"Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,

The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,

Oh, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars

My soul ascended!

There from the flowing bowl

Deep drinks the warrior's soul,

Skoal to the Northland! skoal !"

Thus the tale ended.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

DANIEL GRAY

IF I shall ever win the home in heaven
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray,
In the great company of the forgiven

I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.

I knew him well; in truth, few knew him better;
For my young eyes oft read for him the Word,
And saw how meekly from the crystal letter
He drank the life of his beloved Lord.

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted
On ready words his freight of gratitude,
Nor was he called upon among the gifted,
In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood.

He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases,
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes;
And I suppose that in his prayers and graces
I've heard them all at least a thousand times.

I see him now-his form, his face, his motions,
His homespun habit, and his silver hair,—
And hear the language of his trite devotions,
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair.

I can remember how the sentence sounded-
"Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint!"
And how the "conquering-and-to-conquer" rounded
The loftier aspirations of the saint.

He had some notions that did not improve him,
He never kissed his children-so they say;

And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him
Less than a horseshoe picked up in the way.

He had a hearty hatred of oppression,
And righteous words for sin of every kind;
Alas, that the transgressor and transgression
Were linked so closely in his honest mind!

He could see naught but vanity in beauty,
And naught but weakness in a fond caress,
And pitied men whose views of Christian duty
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness.

Yet there was love and tenderness within him;
And I am told that when his Charley died,
Nor nature's need nor gentle words could win him
From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side.

And when they came to bury little Charley,
They found fresh dewdrops sprinkled in his hair,
And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early,
And guessed, but did not know who placed it there.

Honest and faithful, constant in his calling,
Strictly attendant on the means of grace,
Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling,
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place.

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer,

He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way
His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer,
Would honor him with wealth some golden day.

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit
Until in death his patient eye grew dim,
And his Redeemer called him to inherit
The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him.

So, if I ever win the home in Heaven

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray,
In the great company of the forgiven

I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.

Josiah Gilbert Holland [1819-1881]

"CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT"

SLOWLY England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day, And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden

fair,

He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating

hair;

He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur,

"Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,

With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp, and cold,

"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh; Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white

As she breathed the husky whisper:

"Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton, every word pierced her young heart

Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart, "Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, Now I'm old I will not falter,—

Curfew, it must ring to-night."

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,

As within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow.

She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh:

"At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew

large and bright;

In an undertone she murmured:

"Curfew must not ring to-night."

With quick step she bounded forward, sprang within the old church door,

Left the old man threading slowly paths he'd trod so oft

before;

Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow Mounted up

fro:

the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and

As she climbed the dusty ladder, on which fell no ray of light, Up and up, her white lips saying:

"Curfew must not ring to-night!"

She has reached the topmost ladder; o'er her hangs the great, dark bell;

Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to

hell.

Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging,-'tis the hour of

Curfew now,

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! flash her eyes with sudden light,

As she springs, and grasps it firmly,—

"Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung-far out; the city seemed a speck of light below,

There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung

to and fro,

And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell),

Sadly thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell.

Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips so white,

Said to hush her heart's wild throbbing:

"Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped

once more

Firmly on the dark old ladder where for hundred years before Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done

Should be told long ages after: as the rays of setting sun Crimson all the sky with beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,

Tell the eager, listening children,

"Curfew did not ring that night."

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow,

Lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces

now.

At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised

and torn;

And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale

and worn,

Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light:

"Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell,