health and safety protocols, Tourism Secretary Bernadette Romulo-Puyat said.

"As of now, the target is the last quarter of the year as long as (the tourists are) from MGCQ (modified general community quarantine) areas. (It's a) last quarter opening but Panglao Island only," Romulo-Puyat told the Philippine News Agency (PNA) in a text message.

The announcement came after her consultative meeting with the Bohol LGU and Interior Secretary Eduardo Año on Friday.

Romulo-Puyat also shared that the Department of Tourism (DOT) has been discussing a possible travel corridor with countries with low cases of the coronavirus disease 2019.

"We've been having informal talks together with the Department of Foreign Affairs, with Korea, with Japan but, of course, everything is fluid. We've already been talking that once travel restrictions have been lifted, we can already talk about direct flights," she said.

In a virtual presser, Bohol Governor Arthur Yap said all tourism establishments that wish to reopen would be required to secure an Ultimate Bohol Experience (UBE) Seal on top of DOT's accreditation.

This Bohol-specific seal would cover an establishment's compliance with the province’s sewage treatment plant requirements and carrying capacity, even the use of renewable energy.

"We want to check their (energy) footprint because that is what Bohol is all about. It's about sustainable eco-agri-tourism so we want to protect our patrimony to make sure that this is going to be here for ages to come. I think it is a surmountable requirement," Yap said, referring to the soon-to-be-required UBE accreditation. (PNA)

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macabre
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

macabre /məˈkÉ'ːbr(É™)  /
â–¸ adjective disturbing because concerned with or causing a fear of death:
a macabre series of murders.
â€" ORIGIN late 19th century : from French macabre, from Danse Macabre ‘dance of death’, from Old French, perhaps from Macabé ‘a Maccabee’, with reference to a miracle play depicting the slaughter of the Maccabees.


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mac
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

mac1 /mak  /
â–¸ noun [mass noun] informal macaroni:
his daily yearning for mac and cheese.
â€" ORIGIN 1930s : abbreviation.


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Mac
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

Mac2 /mak  /
â–¸ noun North American informal a form of address for a man whose name is unknown to the speaker:
haven't seen you for a while, Mac.
â€" ORIGIN early 17th century (originally a form of address to a Scotsman): from Mac-, a patronymic prefix in many Scots and Irish surnames.


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Mac(1)
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English  -

Mac1 /mak  /
â–¸ noun trademark a type of personal computer.
â€" ORIGIN 1980s : from Macintosh, the brand name of a range of computers manufactured by Apple Inc.; the range was named after a variety of dessert apple (see McIntosh).


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Mabuse, Jan
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English  -

Mabuse, Jan /məˈbuːsÉ™  , məˈbuːz/
(c. 1478â€"c. 1533) , Flemish painter; Flemish name Jan Gossaert. He was one of the first artists to disseminate the Italian style in the Netherlands.


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Mabo
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

Mabo /ˈmÉ'ːbəʊ  /
â–¸ noun used in reference to the 1992 ruling of the High Court of Australia that Aboriginal claims on land supersede Crown sovereignty and white settlement:
since Mabo, Australia effectively has two land tenure systems.
â€" ORIGIN 1990s : from the name of Eddie Mabo (1936â€"92), a principal claimant in a legal test case of 1992 that established tenure in relation to the Meriam people.


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Mabinogion
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English  -

Mabinogion /ËŒmabɪˈnÉ'ɡɪən  , ËŒmabɪˈnəʊɡɪən/
a collection of Welsh prose tales of the 11thâ€"13th centuries, dealing with Celtic legends and mythology.
â€" ORIGIN from Welsh Mabinogi ‘instruction for young bards’.


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mabela
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

mabela /məˈbiːlÉ™  / (also mabele)
â–¸ noun [mass noun] South African sorghum of a variety grown in southern Africa, used for making porridge and beer.
meal or porridge made from mabela.
â€" ORIGIN early 19th century : compare with Zulu and Xhosa amabele, plural of ibele.


