I cannot vouch my tale is true,
Nor say, indeed, 'tis wholly new;
But true or false, or new or old,
I think you'll find it fairly told.
A Frenchman, who had ne'er before
Set foot upon a foreign shore,
Weary of home, resolved to go
And see what Holland had to show.
He didn't know a word of Dutch,
But that could hardly grieve him much;
He thought, as Frenchmen always do,
That all the world could "parley-voo."
At length our eager tourist stands
Within the famous Netherlands,
And, strolling gaily here and there,
In search of something rich or rare,
A lordly mansion greets his eyes;
"How beautiful!" the Frenchman cries,
And, bowing to the man who sate
In livery at the garden gate,
"Pray, Mr. Porter, if you please,
Whose very charming grounds are these?
And, pardon me, be pleased to tell
Who in this splendid house may dwell."
To which, in Dutch, the puzzled man
Replied what seemed like "[Nick Van Stann],"
"Thanks!" said the Gaul; "the owner's taste
Is equally superb and chaste;
So fine a house, upon my word,
Not even Paris can afford.
With statues, too, in every niche;
Of course Monsieur Van Stann is rich,
And lives, I warrant, like a king,—
Ah! wealth mast be a charming thing!"
In Amsterdam the Frenchman meets
A thousand wonders in the streets,
But most he marvels to behold
A lady dressed in silk and gold;
Gazing with rapture on the dame,
He begs to know the lady's name,
And hears, to raise his wonders more,
The very words he heard before!
"Mercie!" he cries; "well, on my life,
Milord has got a charming wife;
'Tis plain to see, this Nick Van Stann
Must be a very happy man."
Next day our tourist chanced to pop
His head within a lottery shop,
And there he saw, with staring eyes,
The drawing of the mammoth prize.
"Ten millions! 'tis a pretty sum;
I wish I had as much at home:
I'd like to know, as I'm a sinner,
What lucky fellow is the winner?"
Conceive our traveler's amaze
To hear again the hackneyed phrase.
"What? no! not Nick Van Stann again?
Faith! he's the luckiest of men.
You may be sure we don't advance
So rapidly as that in France:
A house, the finest in the land;
A lovely garden, nicely planned;
A perfect angel of a wife,
And gold enough to last a life;
There never yet was mortal man
So blest—as Monsieur Nick Van Stann!"
Next day the Frenchman chanced to meet
A pompous funeral in the street;
And, asking one who stood close by
What nobleman had pleased to die,
Was stunned to hear the old reply.
The Frenchman sighed and shook his head,
"Mon Dieu! poor Nick Van Stann is dead;
With such a house, and such a wife,
It must be hard to part with life;
And then, to lose that mammoth prize,—
He wins, and, pop,—the winner dies!
Ah, well! his blessings came so fast,
I greatly feared they could not last:
And thus, we see, the sword of Fate
Cuts down alike the small and great."
John G. Saxe.
Nicht verstehen:—"I don't understand."

Armageddon

Marching down to Armageddon—
Brothers, stout and strong!
Let us cheer the way we tread on,
With a soldier's song!
Faint we by the weary road,
Or fall we in the rout,
Dirge or Pæan, Death or Triumph!—
Let the song ring out!
We are they who scorn the scorners—
Love the lovers—hate
None within the world's four corners—
All must share one fate;
We are they whose common banner
Bears no badge nor sign,
Save the Light which dyes it white—
The Hope that makes it shine.
We are they whose bugle rings,
That all the wars may cease;
We are they will pay the Kings
Their cruel price for Peace;
We are they whose steadfast watchword
Is what Christ did teach—
"Each man for his Brother first—
And Heaven, then, for each."
We are they who will not falter—
Many swords or few—
Till we make this Earth the altar
Of a worship new;
We are they who will not take
From palace, priest or code,
A meaner Law than "Brotherhood"—
A lower Lord than God.
Marching down to Armageddon—
Brothers, stout and strong!
Ask not why the way we tread on
Is so rough and long!
God will tell us when our spirits
Grow to grasp His plan!
Let us do our part to-day—
And help Him, helping Man!
Shall we even curse the madness
Which for "ends of State"
Dooms us to the long, long sadness
Of this human hate?
Let us slay in perfect pity
Those that must not live;
Vanquish, and forgive our foes—
Or fall—and still forgive!
We are those whose unpaid legions,
In free ranks arrayed,
Massacred in many regions—
Never once were stayed:
We are they whose torn battalions,
Trained to bleed, not fly,
Make our agonies a triumph,—
Conquer, while we die!
Therefore, down to Armageddon—
Brothers, bold and strong;
Cheer the glorious way we tread on,
With this soldier song!
Let the armies of the old Flags
March in silent dread!
Death and Life are one to us,
Who fight for Quick and Dead!
Edwin Arnold.

