Yet beautiful and bright he stood, A proud though childlike form. The flames rolled on - he would not go He called aloud, "Say, father, say "Speak, father!" once again he cried, Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair; And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. [ROBERT SOUTHEY, English man of letters, was born in Bristol, August 12, 1774. He was a precocious bookworm, but at cross-purposes with all his schools, which ended at Balliol, Oxford. After toying with a communistic scheme called "Pantisocracy," traveling somewhat, and making essays in the "learned professions," he settled down to the life of a literary producer in all forms, in a permanent home at Greta Hall, where Coleridge's family came to live with him. He was made poet laureate in 1813, and died March 21, 1843. His poems fill ten volumes and his prose works some forty, few of them remembered now, though his name is part of familiar literary history. Of his prose, the "Lives" of Nelson, Cowper, and Wesley are best; of his poems, a few short ones "The Battle of Blenheim," "The Cataract of Lodore," "You are Old, Father William," etc.—are stock pieces, while “ 'Thalaba," "The Curse of Kehama," and "The Vision of Judgment" are familiar names from the burlesques they incited.] IT WAS a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, ""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; The plowshare turns them out! "Now tell us what 'twas all about," And little Wilhelmine looks up "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "My father lived at Blenheim then, They burnt his dwelling to the ground, So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. "They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay.. nay. . my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory. "And everybody praised the Duke. Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory." THE ABDUCTION OF AMANDA. BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE. (From "The Children of the Abbey.") [MRS. REGINA MARIA ROCHE: An Irish novelist; born of parents named Dalton, in the south of Ireland, about 1764; died at Waterford, May 17, 1845. She was the author of sixteen novels, of which only "The Children of the Abbey" (1798) has survived.] FROM that evening, to the day destined for the ball, nothing material happened. On the morning of that day, as Amanda was sitting in the drawing room with the ladies, Lord Mortimer entered. Lady Euphrasia could talk of nothing else but the approaching entertainment, which, she said, was expected to be the most brilliant thing that had been given that winter. "I hope your ladyship," said Amanda, who had not yet declared her intention of staying at home, "will be able tomorrow to give me a good description of it." "Why, I suppose,” cried Lady Euphrasia, "you do not intend going without being able to see and hear yourself?" "Certainly," replied Amanda, "I should not, but I do not intend going." "Not going to the ball to-night?" exclaimed Lady Euphrasia. "Bless me, child," said Lady Greystock, "what whim has entered your head to prevent your going?" "Dear Lady Greystock," said Lady Euphrasia, in a tone of unusual good humor, internally delighted at Amanda's resolution, "don't tease Miss Fitzalan with questions." "And you really do not go?" exclaimed Lord Mortimer, in an accent expressive of surprise and disappointment. "I really do not, my lord." declare," said the marchioness, even more delighted than her daughter at Amanda's resolution, as it favored a scheme she had long been projecting, "I wish Euphrasia was as indifferent about amusement as Miss Fitzalan: here she has been complaining of indisposition the whole morning, yet I cannot prevail on her to give up the ball." 66 'I Lady Euphrasia, who never felt in better health and spirits, would have contradicted the marchioness, had not an expressive glance assured her there was an important motive for this assertion. "May we not hope, Miss Fitzalan," said Lord Mortimer, "that a resolution so suddenly adopted as yours may be as suddenly changed?" "No, indeed, my lord, nor is it so suddenly formed as you seem to suppose." Lord Mortimer shuddered as he endeavored to account for it in his own mind; his agony became almost insupportable; he arose and walked to the window where she sat. "Amanda," said he, in a low voice, "I fear you forget your engagement to me." Amanda, supposing this alluded to her engagement for the ball, replied "she had not forgotten it." "For your inability or disinclination to fulfill it, then," said he, "will you not account?" "Most willingly, my lord." "When?" asked Lord Mortimer, impatiently, for unable longer to support his torturing suspense, he determined, contrary to his first intention, to come to an immediate explanation relative to Belgrave. "To-morrow, my lord," replied Amanda, "since you desire it, I will account for not keeping my engagement, and I trust," a modest blush mantling her cheeks as she spoke, "that your lordship will not disapprove of my reasons for declining it." The peculiar earnestness of his words, Lord Mortimer imagined, had conveyed their real meaning to Amanda. "Till to-morrow, then," sighed he, heavily, "I must bear disquietude." His regret, Amanda supposed, proceeded from disappointment at not having her company at the ball: she was flattered by it, and pleased at the idea of telling him her real motive for not going, certain it would meet his approbation, and open another source of benevolence to poor Rushbrook. In the evening, at Lady Euphrasia's particular request, she attended at her toilet, and assisted in ornamenting her ladyship. At ten she saw the party depart, without the smallest regret for not accompanying them happy in self-approbation, a delightful calm was diffused over her mind a treacherous calm, indeed, which, lulling her senses into security, made the approaching storm burst with redoubled violence on her head; it was such a calm as Shakespeare beautifully describes : We often see against some storm A silence in the heavens; the rack stand still, As hush as death. She continued in Lady Euphrasia's dressing room, and took up the beautiful and affecting story of Paul and Mary, to amuse 7 |