Too well, alas! too well I knew the awful way we went,— The little stretch of level road, and then the steep descent; The boiling stream that seethed and roared far down the rocky ridge, With death, like old Horatius, grim waiting at the bridge!
But, suddenly, above the din, a voice rang loud and clear; We knew it well, the driver’s voice,—without one note of fear; Some strong, swift angel’s lips might thrill with such a clarion cry,— The voice of one who put for aye all earthly passion by:—
“Still! for your lives, and listen! See yon farmhouse by the way, And piled along the field in front the shocks of new-mown hay. God help me turn my horses there! And when I give the word, Leap on the hay! Pray, every soul, to Him who Israel heard!”
Within, the coach was still. ’Tis strange, but never till I die Shall I forget the fields that day, the color of the sky, The summer breeze that brought the first sweet perfume of the hay, The bobolink that in the grass would sing his life away.
One breathless moment bridged the space that lay between, and then Jem drew upon the straining reins, with all the strength of ten. “Hold fast the babes!” More close I clasped the fair boy at my side. “Let every nerve be steady now!” and “Jump for life!” he cried.
Saved, every soul! Oh! dizzy—sweet life rushed in every vein, To us who from that fragrant bed rose up to hope again! But, ’mid the smiles and grateful tears that mingled on each cheek, A sudden questioning horror grew, that none would dare to speak.
Too soon the answer struck our ears! One moment’s hollow roar Of flying hoofs upon the bridge—an awful crash that tore The very air in twain—and then, through all the world grown still, I only heard the bobolink go singing at his will.
I was the first man down the cliff. There’s little left to tell. We found him lying, breathing yet and conscious, where he fell. The question in his eager eyes, I answered with a word,— “Safe!” Then he smiled, and whispered low some words I scarcely heard.
We would have raised him, but his lips grew white with agony. “Not yet; it will be over soon,” he whispered. “Wait with me;” Then, lower, smiling still, “It is my last ride, friends; but I Have done my duty, and God knows I do not fear to die.”
He closed his eyes. We watched his life slip, like an ebbing tide, Far out upon the infinite, where all our hopes abide. He spoke but once again, a name not meant for mortal ears, “My Rose!” She must have heard that call, amid the singing spheres! Mary A. P. Stansbury.