But she remembers thee as one Talk of thy doom without a sigh; FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. MONTEREY. WE were not many-we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have with us been at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot it hail'd Their dying shout at Monterey. And on-still on our column kept Through walls of flame its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, The foe himself recoil'd aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swoop'd his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Storm'd home the towers of Monterey. Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play; Where orange-boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey. We are not many-we who press'd CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee; And was the safeguard of the West: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, And, when She took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength de cay; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reach'd its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is pass'd away. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE CHARGE of the LIGHT BRIGADE. HALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, Charge for the guns!" he said: Rode the six hundred. Then, drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart-swelling. BARBARA FRIETCHIE UP from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, He passes the fountain, the blasted pine Apple and peach tree fruited deep, tree, The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light, Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves? Was it moonlight so wondrously flash ing? It looked like a rifle "Ha! Mary, goodbye!" The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead The picket's off duty for ever! ETHEL LYNN BEERS. THE CUMBERLAND. MAGNIFICENT thy fate, Once Mistress of the Seas! No braver vessel ever flung A pennon to the breeze; No bark e'er died a death so grand; AUTHOR UNKNOWN. Fair as the garden of the Lord On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee march'd over the mountainwall, Over the mountains winding down, Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sun Of noon look'd down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men haul'd down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouch'd hat left and right "Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"-out blazed the rifle-blast. It shiver'd the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff She lean'd far out on the window-sill, A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, The nobler nature within him stirr'd All day long through Frederick street All day long that free flag tost On the loyal winds that loved it well; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! and let a tear Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, And ever the stars above look down JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. SHERIDAN'S RIDE. But there is a road from Winchester town, A steed as black as the steeds of night Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth, Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strain'd to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spurning feet, the road Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. With Sheridan only five miles away. UP from the south, at break of day, groups The terrible grumble, and rumble, and Of stragglers, and then the retreating roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away. And wider still those billows of war troops; What was done? what to do? a glance told him both. Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dash'd down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat check'd its course there, because The sight of the master compell'd it to pause. |