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CASABIANCA. — Mrs. Hemans.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike, form.
The flames rolled on, — he would not go,
Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud, — " Say, father, say
If yet my task is done!"
Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father i" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone,"— And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair.
96 LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF CELIN.
And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
There came a burst of thunder sound;
The boy, — O, where was he?
With fragments strewed the sea!
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
But the noblest thing that perished there
LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OP CELIN.—
At the gate of old Grenada, when all its bolts are
barred, At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe. "What tower is fallen ? what star is set ? what chief
come these bewailing?" "A tower is fallen! A star is set! — Alas J alas for
Three times they knock, three times they cry, the doors wide open throw;Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go!In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch,
Each horseman holding in his hand a black and flaming torch.
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,
For all have heard the misery,—" Alas! alas for Celin!"
Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerrage's blood; 'T was at the solemn jousting; around the nobles stood; The nobles of the land were there, and the ladies
bright and fair
Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two,
The Moorish maid at her lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door;
Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes
black they strew Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green,
and blue; Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the
loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low, —" Alas! alas
An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the
people cry, Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye; It's she who nursed him at her breast, who nursed him long ago; She knows not whom they all lament, but ah! she
soon shall know. With one loud shriek, she forward breaks, when her
ears receive their wailing, — "Let me kiss my Celin ere I die! — Alas! alas for
FLOWERS. — Leigh Hunt
We are the sweet flowers,
Born of sunny showers, (Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith;) Utterance mute and bright, Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath;All who see us love us, — We befit all places; Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces, graces.
All, and sweetly voiceless, Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage clear;
Not a whisper tells
Where our small seed dwells, Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear.
We thread the earth in silence,
In silence build our bowers,— And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers.
O, Heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
In silence they reached, over mountain and moor,
"And tell me, I charge ye, ye clan of my spouse,