And shouted but once more aloud,

"My father, must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound-
The boy!-oh, where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea!

With mast and helm and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-

But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young, faithful heart!

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears,

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebb'd away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might

say.

The dying soldier falter'd as he took that comrade's

hand,

And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land;

Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine,

For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around

To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground,

That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done

Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the set

ting sun.

And 'mid the dead and dying were some grown old in

wars,

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;

But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,

And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her

old age,

For I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a

cage.

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine

On the cottage-wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,

When the troops are marching home again with glad

and gallant tread,

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,

For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die.

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"There's another-not a sister: in the happy days gone by,

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry-too fond for idle scorn

ing

O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be

risen,

My body will be out of pain-my soul be out of prison),

I dream'd I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me as we passed with friendly talk

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remember'd walk,

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine;— But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse-his grasp was childish weak

His eyes put on a dying look-he sighed and ceased to speak;

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had

fled

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses

strown;

Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the

Rhine.

CAROLINE E. NORTON.

SIR SIDNEY SMITH.

Gentlefolks, in my time, I've made many a rhyme, But the song I now trouble you with

Lays some claim to applause, and you'll grant it, be

canse

The subject's Sir Sidney Smith, it is;

The subject's Sir Sidney Smith.

We all know Sir Sidney, a man of such kidney,
He'd fight every foe he could meet;

Give him one ship for two, and without more ado
He'd engage if he met a whole fleet, he would,
He'd engage if he met a whole fleet.

Thus he took, every day, all that came in his way,
Till fortune, that changeable elf,

Ordered accidents so, that while taking the foe,
Sir Sidney got taken himself, he did,

Sir Sidney got taken himself.

His captors, right glad of the prize they now had,
Rejected each offer we bid,

And swore he should stay locked up till doomsday;

But he swore he'd be d―d if he did, he did,

But he swore he'd be hanged if he did.

So Sir Sid got away, and his jailer next day
Cried, "Sacre, diable, morbleu,

Mon prisonnier 'scape; I 'ave got in von scrape,
And I fear I must run away too, I must,

I fear I must run away too!"