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them narrates the story of an Indian
chief and his followers, who, bent upon
the extermination of the whites, and
trusting to the guidance of a woman,
was led by her over the precipice, and,
of course, perished in their fall.”
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THE MIDNIGHT CROSS.
IN IDYLS.
Arthur—The Great King.
iJ V
“ Men wyi not whether that ho lyvetli or be
dede!” — Antiant MS.
TnK genius of Mr. Tennyson has so illumi
nated the Legends of King Arthur, that pro
bably none to whom this poem comes will
need a reminder of his achievments, aspira
tions, or mysterious destiny. Should there
be one such, I refer him to tbe Teacher, who
from the vantage point of Poet Laureate
of England, has reached the whole heart of
humanity with a voice as sweet, and a signi
ficance as noble, as can be found anywhere
in literature.
While Dickens has done much to mellow
and soften our common life, it is Tennyson
who has glorified it—given it grace, bloom
and spirit. Penetrating our inmost recesses,
he evokes whatever ot that ultimate perfec
tion which we call ‘‘ Poetry ” may linger
there; and the man must bo base beyond
naming, or blameless beyond conception,
that he cannot exalt or purify.
Many that have never heard his name have
beholden his brightness in the lives of others,
and profited “ unaware” by his ministration.
Os the “ Great King,” then, so dear to Eng
lish hearts and English poetry, I will only
say that he typifies all emotions which lovo
righteousness and hate iniquity; that he em
bodies, also,
can cheer our Mortality or empl^ as i ze our
Immortality ; the undying Hope of final and
eternal Justice.
To such a Kingly alliance of purity and
constancy, I would dedicate these lines fol
lowing, in the person of
JEFFERSON DAVIS.
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The Great King.
“ Men wyt not whether that he lyveth or be
dede!”
tLEAF, Oh ! Laureate for thy crown,
For this fair tracery—
This silvery mist that shadows
down
A Glory to the sea!
Men walk as in the halls of death,
With mute though heavy tread;
Men murmur with the muffled breath,
"Alive? or is he Dead!”
A shining bark hath cleft the dark —
We see the Seraph eyes —
We hear above the morning lark,
The silvery psalteries—
The song-burst of a Triumph-arc
Star-pulsing in the skies—
The day may dwindle to a spark;—
The Great King never dies !
A light, Oh! Laureate, on thy crown
Os more than laurel be
That set the Star, “ Excalibar,”
Forever on the Sea!
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" Alive !” for all the!wizard broth
Os all the cauldron of the North.
BURKE’S WEEKLY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.
Not "Dead!” —though earth’s last moun
tain be
Piled on the black depths of the Sea,
And tho last flame of lightning claim
To carve his “Memory! ”
Tho Man who breathed all balms of light,
And quaffed all founts of grace,
’Till angels, on the mountain height,
Talked with him. face to face 1
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There be, of warders on the wall,
Have heard, by night, his bugle-call,
And watchers, ere the dawn unclose,
Whose very tears arc tint with rose.
As on some widowed neck the woo
Os mourning, veils a whiter snow
Than April’s first of whiteness; so
Across our path of murk and wrath,
The clouds unclasp at times, and show
The vigil-gleam at “ Camelat! ”
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Ills regal front is seamed and gaunt—
His kingly curls are grizzled-scant—
His war-steed worn to Rosinante !
There’s mist upon his knightly mail —
And dust on every golden scale
Os the great " Dragon,” crest to tail!
Like moonlit mist on midnight snow
The sun of battle smoulders low 1
Alas! the King at Camelat!
But on his Sword, nor mould nor loss,
From stainless stoel to starry cross I
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Ye wist; Ye, Early at the Tomb, —
The whiteness that is like his plume !
Beloved of the morning-star!—
Your eyes have seen " Excalibar 1 ”
And Ye, that in the Temples pray,
Have witnessed when the aisles arc gray,
A sudden rupture cleave the pane,—
Beyond the oriel’s glory-stain—
That lingered in the holy place,
The “ iris” of an Angel’s grace !
Then He whose head it kindled on
Shined like Uriel of the sun !
And were his face the parian stone —
And were his smile. King Arthur’s own—
Os all that met his kindling eyes
Not one should marvel, did he Rise!
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“These little ones!”— These lambs that
bear
The dew-cross of our Christ his care —
These Lilies, more than Eden, blest,
From the dear fragrance of his breast, —
"These little ones” have touched his hem,
Have looked upon his diadem,
And heard his footsteps walk with them;
And bring us from the shrouded isle,
Where his great glory bides the while,
The very sunshine of his smile!
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And one I know, whose sabre shone
The battle’s eye-light, years agone,
Who wears upon his folded hands
The welcome of the Angel lands;
And bears upo his smiling lips.
The soal no shadow can eclipse.
Who waits me, as the days expire,
, With Arthur’s soul of love and fire.
A man that breathed all balms of light,
And quaffed all founts of grace,
Till angels, on the mountain height,
Talked with him face to face !
