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With something vital in her, like those flowers
That on our desolate steppes outlast the year.
Resembles you in some things. It was that
First made us friends. I do her justice, see!
For we were friends in that smooth surface way
We Russians have imported out of France.
Alas! from what a blue and tranquil heaven
This bolt fell on me! After these two years,
My suit with Ossip Leminoff at end,
The old wrong righted, the estates restored,
And my promotion, with the ink not dry!
For those fairies which neglected me at birth
Seemed now to lavish all good gifts on me—
Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends.
The whole world smiled; then, as I stooped to taste
The sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my lips.
This very night—just think, this very night—
I planned to come and beg of you the alms
I dared not ask for in my poverty.
I thought me poor then. How stript am I now!
There’s not a ragged mendicant one meets
Along the Nevski Prospekt but has leave to tell his love,
And I have not that right!
Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand there
Stark as a statue, with no word to say?

She. Because this thing has frozen up my heart.

I think that there is something killed in me,
A dream that would have mocked all other bliss.
What shall I say? What would you have me say?

He. If it be possible, the word of words!

She (very slowly). Well, then—I love you. I may tell you so
This once, ... and then forever hold my peace.
We cannot stay here longer unobserved.
No—do not touch me! but stand further off, and
Seem to laugh, as if we jested—eyes,
Eyes, everywhere! Now turn your face away....
I love you.

He. With such music in my ears I would death found me.

It were sweet to die listening! you love me—prove it.

She. Prove it—how? I prove it saying it. How else?

He. Pauline, I have three things to choose from; you shall choose.
This marriage, or Siberia, or France.
The first means hell; the second, purgatory;
The third—with you—were nothing less than heaven!

She (starting). How dared you even dream it!

He. I was mad. This business has touched me in the brain.

Have patience! the calamity’s so new.
(Pauses.) There is a fourth way, but the gate is shut
To brave men who hold life a thing of God.

She. Yourself spake there; the rest was not of you.

He. Oh, lift me to your level! So I’m safe.

What’s to be done?

She. There must be some path out. Perhaps the Emperor—

He. Not a ray of hope! His mind is set on this with that insistence
Which seems to seize on all match-making folk—
The fancy bites them, and they straight go mad.

She. Your father’s friend, the metropolitan—

A word from him....

He. Alas, he too is bitten!

Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly-wise, he sees
This marriage makes me the Tsar’s protégé
And opens every door to preference.
She. Think while I think. There surely is some key
Unlocks the labyrinth, could we but find it.
Nastasia!

He. What, beg life of her? Not I.

She. Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps

Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air.
Were she told all, would she not pity us?
For if she love you, as I think she must,
Would not some generous impulse stir in her,
Some latent, unsuspected spark illume?
How love thrills even commonest girl-clay,
Ennobling it an instant if no more!
You said that she is proud; then touch her pride,
And turn her into marble with the touch.
But yet the gentler passion is the stronger.
Go to her, tell her in some tenderest phrase
That will not hurt too much—ah, but ’twill hurt!
Just how your happiness lies in her hand
To make or mar for all time; hint, not say,
Your heart is gone from you, and you may find—

He. A casement in St. Peter and St. Paul

For, say, a month; then some Siberian town.
Not this way lies escape. At my first word
That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire
In every vein.

She. How blindly you read her,

Or any woman! Yes, I know, I grant
How small we often seem to our small world
Of trivial cares and narrow precedents—
Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men—
Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse;
But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs,
The weakest of us measures pulse with you.
He. Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height!
But there’s no martyr wrapt in her rose flesh.
There should have been; for Nature gave you both
The self-same purple for your eyes and hair,
The self-same Southern music to your lips,
Fashioned you both, as ’twere, in the same mold,
Yet failed to put the soul in one of you!
I know her willful—her light head quite turned
In this court atmosphere of flatteries;
A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there,
And since, spoiled here; as soft as swan’s down, now,
With words like honey melting from the comb,
But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold.
I fancy her between two rosy smiles,
Saying, “Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!”

