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Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest;
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

-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;
I may not mount on thee again-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind-
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;

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.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright ;—
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy
speed,

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―
Thou are so swift yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free:
And yet, if happy, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should

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-
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wast
sold?

"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,
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.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not, though the soldier knew
Some one had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them,
Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air,

Sab'ring the gunners there,

Charging an army while
All the world wondered.

Plunged in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke:
Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke,
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered.
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

Oh, the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade!

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,
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea,

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roared-

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,
And the fiery heart of youth.

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
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

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