« PreviousContinue »
Lo! yonder comes the foe
Rush on with gun and glaive,
The banner of the brave;
Their fiercest daring mar-
The victor shout-hurrah !
BY EDWARD C. PINKNEY.
I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning
birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her
words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips
each flows As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the
Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her
hours ; Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness, of young
flowers ; And lonely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she ap.
pears The image of themselves by turns,--the idol of past
Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the
brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long
remain ; But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's,
I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.
"TIS THE BREAK OF DAY.
BY ROBERT WALN.
'Tis the break of day, and cloudless weather,
For the waking morn
The wild boar is shaking his dewy bristle,
For the waking morn
THE FUNERAL AT SEA.
BY HENRY J. FINN.
DEEP mists hung over the mariner's grave
When the holy funeral rite was read; And every breath on the dark blue wave
Seemed hushed, to hallow the friendless dead.
And heavily heaved on the gloomy sea,
The ship that sheltered that homeless oneAs though his funeral-hour should be
When the waves were still and the winds were gone.
And there he lay, in his coarse, cold shroud
And strangers were round the coffinless : Not a kinsman was seen among that crowd,
Not an eye to weep, nor a lip to bless.
No sound from the church's passing-bell
Was echoed along the pathless deep, The hearts that were far away to tell
Where the mariner lies, in his lasting sleep.
Not a whisper then lingered upon the air
O'er his body, one moment, his messmates bent; But the plunging sound of the dead was there
And the ocean is now his monument !
But many a sigh, and many a tear,
Shall be breathed, and shed, in the hours to come When the widow and fatherless shall hear
How he died, far, far from his happy home!
LIFE A DREAM.
BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE.
Our life is a dream-when memory surveys
The youth is in Eden, beneath the fresh bowers,
The friend, whose dark destiny long had been wept,
The minstrel exults—for his exile is o'er;