Ballads of Bravery

Ballads of Bravery
Various

Various

Ballads of Bravery

“Curfew must not ring To-night.”

ENGLAND’S sun, bright setting o’er the hills so far away,
Filled the land with misty beauty at the close of one sad day;
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, —
He with step so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful; she, with lips so cold and white,
Struggled to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night.”

“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls so tall and gloomy, walls so dark and damp and cold, —
“I’ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew; and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset,” and her face grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night.”

“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poisoned dart),
“Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I’m old, I will not miss it. Girl, the curfew rings to-night!”

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow;
And within her heart’s deep centre Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, —
“At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood must die.”
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, scarcely spoken, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, but, with cheek and brow aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

She has reached the topmost ladder; o’er her hangs the great, dark bell,
And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; ’tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Out she swung, – far out. The city seemed a tiny speck below, —
There ’twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro;
And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell),
And he thought the twilight curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell.
Still the maiden, clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white,
Stilled her frightened heart’s wild beating: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

It was o’er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted; and what she this night had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O’er the distant hills came Cromwell. Bessie saw him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, glows with sudden beauty now.
At his feet she told her story, showed her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, so haggard, with a look so sad and worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
“Go! your lover lives,” cried Cromwell. “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

The Glove and the Lions

KING FRANCIS was a hearty king and loved a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court.
The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,
And ’mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed.
And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, —
Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another,
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air.
Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we’re better here than there.”

De Lorge’s love o’erheard the king, – a beauteous, lively dame,
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;
She thought, “The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be,
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me.
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I’ll drop my glove to prove his love. Great glory will be mine!”
She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked on him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild.
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place;
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face.
“By Heaven!” said Francis, “rightly done!” rising from where he sat.
“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.”