Picciola

It was a sergeant old and gray,
Well singed and bronzed from siege and pillage.
Went tramping in an army's wake
Along the turnpike of the village.
For days and nights the winding host
Had through the little place been marching,
And ever loud the rustics cheered,
Till every throat was hoarse and parching.
The squire and farmer, maid and dame,
All took the sight's electric stirring,
And hats were waved and staves were sung,
And kerchiefs white were countless whirring.
They only saw a gallant show
Of heroes stalwart under banners,
And, in the fierce heroic glow,
'Twas theirs to yield but wild hosannas.
The sergeant heard the shrill hurrahs,
Where he behind in step was keeping;
But, glancing down beside the road,
He saw a little maid sit weeping.
"And how is this?" he gruffly said,
A moment pausing to regard her;—
"Why weepest thou, my little chit?"
And then she only cried the harder.
"And how is this, my little chit?"
The sturdy trooper straight repeated,
"When all the village cheers us on,
That you, in tears, apart are seated?
"We march two hundred thousand strong,
And that's a sight, my baby beauty,
To quicken silence into song
And glorify the soldier's duty."
"It's very, very grand, I know,"
The little maid gave soft replying;
"And father, mother, brother too,
All say 'Hurrah' while I am crying;
"But think, oh, Mr. Soldier, think,
How many little sisters' brothers
Are going all away to fight,
And may be killed, as well as others!"
"Why, bless thee, child," the sergeant said,
His brawny hand her curls caressing,
"'Tis left for little ones like thee
To find that war's not all a blessing."
And "Bless thee!" once again he cried,
Then cleared his throat and looked indignant
And marched away with wrinkled brow
To stop the struggling tear benignant.
And still the ringing shouts went up
From doorway, thatch, and fields of tillage;
The pall behind the standard seen
By one alone of all the village.
The oak and cedar bend and writhe
When roars the wind through gap and braken;
But 'tis the tenderest reed of all
That trembles first when Earth is shaken.
Robert Henry Newell.

The King's Ring

Once in Persia reigned a king
Who upon his signet ring
Graved a maxim true and wise
Which, if held before his eyes,
Gave him counsel at a glance
Fit for every change and chance.
Solemn words; and these are they:
"Even this shall pass away."
Trains of camels through the sand
Brought him gems from Samarcand,
Fleets of galleys through the seas
Brought him pearls to match with these;
But he counted not his gain—
Treasurer of the mine and main,
"What is wealth?" the king would say;
"Even this shall pass away."
In the revels of his court
At the zenith of the sport,
When the palms of all his guests
Burned with clapping at his jests,
He, amid his figs and wine,
Cried: "O loving friends of mine!
Pleasures come, but not to stay,
Even this shall pass away."
Fighting on a furious field
Once a javelin pierced his shield;
Soldiers with loud lament
Bore him bleeding to his tent,
Groaning with his tortured side.
"Pain is hard to bear," he cried;
"But with patience day by day,
Even this shall pass away."
Struck with palsy, sere and old,
Waiting at the gates of gold,
Spake he with his dying breath:
"Life is done, but what is death?"
Then, in answer to the king,
Fell a sunbeam on his ring,
Showing by a heavenly ray:
"Even this shall pass away."
Theodore Tilton.