3. But still the corn, At dawn of morn Our fatal steps that bore, At eve lies waste, A trampled paste Of blackening mud and gore. 4. Wheel the wild dance To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. 5. Wheel the wild dance! Brave sons of France, For you our ring makes room; Make space full wide For martial pride, For banner, spear, and plume 6. Approach, draw near, Proud cuirassier! Room for the men of steel! Through crest and plate The broadsword's weight Both head and heart shall feel. 7. Wheel the wild dance And thunders rattle loud, To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. 8. Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers! To the wrath of man. 1. Shroud, eddying, martial, cuirassier, welkin's, elemental, trampled. 2. What are the lightnings and thunders of war? What is an "eddying wave"? What steps did the corn bear in the morn? Are there " men of steel" now? What has done away with the old armor? LVIII. THE DREAM OF THE OAK TREE. 1. There stood in a wood, high on the bank near the open seashore, such a grand old oak tree! It was three hundred and sixty-five years old; but all this length of years had seemed to the tree scarcely more than so many days appear to us men and women, boys and girls. 2. A tree's life is not quite the same as a man's: we wake during the day, and sleep and dream during the night; but a tree wakes throughout three seasons of the year, and has no sleep till winter comes. The winter is its sleeping time— its night after the long day which we call spring, summer, and autumn. 3. Through many a warm summer day had the May flies danced in light, innocent glee round his crown; and if, for a moment, one of these little creatures rested from its play on one of the large, fresh oak leaves, the tree would say, "Poor little insect! only one day long is thy brief life! how sad that is!" 66 4. Sad!" would the little May fly then exclaim in wonder; "what meanest thou by 'sad'? Everything is so bright, so warm, so beautiful, and I am so happy!" "But only for one day, and then all is past for thee." "Past!" repeated the May fly; Art thou 'past,' too?" "No, indeed I shall live for thousands of thy days, perhaps, and my day lasts a whole year. But that is something so long that thou canst not reckon it." "what is past'? 5. "Well, then, I do not understand thee at all. Thou hast thousands of days, and I have thousands of moments, in which to be happy and joyous. Will the beauty of this world cease when thou diest?" "No," said the tree; "it will last longer, infinitely longer." "Well, then, we are in the same case, only I reckon differently." 6. And the May fly danced hither and thither, rejoiced over her fine, delicate wings, and reveled in the warm atmosphere, which was so perfumed with the delicious scents from the clover field and the wild roses, elders, and honeysuckles of the hedge, not to speak of bluebells, cowslips, and wild thyme, that the little insect felt intoxicated with sweet odors. 7. The day was long, full of brightness, beauty, and joy, and by sunset the little May fly felt wearied out with pleasant excitement. Her wings would bear her no longer; softly she glided down upon the cool, rocking blades of grass, nodded her little head, and slept the happy sleep of death. 8. "Poor little May fly!" quoth the oak tree; "thine was too brief an existence!" And every summer day recurred the same dance, the same argument, and the same peaceful falling asleep. It was repeated through whole generations of May flies, all alike light-hearted and joyous in their little lives. 9. The oak tree stood wide awake during his spring morning, his summer noon, and his autumnal evening; now, it was nearly night; winter was drawing nigh. |
