The age-herald. [volume] (Birmingham, Ala.) 1897-1902, 1899-11-19
THE MURMUR
OF THE WORLD

Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica, look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There is not the smallest orb which thou
beholdest
But in his motion like an angel sings
Still giving to the young ey'd eheribimsi
Such harmony is in immortal souls,
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear 1t.
And, SO barking back from this text that
is almost of divine wis1on We come to
this:
So may the outward shows be least them
selves;
The world is still deceived by ornament.
In law what plea SO tainted and corrupt
But being seasonal with a gracious voice,
Obscures the show of evil? In religion
What damned error but some sober brow
viii bless it, and approve it with text
Hiding the Erossness, with fair ornament?
There is no vice so simple, but assumes,
Some mark of virtue on it's outward parts
How many towards whose hearts are all
as false
As stairs of sands, wear yet upon their
chins
The beard of Hercules, and frowning Mars;
Who inward searched, have livers white as
milk?
And these assume but valor's eXcrement,
To render them redoubted. Look on beauty
And YOU shall see It's purchased by the
weight
Which therein works a miracle in nature
Making them 1ightest that wear most of it:
SO are those crsped snaky golden locks,
Which make such wanton gambols with the
wind,
Upon supposed fairness. often known
To be the dowry of the second head.
The scull that bred them in the sepulchre.
mt. Of i'm w
was loved for many years as a right
valiant right brave, right steadfast officer
who honored the immortal red coat of the
noble old queen who now looks with proud
reliance and fearful eyes upon the deeds
of race which the embattled world could
not conquer. He is gone to God now, he
who loved the proud text of that man OF
the Avonside written nearly four hundred
years ago. A brave soul he, such as them
that fought at Cressy, at Waterloo, at In
herman SebastopaL and at Balaclava. His
father was of the Six Hundred that vol
leyed and Numbered in the jaws of hell
nearly fifty years ago. His father rode by
the side of Cardigan when that peerless
sword flashed in the Russian sunshine and
answered that terrible English oath: Here
is to the last of the Cardigans." Cardigan
died there in the immortal charge of the
Light Brigade, and no man now lives wor-
thy to bear the proud title of Earl of car
digan. Until Nelson's and Wellingtons and
Marlboroughs and Cardigans pass from the
earth's pale history as it runs no man shall
he be Earl of Cardigan. That glorious light
of chivalry, that splendid combination of
La'Tour who went before and John Pelham
who came after remains unequalled in dar-
ing and in glory from Scipio to Pelham.
The son of one man who rode with Cardi-
gan in the sublimest display of human
courage ever yet shown in this world died
the first victim of the Beers in South
Z Africa His life were worth all the lives of
all the Beers that roam the veldt. Nesbitt
passed to God as an Englishman should
pass-in the queens uniform. Poor Nesbitt,
knew him well and loved him. A truer,
stronger. drawer soul 1 have not known
amongst men, If there be any substance
of the hope of the morrow of the years,
Nesbitt has clasped hands with Cardigan
in the Unseeable, and has embraced that
other hero of his own race, Pelham the Ala
bamian. Nesbitt died like he would have
wished to die, like Pelham died, like Car
digan passed to God in the red coat of his
queen.
There is a little child i'm England today
who Weeps in a sorrow that is
not speakable. Through almost all
the little years of that little life
I have known her, and her blue
ewes have thrilled me, her laughing voice
has oheered me, her great wealth of bronze
hair has been glorious orltlamme uaat mas
led me up the Goilsome slopes of hope
Much of that love that | might have given
to children of my own. If it had pleased
God that children should have been mine,
was bestowed upon May Nesbitt, whose
brother was not TO wear uae Victoria Cross
because he died in the winning of it. One
sob from that child must be dearer to God
than the vulgar Hgotry of every Boer be-
tween THE sea and the unmapped wide
nesses / wouldn't offer one ache CT little
May Nesbtt's for the life of every damned
Boer Who seeks to Cypress my race
The slave of the sqaIi,tite pencil, who
smokes "a brlar-root pipe and whose bust
ness 1t is to murmur of the world best
he may has got nothing to do with lying
politics, never at rest as this poor earth's
Pc,