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maban
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

maban /ˈmÉ'ːban  /
â–¸ noun
(plural same or mabans)
Australian an Aboriginal healer believed to have spiritual powers:
if the cause is believed to be supernatural, assistance is sought from a maban
sorcery was still practised by maban well into the 1930s.
â€" ORIGIN early 20th century : probably from an Aboriginal language of the Pilbara region.


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Maat
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English  - download from

Maat /mÉ'ːt  / Egyptian Mythology
the goddess of truth, justice, and cosmic order, daughter of the sun god Ra. She is depicted as a young and beautiful woman, standing or seated, with a feather on her head.


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Maastricht Treaty
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

Maastricht Treaty
a treaty on European economic and monetary union, agreed by the heads of government of the twelve member states of the European Community at a summit meeting in Maastricht in December 1991. Ratification was completed in October 1993.


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Maastricht
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English  - download from:

Maastricht /ˈmÉ'ːstrɪxt  /
an industrial city in the Netherlands, capital of the province of Limburg, situated on the River Maas near the Belgian and German borders; population 118,004 (2008).


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maasbanker
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

maasbanker /mÉ'ːsˈbaÅ‹kÉ™  /
â–¸ noun
(plural same or maasbankers)
South African another term for horse mackerel.
â€" ORIGIN from Dutch marsbanker.


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maar
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

maar /mÉ'ː  /
â–¸ noun Geology a broad, shallow crater, typically filled by a lake, formed by a volcanic eruption with little lava.
â€" ORIGIN early 19th century : from German dialect, originally denoting a kind of crater lake in the Eifel district of Germany.


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As Christian witnesses, we need to be creative, and always ready to seize an opportunity for Jesus. The current pandemic has brought fear to a lot of people.

Evangelist, Tim Berends, has been passing out Chick tracts since 1973, and has a personal goal to pass out 300 tracts a day in one of the most difficult places of all . . . Las Vegas. Everyone there has something besides Jesus on their mind.

Berends recently discovered a title that people cannot resist. He says, “In light of what is happening hardly ANYBODY turns me down.” The tract? It’s entitled, “PLAGUES”. Since the President actually called COVID-19 a plague, the word has been on people’s minds, and they want to read about it.

The Bible describes a series of plagues that devastated another nation â€"Egypt.

And why was Egypt destroyed? They failed to listen to the words of God brought to them by Moses. If the Egyptians had repented, then they would have avoided the death and destruction of their nation.

One recent survey indicated that less than 10% of Americans regularly go to the Bible for guidance in life. Is it possible that today's trouble is for the same reason as Egypt’s problems?

For over a decade, “Plagues” has been available only as a custom print title (10,000 copy minimum). But in view of the plague affecting the world, and our belief that people will respond, we are bringing this title back into stock for a limited time. You can now order this tract in packages of 25 (or discounted cases of 1,000) as needed during this limited time offer. - www.chick.com for Gospel tract distribution

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Maldives Pictures by Pixabay website
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Maldives Photos by Pixabay

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Maldives Tourism Photos from Pixabay Stockphotography

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Maldives Images by Pixabay
Billions of dollars is lost due to Covid-19 scam

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Maldives Pictures from Pixabay site. Covid-19 halts the tourism industry

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Maldives Photos from Pixabay
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Maldives Affected by Covid-19 Virus

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Maldives Travel Industry Photos
Pictures by Pixabay

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Maldives Tourism Industry

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Maldives Travel Industry
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www.agoda.com - For most convenient hotel booking

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Maldives Tourism Attraction by Pixabay

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Maldives Images by Pixabay

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Maldives Pictures by Pixabay

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Maldives Photos by Pixabay


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Maldives Tourism Before Covid Pandemic

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www.agoda.com - For hotel booking

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Stanford University Campus

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Glimpse of Stanford University

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Photos of Stanford University Campus

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Harvard University Images

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Harvard University Pictures

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Harvard University Photos

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Glimpse of Harvard University Campus and its Buildings

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Amphipolis
AMPHIPOLIS

A city of Macedonia, situated not far from the mouth of the river Strymon, which flowed "around the city," and thus occasioned its name. The village which now stands upon the site of the ancient city is called Empoli of Yamboli, a corruption of Amphipolis. It was visited by Paul and Silas, Acts 17:1.

