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قراءة كتاب Hunted Down; or, Five Days in the Fog A Thrilling Narrative of the Escape of Young Granice from a Drunken, Infuriated Mob
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اللغة: English
Hunted Down; or, Five Days in the Fog A Thrilling Narrative of the Escape of Young Granice from a Drunken, Infuriated Mob
الصفحة رقم: 10
strife,
When in a time unguarded he took the offender's life.
"Oh now," said he, "I'm ready to answer for this crime;
You see I've killed the villain my mother did malign—
That mother who has cherished me through all my childhood days,
And rocked me on her bosom when weary of my plays;
You see I've killed the villain my mother did malign—
That mother who has cherished me through all my childhood days,
And rocked me on her bosom when weary of my plays;
That mother, who in her early years her orphan boy has led
O'er weary wastes and craggy peaks, to earn our daily bread,
Far over snow-capped mountains and through the sunny glens,
To sell her own productions—her books—to stranger men;
O'er weary wastes and craggy peaks, to earn our daily bread,
Far over snow-capped mountains and through the sunny glens,
To sell her own productions—her books—to stranger men;
That mother, who at midnight hours, when daily toils were o'er,
And millions, on their downy beds inside their palace door
Were resting from all sorrow while she, who forced to roam,
Sat writing by the camp-fire—an authoress, with no home.
And millions, on their downy beds inside their palace door
Were resting from all sorrow while she, who forced to roam,
Sat writing by the camp-fire—an authoress, with no home.
How many, many were the days, when I was but a child,
I stood beside that mother, and watched her pen the while,
Until her hand grew weary; her mind would fain have rest.
But the publisher was waiting; the book, her child might bless.
I stood beside that mother, and watched her pen the while,
Until her hand grew weary; her mind would fain have rest.
But the publisher was waiting; the book, her child might bless.
Thus months and years rolled onward; when childhood's days were done,
I stood beside that mother, a faithful, happy son.
For years we toiled together, with books and pen and type,
In hopes the future had for us a home—Oh, happy sight!
I stood beside that mother, a faithful, happy son.
For years we toiled together, with books and pen and type,
In hopes the future had for us a home—Oh, happy sight!
But ah! stern fate, how cruel! when men who mock our laws,
And strive with unrelenting hand to find some legal cause
To murder every cherished hope with slander's cruel knife,
And drop by drop to steal away poor woman's helpless life."
And strive with unrelenting hand to find some legal cause
To murder every cherished hope with slander's cruel knife,
And drop by drop to steal away poor woman's helpless life."
'Twas slander vile, young Harry saw upon the printed page;
His mother dear, the victim, which caused the fires to rage;
His cheeks grew pale with anguish, his heart could know no fear;
He only thought of days gone by, and mother's name so dear.
His mother dear, the victim, which caused the fires to rage;
His cheeks grew pale with anguish, his heart could know no fear;
He only thought of days gone by, and mother's name so dear.
He only thought of years agone, when mother's face was young;
Her arms were strong and willing, then, to guard her little son;
But times have changed that youthful face, and age is creeping on,
While he, in early manhood now, must be the stronger one.
Her arms were strong and willing, then, to guard her little son;
But times have changed that youthful face, and age is creeping on,
While he, in early manhood now, must be the stronger one.
Shall he defend his mother's name? No duty is too great,
Though prison walls or gallows high for him will anxious wait;
And now within the lonely jail young Harry waits his doom;
Though it be liberty or death, the time must shortly come.
Though prison walls or gallows high for him will anxious wait;
And now within the lonely jail young Harry waits his doom;
Though it be liberty or death, the time must shortly come.
Oh, mothers dear and fathers, too! Oh, women, weak or strong!
Remember Harry's cause is yours, for you he's suffered long;
'Twas not for gold or laurel wreath, 'twas not for praise or fame,
'Twas not for love of honors great, but love of woman's name.
Remember Harry's cause is yours, for you he's suffered long;
'Twas not for gold or laurel wreath, 'twas not for praise or fame,
'Twas not for love of honors great, but love of woman's name.