Ballad of Ephram Elder, Elocutionist ('When Ephram Elocuted')

                                      I.

When Ephram Elder wuz a boy in “Deestrict Number Three”,

A tanned an’ freckled, awkward boy, ez humly ez could be,

Dull in his books an’ slow to act, without no push nor grit,

Folks proffersied that he would wind up in the poor house yit.

Now Ephram Elder couldn’t read, not even fairly well,

He couldn’t figger out his sums an’ neither could he spell;

Wuz way behind in joggerfry, an’ in his grammar, too;

But Ephram he could speak a piece ez none the rest could do.

He’d take up “Barbara Frietchie”, an’ he knew it ev’ry word;

He’d speak it with a vigor an’ a style you ne’er hev heard.

An’ ez for orrertory work, they wuzn’t none round here

Could touch him on that favorite, “The Ride of Paul Revere”.

                                      II.

Sometimes we give donations, an’ sometimes ‘twas huskin’ bees,

An’ Ephram he wuz allus round to ev’ry one of these;

They allus had him speak a piece, an’ how their eyes would light

The hear him give that curfew one, “it shall not ring tonight.”

Where Ephram got his speakin’ streaknobody seemed to know;

His father weren’t no orator, his mother meek ez dough;

But there he’d stand upon the floor an’ elocute each one

Until it seemed Webster warn’t in Ephram’s class, I swun.

You’d orter seen the “Light Brigade” ez Ephram charged it, my!

But there wuz hosses in his hands, an’ sabres in his eye;

An’ ev’rybudd’d git on aige, excited ez could be,

When Ephram elocuted in old “District Number Three”.

                                      III.

But if he had a special piece, in which he’d fairly shine,

It was “The Sword of Bingen, ol’ Bingen on the Rhine”,

When Ephram elocuted that he’d fairly raise the crowd,

An’ they would holler out for more, an’ clap him long an’ loud.

An’ still he didn’t seem to be no good in other ways,

An’ so he sorter drifted on to manhood’ sterner days,

Till by an’ by we heard of him in some big western town,

A-makin’ of a speech out there that brought the rafters down.

There was a thousan’ cheerin’ throats when Ephram took his seat;

He simply had ‘em ‘lectrified an’ standin’ on their feet.

“We’ll put him up for preserdunt!” they shouted one an’ all,

An’ ere the great convention closed our Ephram had his “call”.

                                      IV.

My mind goes back to other days, in that ol’ schoolhouse mine,

When Ephram elocuted there ol’ “Bingen on the Rhine”,

He knowed that somewhere in his soul he had a tale to tell,

An’ someday he would tell it to the world an’ tell it well.

An’ when he got afore them men out west there I opine

He had in mind ol’ “Bingen, ol’ Bingen on the Rhine”,

An’ like the Eph’ of bygone days he let his soul expand

Until he held the mighty crowd within his single hand.

When Ephram elocuted here so many years ago

He wuzn’t dull, he wuzn’t thick, ez people said, O, no;

He jest wuz workin’ out a plan to make the future shine,

An’ he begunit, I believe, with “Bingen on the Rhine”.

JOE CONE  

c. July 10, ‘09

          Barbara Frietchie

    By John Greenleaf Whittier

Up from the meadows rich with corn,

Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand

Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,

Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep,

Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall

When Lee marched over the mountain wall,—

Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,

Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun

Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,

Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;

In her attic window the staff she set,

To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,

Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right

He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

 “Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.

“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;

It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff

Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window-sill,

And shook it forth with a royal will.

 “Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,

But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,

Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred

To life at that woman’s deed and word:

 “Who touches a hair of yon gray head

Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street

Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost

Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light

Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave

Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw

Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down

On thy stars below in Frederick town!

           Paul Revere’s Ride

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807 - 1882

Listen, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch

Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,--

One if by land, and two if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

The Somerset, British man-of-war:

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

Across the moon, like a prison-bar,

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street

Wanders and watches with eager ears,

Till in the silence around him he hears

The muster of men at the barrack door,

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

And the measured tread of the grenadiers

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,

Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

To the belfry-chamber overhead,

And startled the pigeons from their perch

On the sombre rafters, that round him made

Masses and moving shapes of shade,--

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town,

And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,

In their night-encampment on the hill,

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,

The watchful night-wind, as it went

Creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”

A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread

Of the lonely belfry and the dead;

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

On a shadowy something far away,

Where the river widens to meet the bay, --

A line of black, that bends and floats

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse’s side,

Now gazed on the landscape far and near,

Then impetuous stamped the earth,

And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;

But mostly he watched with eager search

The belfry-tower of the old North Church,

As it rose above the graves on the hill,

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,

Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders, that skirt its edge,

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

He heard the crowing of the cock,

And the barking of the farmer’s dog,

And felt the damp of the river-fog,

That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,

When he galloped into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,

Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,

When be came to the bridge in Concord town.