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Hierapolis in the Ancient Times, a bygone era. Photos and images of what is left in a city in ruins. Pictures grabbed from Pixabay website/photo app.

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Hierapolis in Ancient Times
Photos and Images of the City in Ruins (pictures courtesy of Pixabay website)

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Hierapolis
HIERAPOLIS

A city of Phrygia, situated on its western border, near the junction of the rivers Lycus and Meander, and not far from Colosses and Laodicea. It was celebrated for its warm springs and baths. A Christian church was early established here, and enjoyed the ministrations of the faithful Epaphras, Col 4:12, 13. The city is now desolate, but its ruins still exhibit many traces of its ancient splendor. Among them are the remains of three churches, a theatre, a gymnasium, and many sepulchral monuments. The white front of the cliffs, above which the city lay, has given it its present name of Pamluke-kaleh, the Cotton Castle.



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Abomination of Desolation
ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION

The ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION foretold by, Da 9:27 denotes, probably, the image of Jupiter, erected in the temple of Jerusalem by command of Antiochus Epiphanes. But by the Abomination of Desolation spoken of by our Lord, Mt 24:15; Mr 13:14, and foretold as about to be seen at Jerusalem during the last siege of that city by the Romans under Titus, is probably meant the Roman army, whose standards had the images of their gods and emperors upon them, and were worshipped in the precincts of the temple when that and the city were taken. Lu 21:20. See ARMOR.

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Psalms 1
 1  惡人之謀弗從、罪人之é€"弗履、侮æ...¢è€...之位弗å±...、斯人å...¶æœ‰ç¦å...®ã€

 2  惟以耶å'Œè¯ä¹‹å¾‹ç,ºæ,...、思之維之、夜以繼日、

 3  譬彼林木、植於溪旁、屆æ™,結果、å...¶è'‰ä¸æ§ã€ç™¾äº‹é †æ˜Œã€

 4  惡人不ç,,¶ã€ä¹ƒçŒ¶ç²ƒç³ ã€ç,ºé¢¨é£,,揚、

 5  æ•...於鞫æ™,、惡人不å...‹ç«‹ã€ç¾©äººæœƒä¸­ã€ç½ªäººä¸å¾—å...¥ã€

 6  義è€...之é€"、ç,ºè€¶å'Œè¯æ‰€è­˜ã€æƒ¡è€...之é€"、çµ,å¿...泯æ»...、

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Sanitary Measures for Public Transport

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Flower Beach Resort
Barangay Virgen, Anda, Bohol, Philippines
#PandemicTime

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White sand beach in Anda, Bohol, Philippines

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Babism
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

Babism /ˈbÉ'ːbɪz(É™)m  /
â–¸ noun [mass noun] a religion founded in 1844 by the Persian Mirza Ali Muhammad of Shiraz (1819â€"50) (popularly known as ‘the Bab’), who taught that a new prophet would follow Muhammad. See also Baha'i.
â€" ORIGIN mid 19th century : via Persian from Arabic bāb ‘intermediary’, literally ‘gate’ (taken as a name by the founder) + -ism.


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babirusa
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

babirusa /ËŒbÉ'ːbɪˈruːsÉ™  /
â–¸ noun a forest-dwelling wild pig with several upturned hornlike tusks, native to Malaysia.
Babyrousa babyrussa, family Suidae.
â€" ORIGIN late 17th century : from Malay, from babi ‘hog’ + rusa ‘deer’.


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babiche
definition from
Oxford Dictionary of English

babiche /bəˈbiːʃ  /
â–¸ noun [mass noun] raw hide, typically formed into strips, as used by North American Indians for making fastenings and animal snares.
â€" ORIGIN early 19th century : from Canadian French, from Micmac a:papi:č.


