Sivut kuvina

The pause

The serried bayonets glittering stood,
Like icicles, on hills of blood;
An aerial stream, a silver wood,

Reeled in the flickering canopy.
Like waves of ocean rolling fast,
Or thunder-cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions, stern and vast,

Rushed to the dreadful revelry.

is o’er; the fatal shock
A thousand thousand thunders woke :
The air grows sick; the mountains rock;

Red ruin rides triumphantly.
Light boiled the war-cloud to the sky,
In phantom towers and columns high,
But dark and dense their bases lie,

Prone on the attle's boundary.
The thistle waved her bonnet blue,
The harp her wildest war-notes threw,
The red rose gained a fresher hue,

Busaco, in thy heraldry.
Hail, gallant brothers! Wo befall
The foe that braves thy triple wall!
Thy sons, Oh wretched Portugal !

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,
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung
That round banner, which, with prayer,
Had been consecrated there ;
And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low, in the deep mysterious aisle.

Take thy banner. May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.

Take thy banner; and beneath
The war-cloud's encircling wreath
Guard it till our homes are free,
Guard it-God will


In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.

Take thy banner. But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him ; by our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him; he our love hath shared,
Spare him; as thou wouldst be spared.

Take thy banner; and if e'er
Thou shouldst dress the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then, this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee.
And the warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud.



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
In the resistless eloquence of wo :-

“ 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 !
But, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,

Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,

To see thee, Absalom!
And now farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,

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.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, Kome,

My erring Absalom!"
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child : then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer

And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.


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“Mamma, now you must love me more,

For little sister's dead;
And t'other sister died before,

And brother too, you said.

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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 who will give her clothes to wear,

And keep them clean and neat ?

Papa must go and carry some ;

I'll send her all I've got:

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“ Make

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,


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