Ballads of Bravery
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The Recantation of Galileo
FAR ’neath the glorious light of the noontide,In a damp dungeon a prisoner lay,Aged and feeble, his failing years numbered,Waiting the fate to be brought him that day.Silence, oppressive with darkness, held durance;Death in the living, or living in death;Crouched on the granite, and burdened with fetters,Inhaling slow poison with each labored breath.O’er the damp floor of his dungeon there glistenedFaintly the rays of a swift-nearing light;Then the sweet jingle of keys, that soon openedThe door, and revealed a strange scene to his sight.In the red glare of the flickering torches,Held by the gray-gowned soldiers of God,Gathered a group that the world will rememberLong ages after we sleep ’neath the sod.Draped in their robes of bright scarlet and purple,Bearing aloft the gold emblems of Rome,Stood the chief priests of the papal dominion,Under the shadow of Peter’s proud dome,By the infallible pontiff commanded,From his own lips their directions received;Sent to demand of the wise GalileoDenial of all the great truths he believed, —Before the whole world to give up his convictions,Because the great church said the world had not moved;Then to swear, before God, that his science was idle,And truth was unknown to the facts he had proved.So, loosing his shackles, they bade the sage listenTo words from the mouth of the vicar of God:“Recant thy vile doctrines, and life we will give thee:Adhere, and thy road to the grave is soon trod!”His doctrines – the truth, as proud Rome has acknowledged —On low, bended knee, in that vault he renounced;Yet with joy in their eyes, the high-priests retiring,“Confinement for life,” as his sentence pronounced.But as they left him, their malice rekindledFires that their threats had subdued in his breast:Clanking his chains, with fierce ardor he muttered,“But it does move, and tyrants can ne’er make it rest.”Belshazzar
THE midnight hour was drawing on;Flushed in repose lay Babylon;But in the palace of the kingThe herd of courtiers shout and sing.There, in his royal banquet hall,Belshazzar holds high festival.The servants sit in glittering rows,The beakers are drained, the red wine flows;The beakers clash and the servants sing, —A pleasing sound to the moody king.The king’s cheeks flush and his wild eyes shine,His spirit waxes bold with wine,Until, by maddening passion stung,He scoffs at God with impious tongue;And his proud heart swells as he wildly raves,’Mid shouts of applause from his fawning slaves.He spoke the word, and his eyes flashed flame!The ready servants went and came;Vessels of massive gold they bore,Of Jehovah’s temple the plundered store.Then seizing a consecrated cup,The king in his fury fills it up;He fills, and hastily drains it dry;From his foaming lips leaps forth the cry,“Jehovah, at Thee my scorn I fling!I am Belshazzar, Babylon’s king.”Yet scarce had the impious words been said,When the king’s heart shrank with secret dread;Suddenly died the shout and yell,A deathlike hush on the tumult fell.And see! and see! on the white wall highThe form of a hand went slowly by,And wrote – and wrote in sight of allLetters of fire upon the wall!The king sat still, with a stony look,His trembling knees with terror shook;The menial throng nor spoke nor stirred;Fear froze the blood, – no sound was heard.The magicians came, but none of allCould read the writing on the wall.At length to solve those words of flame,Fearless, but meek, the prophet came.One glance he gave, and all was clear.“King! there is reason in thy fear.Those words proclaim, thy empire ends,The day of woe and wrath impends.Weighed in the balance, wanting found,Thou and thy empire strike the ground!”That night, by the servants of his train,Belshazzar, the mighty king, was slain!Liberty
WITH what pride I usedTo walk these hills, and look up to my God,And bless him that it was so! I lovedIts very storms. I have satIn my boat at night when, midway o’er the lake,The stars went out, and down the mountain gorgeThe wind came roaring. I have sat and eyedThe thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiledTo see him shake his lightnings o’er my head,And think I had no master save his own.You know the jutting cliff round which a trackUp hither winds, whose base is but the browTo such another one, with scanty roomFor two abreast to pass? O’ertaken thereBy the mountain blast, I’ve laid me flat along,And while gust followed gust more furiously,As if to sweep me o’er the horrid brink,And I have thought of other lands, whose stormsAre summer flaws to those of mine, and justHave wished me there – the thought that mine was freeHas checked that wish; and I have raised my head,And cried in thraldrom to that furious wind,Blow on! This is the land of liberty!The Fishermen
