Will land or gold redeem my son?
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Take heritage, take name, take all,
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But leave him free from Russian thrall!
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Take these!" and her white arms and hands
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She stripped of rings and diamond bands,
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And tore from braids of long black hair
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The gems that gleamed like starlight there;
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Her cross of blazing rubies, last,
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Down at the Russian's feet she cast.
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He stooped to seize the glittering store;—
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Up springing from the marble floor,
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The mother, with a cry of joy,
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Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.
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But no! the Russian's iron grasp
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Again undid the mother's clasp.
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Forward she fell, with one long cry
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Of more than mortal agony.
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But the brave child is roused at length,
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And, breaking from the Russian's hold,
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He stands, a giant in the strength
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Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.
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Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,
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So blue, and yet so bright,
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Seems kindled from the eternal sky,
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So brilliant is its light.
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His curling lips and crimson cheeks
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Foretell the thought before he speaks;
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With a full voice of proud command
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He turned upon the wondering band.
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"Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can;
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This hour has made the boy a man.
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I knelt before my slaughtered sire,
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Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.
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I wept upon his marble brow,
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Yes, wept! I was a child; but now
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My noble mother, on her knee,
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Hath done the work of years for me!"
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He drew aside his broidered vest,
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And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,
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The jeweled haft of poniard bright
|
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Glittered a moment on the sight.
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"Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave!
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Think ye my noble father's glaive
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Would drink the life-blood of a slave?
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The pearls that on the handle flame
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Would blush to rubies in their shame;
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The blade would quiver in thy breast
|
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Ashamed of such ignoble rest.
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No! thus I rend the tyrant's chain,
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And fling him back a boy's disdain!"
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A moment, and the funeral light
|
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Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright;
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Another, and his young heart's blood
|
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Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood.
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Quick to his mother's side he sprang,
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And on the air his clear voice rang:
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"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
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The choice was death or slavery.
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Up, mother, up! Look on thy son!
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His freedom is forever won;
|
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And now he waits one holy kiss
|
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To bear his father home in bliss;
|
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One last embrace, one blessing—one!
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To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son.
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What! silent yet? Canst thou not feel
|
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My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal?
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Speak, mother, speak! lift up thy head!
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What! silent still? Then art thou dead:
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—Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I
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Rejoice with thee—and thus—to die."
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One long, deep breath, and his pale head
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Lay on his mother's bosom—dead.
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Ann S. Stephens.
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The Height of the Ridiculous
Table of Contents
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I wrote some lines once on a time
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In wondrous merry mood,
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And thought, as usual, men would say
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They were exceeding good.
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