Swift round the ring rode the Ten Brothers Brown, Till the bugle sounds “Halt!” for award of the crown. By what rule of the Fair shall the Judges decree? Horsemen, horses, or mother--to which of the three? There was strewing of flowers, kerchiefs waving _galore_ Acclamations round the vast amphitheatre roar As waves boom aloud ’gainst the rocks on the shore, As around the grand stand the brothers rode up The Judges with one voice cried, “Take, O Mother, this cup, Far better and higher than wealth, rank or beauty, Your sons are your jewels--take the high prize of Duty, For Motherhood’s Excellence is guarded secure While Truth reigns on high and the heavens endure!” ECHO RIVER. Through the unpeopled realms of night We have reached the Echo River; And our swinging torches’ light Over its sunless waters quiver-- Shooting their rays athwart the gloom Of yonder stern, colossal tomb; Emblazoning the funeral pall Of night, that drapes the high-arched hall, So dense, we almost hear it wave Over the Titan’s rocky grave-- Once the dread Cyclops of the Cave. What bold Ulysses, standing by, Gazed on his dying agony, When, blind and frenzied, he laid down His scepter and imperial crown, And yielded up his struggling breath In this stern catacomb of death; And felt the icy shiver That chilled the fever’s fiery parch, When took his soul its Stygian march Adown the dark and stony arch Of gloomy Echo River? Lone as the tarn, whose sobbing flood Sighs in some demon-haunted wood, Its cheerless waters ever run Without one welcome from the sun; Without a smile from one lone star That trembles in the sky afar; But wend their solitary way, Secluded from the light of day. Kind Genii of the mystic wave, Who guard the portals of the cave, Gently along this sable tide Now let our little shallop glide; And by these weird and shadowy shores Direct the dusky boatman’s oars, Until yon night-enshrouded strand Receives our wandering pilgrim band