The flames rolled on-he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, He called 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 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, There came a burst of thunder sound The boy-oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, But the noblest thing which perished there Mrs. Hemans. THE HOUR OF PRAYER. Child, amidst the flowers at play, Traveller, in the stranger's land, Captive, in whose narrow narrow cell Lift the heart, and bend the knee! Warrior, that from battle won Heaven's first star alike ye see— Lift the heart, and bend the knee ! Mrs. Hemans. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. The stately homes of England! O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound And the swan glides past them with the sound L The merry homes of England! What gladsome looks of household love There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or lips move tunefully along The blessed homes of England! 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, The cottage homes of England ! And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. 1 Churches. The free, fair homes of England! May hearts of native proof be reared And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God! Mrs. Hemans. THE FIRST GRIEF. "O, call my brother back to me; I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flowers and beeWhere is my brother gone? "The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track: "The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed Around our garden-tree; Our vine is drooping with its load; O, call him back to me! |