HURRAH! the seaward breezesSweep down the bay amain.Heave up, my lads, the anchor!Run up the sail again!Leave to the lubber landsmenThe rail-car and the steed;The stars of heaven shall guide us,The breath of heaven shall speed.From the hill-top looks the steeple,And the lighthouse from the sand;And the scattered pines are wavingTheir farewell from the land.One glance, my lads, behind us,For the homes we leave one sigh,Ere we take the change and chancesOf the ocean and the sky.Now, brothers, for the icebergsOf frozen Labrador,Floating spectral in the moonshine,Along the low, black shore!Where like snow the gannet’s feathersOn Brador’s rocks are shed,And the noisy murr are flying,Like black scuds, overhead;Where in mist the rock is hiding,And the sharp reef lurks below,And the white squall smites in summer,And the autumn tempests blow;Where, through gray and rolling vapor,From evening unto morn,A thousand boats are hailing,Horn answering unto horn.Hurrah for the Red Island,With the white cross on its crown!Hurrah for Meccatina,And its mountains bare and brown!Where the caribou’s tall antlersO’er the dwarf-wood freely toss,And the footstep of the mickmackHas no sound upon the moss.There we’ll drop our lines, and gatherOld Ocean’s treasures in,Where’er the mottled mackerelTurns up a steel-dark fin.The sea’s our field of harvest,Its scaly tribes our grain;We’ll reap the teeming watersAs at home they reap the plain!Our wet hands spread the carpet,And light the hearth of home;From our fish, as in the old time,The silver coin shall come.As the demon fled the chamberWhere the fish of Tobit lay,So ours from all our dwellingsShall frighten Want away.Though the mist upon our jacketsIn the bitter air congeals,And our lines wind stiff and slowlyFrom off the frozen reels,Though the fog be dark around us,And the storm blow high and loud,We will whistle down the wild wind,And laugh beneath the cloud!In the darkness as in daylight,On the water as on land,God’s eye is looking on us,And beneath us is his hand!Death will find us soon or later,On the deck or in the cot;And we cannot meet him betterThan in working out our lot.Hurrah! hurrah! The west windComes freshening down the bay,The rising sails are filling, —Give way, my lads, give way!Leave the coward landsman clingingTo the dull earth, like a weed.The stars of heaven shall guide us,The breath of heaven shall speed!Excelsior
THE shades of night were falling fast,As through an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice,A banner, with the strange device,Excelsior!His brow was sad; his eye, beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior!In happy homes he saw the lightOf household fires gleam warm and bright.Above, the spectral glaciers shone;And from his lips escaped a groan,Excelsior!“Try not the pass!” the old man said;“Dark lowers the tempest overhead!The roaring torrent is deep and wide!”And loud that clarion voice replied,Excelsior!“Oh! stay,” the maiden said, “and restThy weary head upon this breast!”A tear stood in his bright blue eye;But still he answered, with a sigh,Excelsior!“Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch!Beware the awful avalanche!”This was the peasant’s last good-night.A voice replied, far up the height,Excelsior!At break of day, as heavenwardThe pious monks of St. BernardUttered the oft-repeated prayer,A voice cried, through the startled air,Excelsior!A traveller by the faithful hound,Half buried in the snow, was found,Still grasping in his hand of iceThe banner with the strange device,Excelsior!There, in the twilight cold and gray,Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;And from the sky, serene and far,A voice fell, like a falling star, —Excelsior!The Soldier
FOR gold the merchant ploughs the main,The farmer ploughs the manor;But glory is the soldier’s prize,The soldier’s wealth is honor.The brave poor soldier ne’er despise;Nor count him as a stranger;Remember, he’s his country’s stayIn day and hour o’ danger.John Maynard
TWAS on Lake Erie’s broad expanse,One bright midsummer day,The gallant steamer, Ocean Queen,Swept proudly on her way.Bright faces clustered on the deck,Or, leaning o’er the side,Watched carelessly the feathery foamThat flecked the rippling tide.A seaman sought the captain’s side,A moment whispered low:The captain’s swarthy face grew pale;He hurried down below.Alas, too late! Though quick and sharpAnd clear his orders came,No human efforts could availTo quench th’ insidious flame.The bad news quickly reached the deck,It sped from lip to lip,And ghastly faces everywhereLooked from the doomed ship.“Is there no hope, no chance of life?”A hundred lips implore.“But one,” the captain made reply;“To run the ship on shore.”A sailor whose heroic soulThat hour should yet reveal,By name John Maynard, Eastern born,Stood calmly at the wheel.