TUBAL CAIN.

OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might,
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung:

And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,

Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and the spear.
And he sang: 66
Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and the sword!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord."

To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade
As the crown of his desire :

And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang :

"Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
And hurrah for the metal true !"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart,
Ere the setting of the sun,

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,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man!"

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,
In friendship joined their hands,
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands;

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,
By the kirk and college green,
Rode the laird of Ury;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,

Pressed the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving-girl,

Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,
Cursed him as he passed her.
Yet with calm and stately mien
Up the streets of Aberdeen
Came he slowly riding;
And to all he saw and heard
Answering not with bitter word,
Turning not for chiding.

Came a troop with broadswords swinging,
Bits and bridles sharply ringing,

Loose and free and froward :

Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down!
Push him! prick him! Through the town
Drive the Quaker coward!"

But from out the thickening crowd
Cried a sudden voice and loud :

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,
In a patient hope I rest

For the full day-breaking!"

So the laird of Ury said,
Turning slow his horse's head

Towards the Tolbooth prison, Where, through iron gates, he heard Poor disciples of the Word

Preach of Christ arisen!

Not in vain, confessor old,
Unto us the tale is told

Of thy day of trial!
Every age on him who strays
From its broad and beaten ways
Pours its sevenfold vial.

Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear,

O'er the rabble's laughter;

And, while hatred's fagots burn,
Glimpses through the smoke discern
Of the good hereafter.

Knowing this,
that never yet
Share of truth was vainly set

In the world's wide fallow;
After hands shall sow the seed,
After hands from hill and mead

Reap the harvests yellow.

Thus, with somewhat of the seer,
Must the moral pioneer

From the future borrow,

Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,
And, on midnight's sky of rain,
Paint the golden morrow!

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.

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

of stars,

whispering low,

turbed repose.

ANONYMOUS.

NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

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;
Nor let the reeking knife,

That I have drawn against a brother's life,
Be in my hand when Death
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath

His heavy squadron's heels,

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,

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,
sunshine flashes on the lifted lance;
I know that bards have sung,
And people shouted till the welkin rung,
In honor of the brave

Who on the battle-field have found a grave;