“There is no sort of historical foundation about ‘Good News From Ghent.’ I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the African coast, after I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse ‘York,’ then in my stable at home.” This poem, therefore, widely known and appreciated as one of the most stirring in the language, may be regarded as a living picture to illustrate the pages—no page in particular—of Motley. As parallels in American literature, reference may be made to “Paul Revere’s Ride,” by Longfellow, and “Sheridan’s Ride,” by T. B. Reade. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ECHETLOS. Here is a story, shall stir you! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone, Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed Persia rolling on, Did the deed and saved the world, since the day was Marathon! No man but did his manliest, kept rank and fought away In his tribe and file: up, back, out, down—was the spear-arm play: Like a wind-whipt branchy wood, all spear-arms a-swing that day! But one man kept no rank, and his sole arm plied no spear, As a flashing came and went, and a form i’ the van, the rear, Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here. Nor helmed nor shielded, he! but, a goat-skin all his wear, Like a tiller of the soil, with a clown’s limbs broad and bare, Went he ploughing on and on: he pushed with a ploughman’s share. Did the weak mid-line give way, as tunnies on whom the shark Precipitates his bulk? Did the right-wing halt when, stark On his heap of slain, lay stretched Kallimachos Polemarch? Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need, The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed, As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede. But the deed done, battle won,—nowhere to be descried On the meadow, by the stream, at the marsh,—look far and wide From the foot of the mountain, no, to the last blood-plashed sea-side,— Not anywhere on view blazed the large limbs thonged and brown, Shearing and clearing still with the share before which—down To the dust went Persia’s pomp, as he ploughed for Greece, that clown! How spake the Oracle? “Care for no name at all! Say but just this: We praise one helpful whom we call The Holder of the Ploughshare. The great deed ne’er grows small.” Not the great name! Sing—woe for the great name Míltiadés, And its end at Paros isle! Woe for Themistokles— Satrap in Sardis court! Name not the clown like these!