THE OLD CONTINENTALS. With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor On our flanks; Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks! A CHARADE. And his brazen throat was ringing, Trumpet-loud. Then the blue Bullets flew, And the trooper-jackets reddened at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder, COME from my First-ay, come! The battle-dawn is nigh; And the screaming trump and the thundering drum Are calling thee to die. A CHARADE. Fight as thy fathers fought, Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought: Toll ye my Second-toll! Fling high the flambeau's light, Beneath the silent night. The wreath upon his head, The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed: So take him to his rest! Call ye my Whole—ay, call Go, call him by his name: No fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. THE FADED VIOLET. WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves! Thou darling of the April rain. I hold thy faded lips to mine, Though scent and azure tint are fled; Of something wilted like thy leaves, That found thee when thy sunny mouth I hold thy faded lips to mine. That thou shouldst live when I am dead, For this I use my subtlest art, For this I fold thee in my song. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. O! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. O! SNATCHED away in beauty's bloom, Their leaves, the earliest of the year, And oft by yon blue gushing stream Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain, Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou, who tell'st me to forget, LORD BYRON. |