And thereupon the Syndic gravely read
The proclamation of the King; then said:
"Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay,
But cometh back on foot, and begs its way;
Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds,
Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds!
These are familiar proverbs; but I fear
They never yet have reached your knightly ear.
What fair renown, what honor, what repute
Can come to you from starving this poor brute?
He who serves well and speaks not, merits more
Than they who clamor loudest at the door.
Therefore the law decrees that as this steed
Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take
heed

To comfort his old age, and to provide
Shelter in stall, and food, and field beside."

The knight withdrew abashed; the people all
Led home the steed in triumph to his stall.
The King heard and approved, and laughed in
glee,

And cried aloud: "Right well it pleaseth me!
Church-bells at best but ring us to the door;
But
go not in to mass; my bell doth more:
It cometh into court and pleads the cause
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws;
And this shall make, in every Christian clime,
The Bell of Atri famous for all time."

Longfellow.

THE LIFEBOAT.

YOU'VE heerd of the Royal Helen, the ship as was wrecked last year?

Yon be the rock she struck on-the boat as went out be here;

The night as she struck was reckoned the worst as ever we had,

And this is a coast in winter where the weather be awful bad.

The beach here was strewed with wreckage, and to tell you the truth, sir, then

Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men.

The single chaps was willin', and six on 'em volunteered,

But most on us here is married, and the wives that night was skeered.

Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to savin' lives,

But death that night looked certain-and our wives be only wives;

Their lot ain't bright at the best, sir; but here, when the man lies dead,

'Tain't only a husband missin', it's the children's daily bread;

So our women began to whimper and beg o' the chaps to stay

I only heerd on it after, for that night I was

kept away.

I was up at my cottage, yonder, where the wife lay nigh her end,

She'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothin' 'ud make her mend.

The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her side and prayed,

With my eyes as red as a babby's, that Death's hand might yet be stayed.

I heerd the wild wind howlin', and I looked on the wasted form,

And thought of the awful shipwreck as had come in the ragin' storm;

The wreck of my little homestead-the wreck of my dear old wife,

Who'd sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troublous waves of life,

And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had been my harbor lights,

To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, darkest nights.

She knew she was sinkin' quickly, she knew as her end was nigh,

But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on her heart must lie,

For we'd had one great big sorrow with Jack, our only son

He'd got into trouble in London, as lots o' the lads ha' done;

Then he'd bolted, his masters told us-he was allus what folk call wild.

From the day as I told his mother, her dear face never smiled.

We heerd no more about him, we never knew where he went,

And his mother pined and sickened for the message he never sent.

I had my work to think of; but she had her grief to nurse,

So it eat away at her heartstrings, and her health grew worse and worse.

And the night as the Royal Helen went down on yonder sands,

I sat and watched her dyin', holdin' her wasted hands.

She moved in her doze a little, then her eyes were opened wide,

And she seemed to be seekin' somethin', as she looked from side to side;

Then half to herself she whispered, "Where's Jack, to say good-bye?

It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die!"

I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran down my cheek,

And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I couldn't speak,

When the door of the room burst open, and my mates were there outside

With the news that the boat was launchin'. "You're wanted!" their leader cried.

"You've never refused to go, John; you'll put these cowards right.

There's a dozen of lives maybe, John, as lie in our hands to-night!"

'Twas old Ben Brown, the captain; he'd laughed at the women's doubt.

We'd allus been first on the beach, sir, when the boat was goin' out.

I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the bed

"I can't go, mate," I murmured; "in an hour she may be dead.

I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone."

As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on my wife was thrown;

And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a pleading look on me,

While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the ragin' sea.

Then she beckoned me near, and whispered, "Go, and God's will be done!

For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor mother's son."

Her head was full of the boy, sir-she was thinking, maybe, some day

For lack of a hand to help him his life might be cast away.

"Go, John, and the Lord watch o'er you! and spare me to see the light,

And bring you safe," she whispered, "out of the storm to-night."