Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two. Various

Will land or gold redeem my son? Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russian thrall! Take these!" and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there; Her cross of blazing rubies, last, Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store;— Up springing from the marble floor, The mother, with a cry of joy, Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. But no! the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony. But the brave child is roused at length, And, breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. Proudly he towers; his flashing eye, So blue, and yet so bright, Seems kindled from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its light. His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks; With a full voice of proud command He turned upon the wondering band. "Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can; This hour has made the boy a man. I knelt before my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept! I was a child; but now My noble mother, on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me!" He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jeweled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight. "Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! Think ye my noble father's glaive Would drink the life-blood of a slave? The pearls that on the handle flame Would blush to rubies in their shame; The blade would quiver in thy breast Ashamed of such ignoble rest. No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain!" A moment, and the funeral light Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang: "Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free! The choice was death or slavery. Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! His freedom is forever won; And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss; One last embrace, one blessing—one! To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal? Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head! What! silent still? Then art thou dead: —Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee—and thus—to die." One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom—dead. Ann S. Stephens.

The Height of the Ridiculous

       Table of Contents

I wrote some lines once on a time

In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say

They were exceeding good.

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