O'er the haze and the cannon-smoke,
That ever such morning dulls,
There were thirteen traitor hulls
On fire and sinking!

THE BURIAL OF THE DANE

BLUE gulf all around us,
Blue sky overhead-
Muster all on the quarter,
We must bury the dead!

It is but a Danish sailor,
Rugged of front and form;
A common son of the forecastle,

Grizzled with sun and storm.

His name, and the strand he hailed from
We know, and there's nothing more!
But perhaps his mother is waiting
In the lonely Island of Fohr.

Still, as he lay there dying,

Reason drifting awreck,
"Tis my watch," he would mutter,
"I must go upon deck !"

Aye, on deck, by the foremast!
But watch and lookout are done;
The Union Jack laid o'er him,
How quiet he lies in the sun!

Slow the ponderous engine,
Stay the hurrying shaft;
Let the roll of the ocean
Cradle our giant craft;
Gather around the grating,
Carry your messmate aft!

Stand in order, and listen

To the holiest page of prayer!
Let every foot be quiet,
Every head be bare-
The soft trade-wind is lifting
A hundred locks of hair.

Dost thou in anguish thus
Still brood o'er (Edipus ?

And weave enigmas to mislead anew,
And stultify the blind

Dull heads of human kind,

And inly make thy moan

That mid the hated crew,

Whom thou so long couldst vex,

Bewilder, and perplex,

Those sullen orbs wouldst thou eclipse,
And ope those massy, tomb-like lips,
Many a riddle thou couldst solve
Which all blindly men revolve.

Would She but tell! She knows
Of the old Pharaohs,

Could count the Ptolemies' long line; Each mighty Myth's original hath seen,

The Bestial and Divine

(Such, He that sleeps in Phile -Ile that

stands

Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal

Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane

That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or Death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,

Still swelled the gory tide;

Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide.

T was in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their fathers' gore
His first-born laurels grew,

And well he deemed the sous would pour
Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain,

And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its mouldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,

SONG

Alone awakes each sullen height

That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.

Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave:

She claims from war his richest spoil -
The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.

O BIRD, thou dartest to the sun, When morning beams first spring, And I, like thee, would swiftly run; As sweetly would I sing.

Thy burning heart doth draw thee up Unto the source of fire;

Thou drinkest from its glowing cup And quenchest thy desire.

O dew, thou droppest soft below,
And pearlest all the ground,

Yet, when the morning comes, I know
Thou never canst be found.

I would like thine had been my birth;
Then I, without a sigh,

Might sleep the night through on the earthi

To waken in the sky.

O clouds, ye little tender sheep,
Pastured in fields of blue,

While moon and stars your fold can keep
And gently shepherd you,

Let me, too, follow in the train
That flocks across the night,
Or lingers on the open plain
With new-shorn fleeces white.

O singing winds, that wander far,
Yet always seem at home,
And freely play 'twixt star and star
Along the bending dome,

I often listen to your song,
Yet never hear you say
One word of all the happy worlds
That sing so far away.

For they are free, ye all are free,
And bird, and dew, and light,
Can dart upon the azure sea
And leave me to my night;

Oh, would like theirs had been my birth,
Then I, without a sigh,

Might sleep this night through on the earth

To waken in the sky.

THE MORNING-GLORY

WE wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright;

Her little face looked out beneath,
So full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise,

That we could only say,
"She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."

So always from that happy time
We called her by their naine,
And very fitting did it seem

For, sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray,

As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,

As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come,
Even as comes the flower,
The last and perfect added gift

To crown Love's morning hour;
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say,
As on the little dewdrops round
Shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God,
That she must wither up,
Almost before a day was flown,
Like the morning-glory's cup;
We never thought to see her droop
ller fair and noble head,

Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
Wilted, and cold, and dead !

The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round-

We see the rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground;

The tender things the winter killed
Renew again their birth,
But the glory of our morning
Has passed away from earth.

O Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air
Her spirit to sustain;

But up in groves of Paradise

Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful

Twine round our dear Lord's knee.