She. You know her not.

Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask
Could hide the soul, yet how you have mistaken
The soul these two months—and the face to-night. (She removes
mask.)

He. You!—it was you.

She. Count Sergius Pavlovich, go find Pauline Pavlovna—she is

here—
And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. (Goes out hurriedly.)

GUNGA DIN
By Rudyard Kipling

You may talk o’ gin and beer

When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din!
It was “Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Pannee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”

The uniform ’e wore

Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field equipment ’e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted “Harry By!”
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ’im cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I’ll marrow you this minute;
If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

’E would dot an’ carry one

Till the longest day was done;
An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or if we cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
 With ’is mussick on ’is back,
’E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire,”
An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide
’E was white, clear white, inside
When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was “Din! Din! Din!”
With the bullets kickin’ dust spots on the green,
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front lines shout,
“Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”

I sha’n’t forgit the night

When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
’E lifted up my head,
An’ ’e plugged me where I bled,
An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green:
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through his spleen;
’E’s chawin’ up the ground,
An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:
For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!”

’E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet came and drilled the beggar clean.
’E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ’e died:
“I ’ope you like your drink,” sez Gunga Din.
So I’ll meet ’im later on
 At the place where ’e is gone—
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;
’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals,
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leathern Gunga Din!
Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ God that made you,
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

THE TRUE BALLAD OF THE KING’S SINGER

By Helen Hunt Jackson

The king rode fast, the king rode well,

The royal hunt went loud and gay,
A thousand bleeding chamois fell
For royal sport that day.

When sunset turned the hill all red,

The royal hunt went still and slow;
The king’s great horse with weary tread
Plunged ankle-deep in snow.

Sudden a strain of music sweet,

Unearthly sweet, came through the wood;
Up sprang the king, and on both feet
Straight in his saddle stood.

“Now, by our lady, be it bird,

Or be it man or elf that plays,
Never before my ears have heard
A music fit for praise!”

Sullen and tired, the royal hunt

Followed the king, who tracked the song,
Unthinking, as is royal wont,
 How hard the way and long.

Stretched on a rock the shepherd lay

And dreamed and piped, and dreamed and sang,
And careless heard the shout and bay
With which the echoes rang.

“Up, man! the king!” the hunters cried.

He slowly stood, and, wondering,
Turned honest eyes from side to side:
To him, each looked like king.

Strange shyness seized the king’s bold tongue;

He saw how easy to displease
This savage man who stood among
His courtiers, so at ease.

But kings have silver speech to use

When on their pleasure they are bent;
The simple shepherd could not choose;
Like one in dream he went.

O hear! O hear! The ringing sound

Of twenty trumpets swept the street,
The king a minstrel now has found,
For royal music meet.

With cloth of gold, and cloth of red,

And woman’s eyes the place is bright.
“Now, shepherd, sing,” the king has said,
“The song you sang last night!”

One faint sound stirs the perfumed air,

The courtiers scornfully look down;
The shepherd kneels in dumb despair,
Seeing the king’s dark frown.

The king is just; the king will wait.

 “Ho, guards! let him be gently led,
Let him grow used to royal state,—
To being housed and fed.”

All night the king unquiet lay,

Racked by his dream’s presentiment;
Then rose in haste at break of day,
And for the shepherd sent.

“Ho, now, thou beast, thou savage man,

How sound thou sleepest, not to hear!”
They jeering laughed, but soon began
To louder call in fear.

They wrenched the bolts; unrumpled stood

The princely bed all silken fine,
Untouched the plates of royal food,
The flask of royal wine!

The costly robes strewn on the floor,

The chamber empty, ghastly still;
The guards stood trembling at the door,
And dared not cross the sill.

All night the sentinels their round

Had kept. No man could pass that way.
The window dizzy high from ground;
Below, the deep moat lay.

They crossed themselves. “The foul fiend lurks

In this,” they said. They did not know
The miracles sweet Freedom works,
To let her children go.

