Energy, power, strength.

Dewy wing, the lark builds its nest on the ground, and consequently when the dew falls at night it gets covered with it. Thy lay is in heaven, the lark soars high into the air, and there warbles forth its song. Fell, a rocky hill. Sheen, brightness, glitter.

Cloudlet, a little cloud.

Cherub, an angel.

Gloaming, twilight,

the evening.

Love gives its energy,* love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,*
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven,* thy love is on earth.

O'er fell* and fountain sheen,*

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day;
Over the cloudlet* dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub,* soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming * comes.
Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

Oh to abide in the desert with thee!

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* Belshazzar was the last of the Babylonian kings. This poem is founded on the Account given of the overthrow of Babylon in the Book of Daniel.

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*Hohenlinden, or Linden Heights, is a small village in Bavaria. about six leagues from Munich. It is situated between the Iser and the Inn, tributaries of the Danube. The Austrians and Bavarians were defeated here by the French on the 3d December 1800.

Revelry, the bustle and din of battle. Then shook the hills, the surrounding country seemed to shake again with the dreadful noise made by the firing of the artillery.

Riven, torn asunder; here it refers to the ground being torn up with the cannonballs.

Frank, the ancient
name for the French,
who in the 3d cen-
tury overthrew the
Roman dominion in
Gaul, and settled

Huns, or, as they are
now called, Magyars,
are the inhabitants
of Hungary, and be-
long to the Mongol
race. They form the
chief portion of the
Austrian empire.
Munich, the capital
of Bavaria, on the
river Iser. It is a
very fine city, and in
its palace there is
one of the finest col-
lections of paintings
in Europe.
Sepulchre, a place of
burial, a tomb.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade;
And furious every charger neighed,

To join the dreadful revelry.*

Then shook the hills* with thunder riven ;*
Then rushed the steed to battle driven;
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow;
And bloodier yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank * and fiery Hun

Shout 'mid their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens: On, ye brave!
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich,* all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre !


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15 You can hear him wield * his heavy sledge,*
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton * ringing the village bell
When the evening sun is low.


And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,*

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff* from a threshing-floor.*
25 He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;


He hears the parson pray and preach;
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,*

And it makes his heart rejoice: *

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise !

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

35 And with his hard, rough hand, he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.


Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;

Something attempted,* something done,
Has earned a night's repose.*

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught !


45 Thus at the flaming forge of Life
Our fortunes must be wrought!
Thus on its sounding anvil* shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

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JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER (1808- ) was born at Havershill, Massachusetts, where his ancestors had long been settled. Many of his poems were devoted to the cause of Abolition. He contributes to all the leading American Magazines of the present day.

Up from the meadows, rich with corn,
Clear from the cool September morn,


The clustered spires of Frederick stand,
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.


Clustered, crowded together. Frederick, or Fredericksburg, in Virginia, U.S.

Green-walled, &c., surrounded, as by a natural wall, by the hills of the Blue Ridge, a branch of the Alleghany Mountains.

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Loyal, to be faithful
and obedient to the
laws of one's country.
Stonewall Jackson,
an able general, fa-
mous for his bravery.
He received the nick-
name of "Stonewall'
from the firmness
with which his men
resisted every attack.
He was accidentally
killed by a bullet
fired by one of his
own soldiers at the
battle of Chancellors-
ville, May 2, 1863.
Slouched, turned

Shiver, shatter, to
break into small
pieces by sudden
Silken scarf, the ban-
ner, which was made
of silk.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep;
Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished * rebel * horde.*

On that pleasant morn of the early fall,*


When Lee* marched over the mountain wall, 10
Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town,


Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their silver bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun

Of noon looked down and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten,
Bravest of all in Frederick town,


She took up the flag the men hauled* down; 20

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 slouched * hat, left and right,
He glanced, the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast;
"Fire!"-out blazed the rifle blast.

It shivered* the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash,
Quick, as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;

She leaned far out on the window sill
And shook it forth with a royal will.


Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The noble nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word.

"Who touches a hair of yon grey head,
Dies like a dog. March on !" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet;





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