« PreviousContinue »
· The flames rolled on-he would not go
Without his father's word ; That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud : “Say, father, say
If yet my task is done ?”
Unconscious of his son.
“Speak, father,” once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone?” And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair; And looked from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
“My father, must I stay?” While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fire made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high ;
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound
The boy-oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea ;
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their partBut the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart !
THE HOUR OF PRAYER.
Child, amidst the flowers at play,
Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Captive, in whose narrow narrow cell
Warrior, that from battle won
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND..
The stately homes of England !
How beautiful they stand,
O’er all the pleasant land !
Through shade and sunny gleam,
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England !
Around their hearths by night
Meet in the ruddy light !
Or childish tale is told,
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England !
How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn ; All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England !
By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.' Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair homes of England !
Long, long in hut and hall
To guard each hallowed wall !
And bright the flowery sod,
THE FIRST GRIEF.
O, call my brother back to me;
I cannot play alone;
Where is my brother gone?
“ The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track :
O, call my brother back !
“ The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed
Around our garden-tree;