He heard the bleating of the flock,

And the twitter of birds among the trees,

And felt the breath of the morning breeze

Blowing over the meadows brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Who that day would be lying dead,

Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,

How the British Regulars fired and fled,--

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,

Chasing the red-coats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Under the trees at the turn of the road,

And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;

And so through the night went his cry of alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm,--

A cry of defiance, and not of fear,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo forevermore!

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

The people will waken and listen to hear

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

    By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!” he said.

Into the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

II

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”

Was there a man dismayed?

Not though the soldier knew

   Someone had blundered.

   Theirs not to make reply,

   Theirs not to reason why,

   Theirs but to do and die.

   Into the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

III

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

   Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of hell

   Rode the six hundred.

IV

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

   All the world wondered.

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre stroke

   Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not

   Not the six hundred.

V

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

   Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell.

They that had fought so well

Came through the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of hell,

All that was left of them,

   Left of six hundred.

VI

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

   All the world wondered.

Honour the charge they made!

Honour the Light Brigade,

   Noble six hundred!

Curfew must Not Ring To-night

Rose Hartwick Thorpe (1850–1939)

SLOWLY England’s sun was setting o’er the hilltops far away,              

Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day,    

And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,—       

He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair;           

He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white,                   

Struggling to keep back the murmur,—      

    “Curfew must not ring to-night.”             

                

“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,          

With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, 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 lips grew strangely white  

As she breathed the husky whisper:—      

    “Curfew must not ring to-night.”             

                

“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton,—every word pierced her young heart                   

Like the piercing of an arrow, 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 falter,—     

    Curfew, it must ring to-night.” 

                

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,           

As within her secret bosom 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;            

In an undertone she murmured:—              

    “Curfew must not ring to-night.”             

                

With quick step she bounded forward, sprung within the old church door,         

Left the old man threading slowly paths so oft he ’d trod before;                    

Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow     

Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro            

As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light,

Up and up,—her white lips saying:—        

    “Curfew must not ring to-night.”             

                

She has reached the topmost ladder; o’er her hangs the great dark bell;             

Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.             

Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging,—’t is 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! flash her eyes 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 speck of light below,           

There ’twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro,               

And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,                   

Sadly thought, “That twilight Curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell.” 

Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips so white,     

Said to hush her heart’s wild throbbing:—

    “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”             

                

It was o’er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more                     

Firmly on the dark old ladder where for hundred years before              

Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done 

Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun      

Crimson all the sky with beauty; agèd sires, with heads of white,          

Tell the eager, listening children,                       

    “Curfew did not ring that night.”             

                

O’er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow,  

Lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces now.            

At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn;   

And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn,           

Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light:          

“Go! your lover lives,” said Cromwell,       

    “Curfew shall not ring to-night.”             

                

Wide they flung the massive portal; led the prisoner forth to die,—      

All his bright young life before him. ’Neath the darkening English sky 

Bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet; 

Kneeling on the turf beside him, lays his pardon at his feet.  

In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,   

Whispered, “Darling, you have saved me,—            

    Curfew will not ring to-night!” 

                                                                                        

Bingen on the Rhine
by Caroline Norton

A Soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was a lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away,
And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand,
And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen,— at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,
Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun;
And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,—
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;
And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,—
And one had come from Bingen,— fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would,— but kept my father's sword;
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine
On the cottage wall at Bingen,— calm Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,
When the troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread,
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine)
For the honor of old Bingen,— dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"There's another,— not a sister: in the happy days gone by
You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;
Too innocent for coquetry,— too fond for idle scorning,—
O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!
Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be risen,
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),—
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,— fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along,— I heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk!
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly, in mine,—
But we'll meet no more at Bingen,— loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,— his grasp was childish weak,—
His eyes put on a dying look,— he sighed, and ceased to speak;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,—
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead;
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strown;
Yet calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen,— fair Bingen on the Rhine.