THE OLIVE BOUGHS. BY SARAH FLOWER ADAMS. [1805-1848; author of "Nearer, My God, to Thee."] THEY bear the hero from the fight, dying; They lay him down beneath the shade By the olive branches made: The olive boughs are sighing. He hears the wind among the leaves, dying; He hears the voice that used to be When he sat beneath the tree: The olive boughs are sighing. Comes the mist around his brow, dying; Comes that form of peace so fair, Stretch his hands unto the air: The olive boughs are sighing. Fadeth life as fadeth day, dying; There's an urn beneath the shade The olive boughs are sighing. VAN ARTEVELDE AND HIS COMPANIONS. BY SIR HENRY TAYLOR. [SIR HENRY TAYLOR was born in Durham, 1800. He became editor of the London Magazine, and was in the colonial office. He wrote dramatic pieces : "Isaac Comnenus" (1827), "Philip van Artevelde" (1834), his masterpiece, "Edwin the Fair" (1842), "The Virgin Widow " (1850), and "St. Clement's Eve" (1862); volumes of essays: "The Statesman" (1836), "Notes from Life" (1847), "Notes from Books" (1849); and "The Eve of the Conquest, and other Poems" (1847). He died March 28, 1886.] Platform before the Stadt House, Ghent: SIR GUISEBERT Grutt, aldermen of sundry guilds, deans of the crafts of butchers, fishermen, glaziers, and cordwainers; VAN ARTEVELDE and others of his party. GRUTT, descending, meets SIR SIMON BETTE coming up. Sir Guisebert Grutt [aside to SIR SIMON BETTE] God's life, Sir! where is Occo ? Sir Simon Bette Sick, sick, sick. He has sent word he's sick, and cannot come. Sir Guisebert Grutt Pray God his sickness be the death of him! Sir Simon Bette Nay, his lieutenant's here, and has his orders. I see there's something that hath staggered them. Artevelde [coming forward] Some citizen hath brought this concourse here. [Some White Hoods interrupt him with cries of "Ghent," on which there is a great tumult, and they are instantly drowned in the cry of " Flanders." Artevelde What, silence! peace! First will I speak - not what I'm bid to say, Would, much like madmen, cast your knowledge off, Run naked on the sword—which to forefend, Let me remind you of the things ye know. Sirs, when this month began ye had four chiefs Of great renown and valor, Jan de Bol, Arnoul le Clerc, and Launoy and Van Ranst. Where are they now? and what be ye without them? What aid of theirs can reach you? What supplies? I tell you, Sirs, that thirty thousand men Could barely bring a bullock to your gates. If thus without, how stand you then within? Which worthy knight will tell you Artevelde [aside to VAN DEN BOSCH] Mark you that? [Then aloud to SIR GUISEBERT GRUTT] Where is this chatelain, your speech's sponsor? Sir Guisebert Grutt He's sick in bed; but were he here, he'd tell you Three hundred citizens! Artevelde Peace, Van den Bosch. Hear we this other knight. Well, worthy Sir, Hast aught to say, or hast not got thy priming, That thus thou gaspest like a droughty pump? Van den Bosch Nay, 'tis black bile that chokes him. Come, up with it! Be't but a gallon it shall ease thy stomach. Several Citizens Silence! Sir Simon Bette's about to speak. Right worthy burgesses, good men and rich! All those delightful gardens on the plain. Were not so heavy but that, being rich, Ye might have borne them; they were not the half And yet had these been double that were half, The double would have grieved you less in peace What were the fowage and the subsidies When bread was but four mites that's now a groat? That ye accept this honorable peace, And ye may surely deem of them he takes A large and liberal number will be spared, And many here, who least expect his love, May find him free and gracious. Sirs, what say ye? Artevelde First, if it be your pleasure, hear me speak. [Great tumult and cries of "Flanders!" [The tumult increases. Sir Simon Bette [aside to SIR Guisebert GruTT]· It must not come to that. Sir Guisebert Grutt. My loving friends, Let us behave like brethren as we are, And not like listed combatants. Ho, peace! Hear this young bachelor of high renown, Who writes himself your captain since last night, When a few score of varlets, being drunk, In mirth and sport so dubbed him. Peace, Sirs! hear him. Artevelde Peace let it be, if so ye will; if not, We are as ready as yourselves for blows. One of the Citizens — Speak, Master Philip, speak and you'll be heard. I thank you, Sirs; I knew it could not be True, they were worthy men, most gallant chiefs; Of the great loss we suffer by their fall. No base despair, no cowardly recoil. They had the hearts of freemen to the last, And the free blood that bounded in their veins Was shed for freedom with a liberal joy. But had they guessed, or could they but have dreamed The great examples which they died to show Should fall so flat, should shine so fruitless here, Wherefore let us be slaves," - had they thought this, Oh, then, with what an agony of shame, Their blushing faces buried in the dust, Had their great spirits parted hence for heaven! What! shall we teach our chroniclers henceforth To write that in five bodies were contained The sole brave hearts of Ghent! which five defunct, Delivered up her keys, stripped off her robes, Her haughty lord that he would scourge her lightly! |