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

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

They 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 that perished there,
Was that young faithful heart.

MRS. HEMANS

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In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying,
There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the raven flap
O'er the false-hearted;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap
Ere life be parted.

Shame and dishonor sit

By his grave ever:
Blessings shall hallow it
Never! oh, never!

SCOTT.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleeper waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever were still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,

But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride,
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray on the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

BYKON

THE BATTLE OF BUSACO.

BEYOND Busaco's mountains dun
When far had rolled the sultry sun,
And night her pall of gloom had throw
On nature's still convexity;

High on the neath our tents were spread,
The cold turf was our cheerless bed,
And o'er the hero's dew-chilled head
The banners flapped incessantly.

The loud war-trumpet woke the morn,
The quivering drum, the pealing horn,--
From rank to rank the cry is borne,

"Arouse for death or victory!"

The orb of day, in crimson dye,
Began to mount the morning sky;
Then, what a scene for warrior's eyc
Hung on the bold declivity!

The serried bayonets glittering stood,
Like icicles on hills of blood;
An aerial stream, a silver wood,

Reeled in the flickering canopy

Like waves of ocean rolling fast,
Or thunder-cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions, stern and vast,

The

Rushed to the dreadful revelry.

pause is o'er the fatal shock
A thousand thousand thunders woke;
The air grows thick; the mountains rock;
Red ruin rides triumphantly.

Light rolled the war-cloud to the sky,
In phantom towers and columns high,
But dark and dense their bases lie

Prone on the battle's boundary.

The thistle waved her bonnet bluc,
The harp her wildest war-notes threw
The red rose gained a fresher hue,

Busaco, in thy heraldry.

Hail, gallant brothers! Woe befall
The foe that braves thy triple wall!-
Thy sons, O wretched Portugal!

Roused at their feats of chivalry. ANONYMOUS

PULASKI'S BANNER.

"The standard of Count Pulaski, the ncie Pole, who fell in the attack on Savannah, during the American revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian nuus of Bethelem, Pennsylvania.'

WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burning swung
Where before the altar hung

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That round banner, which, with prayer,
Had been consecrated there;

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while
Sung low in the deep mysterious aisle.

"Take thy banner. May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.

"Take thy banner; and beneath
The war-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it till our homes are free

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God will prosper thee!

In the dark and trying hour,

In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee ther.

"Take thy banner. But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him; by our holy vow,

By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,

Spare him; he our love hath shared,
Spare him as thou wouldst be spared.

"Take thy banner; and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful fect,
Then this crimson flag shall be

Martial cloak and shroud for thee!"

And the warrior took that banner proud,

And it was his martial cloak and shroud. ANONYMOUS

GINEVRA.

SHE was an only child, her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride.
Marrying an only son, Francisco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
She was all gentleness, all gayety,

Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And in the luster of her youth she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francisco.

Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting,
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""T is but to make a trial of our love!"

And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

'T was but that instant she had left Francisco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger;
But, now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life,

Francisco flew to Venice, and embarking,

Flung it away in battle with the Turk,

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