We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail

From each iron scale

Of the monster's hide.

"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 the 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.

THE BOY OF RATISBON.

You know we French stormed Ratisbon; A mile or so away,

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,

As if to balance the prone brow

Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall;"

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect

Just by his horse's mane, a boy;
You hardly could suspect-
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)—
You looked twice e'er you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon!

The marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him." The chief's eye flashed; his plans

Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes;

"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside,

Smiling, the boy fell dead.

R. Browning.

THE PATRIOT'S ELYSIUM.

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,

.

Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,.
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride;
While, in his softened looks, benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life.
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man? --a patriot?-look around!
Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy coUNTRY, and that spot thy HOME.
Montgomery.

CLEAR THE WAY.

MEN of thought! be up, and stirring night and day; Sow the seed-withdraw the curtain--CLEAR THE WAY! Men of action, aid and cheer them, as ye may!

There's a fount about to stream,

There's a light about to beam,

There's a warmth about to glow,

There's a flower about to blow;

There's a midnight blackness changing into gray.
Men of thought and men of action, CLEAR THE WAY!

Once the welcome light has broken, who shall say
What the unimagined glories of the day?
What the evil that shall perish in its ray?
Aid the dawning, tongue and pen;
Aid it, hopes of honest men ;

Aid it, paper; aid it, type;

Aid it, for the hour is ripe,

And our earnest must not slacken into play.
Men of thought and men of action, CLEAR THE WAY!

Lo! a cloud's about to vanish from the day;
And a brazen wrong to crumble into clay.
Lo! the right's about to conquer ; CLEAR THE WAY!
With the right shall many more
Enter smiling at the door;
With the giant wrong shall fall
Many others, great and small,

That for ages long have held us for their prey.
Men of thought and men of action, CLEAR THE WAY!

Charles Mackay.

THE THREE BEATS.

ROLL-roll!-How gladly swell the distant notes,
From where, on high, yon starry pennon floats!
Roll-roll!-On, gorgeously they come,
With plumes low stooping, on their winding way,
With lances gleaming in the sun's bright ray;
"What do ye hear, my merry comrades, say?"
"We beat the gathering drum ;

'Tis this which gives to mirth a lighter tone,
To the young soldier's cheek a deeper glow,
When stretched upon his grassy couch, alone,
It steals upon his ear, this martial call
Prompts him to dreams of gorgeous war, with all
Its pageantry and show!"

fleet!

Roll-roll!—"What is it that ye beat?" "We sound the charge !--On with the courser Where, 'mid the columns, war's red eagles fly, We swear to do or die!-'Tis this which feeds the fires of fame with breath, Which steels the soldier's heart to deeds of death; And when his hand,

Fatigued with slaughter, pauses o'er the slain, "Tis this which prompts him madly once again To seize the bloody brand!"

Roll-roll!" Brothers, what do ye bear.
Slowly and sadly as ye pass along,

With your dull march and low funereal song?"
"Comrades! we bear a bier!

las

I saw him fall!

And, as he lay beneath his steed, one thought,

(Strange how the mind such fancy should have wrought!) That had he died beneath his native skies,

Perhaps some gentle bride had closed his eyes,

And wept beside his pall!"

G. W. Patten.

THE GREAT BELL ROLAND.

Toll! Roland, toll!

-High in St. Bavon's tower,

At midnight hour,

The great bell Roland spoke,

And all who slept in Ghent awoke.
-What meant its iron stroke?
Why caught each man his blade?
Why the hot haste he made?

Why echoed every street

With tramp of thronging feet

All flying to the city's wall?
It was the call,

Known well to all,

That Freedom stood in peril of some foe:

And even timid hearts grow bold,

Whenever Roland tolled,

And every hand a sword could hold ;—