It was the fiend himself who took

That shepherd’s shape to pipe and sing;
And every man with terror shook,
For who would tell the king!
The heads of men all innocent
Rolled in the dust that day;
And east and west the bloodhounds went,
Baying their dreadful bay;

Safe on a snow too far, too high,

For scent of dogs or feet of men,
The shepherd watched the clouds sail by,
And dreamed and sang again;

And crossed himself, and knelt and cried,

And kissed the holy Edelweiss,
Believing that the fiends had tried
To buy him with a price.

The king rides fast, the king rides well;

The summer hunts go loud and gay;
The courtiers, who this tale can tell,
Are getting old and gray.

But still they say it was a fiend

That took a shepherd’s shape to sing,
For still the king’s heart is not weaned
To care for other thing.

Great minstrels come from far and near,

He will not let them sing or play,
But waits and listens still to hear
The song he heard that day.

—Copyright by Little, Brown & Co., Boston, and used by kind

permission.

THE DREAM OF CLARENCE

By William Shakespeare

O, I have passed a miserable night,

So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such night,
Though ’twere to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time!

Methought that I had broken from the tower,

And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy;
And, in my company, my brother Gloucester;
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England,
And cited up a thousand fearful times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befallen us.

As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought the Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
Lord! Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!
What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;

Ten thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scattered in the bottom of the sea:
Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,
As ’twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,
Which woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock’d the dead bones that lay scattered by.

Methought I had, and often did I strive

To yield the ghost: but the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To seek the empty, vast and wandering air;
But smothered it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

My dream was lengthened after life;

O, then began the tempest of my soul,
Who pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferry-man which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;
Who cried aloud, “What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?”

And so he vanished: then came wandering by

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he squeaked aloud,
“Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,
That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury:
Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!”
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ’d me about, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that with the very noise
I trembling waked, and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in hell,
Such terrible impression made the dream.

THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK

By Robert Dwyer Joyce

He grasped the ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more,

To hear the bomb-shells bursting, and thundering battle’s roar;
He said, “The breach they’re mounting, the Dutchman’s murdering
crew—
I’ll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do!
“Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well;
’Tis Sarsfield’s horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or
shell;”
“Ah, sure,” cried both, “the horse can wait, for Sarsfield’s on the wall
And where you go we’ll follow, with you to stand or fall!”

The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street,
His ’prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet;—
High on the breach of Limerick with dauntless hearts they stood,
Where bomb-shells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood.

“Now look you, brown-haired Moran; and mark you, swarthy Ned,
This day we’ll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman’s head!
Hurrah! upon their bloody path, they’re mounting gallantly;
And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me.”

The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave,—

A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive;
He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain!
For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain!

The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel bold;

Bright, through the dust of battle, his helmet flashed with gold—
“Gold is no match for iron,” the doughty blacksmith said,
And with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foeman’s head.

“Hurrah for gallant Limerick!” black Ned and Moran cried,

As on the Dutchmen’s leaden heads their hammers well they plied;
A bomb-shell burst between them—one fell without a groan,
One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown.

“Brave smith! brave smith!” cried Sarsfield, “beware the treacherous

mine!
Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is thine!”
The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the blood-stained wall,
As high into the shuddering air went foeman, breach and all!

Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild and high,—

Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foeman through the sky;
And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell;
—
He thought upon his ’prentice boys,—they were avengèd well.

On foeman and defenders a silence gathered down;

’Twas broken by a triumph shout that shook the ancient town,
As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew,
And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts could do.

Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river’s side,

He hammered on the foe’s pontoon, to sink it in the tide;
The timber, it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain;
“Mavrone! t’won’t break!” the blacksmith roared; “I’ll try their heads
again!”

He rushed upon the flying ranks; his hammer ne’er was slack,
For in thro’ blood and bone it crashed, thro’ helmet and thro’ jack;
He’s ta’en a Holland captain beside the red pontoon,
And “Wait you here,” he boldly cries; “I’ll send you back full soon!