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Let question Inst, this —“ nameless” wight—
Self-haunted till his soul is blight!—
Whose night is hell, whose day is night,
Benipt of witch !—bestrid of hag!—
Eject of Chincha !—" scalawag !”
And he shall tell you of a fear—
A horror in the atmosphere,
Like thunder when the sky is clear!
And fiercer than the thunder’s tread —
Os steadfast lightnings, round his head,
That scorch but will not strike him dead!
For him on earth, in hall or den.
No Hope, no refuge!—
Doubt we then,
While sacrilege is charnel wise—
The arm that guilt in armor flies!
That Arthur—the groat King shall rise !
That God’s Eternal Truth shall reign
Imperial o’er “His Own,” again !
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Written for Burke’s Weekly.
THE YOUNG EXPLORERS;
OR, BOY-UFE m TEXAS.
BY JOHN C. DUVAL,
Author of “ Jack Dobell ; or, A Boy's Ad
ventures in Texas," “ The Adventures
of Big-Foot Wallacef etc.
CHAPTER IX.
San Antonio The Alamo—Crockett and his
Brave Compatriots—The Hymn of the Ala
mo — The Comanches and the Whites.
ASSING over a high, rolling
country, very similar to that
traversed the day before, about
eleven o’clock we came to the Salado,
a small, clear, running stream, five or
or six miles from the city. Here we
“nooned” it under the shade of some
pecans for an hour or two, to rest and
graze the horses. Saddling up again,
we proceeded on our way, and, after
going three or four miles, came to the
top of a high ridge, from which we had
a fiue view of the ancient city, spread
out in the valley below us. In a little
while afterwards, we debouched into a
large and well-travelled road, which we
followed until we reached the suburbs
of the city, where we halted under some
cotton-woods trees, and pitched camp.
As there was no grass in the vicinity,
Cudjo was sent into town with the pack
mule to procure forage, and the oalance
of us (except Uncle Seth, who volun
teered to mind the camp) turned out to
see the sights. At that day there were
but few Americans in the place; and as
the houses were all built in the Spanish
or Moresco style, with flat roofs and
little, narrow, grated windows, it pre
sented a very novel and foreign-looking
appearance to us. Mixed up with the
more pretentious buildings (which were
of stone) were a great many “jaeals,”
or huts, occupied by the lower classes,
constructed of poles planted perpendi
cularly in the ground, plastered with
mud, and roofed with “ tub,” a sort of
aquatic plant that grows abundantly in
the vicinity.
We first turned our steps towards the
“Alamo,” whose weather-stained walls
were visible from our encampment —
those walls which, two years previously,
had been sotgallantly de feedt-.d4>y*T-va—
vis, Bowie, Crockett, and a handful of
comrades, against the overwhelming
forces of Santa Ana. Here for many
days this little band of patriots kept at
bay the whole of Santa Ana’s army —
numbering some six or seven thousand
men, until at last the few survivors of
the protracted siege, worn down by
fatigue and want of sleep, were no
longer able to defend the numerous
breaches made in the walls by the
Mexican artillery. The place was
finally carried by storm, and those of
the garrison still remaining alive were
put to the sword. Thermopylae had
its “ messenger of defeat,” but not a
living soul escaped from the Alamo to
tell the tale, except one woman, who
was spared by the conquering foe.
We were shown the spot where the
body of Crockett was found, amidst
those of a dozen of the enemy, slain by
the stalwart arm of that famous hunter
before he fell. We were also ; _show.ii*
on the wall of a small room, in 'what
had once been a portion of the bar
racks, a number of purple stains, said
to have been caused by the blood of
Bowie, who was sick or wounded at the
time the Alamo was stormed, and who
was murdered in his bed by the Mex
icans, after he had killed three or four
of them with his pistols.
Whilst looking at these mementos of
the scene of one of the most remark
able and obstinate contests of modern
times, Willie grew quite enthusiastic,
and repeated aloud those beautiful lines
by Captain R. M. Potter, entitled —
HYMN OF THE ALAMO.
Ai> —Marseillaise.
“ Rise, man the wall—our clarions’ blast
Now sounds its final reveille ;
This dawning morn must be the last
Our fated band shall ever see.
To life, but hot to hope, farewell.
Yon trumpet’s clang, and cannon’s peal,
And storming shout, and clash of steel,
Are ours—but not our country’s knell.
Welcome the Spartan’s death,
’Tis no despairing strife ;
We fall, we die, but our expiring breath
Is Freedom’s breath of life!
" Here, on this new Thermopylae
Our monument shall tower on high;
And ‘Alamo’ hereafter be
On bloodier fields the battle-cry.”
Thus Travis from the rampart cried ;
And when his warriors saw the foe,
Like whelming billows move below,
At once each dauntless heart replied—
" Welcome the Spartan’s death,
’Tis no dispairing strife ;
We fall, we die, but our expiring breath
Is Freedom’s breath of life! ”