“Head her southeast!” the captain shouts,Above the smothered roar, —“Head her southeast without delay!Make for the nearest shore!”John Maynard watched the nearing flames,But still, with steady hand,He grasped the wheel, and steadfastlyHe steered the ship to land.“John Maynard, can you still hold out?”He heard the captain cry.A voice from out the stifling smokeFaintly responds, “Ay, ay!”But half a mile! A hundred handsStretch eagerly to shore.But half a mile! That distance sped,Peril shall all be o’er.But half a mile! Yet stay! The flamesNo longer slowly creep,But gather round the helmsman boldWith fierce, impetuous sweep.“John Maynard,” with an anxious voice,The captain cries once more,“Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,And we will reach the shore.”Through flames and smoke that dauntless heartResponded firmly still,Unawed, though face to face with death,“With God’s good help, I will!”The flames approach with giant strides,They scorch his hands and brow;One arm disabled seeks his side:Ah, he is conquered now!But no; his teeth are firmly set,He crushes down his pain;His knee upon the stanchion pressed,He guides the ship again.One moment yet, one moment yet!Brave heart, thy task is o’er!The pebbles grate beneath the keel,The steamer touches shore.Three hundred grateful voices riseIn praise to God, that HeHath saved them from the fearful fireAnd from th’ ingulfing sea.But where is he, that helmsman bold?The captain saw him reel;His nerveless hands released their task,He sank beside the wheel.The wave received his lifeless corpse,Blackened with smoke and fire.God rest him! Never hero hadA nobler funeral pyre.Excalibur
THEN spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:“The sequel of to-day unsolders allThe goodliest fellowship of famous knightsWhereof this world holds record. Such a sleepThey sleep, – the men I loved. I think that weShall never more, at any future time,Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,Walking about the gardens and the hallsOf Camelot, as in the days that were.I perish by this people which I made, —Though Merlin swear that I should come againTo rule once more; but let what will be, be:I am so deeply smitten through the helmThat without help I cannot last till morn.Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,Which was my pride: for thou rememberest howIn those old days, one summer noon, an armRose up from out the bosom of the lake,Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,Holding the sword; and how I rowed acrossAnd took it, and have worn it, like a king:And, wheresoever I am sung or toldIn after-time, this also shall be known:But now delay not: take Excalibur,And fling him far into the middle mere.Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.”Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plungedAmong the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword,And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brandMade lightnings in the splendor of the moon,And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch,Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,Seen where the moving isles of winter shockBy night, with noises of the northern sea.So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur:But ere he dipt the surface, rose an armClothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,And caught him by the hilt, and brandished himThree times, and drew him under in the mere.And lightly went the other to the king.The Death of Arthur
THEN saw they how there hove a dusky barge,Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,Beneath them; and descending they were wareThat all the decks were dense with stately formsBlack-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream; by theseThree Queens with crowns of gold, and from them roseA cry that shivered to the tingling stars,And, as it were one voice, an agonyOf lamentation, like a wind that shrillsAll night in a waste land, where no one comes,Or hath come since the making of the world.Then murmured Arthur, “Place me in the barge.”So to the barge they came. There those three QueensPut forth their hands, and took the king, and wept.And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:“The old order changeth, yielding place to new,And God fulfils himself in many ways,Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?I have lived my life, and that which I have doneMay He within himself make pure! but thou,If thou shouldst never see my face again,Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.For what are men better than sheep or goatsThat nourish a blind life within the brain,If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayerBoth for themselves and those who call them friend?For so the whole round earth is every wayBound by gold chains about the feet of God.But now farewell. I am going a long wayWith these thou seest – if indeed I go —(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)To the island-valley of Avilion,Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it liesDeep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawnsAnd bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”So said he, and the barge with oar and sailMoved from the brink, like some full-breasted swanThat, fluting a wild carol ere her death,Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the floodWith swarthy webs.A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea
