amid the mists of the heights--not the
eagle's cry _this_ time--not the freak of a wayward echo--but human
words, which say "_Shall we begin?_" Silence! It is a host that holds
its breath and listens. Was it a spirit of the upper air parleying with
its kind? If so, it has its answer countersigned across the dark gulf.
"_Noch nicht!_"--"_Not yet!_" The whole invading army pause: there is a
wavering and writhing in the glittering serpent-length of that mighty
force which is helplessly uncoiled along the base of the mountain. But
hark! the voice of the hills is heard again, and it says "_Now!_"

_Now_, then, descends the wild avalanche of destruction, and all is
tumult, dismay, and death. The very crags of the mountain side, loosened
in preparation, come bounding, thundering down. Trunks and roots of pine
trees, gathering speed on their headlong way, are launched down upon the
powerless foe, mingled with the deadly hail of the Tyrolese rifles. And
this fearful storm descends along the whole line at once. No marvel that
two-thirds of all that brilliant invading army are crushed to death
along the grooved pathway, or are tumbled, horse and man, into the
choked and swollen river.

Enough of horrors! Who would willingly linger on the hideous details of
such a scene? Sorrowful that man should come, with his evil ambitions
and his fierce revenges, to stain and to spoil such wonders of beauty as
the hand of the Creator has here moulded. Sorrowful that man, in league
with the serpent, should writhe into such scenes as these, and poison
them with the virus of sin.

Richter

Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail
Against her beauty? May she mix
With men and prosper! Who shall fix
Her pillars? Let her work prevail.
... Let her know her place;
She is the second, not the first,
A higher hand must make her mild,
If all be not in vain; and guide
Her footsteps, moving side by side
With wisdom, like the younger child.

Tennyson

MARSTON MOOR

(A Cavalier Song)

To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's
note is high!
To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the big drum
makes reply!
Ere this hath Lucas marched, with his gallant
cavaliers,
And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter
in our ears.
To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas! White Guy is
at the door,
And the raven whets his beak o'er the field of