Part 35 (1/2)

What right hast thou beside this laureled bier Whereon all manhood lies--whereon the wreath Of Harvard rests, the civic crown, and here The starry flag, and sword and jeweled sheath?

Seest thou these hatchments? Knowest thou this blood Nourished the heroes of Colonial days-- Sent to the dim and savage-haunted wood Those sad-eyed Puritans with hymns of praise?

Look round thee! Everywhere is cla.s.sic ground.

There Greylock rears. Beside yon silver ”Bowl”

Great Hawthorne dwelt, and in its mirror found Those quaint, strange shapes that filled his poet's soul.

Still silent, Stranger? Thou who now and then Touched the too credulous ear with pathos, canst not speak?

Hast lost thy ready skill of tongue and pen?

What, Jester! Tears upon that painted cheek?

Pardon, good friends! I am not here to mar His laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown-- This man who taught me how 'twas better far To be the poem than to write it down.

I bring no lesson. Well have others preached This sword that dealt full many a gallant blow; I come once more to touch the hand that reached Its knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe.

O pale Aristocrat, that liest there, So cold, so silent! Couldst thou not in grace Have borne with us still longer, and so spare The scorn we see in that proud, placid face?

”Hail and farewell!” So the proud Roman cried O'er his dead hero. ”Hail,” but not ”farewell.”

With each high thought thou walkest side by side; We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell!

THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER

Did I ever tell you, my dears, the way That the birds of Cisseter--”Cisseter!” eh?

Well ”Ciren-cester”--one OUGHT to say, From ”Castra,” or ”Caster,”

As your Latin master Will further explain to you some day; Though even the wisest err, And Shakespeare writes ”Ci-cester,”

While every visitor Who doesn't say ”Cissiter”

Is in ”Ciren-cester” considered astray.

A hundred miles from London town-- Where the river goes curving and broadening down From tree-top to spire, and spire to mast, Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last-- A hundred miles from that flat foresh.o.r.e That the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more-- There's a little cup in the Cotswold hills Which a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills, Spanned by a heron's wing--crossed by a stride-- Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride, Guiltless of Fame or ambition's aims, That is the source of the lordly Thames!

Remark here again that custom contemns Both ”Tames” and Thames--you must SAY ”Tems!”

But WHY? no matter!--from them you can see Cirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea.

A. D. Five Hundred and Fifty-two, The Saxon invaders--a terrible crew-- Had forced the lines of the Britons through; And Cirencester, half mud and thatch, Dry and crisp as a tinder match, Was fiercely beleaguered by foes, who'd catch At any device that could harry and rout The folk that so boldly were holding out.

For the streets of the town--as you'll see to-day-- Were twisted and curved in a curious way That kept the invaders still at bay; And the longest bolt that a Saxon drew Was stopped ere a dozen of yards it flew, By a turn in the street, and a law so true That even these robbers--of all laws scorners!-- Knew you couldn't shoot arrows AROUND street corners.

So they sat them down on a little knoll, And each man scratched his Saxon poll, And stared at the sky, where, clear and high, The birds of that summer went singing by, As if, in his glee, each motley jester Were mocking the foes of Cirencester, Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnet Seemed all to be saying: ”Ah! you're not in it!”

High o'er their heads the mavis flew, And the ”ouzel-c.o.c.k so black of hue;”

And the ”throstle,” with his ”note so true”

(You remember what Shakespeare says--HE knew); And the soaring lark, that kept dropping through Like a bucket spilling in wells of blue; And the merlin--seen on heraldic panes-- With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's;

And the das.h.i.+ng swift that would ricochet From the tufts of gra.s.ses before them, yet-- Like bold Antaeus--would each time bring New life from the earth, barely touched by his wing; And the swallow and martlet that always knew The straightest way home. Here a Saxon churl drew His breath--tapped his forehead--an idea had got through!

So they brought them some nets, which straightway they filled With the swallows and martlets--the sweet birds who build In the houses of man--all that innocent guild Who sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch-- And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted match Made of resin and tow. Then they let them all go To be free! As a child-like diversion? Ah, no!

To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe.