Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hazel bank is steepest, -Hogg. THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE. My beautiful! my beautiful! that standeth meekly by, With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck and dark and fiery eye, Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed; The stranger hath thy bridle-rein-thy master hath his goldFleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold. Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home; Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare, Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care! The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be; Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain. Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again. Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky, Thy master's home,—from all of these my exiled one must fly; Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to meet. Then must I, starting, wake to feel,-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side: And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be― yearn Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return? Return alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view? When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears; Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone, Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me one; And sitting down by that green well I'll pause and sadly think, "It was here he bowed his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink!" When last I saw thee drink!-Away! the fevered dream is o'er I could not live a day and know that we should meet no more!. They tempted me, my beautiful!-for hunger's power is strong- "Tis false-'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold! Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains; Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains! -Caroline Norton. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. Half a league, half a league, 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. "Forward the Light Brigade!" Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sab'ring the gunners there, Charging an army while Plunged in the battery smoke, Reeled from the sabre-stroke, Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them, Volleyed and thundered. When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made! Noble six hundred! -Alfred Tennyson. (Permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers.) THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed; And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o're, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, In silence and in fear, They shook the depths of the desert gloom, Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea, And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, This was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band; Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine. Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod; They have left unstained what there they found Freedom to worship God. -Felicia Hemans. CASABIANCA. The boy stood on the burning deck Yet beautiful and bright he stood, A proud, though child-like form. |