Those she loved best had all been torn away;
The last, her child, was sold she knew not where;
And Coralline too should taste a bitter cup,
Feeling the fury of a deep revenge.

XI.

For many days Ruth journeyed to the North,
And reached at last the camp. She passed the guard,
And in the night discovered Stanley's tent;
Then gliding in, bent o'er him while he slept.
He dreamed of Coralline, and in his sleep
Said--"Coralline, 'tis better to forgive."
And Ruth who heard, cried, "She forgives;
She loves you still, Stanley--she loves you still!"
At this he woke, and saw the woman there,
And saw the weapon raised above his breast,
And a vague horror at the mockery of the words
Left him all powerless, and sealed up his speech.
But one swift hand passed in and grasped the arm,
And snatched the knife, and there before them stood
Karagwe, with Ruth Earl face to face.

XII.

And after, at Fort Pillow, when the storm
Had gone against us, and the traitors slew
Five hundred men who had laid down their arms,
Karagwe was shot, and with a prayer
For his whole country, he fell back and died.

Some, seeking the highest type of noble men,
Compare their heroes with the cavaliers,
Boasting their ancestry through tangled lines;
But I, who care not for patrician blood,
Hold him the highest who constrains great ends,
Or rounds a prudent life with noble deeds.

DEMETRIUS.

I.

THE SUCCESS OF THE BEGGAR.

In my life I have had two idols, one my country, one my wife,
And I know I loved them faithfully, and both with one accord;
But the day came, beaded falsely on my brittle leash of life,
When perforce I chose between them, through the wisdom of the Lord.

High upon the rocky summit of a cliff in red Algiers,
Raised against the sky of sunset, like a beaker filled with wine,
While each dome is like a bubble that above the brim appears,
Stands the city I was born in, my beloved Constantine.

Nobly rise the brick-roofed houses with their heavy gray stone walls,
While here and there, above them all, the mosque and minaret;
Like the voice of some enchanter sounds the bearded muezzin's calls,
And the rustle of the cypress seems a murmur of regret.

Round the ancient Cintran city runs a dark wall broad and strong,
Like the mailed belt of a warrior, and the gate the buckle seems;
While a tower toward the sunset is a dagger hilted long;
Whose blade is bid in foldings of