School Reading By Grades: Fifth Year

LEAD THOU ME ON

 
Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home, —
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene, – one step enough for me.
 
 
I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
 
 
So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost a while.
 

– John Henry Newman.

THE AMERICAN INDIAN

Not many generations ago, where you now sit, encircled with all that exalts and embellishes civilized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived and loved another race of beings. Beneath the same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian hunter pursued the panting deer; gazing on the same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover wooed his dusky mate.

Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender and helpless, the council fire glared on the wise and daring. Now they dipped their noble limbs in your sedgy lakes, and now they paddled the light canoe along your rocky shores. Here they warred; the echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying death song, all were here; and, when the tiger strife was over, here curled the smoke of peace.

Here, too, they worshiped; and from many a dark bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great Spirit. He had not written his laws for them on tables of stone, but he had traced them on the tables of their hearts. The poor child of nature knew not the God of revelation, but the God of the universe he acknowledged in everything around.

He beheld him in the star that sank in beauty behind his lonely dwelling; in the sacred orb that flamed on him from his midday throne; in the flower that snapped in the morning breeze; in the lofty pine, that defied a thousand whirlwinds; in the timid warbler that never left its native grove; in the fearless eagle whose untired pinion was wet in clouds; in the worm that crawled at his foot; and in his own matchless form, glowing with a spark of that light, to whose mysterious Source he bent, in humble, though blind, adoration.

And all this has passed away. Across the ocean came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and death. The former were sown for you; the latter sprang up in the path of the simple native. Two hundred years have changed the character of a great continent, and blotted, forever, from its face a whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers of nature, and the anointed children of education have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant.

Here and there, a stricken few remain; but how unlike their bold, untamed, untamable progenitors! The Indian of falcon glance and lion bearing, the theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic tale, is gone! and his degraded offspring crawl upon the soil where he walked in majesty, to remind us how miserable is man, when the foot of the conqueror is on his neck.

As a race, they have withered from the land. Their arrows are broken, their springs are dried up, their cabins are in the dust. Their council fire has long since gone out on the shore, and their war cry is fast dying to the untrodden west. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them away; they must soon hear the roar of the last wave, which will settle over them forever.

Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their disturbed remains, and wonder to what manner of person they belonged. They will live only in the songs and chronicles of their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a people.

– Charles Sprague.

THE PASSING OF KING ARTHUR

Whether there ever was a real King Arthur, or whether he lived only in the imagination of story-tellers and song writers, no one can tell. This much is true, however, that the history of his exploits and those of his Knights of the Round Table has existed in poetry and song for now almost a thousand years.

Long before there were any English books worth speaking of, the story of King Arthur was sung and recited by wandering bards to delighted listeners in the halls and castles of Old England. In the course of time it was written down in poetry and in prose; it was turned into French, and from the French back into English again; other stories were added to it, and it became the most popular romance ever composed. In 1470, a knight whose name was Sir Thomas Malory made a version of it in what was then good English prose, taking it, as he said, “out of a certain book of French.” This version has ever since been the one book to which all who would know the story of King Arthur have turned; it is the mine from which later writers have derived materials for their works. It is written in a style which, although old-fashioned and quaint, is wonderfully simple and beautiful.

One of the most touching passages in the story is that which tells how King Arthur, having fought his last battle, lay wounded upon the ground; and how, being deserted by all the knights except Sir Bedivere, he waited for the coming of fairy messengers to bear him away to the island valley of Avilion. Here is the passage, not in the exact words of Sir Thomas Malory, but repeated, somewhat after his manner, in words of modern usage.

“My hour is near at hand,” said the king to Sir Bedivere. “Therefore, take thou my good sword Excalibur, and go with it to yonder water side; and when thou comest there, I charge thee throw it in that water, and then come and tell me what thou hast seen.”

“My lord,” said Sir Bedivere, “your bidding shall be done, and I will come quickly and bring you word.”

So Sir Bedivere departed, and as he went he looked at that noble sword, and saw that the hilt and guard were covered with precious stones; and then he said to himself, “If I throw this rich sword into the water, no good shall ever come of it, but only harm and loss.”

Then Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree. And as soon as he might, he came again unto the king, and said he had been at the water side, and had thrown the sword into the water.

“What sawest thou there?” said the king.

“Sir, I saw nothing but waves and winds.”

“Thou speakest not the truth,” said the king. “Therefore, go quickly again and do my bidding; and as thou art dear to me, spare not, but throw the sword in.”

Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand. But when he looked at it he thought it a sin and a shame to throw away so noble a sword. And so, after he had hidden it again, he came back and told the king that he had been at the water and had done his bidding.

“What sawest thou there?” said the king.

“Sir,” he said, “I saw nothing but the waves lapping on the beach, and the water rising and falling among the reeds.”

“Ah, traitor untrue,” said King Arthur, “now thou hast betrayed me twice. Who would have thought that thou, who hast been so near and dear to me and art called a noble knight, would betray me for the riches of the sword? But now go again quickly, for I am chilled with cold, and my life is in danger through thy long delay. And if thou dost not do my bidding, and I ever see thee again, I will slay thee with my own hands; for thou, for the sake of my rich sword, would see me dead.”

Then Sir Bedivere departed; and he quickly took the sword and went to the water side. Then he wrapped the belt about the hilt, and threw the sword as far into the water as he could. And there came an arm and a hand above the water, and caught the sword, and shook it thrice and brandished it. Then the hand, with the sword, vanished in the water. So Sir Bedivere came again to the king and told him what he had seen.

“Alas,” said the king, “help me from this place; for I fear that I have tarried too long.”

Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back, and carried him to the water side. And when they came to the water, a little barge was seen floating close by the bank; and in the barge were many fair ladies, and among them was a queen. All these wept and cried out when they saw King Arthur.

“Now put me into the barge,” said the king; and this Sir Bedivere did, with tenderness and care.

And three of the fair ladies received him with great mourning. Then that one who was the queen said: “Ah, dear brother, why have you staid so long? Alas, I fear lest this wound on your head has been chilled over much with the cold!”

Then they rowed from the land, and Sir Bedivere watched them. And he cried: “Ah, my lord Arthur! What shall become of me, now you go away and leave me here alone among my enemies?”

“Comfort thyself,” said the king, “and do the best thou canst, for I can no longer give thee help. For I go now into the vale of Avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. If thou never hear more of me, pray for my soul.”

But the ladies and the queen wept and cried in a way that was piteous to hear. And when Sir Bedivere lost sight of the barge, he wept bitterly; and, weeping, he went into the forest, where he wandered all that long night.

“Some men yet say,” continues Sir Thomas Malory, “that King Arthur is not dead, but taken by the will of our Lord into another place. And men say that he shall come again and shall win the holy cross. I will not say it shall be so, but rather I will say that in this world he changed his life. But many men say that there is written upon his tomb a verse in Latin, which when turned into English, is this: ‘Here lieth Arthur, that was and is to be King.’ ”