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'Strike your flag' the rebel cries,

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 'Never!' our gallant Morris replies;

'It is better to sink than to yield !'
And the whole air pealed

With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp !
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon's breath

For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head.
Lord, how beautiful was thy day!

Every waft of the air

Was a whisper of prayer,

Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream,
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,

Thy flag, that is rent in twain,

Shall be one again

And without a seam!

H. W. Longfellow.

CXXIX.

KINDRED HEARTS.

H, ask not, hope not, thou too much

Of sympathy below :

Few are the hearts whence one same touch

Bids the sweet fountains flow ;

Few and by still conflicting powers

Forbidden here to meet.

Such ties would make this life of ours

Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be, that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns.
It may be, that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring,
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune, that speaks of other times,—
A sorrowful delight,—

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night,
The wind, that with so many a tone
Some chord within can thrill,
These may have language all thine own,
To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this, the true
And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears,

If there be one, that o'er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watched through sickness by thy bed,
Call his a kindred heart.

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,
With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
Never to mortals given,—

Oh, lay thy lovely dreams aside,

Or lift them into heaven.

F. Hemans.

CXXX.

WORK WITHOUT HOPE.

LL Nature seems at work.

Slugs leave their lair-.
The bees are stirring-birds are on the wing-
And Winter slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,

And hope without an object cannot live.

S. T. Coleridge.

CXXXI.

THE PRODIGAL.

O heroism and holiness

How hard it is for man to soar,
But how much harder to be less
Than what his mistress loves him for !
There is no man so full of pride,
And none so intimate with shame,
And none to manhood so denied,
As not to mend if women blame.
He does with ease what do he must,

Or merit this, and nought's debarred
From man, when woman shall be just
In yielding her desired regard.

Ah, wasteful woman, she who may
On her sweet self set her own price,
Knowing he cannot choose but pay,
How has she cheapened Paradise ;
How given for nought her priceless gift,

How spoiled the bread and spilled the wine,
Which, spent with due, respective thrift,

Had made brutes men and men divine.

C. Patmore.

CXXXII.

EVENING IN PARADISE.

FROM PARADISE LOST,' BOOK IV.

OW came still Evening on, and Twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad; Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale : She all night long her amorous descant sung ; Silence was pleased: now glowed the firmament With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the Moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

CXXXIII.

J. Milton.

OME murmur, when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,

If one small speck of dark appear

In their great heaven of blue ;

And some with thankful love are filled,
If but one streak of light,

One ray of God's good mercy, gild

The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,

And all good things denied :
And hearts in poorest huts admire
How Love has in their aid,
Love that not ever seems to tire,

Some rich provision made.

R. C. Trench.

CXXXIV.

THE EVENING BRINGS US HOME.

PON the hills the wind is sharp and cold,
The sweet young grasses wither on the wold,
And we, O Lord, have wandered from Thy fold;
But evening brings us home.

Among the mists we stumbled, and the rocks
Where the brown lichen whitens, and the fox
Watches the straggler from the scattered flocks;
But evening brings us home.

The sharp thorns prick us, and our tender feet
Are cut and bleeding, and the lambs repeat
Their pitiful complaints,-oh, rest is sweet,
When evening brings us home.

We have been wounded by the hunter's darts.
Our eyes are very heavy, and our hearts
Search for Thy coming,-when the light departs
At evening bring us home.

The darkness gathers. Thro' the gloom no star
Rises to guide us. We have wandered far.
Without Thy lamp we know not where we are.
At evening bring us home.

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