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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!

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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,

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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,
Fall as thy fathers fell!

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought:
So-forward! and farewell!

Toll ye my Second-toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light,
And sing the hymn for a parted soul,

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!

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Call ye my Whole—ay, call
The lord of lute and lay,
And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day!

Go, call him by his name:

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

THE FADED VIOLET.

WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves!
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,

Thou darling of the April rain.

I hold thy faded lips to mine,

Though scent and azure tint are fled;
O! dry, mute lips, ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead:

Of something wilted like thy leaves,
Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
Yet, for the love of those white hands
That found thee by a river's brim,

That found thee when thy sunny mouth
Was purpled, as with drinking wine:
For love of her who love forgot,

I hold thy faded lips to mine.

That thou shouldst live when I am dead,
When hate is dead for me, and wrong,

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,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause, and lightly tread:
Fond wretch as if her step disturbed the dead.

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,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

LORD BYRON.

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