A WET sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sail,And bends the gallant mast.And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.O, for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the swelling breeze,And white waves heaving high.The white waves heaving high, my lads,The good ship tight and free, —The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.The Leap of Curtius
WITHIN Rome’s forum, suddenly, a wide gap opened in a night,Astounding those who gazed on it, – a strange, terrific sight.In Senate all their sages met, and, seated in their chairs of state,Their faces blanched with deadly fear, debated long and late.A sign inimical to Rome, they deemed it, – a prognostic dire,A visitation from the gods, in token of their ire.Yet how to have their minds resolved, how ascertain in this their need,Beyond the shadow of a doubt, if thus it were indeed?In silence brooded they awhile, unbroken by a single word,While from the capital without the lightest sounds were heard.Then rose the eldest magistrate, a tall old man, with locks like snow,Straight as a dart, and with an eye that oft had quelled the foe.And thus, with ripe, sonorous voice, no note or tone of which did shake,Or indicate the wear of time, the aged Nestor spake:“Fathers, the Oracle is nigh: to it then let us promptly send,And at the shrine inquire what this dread marvel doth portend.“And if to Rome it augurs ill, then ask we, ere it be too late,How we may best avert the doom, and save the sacred state. —That state to every Roman dear, as dear as brother, friend, or wife,For which each true-born son would give, if needful, even life.“For what, O fathers! what were life apart from altar, hearth, and home?Yea, is not all our highest good bound up with that of Rome?And now adjourn we for a space, till three full days have circled round,And on the morning of the fourth, let each one here be found.”Then gat they up, and gloomily for such short interval did part,For they were Romans stanch and tried, and sad was every heart.The fourth day dawned, and when they met, the Oracle’s response was known:Something most precious in the chasm to close it must be thrown.But if unclosed it shall remain, thereon shall follow Rome’s decay,And all the splendor of her state shall pale and pass away.Something most precious! What the gift that may prevent the pending fate,What costly offering will the gods indeed propitiate?While this they pondered, lo! a sound of footsteps fell on every ear,And in their midst a Roman youth did presently appear.Apollo’s brow, a mien like Mars, in Beauty’s mould he seemed new-made,As on his golden hair the sun with dazzling dalliance played.’Tis Marcus Curtius! Purer blood none there could boast, and none more brave:There stands the youthful patriot, come, a Roman, Rome to save.His own young life, he offers that, yea, volunteers himself to throwWithin the cleft to make it close, and stay the heavy woe.And now on horseback, fully armed, behold him, for the hour hath come.The Roman guards keep watch and ward, and beats the muffled drum.The consuls, proctors, soothsayers, within the forum group around,Young Curtius in the saddle sits, – there yawns the severed ground.Each pulse is stayed. He lifts his helm, and bares his forehead to the sky,And to the broad, blue heaven above upturns his flashing eye.“O Rome, O country best beloved, thou land in which I first drew breath,I render back the life thou gav’st, to rescue theefrom death!”Then spurring on his gallant steed, a last and brief farewell he said,And leapt within the gaping gulf, which closed above his head.The Ride 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 paceNeck by neck, stride for 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 nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffield, ’twas morning, as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,So Joris broke the silence with, “Yet there is time!”At Aorschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one.To stare through the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye’s black intelligence, ever that glanceO’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance;And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards on galloping on.By Hasselt, 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 wheezeOf 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 Tongrés, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed 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 roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brimAnd with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.Then I cast loose my buffcoat, 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 aroundAs 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.A Yarn
