De La Salle Fifth Reader Part 48

toc' sin re count' ed

WAs.h.i.+NGTON'S BIRTHDAY.

'Tis splendid to have a record So white and free from stain That, held to the light, it shows no blot, Though tested and tried amain; That age to age forever Repeats its story of love, And your birthday lives in a nation's heart, All other days above.

And this is Was.h.i.+ngton's glory, A steadfast soul and true, Who stood for his country's honor When his country's days were few.

And now when its days are many, And its flag of stars is flung To the breeze in radiant glory, His name is on every tongue.

Yes, it's splendid to live so bravely, To be so great and strong, That your memory is ever a tocsin To rally the foes of wrong; To live so proudly and purely, That your people pause in their way, And year by year, with banner and drum, Keep the thought of your natal day.

_Margaret E. Sangster._

By permission of the author.

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Brit' on (un) ant' lers wrin' kled vet' er an im mor' tal

THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.

He lay upon his dying bed, His eye was growing dim, When, with a feeble voice, he called His weeping son to him: "Weep not, my boy," the veteran said, "I bow to heaven's high will; But quickly from yon antlers bring The sword of Bunker Hill."

The sword was brought; the soldier's eye Lit with a sudden flame; And, as he grasped the ancient blade, He murmured Warren's name; Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold, But what is richer still, I leave you, mark me, mark me well, The sword of Bunker Hill.

"'Twas on that dread, immortal day, I dared the Briton's band; A captain raised his blade on me, I tore it from his hand; And while the glorious battle raged, It lightened Freedom's will; For, son, the G.o.d of Freedom blessed The sword of Bunker Hill.

"Oh! keep this sword," his accents broke,-- A smile--and he was dead; But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade, Upon that dying bed.

The son remains, the sword remains, Its glory growing still, And twenty millions bless the sire And sword of Bunker Hill.

_William R. Wallace._

[Ill.u.s.tration:]

_78_

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THE MARTYR'S BOY.

It is a youth full of grace, and sprightliness, and candor, that comes forward with light and buoyant steps across the open court, towards the inner hall; and we shall hardly find time to sketch him before he reaches it. He is about fourteen years old, but tall for that age, with elegance of form and manliness of bearing. His bare neck and limbs are well developed by healthy exercise; his features display an open and warm heart, while his lofty forehead, round which his brown hair naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence. He wears the usual youth's garment, the short toga, reaching below the knee, and a hollow spheroid of gold suspended round his neck. A bundle of papers and vellum rolls fastened together, and carried by an old servant behind him, shows us that he is just returning home from school.

While we have been thus noting him, he has received his mother's embrace, and has sat himself low by her feet. She gazes upon him for some time in silence, as if to discover in his countenance the cause of his unusual delay, for he is an hour late in his return. But he meets her glance with so frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence, that every cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses him as follows:

"What has detained you to-day, my dearest boy? No accident, I trust, has happened to you on the way."

"Oh, none, I a.s.sure you, sweetest mother; on the contrary, all has been so delightful that I can scarcely venture to tell you."

A look of smiling, expostulation drew from the open-hearted boy a delicious laugh, as he continued: "Well, I suppose I must. You know I am never happy if I have failed to tell you all the bad and the good of the day about myself. But, to-day, for the first time, I have a doubt whether I ought to tell you all."

Did the mother's heart flutter more than usual, as from a first anxiety, or was there a softer solicitude dimming her eye, that the youth should seize her hand and put it tenderly to his lips, while he thus replied:

"Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done nothing that may give you pain. Only say, do you wish to hear _all_ that has befallen me to-day, or only the cause of my late return home?"

"Tell me all, dear Pancratius," she answered; "nothing that concerns you can be indifferent to me."

"Well, then," he began, "this last day of my frequenting school appears to me to have been singularly blessed. First, I was crowned as the successful compet.i.tor in a declamation, which our good master Ca.s.sia.n.u.s set us for our work during the morning hours; and this led, as you will hear, to some singular discoveries. The subject was, 'That the real philosopher should be ever ready to die for the truth.' I never heard anything so cold or insipid (I hope it is not wrong to say so) as the compositions read by my companions. It was not their fault, poor fellows! what truth can they possess, and what inducements can they have to die for any of their vain opinions? But to a Christian, what charming suggestions such a theme naturally makes! And so I felt it. My heart glowed, and all my thoughts seemed to burn, as I wrote my essay, full of the lessons you have taught me, and of the domestic examples that are before me. The son of a martyr could not feel otherwise. But when my turn came to read my declamation, I found that my feelings had nearly betrayed me. In the warmth of my recitation, the word 'Christian'

escaped my lips instead of 'philosopher,' and 'faith' instead of 'truth,' At the first mistake, I saw Ca.s.sia.n.u.s start; at the second, I saw a tear glisten in his eye, as bending affectionately towards me, he said, in a whisper, 'Beware, my child, there are sharp ears listening.'"

"What, then," interrupted the mother, "is Ca.s.sia.n.u.s a Christian? I chose his school because it was in the highest repute for learning and morality; and now indeed I thank G.o.d that I did so. But in these days of danger we are obliged to live as strangers in our own land. Certainly, had Ca.s.sia.n.u.s proclaimed his faith, his school would soon have been deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his apprehensions well grounded?"

"I fear so; for while the great body of my school-fellows vehemently applauded my hearty declamation, I saw the dark eyes of Corvinus bent scowlingly upon me, as he bit his lip in manifest anger."

"And who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and wherefore?"

"He is the strongest, but, unfortunately, the dullest boy in the school.

But this, you know, is not his fault. Only, I know not why, he seems ever to have had a grudge against me, the cause of which I cannot understand."

"Did he say aught to you, or do?"

"Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we went forth from school into the field by the river, he addressed me insultingly in the presence of our companions, and said, 'Come, Pancratius, this, I understand, is the last time we meet _here_; but I have a long score to demand payment of from you. You have loved to show your superiority in school over me and others older and better than yourself; I saw your supercilious looks at me as you spouted your high-flown declamation to-day; ay, and I caught expressions in it which you may live to rue, and that very soon.

Before you leave us, I must have my revenge. If you are worthy of your name let us fairly contend in more manly strife than that of the style and tables. Wrestle with me, or try the cestus against me. I burn to humble you as you deserve, before these witnesses of your insolent triumphs.'"

The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, and scarcely breathed. "And what," she exclaimed, "did you answer, my dear son?"