Successful Recitations Part 22

On the fair autumnal evening of a bright September day She had heard the choir singing, she had heard the canons pray; And the good old dean was preaching with simple words and wise Of Him who gave the maiden life and touched the poor man's eyes.

And her tears fell fast and thickly as the good old preacher said That even now He cures the blind and raises up the dead; And he aptly went on speaking of the blinding death of sin, And urged them to be seeking for life and light within.

'Mid the mighty organ's pealing in the voluntary rare, Through the fine oak-panelled ceiling went the maiden's broken prayer That she might but for a moment be allowed to have her sight, To see old Alec's honest face that tranquil autumn night.

That He of old who sweetly upon Bartimeus smiled Would gaze in like compa.s.sion on an English peasant child: That He who once in pity stood beside the maiden's bed, Would take her hand within His own and raise her from the dead.

The maiden's small pet.i.tion, and the choir's grander praise, Reached the s.h.i.+ning gates of heaven, 'mid the sun's declining rays, And the King who heard the praises, turned to listen to the prayer, With a smile that shone more brightly than the richest jewel there.

And before the organ ended, ay, before the prayer was done, An angel guard came flying through "the kingdom of the sun,"

From the land of lofty praises to which G.o.d's elect aspire To the old cathedral city of that famous western s.h.i.+re.

And the maiden's prayer was answered; she gazed with eager sight At the tesselated pavement, at the window's painted light; And her heart beat fast and wildly as she realized the scene, With the choir's slow procession, and the old white-headed dean.

Till she saw old Alec waiting, and arose for his embrace, While a radiant light was stealing o'er her pallid upturned face, But her spirit soaring higher flew beyond the realms of night, For G.o.d Himself had turned for her all darkness into light.

THE BEGGAR MAID.

BY LORD TENNYSON.

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Bare-footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua.

In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day."

As s.h.i.+nes the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien.

So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"

THE VENGEANCE OF KAFUR.

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD.

From fair Damascus, as the day grew late, Pa.s.sed Kafur homeward through St. Thomas' gate Betwixt the pleasure-gardens where he heard Vie with the lute the twilight-wakened bird.

But song touched not his heavy heart, nor yet The lovely lines of gold and violet, A guerdon left by the departing sun To grace the brow of Anti-Lebanon.

Upon his soul a crus.h.i.+ng burden weighed, And to his eyes the swiftly-gathering shade Seemed but the presage of his doom to be,-- Death, and the triumph of his enemy.

"_One slain by slander_" cried he, with a laugh, "Thus should the poets frame my epitaph, Above whose mouldering dust it will be said, 'Blessed be Allah that the hound is dead!'"

Out rang a rhythmic revel as he spake From joyous bulbuls in the poplar brake, Hailing the night's first blossom in the sky.

And now, with failing foot, he drew anigh The orchard-garden where his home was hid Pomegranate shade and jasmine bloom amid.

Despair mocked at him from the latticed gate Where Love and Happiness had lain in wait With tender greetings, and the lights within Gleamed on the grave of Bliss that once had been.

Fair Hope who daily poured into his ear Her rainbow promises gave way to Fear Who smote him blindly, leaving him to moan With bitter tears before the gateway p.r.o.ne.

Soft seemed the wind in sympathy to grieve, When lo! a sudden hand touched Kafur's sleeve, And then a voice cried, echoing his name, "Behold the proofs to put thy foe to shame!'"

Up sprang the prostrate man, and while he stood Gripping the proffered scrip in marvelhood, He who had brought deliverance slipped from sight; Thus Joy made instant day of Kafur's night.

"Allah is just," he said.... Then burning ire With vengeance visions filled his brain like fire; And to his bosom, anguish-torn but late, Delirious with delight he hugged his hate.

"Revenge!" cried he; "why wait until the morn?

This night mine enemy shall know my scorn."

The stars looked down in wo'nder overhead As backward Kafur toward Damascus sped.

The wind, that erst had joined him in his grief, Now whispered strangely to the walnut leaf; Into the bird's song pleading notes had crept, The happy fountains in the gardens wept, And e'en the river, with its restless roll, Seemed calling "pity" unto Kafur's soul.

"Allah" he cried, "O chasten thou my heart; Move me to mercy, and a n.o.bler part!"

Slow strode he on, the while a new-born grace Softened the rigid outlines of his face, Nor paused he till he struck, as ne'er before, A ringing summons on his foeman's door.

His mantle half across his features thrown, He won the s.p.a.cious inner court unknown, Where, on a deep divan, lay stretched his foe, Sipping his sherbet cool with Hermon snow; Who, when he looked on Kafur, hurled his hate Upon him, wrathful and infuriate, Bidding him swift begone, and think to feel A judge's sentence and a jailer's steel.

"Hark ye!" cried Kafur, at this burst of rage Holding aloft a rolled parchment page; "Prayers and not threats were more to thy behoof; Thine is the danger, see! I hold the proof.

Should I seek out the Caliph in his bower To-morrow when the mid-muezzin hour Has pa.s.sed, and lay before his eyes this scrip, Silence would seal forevermore thy lip.

"Ay! quail and cringe and crook the supple knee, And beg thy life of me, thine enemy, Whom thou, a moment since, didst doom to death.

I will not breathe suspicion's lightest breath Against thy vaunted fame: and even though Before all men thou'st sworn thyself my foe, And pledged thyself wrongly to wreak on me Thy utmost power of mortal injury, In spite of this, should I be first to die And win the bowers of the blest on high, Beside the golden gate of Paradise Thee will I wait with ever-watchful eyes, Ready to plead forgiveness for thy sin, If thou shouldst come, and shouldst not enter in.

"Should Allah hear my plea, how sweet! how sweet!

For then would Kafur's vengeance be complete."

THE WIs.h.i.+NG WELL.

BY VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD.

Around its s.h.i.+ning edge three sat them down, Beyond the desert, 'neath the palms' green ring.

"I wish," spake one, "the gems of Izza's crown, For then would I be Izza and a King!"

Another, "I the royal robe he wears, To hear men say, 'Behold, a King walks here!'"

And cried the third, "Now by his long gray hairs I'd have his throne! Then should men cringe and fear!"

They quaffed the blessed draught and went their way To where the city's gilded turrets shone; Then from the shadowed palms, where rested they, Stepped one, with bowed gray head, and pa.s.sed alone.

His arms upon his breast, his eyes down bent, Against the fading light a shadow straight; Across the yellow sand, musing, he went Where in the sunset gleamed the city's gate.

Lo, the next morrow a command did bring To three who tarried in that city's wall, Which bade them hasten straightway to the King, Izza, the Great, and straightway went they all,

With questioning and wonder in each mind.

Majestic on his gleaming throne was he, Izza the Just, the kingliest of his kind!

His eagle gaze upon the strangers three

Bent, to the first he spake, "Something doth tell Me that to-day my jewelled crown should lie Upon thy brow, that it be proven well How any man may be a king thereby."