Each of the Four Numbers of "100 Choice Selections" contained in this volume is paged separately, and the Index is made to correspond therewith. See EXPLANATION on first page of Contents. The entire book contains nearly 1000 pages. 100 CHOICE SELECTIONS No. 10. PROGRESS.-N. MICHELL. Progress! progress! all things cry; Learn in nature's wondrous school: Broad-armed oaks from acorns grow, Insects, laboring, build in time Mighty islands from below; Rough may be the mountain road Sinks unworthy of his race; Broad the tract that lies before us; Never mourn the days of old, Time will not tombed years restore us,— Past is iron-future, gold! Savage! learn till civilized; Slave! your fetters shake till free; Hearts that struggle, souls despised! Onward!-orient nations know Which should flash around the earth, "Tis a word of heavenly birth; BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL.-FREDERICK S. COZZENS. It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still, When the "minute men" from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill; Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet; But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms beat, And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, "We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the dead." "Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward;" The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a word, But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade, A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made; So still were we the stars beneath that scarce a whisper fell; We heard the red-coat's musket-click, and heard him cry "All's well!" And here and there a twinkling port, reflected on the deep, In many a wavy shadow showed their sullen guns asleep. Sleep on, ye bloody, hireling crew! In careless slumber lie! The trench is growing broad and deep, the breast work broad and high. No striplings we, but bear the arms that held the French in check, The drum that beat at Louisburg, and thundered in Quebec. And thou whose promise is deceit, no more thy word we'll trust; Thou butcher Gage, thy power and thee we'll humble in the dust; Thou and thy tory minister have boasted to thy brood, "The lintels of the faithful shall be sprinkled with our blood." But though these walls those lintels be, thy zeal is all in vain, A thousand freemen shall rise up for every freeman slain! And when o'er trampled crowns and thrones they raise the mighty shout, This soil their Palestine shall be their altar this redoubt! See how the morn is breaking! the red is in the sky; For the ruddy flash and round shot part in thunder from her side; And the Falcon and the Cerberus make every bosom thrill, With gun and shell and drum and bell and boatswain's whistle shrill, But deep and wider grows the trench as spade and mattock ply, For we have to cope with fearful odds, and the time is drawing nigh. Up with the pine-tree banner! Our gallant Prescott stands Amid the plunging shell and shot, and plants it with his hands; Up with the shout! for Putnam comes upon his reeking bay, With bloody spur and foamy bit, in haste to join the fray; And Pomeroy, with his snow-white hairs, and face all flush and sweat, Unscathed by French and Indian, wears a youthful glory yet. But thou, whose soul is glowing in the summer of thy years Unvanquished Warren, thou-the youngest of thy peersWert born, and bred, and shaped and made to act a patriot's part, And dear to us thy presence is as life-blood to the heart. Well may you bark, ye British wolves-with leaders such as they, Not one will fail to follow where they choose to lead the way! As once before, scarce two months since, we followed on your track, And with our rifles marked the road you took in going back! |