"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face,
66 Revenge upon all the race

Of the White Chief with yellow hair!"
And the mountains dark and high
From their crags re-echoed the cry

Of his anger and despair.

In the meadow, spreading wide
By woodland and riverside
The Indian village stood;
All was silent as a dream,
Save the rushing of the stream
And the blue-jay in the wood.

In his war paint and his beads,
Like a bison among the reeds,

In ambush the Sitting Bull
Lay with three thousand braves
Crouched in the clefts and caves,
Savage, unmerciful!

Into the fatal snare

The White Chief with yellow hair And his three hundred men Dashed headlong, sword in hand; But of that gallant band

Not one returned again.

The sudden darkness of death
Overwhelmed them like the breath
And smoke of a furnace fire:
By the river's bank and between
The rocks of the ravine,

They lay in their bloody attire.

But the foemen fled in the night,
And Rain-in-the Face, in his flight,
Uplifted high in air

As a ghastly trophy, bore
The brave heart, that beat no more,

Of the White Chief with yellow hair. Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song,

With a voice that is full of tears, And say that our broken faith Wrought all this ruin and scathe, In the Year of a Hundred Years.

There were rumors in the street,
In the houses there was fear
Of the coming of the fleet,

And the danger hovering near.
And while from mouth to mouth
Spread the tidings of dismay,
I stood in the Old South,
Saying humbly: "Let us pray!

"O Lord! we would not advise;
But if in thy Providence

A tempest should arise

To drive the French Fleet hence, And scatter it far and wide,

Or sink it in the sea,

We should be satisfied,
And thine the glory be."

This was the prayer I made,

For my soul was all on flame,
And even as I prayed

The answering tempest came;
It came with a mighty power,
Shaking the windows and walls,
And tolling the bell in the tower,
As it tolls at funerals.

The lightning suddenly

Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried: "Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord!' The heavens were black with cloud, The sea was white with hail, And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale.

The fleet it overtook,

And the broad sails in the van
Like the tents of Cushan shook,
Or the curtains of Midian.
Down on the reeling decks
Crashed the o'erwhelming seas;
Ah, never were there wrecks
So pitiful as these!

Like a potter's vessel broke
The great ships of the line;

They were carried away as a smoke,
Or sank like lead in the brine.
O Lord! before thy path
They vanished and ceased to be,

THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG.

When thou didst walk in wrath With thine horses through the sea!

THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG.

MOUNTED on Kyrat strong and fleet,
His chestnut steed with four white feet,
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou,
Son of the road and bandit chief,
Seeking refuge and relief,

Up the mountain pathway flew.

Such was Kyrat's wondrous speed,
Never yet could any steed

Reach the dust-cloud in his course.
More than maiden, more than wife,
More than gold and next to life

Roushan the Robber loved his horse.

In the land that lies beyond
Erzeroum and Trebizond,

Garden-girt his fortress stood;
Plundered khan, or caravan

Journeying north from Koordistan,

Gave him wealth and wine and food.

Seven hundred and fourscore
Men at arms his livery wore,

Did his bidding night and day. Now, through regions all unknown, He was wandering, lost, alone,

Seeking without guide his way.

Suddenly the pathway ends,
Sheer the precipice descends,

Loud the torrent roars unseen;
Thirty feet from side to side
Yawns the chasm; on air must ride
He who crosses this ravine.

Following close in his pursuit,
At the precipice's foot

Reyhan the Arab of Orfah Halted with his hundred men, Shouting upward from the glen, "La Illáh illa Allah!"

Gently Roushan Beg caressed
Kyrat's forehead, neck, and breast;
Kissed him upon both his eyes;
Sang to him in his wild way,
As upon the topmost spray
Sings a bird before it flies.

"O my Kyrat, O my steed, Round and slender as a reed,

Carry me this peril through! Satin housings shall be thine, Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine,

O thou soul of Kurroglou !

"Soft thy skin as silken skein,
Soft as woman's hair thy mane,
Tender are thine eyes and true;
All thy hoofs like ivory shine,
Polished bright; O life of mine,

Leap, and rescue Kurroglou !"

Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, Drew together his four white feet, Paused a moment on the verge, Measured with his eye the space, And into the air's embrace

Leaped as leaps the ocean surge.

As the ocean surge o'er sand
Bears a swimmer safe to land,
Kyrat safe his rider bore;
Rattling down the deep abyss

THREE Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;

Three Wise Men out of the East were they,

And they travelled by night and they slept by day,

For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.
And so the Three Kings rode into the West,

Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at some wayside well. "Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,

Good people, I pray you tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,

To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;
We know of no king but Herod the Great!"
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,

Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,

Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,

And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the gray of morn;
Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,

The city of David where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,

Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were

barred,

And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,

In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,

here." BOSWELL'S Johnson.

On the green little isle of Inchkenneth,
Who is it that walks by the shore,
So gay with his Highland blue bonnet,
So brave with his targe and claymore?

His form is the form of a giant,

But his face wears an aspect of pain; Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth? Can this be Sir Allan McLean?

The child, that would be king one day Of a kingdom not human, but divine.

His mother, Mary of Nazareth,

Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:

The gold was their tribute to a King,

The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,

The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled, yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said

Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
Aud returned to their homes by another way.

SONG.

STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,

For those that wander they know not where
Are full of trouble and full of care;

To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed,
They wander east, they wander west,

And are baffled and beaten and blown about
By the winds of the wilderness of doubt;
To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;
The bird is safest in its nest;

O'er all that flutter their wings and fly,
A hawk is hovering in the sky;
To stay at home is best.

THE WHITE CZAR.

THE White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushka, Father dear, and Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of giving to the Czar in their popular songs.

Dost thou see on the rampart's height
That wreath of mist, in the light
Of the midnight moon Oh, hist!
It is not a wreath of mist;

It is the Czar, the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

He has heard, among the dead,
The artillery roll o'erhead;

The drums and the tramp of feet

Of his soldiery in the street;
He is awake! the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

He has heard in the grave the cries
Of his people: "Awake! arise!"
He has rent the gold brocade
Whereof his shroud was made;
He is risen! the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

From the Volga and the Don
He has led his armies ou,
Over river and morass,
Over desert and mountain pass;
The Czar, the Orthodox Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

He looks from the mountain-chain
Toward the seas, that cleave in twain
The continents; his hand

Points southward o'er the land
Of Roumili! O Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

And the words break from his lips: "I am the builder of ships, And my ships shall sail these seas To the Pillars of Hercules ! I say it; the White Czar,

Batyushka! Gosudar!

"The Bosphorus shall be free;
It shall make room for me;
And the gates of its water-streets
Be unbarred before my fleets.
I say it; the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!

"And the Christian shall no more
Be crushed, as heretofore,
Beneath thine iron rule,
O Sultan of Istamboul!
I swear it! I the Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!"

DELIA.

SWEET as the tender fragrance that survives,
When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,
Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,
But never will be sung to us again,

Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest
Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling; it is best.

VENICE.

WHITE swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest
So wonderfully built among the reeds
Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds,
As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest!
White water-lily, cradled and caressed

By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds
Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds,
Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest!
White phantom city, whose untrodden streets
Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting
Shadows of palaces and strips of sky;

I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets
Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting
In air their unsubstantial masonry.

THE POETS.

O YE dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,