“Dost see this gory hammer? It cracked some skulls to-day,

And yours ’twill crack, if you don’t stand and list to what I say;—
Here! take it to your cursèd King, and tell him, softly, too,
’Twould be acquainted with his skull if he were here, not you!”

The blacksmith sought his smithy and blew his bellows strong;
He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o’er it sang no song;
“Ochone! my boys are dead!” he cried; “their loss I’ll long deplore,
But comfort’s in my heart, their graves are red with foreign gore.”

HYMN OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD

By Bartholomew Dowling

Up, comrades, up, the bugle peals the note of war’s alarms,
And the cry is ringing sternly round, that calls the land to arms;
Adieu, adieu, fair land of France, where the vine of Brennus reigns;
We go where the blooming laurels grow, on the bright Italian plains.
Advance! advance! brave sons of France, before the startled world;
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

Our eagles shall fly ’neath many a sky, with a halo round their way
Where History flings, on their flashing wings, the light of Glory’s ray;
And we shall bear them proudly on, through many a mighty fray,
That shall win old nations back to life, in the glorious coming day.
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled
world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

The glowing heart of the land of Art, throbbing for Liberty,

Our swords invoke, to erase the yoke from beauteous Italy.
And the Magyar waits, with kindling hope, the aid of the Gallic hand,
To drive the hated Austrians forth, from the old Hungarian land.
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled
world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

See the Briton, pale, as he dons his mail, for the coming conflict
shock,
And before his eyes, see the phantom rise, of the Chief on Helena’s
rock;
In foreboding fears, already he hears through palace and mart anew,
Our avenging shout, o’er the battle rout—remember Waterloo!
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled
world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.
And, hark, a wail from our kindred Gael, comes floating from the
West—
That gallant race, whose chosen place was ever our battle’s crest;
Now is the day we can repay the generous debt we owe
To Irish blood, that freely flowed to conquer France’s foe.
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled
world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.
Old Tricolor, as in days of yore, you shall wave o’er vanquished
kings,
And your folds shall fly ’neath an English sky, on Victory’s crimson
wings;
And Europe’s shout shall in joy ring out, hailing freedom in thy track,
When our task is done, and we bear thee on, to France with glory
back.
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled
world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.

THE DEATH-SONG OF THE VIKING[15]

By Bartholomew Dowling

My race is run, my errand done, the pulse of life beats low;

My heart is chill, and the conquering will has lost its fiery glow:
Launch once again on the northern main my battleship of old:
I would die on the deck, ’mid storm and wreck, as befits a Viking
bold.

I know no fears, but the mist of years that has gathered round my
track
For a moment clears, and my youth’s compeers again to my side
come back;
And the tall ships reel o’er their iron keel, as we sweep down on the
foe,
Like a giant’s form amid the storm, where the mighty tempests blow.

Again I gaze on the leaping blaze o’er a conquered city rise,

As in those days, when the Skald’s wild lays, sang the fame of our
high emprise;
When our ships went forth from the stormy North with the
Scandinavian bands
Who backward bore to the Baltic’s shore the spoil of the Western
lands.
But my race is run, my errand done; so bear me to my ship.
Place my battle-brand in this dying hand, and the wine-cup to my lip;
Then loose each sail to the rising gale and lash the helm a-lee.
Alone, alone, on my drifting throne, I would view my realm, the sea.

My realm and grave the northern wave, where the tempest’s voice
will sing
My death-song loud, where flame shall shroud the ocean’s warrior-
king,
Whilst heroes wait at Valhalla’s gate to proudly welcome me.
For my race is run, my errand done. Receive thy Chief, O Sea!

THE RIDE OF JENNIE McNEAL

By Will Carleton

Paul Revere was a rider bold—

Well has his valorous deed been told;
Sheridan’s ride was a glorious one—
Often it has been dwelt upon.
But why should men do all the deeds
On which the love of a patriot feeds?
Hearken to me, while I reveal
The dashing ride of Jennie McNeal.

On a spot as pretty as might be found

In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground,
In a cottage cosy, and all their own,
She and her mother lived alone.
Safe were the two, with their frugal store,
From all of the many who passed their door;
For Jennie’s mother was strange to fears,
And Jennie was large for fifteen years.

One night, when the sun had crept to bed,

And rain-clouds lingered overhead,
And sent their surly drops for proof
To drum a tune on the cottage roof,
Close after a knock at the outer door,
There entered a dozen dragoons or more.
Their red coats, stained by the muddy road,
That they were British soldiers showed;

The captain his hostess bent to greet,

Saying, “Madam, please give us a bit to eat;
We will pay you well, and, if may be,
This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea;
Then we must dash ten miles ahead,
To catch a rebel colonel abed.
He is visiting home, as doth appear;
We will make his pleasure cost him dear.”
And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal,
Close-watched the while by Jennie McNeal.
For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near,
Had been her true friend, kind and dear;
So sorrow for him she could but feel,
Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie McNeal.

With never a thought or a moment more,

Bare-headed she slipped from the cottage door,
Ran out where the horses were left to feed,
Unhitched and mounted the captain’s steed,
And down the hilly and rock-strewn way
She urged the fiery horse of gray.
Around her slender and cloakless form
Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm;
Secure and tight, a gloveless hand
Grasped the reins with stern command;
And full and black her long hair streamed,
Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed;
And on she rushed for the colonel’s weal,
Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie McNeal.

Hark! from the hills, a moment mute,

Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit;
And a cry from the foremost trooper said,
“Halt! or your blood be on your head!”
She heeded it not, and not in vain
She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein.
So into the night the gray horse strode;
His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road;
And the high-born courage that never dies
Flashed from his rider’s coal-black eyes.
The pebbles flew from the fearful race;
The rain-drops grasped at her glowing face.
“On, on, brave beast!” with loud appeal,
Cried eager, resolute Jennie McNeal.

“Halt!” once more came the voice of dread;

“Halt! or your blood be on your head!”
Then, no one answering to the calls,
Sped after her a volley of balls.
They passed her in her rapid flight,
They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right;
But, rushing still o’er the slippery track,
She sent no token of answer back,
Except a silvery laughter-peal,
Brave, merry-hearted Jennie McNeal.

So on she rushed, at her own good will,

Through wood and valley, o’er plain and hill;
The gray horse did his duty well,
Till all at once he stumbled and fell,
Himself escaping the nets of harm,
But flinging the girl with a broken arm.
Still undismayed by the numbing pain,
She clung to the horse’s bridle-rein,
And gently bidding him to stand,
Petted him with her able hand;
Then sprang again to the saddle-bow,
And shouted, “One more trial now!”
As if ashamed of the heedless fall,
He gathered his strength once more for all,
And, galloping down a hillside steep,
Gained on the troopers at every leap.
No more the high-bred steed did reel,
But ran his best for Jennie McNeal.
They were a furlong behind, or more,
When the girl burst through the colonel’s door,
Her poor arm helpless, hanging with pain,
And she all drabbled and drenched with rain,
But her cheeks as red as fire-brands are,
And her eyes as bright as a blazing star,
And shouted, “Quick! be quick, I say!
They come! they come! Away! away!”
Then sank on the rude white floor of deal,
Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie McNeal.

The startled colonel sprang, and pressed

His wife and children to his breast,
And turned away from his fireside bright;
And glided into the stormy night;
Then soon and safely made his way
To where the patriot army lay.
But first he bent, in the dim firelight,
And kissed the forehead broad and white,
And blessed the girl who had ridden so well
To keep him out of a prison-cell.
The girl roused up at the martial din,
Just as the troopers came rushing in,
And laughed, e’en in the midst of a moan,
Saying, “Good sirs, your bird has flown.
’Tis I who have scared him from his nest;
So deal with me now as you think best.”
But the grand captain bowed, and said,
“Never you hold a moment’s dread.
Of womankind I must crown you queen;
So brave a girl I have never seen.
Wear this gold ring as your valor’s due;