"Now God speed you, though the shout

should be our last,

Through the channel where the maddened breakers comb,

Through the wild sea's hill and hollow,
On the path we cannot follow,

To your women and your children and your home."

Oh! remember it, good brothers. We two people speak one tongue,

And your native land was mother to our land;

But the head, perhaps, is hasty when the nation's heart is young,

And we prate of things we do not understand.

But the day when we stood face to face with death

(Upon whose face few men may look and tell),

As long as you could hear, or we had breath,
Four hundred voices cheered you out of hell!
By the will of that stern chorus,
By the motherland which bore us,
Judge if we do not love each other well.
CAROLINE DUER.

On May 31, 1889, western Pennsylvania was visited by one of the worst catastrophes in the history of the country. A flood from a broken reservoir overwhelmed Johnstown, Conemaugh, and a number of smaller towns, destroying over two thousand lives and property to the value of ten million dollars.

BY THE CONEMAUGH

[May 31, 1889)

FOREBODING sudden of untoward change,
A tight'ning clasp on everything held dear,
A moan of waters wild and strange,

A whelming horror near;

And, 'midst the thund'rous din a voice of doom,

"Make way for me, O Life, for Death make room!

"I come like the whirlwind rude,

'Gainst all thou hast cherished warring; I come like the flaming flood

From a crater's mouth outpouring; I come like the avalanche gliding freeAnd the Power that sent thee forth, sends me!

599

"Run for your lives to the hills!" he cried,
Spurring his horse, whose reeking side
Was flecked with foam as red as flame.
Whither he goes and whence he came
Nobody knows. They see his horse
Plunging on in his frantic course,
Veins distended and nostrils wide,
Fired and frenzied at such a ride.
Nobody knows the rider's name
Dead forever to earthly fame.
"Run to the hills! to the hills!" he cried;
"Run for your lives to the mountain side!"

On he sped in his fierce, wild ride.

"Run to the hills! to the hills!" he cried. Nearer, nearer raged the roar Horse and rider fled before. Dashing along the valley ridge, 'They came at last to the railroad bridge. The big horse stood, the rider cried, "Run for your lives to the mountain side!" Then plunged across, but not before The mighty, merciless mountain roar Struck the bridge and swept it away Like a bit of straw or a wisp of hay. But over and under and through that tide The voice of the unknown rider cried, "Run to the hills! to the hills!" it cried, "Run for your lives to the mountain side!" JOHN ELIOT BOWEN.

It is said that another hero named Daniel Periton rode in front of the flood giving warning, and was finally caught by it and drowned.

A BALLAD OF THE CONEMAUGH FLOOD

[May 31, 1889]

THE windows of Heaven were open wide, The storm cloud broke, and the people cried, Will Conemaugh dam hold out?

But the great folks down at Johnstown played, They ate, they drank, they were nought afraid, For Conemaugh dam holds Conemaugh lake, By Conemaugh dam their pleasure they take, Fine catching are Conemaugh trout.

The four mile lake at the back of its wall Is growing to five, and the rains still fall, And the flood by night and by day

Is burrowing deep thro' buttress and mound, Fresh waters spring and spurt from the ground; While God is thundering out of His cloud The fountain voices are crying aloud,

Away to the hills! away!

Away to the hills! leave altar and shrine,
Away to the hills! leave table and wine,

Away from the trade and your tills;

Let the strong man speed with the weakest child,

And the mother who just on her babe has smiled

Be carried, leave only the dead on their biers, No time for the tomb, and no time for tears; Away, away to the hills!

Daniel Periton heard the wail

Of the waters gathering over the vale,
With sorrow for city and field, -
Felt already the mountain quake
'Twixt living and dead. For the brethren's
sake

Daniel Periton dared to ride
Full in front of the threatening tide,

And what if the dam do yield?

To a man it is given but once to die, Though the flood break forth he will raise his cry

For the thousands there in the town. At least, some child may be saved by his voice, Some lover may still in the sun rejoice, Some man that has fled, when he wins his breath,

Shall bless the rider who rode thro' death, For his fellows' life gave his own.

He leapt to his horse that was black as night, He turned not left and he turned not right, Down to the valley he dashed;

He heard behind him a thunderous boom, The dam had burst and he knew his doom; "Fly, fly for your lives!" it was all he spoke; "Fly, fly, for the Conemaugh dam has broke!" And the cataract after him crashed.