TIS Saturday night, and our watch below.What heed we, boys, how the breezes blow,While our cans are brimmed with the sparkling flow?Come, Jack, uncoil, as we pass the grog,And spin us a yarn from memory’s log.”Jack’s brawny chest like the broad sea heaved,While his loving lip to the beaker cleaved;And he drew his tarred and well-saved sleeveAcross his mouth, as he drained the can,And thus to his listening mates began: —“When I sailed, a boy, in the schooner Mike,No bigger, I trow, than a marlinespike —But I’ve told ye the tale ere now, belike?”“Go on!” each voice re-echoed,And the tar thrice hemmed, and thus he said: —“A stanch-built craft as the waves e’er bore —We had loosed our sail for home once more,Freighted full deep from Labrador,When a cloud one night rose on our lee,That the heart of the stoutest quailed to see.“And voices wild with the winds were blent,As our bark her prow to the waters bent;And the seamen muttered their discontent —Muttered and nodded ominously —But the mate, right carelessly whistled he.“‘Our bark may never outride the gale.’Tis a pitiless night! The pattering hailHath coated each spar as ’twere in mail;And our sails are riven before the breeze,While our cordage and shrouds into icicles freeze!’“Thus spake the skipper beside the mast,While the arrowy sleet fell thick and fast;And our bark drove onward before the blastThat goaded the waves, till the angry mainRose up and strove with the hurricane.“Up spake the mate, and his tone was gay, —‘Shall we at this hour to fear give way?We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray.Out, shipmates, and grapple home yonder sail,That flutters in ribbons before the gale!’“Loud swelled the tempest, and rose the shriek,‘Save, save! we are sinking! A leak! a leak!’And the hale old skipper’s tawny cheekWas cold, as ’twere sculptured in marble there,And white as the foam or his own white hair.“The wind piped shrilly, the wind piped loud,It shrieked ’mong the cordage, it howled in the shroud,And the sleet fell thick from the cold, dun cloud;But high over all, in tones of glee,The voice of the mate rang cheerily, —“Now, men, for your wives’ and your sweethearts’ sakes!Cheer, messmates, cheer! Quick! man the brakes!We’ll gain on the leak ere the skipper wakes;And though our peril your hearts appall,Ere dawns the morrow we’ll laugh at the squall.”“He railed at the tempest, he laughed at its threats,He played with his fingers like castanets;Yet think not that he, in his mirth, forgetsThat the plank he is riding this hour at seaMay launch him the next to eternity!“The white-haired skipper turned away,And lifted his hands, as it were to pray;But his look spoke plainly as look could say,The boastful thought of the Pharisee, —‘Thank God, I’m not hardened as others be!’“But the morning dawned, and the waves sank low,And the winds, o’erwearied, forebore to blow:And our bark lay there in the golden glow. —Flashing she lay in the bright sunshine,An ice-sheathed hulk on the cold, still brine.“Well, shipmates, my yarn is almost spun —The cold and the tempest their work had done,And I was the last, lone, living one,Clinging, benumbed, to that wave-girt wreck,While the dead around me bestrewed the deck.“Yea, the dead were round me everywhere!The skipper gray, in the sunlight there,Still lifted his paralyzed hands in prayer;And the mate, whose tones through the darkness leapt,In the silent hush of the morning slept.“Oh, bravely he perished who sought to saveOur storm-tossed bark from the pitiless wave,And her crew from a yawning and fathomless grave,Crying, Messmates, cheer!’ with a bright, glad smile,And praying, ‘Be merciful, God!’ the while.“True to his trust, to his last chill gasp,The helm lay clutched in his stiff, cold grasp:You might scarcely in death undo the clasp;And his crisp, brown locks were dank and thin,And the icicles hung from his bearded chin.“My timbers have weathered, since, many a gale;And when life’s tempests this hulk assail,And the binnacle-lamp in my breast burns pale,‘Cheer, messmates, cheer!’ to my heart I say,‘We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray.’”