But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birth-day bells,
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives, for thy sake, a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,
One of the few, the immortal names
That were not born to die.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

MONTEREY.

WE were not many-we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have with us been at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hail'd
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
Yet not a single soldier quail'd
When wounded comrades round them
wail'd

Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on-still on our column kept

Through walls of flame its withering way;

Where fell the dead, the living stept,
Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoil'd aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay, We swoop'd his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Storm'd home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave,

And there our evening bugles play; Where orange-boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many-we who press'd
Beside the brave who fell that day-
But who of us has not confess'd
He'd rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey?

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE
VENETIAN REPUBLIC.

ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee;

And was the safeguard of the West: the worth

Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
She was a Maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could vio-
late;

And, when She took unto herself a

Mate,

She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories

fade,

Those titles vanish, and that strength de

cay;

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reach'd its final

day:

Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade

Of that which once was great is pass'd

away.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE CHARGE of the LIGHT BRIGADE.

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Then, drawing his sleeve roughly over his

eyes,

He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place,

As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE

UP from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,

The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep,

tree,

The footstep is lagging and weary; Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light,

Toward the shade of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?

Was it moonlight so wondrously flash

ing?

It looked like a rifle "Ha! Mary, goodbye!"

The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead

The picket's off duty for ever!

ETHEL LYNN BEERS.

THE CUMBERLAND.

MAGNIFICENT thy fate,

Once Mistress of the Seas! No braver vessel ever flung

A pennon to the breeze;

No bark e'er died a death so grand;
Such heroes never vessel manned;
Your parting broadside broke the wave
That surged above your patriot grave;
Your flag, the gamest of the game,
Sank proudly with you-not in shame,
But in its ancient glory;
The memory of its parting gleam
Will never fade while poets dream;
The echo of your dying gun
Will last till man his race has run,
Then live in Angel Story.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee march'd over the mountainwall,

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sun Of noon look'd down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten;

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men haul'd down;

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 slouch'd 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 shiver'd the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf.

She lean'd far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot, if you must, this old gray 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 nobler nature within him stirr'd
To life at that woman's deed and word:
"Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good broad highway leading down;
And there, through the flush of the morn-
ing light,

A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need;
He stretch'd away with his utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth,

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the

master

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strain'd to full play,

With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flow'd
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace
ire,

Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire.
But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring
fray,

With Sheridan only five miles away.

groups

roar,

Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thunder'd along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester roll'd
The roar of that red sea uncontroll❜d,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

troops;

What was done? what to do? a glance

told him both.

Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,

He dash'd down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas,

And the wave of retreat check'd its course there, because

The sight of the master compell'd it to

pause.