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Che Conservative 13
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SWAT.
nnmo of the Swnt
Valley , where England occasionally has
wars , comes with humorous sound to
English-speaking ears ( if ears speak )
people will be glad to read over now and
then the sweet lines which the late
G. T. Lanigan composed upon the death
of a potentate of that region in 1870 :
A THRENODY.
What , what , what ,
What's the news from Swat ?
Sad nowH ,
Bad nowH ,
Conies by the cabin led
Through the Indian Ocean's bed ,
Through the Persian Gulf , the Hud
Sea and the Med
iterranean he's dead ;
The Ahhoond is dead !
For the Ahhoond I mourn ,
Who wouldn't ?
Ho strove to disregard the mes agf
stern ,
But ho Ahkoodii't.
Dead , dead , dead ;
( Sorrow , Swats ! )
Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled ,
Swats whom ho hath often led.
Onward to a gory bed ,
Or to victory ,
As the case might be ,
Sorrow , Swats !
Tears shed ,
Shed tears like water ;
Your great Ahkoond is dead !
That Swat's the matter.
Though earthy walls his frame surround
( Forever hallowed bo the ground ! )
And skeptics mock the lowly mound
And say "He's now of no Ahkoond ! "
His soul is in the skies
The azure skies that bend above his loved
Metropolis of Swat.
He sees with larger , other eyes
Athwart all earthly mysteries
Ho knows what Swat.
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With a noise of mourning and of la
mentation !
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With the noise of the mourning of the
Swattish nation.
Fallen is at length
Its tower of strength ,
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned ;
Dead lies the great Ahkoond.
The great Ahkoond of Swat
Is not !
THE BLESSED HAND.
11Y 8EVEKN TEACKLE WA&TV1B , OF THE MAKY
IjAND BAH.
1
v
( Copied from private reprint , London , June
1894 , published for personal circulation by the
late Hon. Thomas F. Bayard , U. S. Minister to
England. This verso was written b'y the late
Mr. Wallis in aid .of the Southern Fair , held in
Baltimore , in the autumn of the year 1805 , to
alleviate the want and distress in the Southern
states at the close of the Civil War. )
[ There is a legend of an English monk who
died at the Monastery of Aremberg , where hi
had copied and illuminated many books , hop
ing to be rewarded in heaven. Long after hi
i death his tomb was opened , and nothing coulc
} be seen of his remains but the right hand witl
which he had done his pious work , and whicl
had been miraculously preserved from decay.
For you and mo , who love the light
Of God's uncloistered day ,
It were , indeed , a dreary lot
To shut ourselves away
From every glad and sunny thing
And pleasant sight and sound ,
And pass , from out a Hilont cell ,
Into the silent ground.
Not HO the good monk Ansolm thought ,
For in his cloister's shade ,
The cheerful faith that lit his la-art
It own Hweot sunshine made ;
And in its glow ho prayed and wrote ,
From matin song till oven ,
And trusted , in the Book of Life ,
To read his name in Heaven.
What holy books his gentle art
Filled full of saintly lore !
What pages , brightened by his hand ,
The splendid missals bore 1
What blossoms , almost fragrant , twined
Around each blessed name ,
And how his Saviour's cross and crown
Shone out from cloud and flame !
But , unto clerk as unto clown ,
One summons comes alway ,
And Brother Anselm heard the call
At vesper time one day.
His busy pen was in his hand ,
His parchment by his side-
He bent him o'er the half-writ prayer ,
Kissed Juan's name and died !
They laid him where a window's blaxo
Flashed o'er the graven stone ,
And seemed to touch his simple name
With pencil like his own ;
And there he slept , and , one by one ,
His brothers died the while ,
And trooping years went by and trod
His name from off the aisle.
And lifting up the pavement , then ,
An Abbott's couch to spread ,
They let the jewelled sunlight in
Where once lay Anselm's head.
No crumbling bone was there , no trace
Of human dvist that told ,
But , all alone , a warm right hand
Lay , fresh , upon the mould.
It was not stiff , as dead men's arc ,
But , with a tender clasp ,
It seemed to hold an unseen hand
Within its living grasp ;
And ere the trembling monks could turn
To hide their dazzled eyes ,
It rose as with the sound of wings
Right tip into the skies.
Oh , loving , open hands that give !
Soft hands the tear that dry !
Oil , patient hands that toil to bless !
How can yo over die ? -p
Ten thousand vows from yearning hearts
To Heaven's own gates shall soar ,
And bear you up , as Anselm's hand ,
Those unseen angels bore.
Kind hands ! oh never near to you
May como the woos yo heal !
Oh , never may the hearts ye guard
The griefs yo comfort feel !
May He in whoso sweet name ye build
So crown the work yo rear.
That yo may never clasped be
In one unanswered prayer !
The bridge that connects New York
City with other countries is found to
have been damaged by excessive strains.
As your real New Yorker is too con
tented on his island to care to leave it ,
this pressure must have come from
Brooklyn people hurrying back to the
United States.
The stamp-collectors are a harmless
people , and it appears that there is
method in their madness. At a Birm
ingham show of such wares a Paris
amateur exhibits two stamps for which
he could get $10,500 , if he chose to sell.
The Affairs
of Europe
are faithfully portrayed in the original and
exclusive cable dispatches which THE CHI
CAGO RECORD prints daily from the leading
capitals of the old world. This magnificent
special service is in process of being greatly
extended so as to include every important
city in Europe ; and it is supplemented by
the full regular cable service of The Asso
ciated Press ,
The Chicago Record , alone of all American
newspapers outside New York city ,
now prints original and exclusive
cable dispatches daily from a >
the leading capitals of Europe.