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74 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.” * * * * « * 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. * * * * * * 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! * * * * * " 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 * * * * * * 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! ” * * * * * * 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 * * * V * 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! * '* * * * $ “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! * * * * * * 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 ! * * * * * * 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 ! * * * ♦ * ♦ 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! ”