TUBAL CAIN. OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might, And he lifted high his brawny hand Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers, To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire, And he made them weapons sharp and strong, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain, But a sudden change came o'er his heart, And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done; He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with the blood they shed, In their lust for carnage blind. And he said: "Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe; And his hand forbore to smite the ore, And his furnace smouldered low. But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright courageous eye, And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high. And he sang: "Hurrah for my handiwork!" And the red sparks lit the air; "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made," And he fashioned the first ploughshare. And men, taught wisdom from the past, And sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain ! Our stanch good friend is he; And for the ploughshare and the plough To him our praise shall be. But while oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the plough, We'll not forget the sword!" CHARLES MACKAY. BARCLAY OF URY. Up the streets of Aberdeen, Pressed the mob in fury. Prompt to please her master; Came a troop with broadswords swinging, Loose and free and froward : Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down! But from out the thickening crowd 66 'Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!" And the old man at his side Saw a comrade, battle-tried, Scarred and sunburned darkly; Who, with ready weapon bare, Fronting to the troopers there, Cried aloud: "God save us! Call ye coward him who stood Ankle-deep in Lutzen's blood, With the brave Gustavus?" "Nay, I do not need thy sword, Comrade mine," said Ury's lord "Put it up, I pray thee. Passive to his holy will, Trust I in my Master still, Even though he slay me. Knowing God's own time is best, For the full day-breaking!" So the laird of Ury said, Towards the Tolbooth prison, Where, through iron gates, he heard Poor disciples of the Word Preach of Christ arisen! Not in vain, confessor old, Of thy day of trial! Happy he whose inward ear O'er the rabble's laughter; And, while hatred's fagots burn, Knowing this, In the world's wide fallow; Reap the harvests yellow. Thus, with somewhat of the seer, From the future borrow, Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept ; All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept. O the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night! O the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light! One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke; But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke. On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all | And they robed the icy body, while of lambent flame. For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need, And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed. But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er, And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore. Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about. But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun. then those little maidens children of our foes And they were Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undis of stars, whispering low, turbed repose. ANONYMOUS. NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. "To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country, that Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the would not be hard."-THE NEIGHBORS. brooklet's murmuring flow? O No, no, let me lie Not on a field of battle when I die! Let not the iron tread Of the mad war-horse crush my helméd head; That I have drawn against a brother's life, His heavy squadron's heels, And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. of dread. And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood Where the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude. They had brought some simple garments from I know that beauty's eye their wardrobe's scanty store, And two heavy iron shovels in their slender Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, hands they bore. Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. And And brazen helmets dance, Who on the battle-field have found a grave; |