They saw a man with the God in his face, Pale from the desperate whirlwind pace,

They heard an angel cry.

And the steed's black mane was flecked as he flew,

And its flanks were red with the spur's red

dew,

Into the city and out of the gate,

Rider and ridden were racing with fate,
Wild with one agony.

"Flash on the news that the dam has burst," And one looked forth, and she knew the worst,

"My last message!" she said.

The words at her will flashed on before
Periton's call and the torrent's roar;
And not in vain had Periton cried,

His heart had caught a brave heart to his side,

As bold for the saving he sped.

The flood came down and its strong arms took

The city, and all together shook,

Tower and church and street,

Like a pack of cards that a player may crush,
The houses fell in the whirlpool rush,
Rose and floated and jammed at the last,
Then a fierce flame fed by the deluge blast
Wove them a winding-sheet.

God have mercy! was ever a pyre
Lit like that of the flood's fierce fire!
Cattle and men caught fast,
Prisoners held between life and death,
While the flame struck down with its sulphur-

ous breath,

And the flood struck up with its strong, cold

hand,

No hope from the water, no help from the land,

And the torrent thundering past!

Daniel Periton, still he rides,

By the heaving flank and the shortening strides,

The race must be well-nigh won. "Away to the hills!" but the cataract's bound Has caught and has dashed him from saddle to ground,

And the man who saw the end of the race, Saw a dark, dead horse, and a pale dead face, Did they hear Heaven's great" Well done"? HARDWICK DRUMMOND RAWNSLEY.

601

In charge of the telegraph office at Johnstown was a Mrs. Ogle. She stayed at her post, sending message after message of warning down the valley until she herself was overwhelmed and swept away.

CONEMAUGH

"FLY to the mountain! Fly!"
Terribly rang the cry.

The electric soul of the wire
Quivered like sentient fire.

The soul of the woman who stood
Face to face with the flood
Answered to the shock
Like the eternal rock.

For she stayed

With her hand on the wire,
Unafraid,

Flashing the wild word down
Into the lower town.

Is there a lower yet and another?
Into the valley she and none other
Can hurl the warning cry:
"Fly to the mountain! Fly!
The water from Conemaugh
Has opened its awful jaw.
The dam is wide

On the mountain-side!"

"Fly for your life, oh, fly!" They said.

She lifted her noble head: "I can stay at my post, and die."

Face to face with duty and death, Dear is the drawing of human breath. "Steady, my hand! Hold fast To the trust upon thee cast. Steady, my wire! Go, say That death is on the way! Steady, strong wire! Go, save! Grand is the power you have!"

Grander the soul that can stand Behind the trembling hand; Grander the woman who dares; Glory her high name wears. "This message is my last!

Shot over the wire, and passed To the listening ear of the land. The mountain and the strand Reverberate the cry: "Fly for your lives, oh, fly! I stay at my post, and die."

603

She has given all that she held most dear, With a Spartan hope and a Spartan fear, Crowned in her statehood "Volunteer," Glorious Tennessee!

She has rounded the cycle, -the tale is told;
The circlet is iron, the clasp is gold;
And the leaves of a wonderful past unfold
The garland of Tennessee.

And her garments gleam in the sunlit years,
And the songs of her children fill her ears;
And the listening heart of the great world hears
The peans of Tennessee!

VIRGINIA FRASER BOYLE.

On May 31, 1897, a monument to the memory of Robert Gould Shaw, who fell at the head of his colored regiment during the Civil War, was unveiled on Boston Common. The monument, designed by Augustus Saint-Gaudens, is perhaps the most noteworthy of its kind in America.

AN ODE

ON THE UNVEILING OF THE SHAW MEMORIAL ON BOSTON COMMON

May 31, 1897

I

NOT with slow, funereal sound
Come we to this sacred ground;

Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum,
Bringing a cypress wreath

To lay, with bended knee,
On the cold brows of Death

Not so, dear God, we come,
But with the trumpets' blare
And shot-torn battle-banners flung to air,
As for a victory!

Hark to the measured tread of martial feet,
The music and the murmurs of the street!
No bugle breathes this day
Disaster and retreat! -
Hark, how the iron lips
Of the great battle-ships

Salute the City from her azure Bay!