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The serried bayonets glittering stood,
Reeled in the flickering canopy.
Rushed to the dreadful revelry.
is o’er; the fatal shock
Red ruin rides triumphantly.
Prone on the attle's boundary.
Busaco, in thy heraldry.
Roused at their feats of chivalry.
19. PULASKI'S BANNER.- - Anonymous.
The standard of count Pulaski, the noble Pole, who fell in the attack on Savannah,
during the American revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian nuns of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.
When the dying flame of day,
Take thy banner. May it wave
Take thy banner; and beneath
Take thy banner. But when night
Take thy banner; and if e'er
20. DAVID's LAMENT OVER ABSALOM.
The king stood still Till the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
“ Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom !
Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet—my father, from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom ! The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;But thou no more, with thy sweet voice shall come
To meet me, Absalom !
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:-. And thy dark sin !-Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this wo its bitterness had won thee.
My erring Absalom!"
“Mamma, now you must love me more,
For little sister's dead;
And brother too, you said.
No, sister is not cold, my child;
For God, who saw her die, As he looked down from heaven and smiled,
Recalled her to the sky.
And then her spirit quickly fted
To God, by whom 'twas given; Her body in the ground is dead,
But sister lives in heaven."
“Mamma, won't she be hungry there,
And want some bread to eat ?
And keep them clean and neat ?
Papa must go and carry some ;
I'll send her all I've got:
way for liberty !"-he cried ; Made way for liberty, and died !
It must not be: this day, this hour, Annihilates the oppressor's power! All Switzerland is in the field, She will not fly, she cannot yieldShe must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast; But every
freeman was a host, And felt as though himself were he, On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one indeed; Behold him-Arnold Winkelried! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face ; And, by the motion of his form, Anticipate the bursting storm ; And, by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But 'twas no sooner thought than done! The field was in a moment won: "Make way for liberty !” he cried, Then ran,
with arms extended wide,