Fourth Reader

The hand of such as Marmion clasp.”

Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire;
And “This to me?” he said;
“An ’twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared
To cleave the Douglas’ head.
And first, I tell thee, haughty peer,
He who does England’s message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate.

“And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,
I tell thee thou’rt defied!
And if thou saidst I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied.”

On the earl’s cheek the flush of rage
O’ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth: “And dar’st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go?
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! —
Up drawbridge, grooms! – what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall!”

Lord Marmion turned, – well was his need, —
And dashed the rowels in his steed;
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung;
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, grazed his plume.
The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake’s level brim.
And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenchèd hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.

    – Sir Walter Scott.

THE TEMPEST

Upon a lonely island of the sea, far from the haunts of humanity, there dwelt an old man and his beautiful daughter. She had been very young when she was taken there, so young that she could not remember ever having seen a human face, excepting the face of Prospero, her father.

Their home was in a rocky cavern, which was divided into two or three apartments, and in one of these the old man kept his books, which treated of a strange art, much thought of in olden time. It was called magic; and it is said that by this means Prospero had released many good spirits which a bad witch named Sycorax had managed to confine in the hollow trunks of large old trees, just because they would not do the wicked things she commanded.

One of these released spirits had the pretty name of Ariel; a lively little sprite, who, in gratitude to Prospero, was always ready to do his will. But Ariel had a dislike to a monster called Caliban, – the son of wicked Sycorax, – and took great pleasure in tormenting him.

Though Prospero found this ugly Caliban in the woods, and took him home to his cavern, treating him with great kindness, it seemed impossible to teach him anything really useful; so at length he was put to draw water and carry wood, while Ariel watched to see how he executed these duties.

Ariel was such a delicate sprite that no mortal’s eye could perceive him save the eye of Prospero; and thus, when Caliban was lazy, he was not able to see that it was Ariel who would pinch him and tease him, or else take some fantastic shape and tumble in his way, and so vex him, as a punishment for not doing the will of Prospero.

Strange as it may seem, this old man of the island could get the spirits to rouse the winds and the waves at his pleasure. Once, when a violent storm was raging, he showed his daughter Miranda a ship quite full of human beings, whose lives were in peril from the surging waves. “Oh, dear father,” cried the maiden, “if indeed your power has raised this storm, have pity on these poor creatures and calm the wind. If I could, I would rather sink the sea beneath the earth, than have the ship and so many lives destroyed.”

“No person on board the vessel shall be harmed,” said Prospero, soothing her alarm. “I have done this for your sake, Miranda. You wonder – ah! you know not who you are, or whence you came; in fact, you only know that I am your father, and that this cavern is our home. You were scarce three years old when I brought you here; you cannot then remember any previous time?”

“Yes, my father, I can,” replied Miranda.

Then Prospero entreated her to say what remembrance she had of the days of her infancy.

“It is but little,” said the maiden. “It seems indeed like unto a dream, and yet surely there was a time when several women were in attendance on me.”

“That is quite true,” replied Prospero. “How can you recall this? – can it be possible that you remember our coming here?”

“No, I can recall nothing more than I have said, father.”

Upon this Prospero decided that the time had come when he should tell his daughter the story of her life. “Twelve years ago, Miranda,” he began, “I was duke of Milan, and you the heiress of my wealth and a princess. I had a brother younger than myself, to whom I trusted the management of my affairs, little dreaming of his unworthiness. Buried among my books, I neglected all else, and Antonio used this opportunity to gain an influence over my subjects; and then, with the aid of an enemy of mine, the king of Naples, to make himself duke in my place.

“He feared to take our lives by violence, but having forced us on board a vessel, Antonio put out to sea, and then removing us into a smaller boat without sail or mast, left us to what he believed would prove a certain death.

“A lord of my court, by name Gonzalo, had, however, felt some presentiment of danger, and thus had, out of his love for me, taken the precaution of putting food, apparel, and my highly valued books into the boat.”

“Oh, father,” said Miranda, “what a care, what a trouble must I, a little child, have been to you, then!”

“Nay, my child,” replied Prospero, passing his hand fondly over her hair; “not a care, but a comforter, a consoler! I could hardly have borne up under such misfortunes, but for your innocent face and baby tongue. Our food lasted till the boat touched this island; and here my great joy has been to watch over and instruct you.”

“But tell me, father, why this furious storm?” cried Miranda.

“By this storm my cruel brother and the king of Naples are cast ashore upon this island.”

As he spoke these words Prospero touched his daughter with his magic wand, and her eyes closed in sleep.

Just then Ariel came to his master to tell how he had treated the company on board the ship, describing their great alarm, and how the young Ferdinand, son of the king, had leaped into the sea, to the grief of his father, who believed him lost. “But he is not lost,” said Ariel. “He is sitting now in a corner of the island, with not one hair of his head injured; but he is grieving sadly, because he concludes that the king, his father, has been drowned.”

“Bring the young prince hither, Ariel,” said Prospero. “Where is the king, and where my brother Antonio?”

“Searching for Ferdinand,” replied the sprite. “Searching with a very faint hope, for they believe they saw him perish. In fact, although all the ship’s company is safe, each believes himself the only survivor; and even the ship is invisible to them, though it lies in the harbor.”

“Thy duty has been well done,” said Prospero. “There is more work yet for thee, Ariel.”

“More work!” cried the sprite. “But, master, you promised me my liberty; and pray remember I have done you good service. I have made no mistakes, told no lies, neither have I murmured at the commands laid upon me.”