CASABIANCA.* THE boy stood on the burning deck, The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form. The flames roll'd on-he would not go, * Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile), after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He call'd aloud-" Say, father, say He knew not that the chieftain lay 'Speak, Father!" once again he cried, Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair ; And look'd from that lone post of death, And shouted but once more aloud, 66 My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, And stream'd above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound— With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part— But the noblest thing that perish'd there, Was that young faithful heart. THE ADOPTED CHILD. "WHY wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child? A straw-roof'd cabin with lowly wall— Where many an image of marble gleams, "Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play, And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know- "Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell, Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well; Harps which the wandering breezes tune; Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." A My mother sings, at the twilight's fall, song of the hills far more sweet than all; "Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, -Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, "Is my mother gone from her home away? -But I know that my brothers are there at play. I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell, Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well, Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow— Lady, kind lady! oh! let me go." "Fair child! thy brothers are wanderers now, They sport no more on the mountain's brow, |