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NERO'S INCENDIARY SONG by Victor Hugo
     ("Amis! ennui nous tue.")

     {Bk. IV. xv., March, 1825.}
     Aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred,
     Come to the novel feast I spread, thrice-consul, Nero, lord,
     The Caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony,
     Who plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy.

     My joyful call should instantly bring all who love me most,â€"
     For ne'er were seen such arch delights from Greek or Roman host;
     Nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite of cynic vaunts,
     Austere but lenient Seneca no "Ercles" bumper daunts;

     Nor where upon the Tiber floats Aglae in galley gay,
     'Neath Asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous array;
     Nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy prefect flings
     A score of slaves, their fetters wreathed, to feed grim, greedy
     things.

     I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the whole town in a mass;
     Upon this tower we'll take our stand to watch the 'wildered pass;
     How paltry fights of men and beasts! here be my combatants,â€"
     The Seven Hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead the dance.

     This is more meet for him who rules to drive away his stressâ€"
     He, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wildernessâ€"
     But, haste! for night is darklingâ€"soon, the festival it brings;
     Already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre wings,

     And mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling breaths;
     They tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted deaths;
     And 'neath caresses scorching hot the palaces decayâ€"
     Oh, that I, too, could thus caress, and burn, and blight, and slay!

     Hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes! Are those real men or ghosts?
     The stillness spreads of Death abroadâ€"down come the temple posts,
     Their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with silver waves
     To leap with hiss of thousand snakes where Tiber writhes and raves.

     All's lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues totterâ€"crash!
     Spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust and ash.
     The victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north winds sound the horn
     To goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn.

     Proud capital! farewell for e'er! these flames nought can subdueâ€"
     The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a bridge o'er hellish brew.
     'Tis Nero's whim! how good to see Rome brought the lowest down;
     Yet, Queen of all the earth, give thanks for such a splendrous crown!

     When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule to thee;
     That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent knee.
     Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this "immortal star"
     Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanishedâ€"oh, how far!

     How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark!
     The youth who fired Ephesus' fane falls low beneath my mark.
     The pangs of peopleâ€"when I sport, what matters?â€"See them whirl
     About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl.

     Take from my brow this poor rose-crownâ€"the flames have made it pine;
     If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with Cretan wine!
     I like not overmuch that redâ€"good taste says "gild a crime?"
     "To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs" isâ€"thanks! a hint sublime!

     I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she not offer prayers
     Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ?â€"to e'en a Jew, she dares!
     Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all;
     Alone I restâ€"except this pile, I leave no single hall.

     Yet I destroy to build anew, and Rome shall fairer shineâ€"
     But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not divine.
     The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all completeâ€"
     And, slaves, bring in fresh rosesâ€"what odor is more sweet?

     H.L. WILLIAMS

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THE GIRL OF OTAHEITE by Victor Hugo
     ("O! dis-moi, tu veux fuir?")

     {Bk. IV, vii., Jan. 31, 1821.}
     Forget? Can I forget the scented breath
       Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear;
     The strange awaking from a dream of death,
       The sudden thrill to find thee coming near?
       Our huts were desolate, and far away
       I heard thee calling me throughout the day,
         No one had seen thee pass,
         Trembling I came. Alas!
                 Can I forget?

     Once I was beautiful; my maiden charms
       Died with the grief that from my bosom fell.
     Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms!
       Let there be no regrets and no farewell!
         Here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow,
         Here of thy fatherland we whispered low;
           Here, music, praise, and prayer
           Filled the glad summer air.
                 Can I forget?

     Forget? My dear old home must I forget?
       And wander forth and hear my people weep,
     Far from the woods where, when the sun has set,
       Fearless but weary to thy arms I creep;
         Far from lush flow'rets and the palm-tree's moan
         I could not live. Here let me rest alone!
           Go! I must follow nigh,
           With thee I'm doomed to die,
                 Never forget!

     CLEMENT SCOTT

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