Where raged the war, a dark red tide
Was curdling in the streamlet blue!
Where shall she turn?-Behold her mark
A little fountain cell,`
Where water clear as diamond spark,
In a stone basin fell.
She filled the helm and back she hied,
And, with surprise and joy, espied
A monk, supporting Marmion's head;
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrive the dying, bless the dead.
THE SAME, CONTINUED.
WITH fruitless labor Clara bound,
And strove to stanch the gushing wound:
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church's prayers:
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung:
"In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle, with groans of the dying!"
"Avoid thee, fiend!—with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand!
O! look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine!
O think on faith and bliss!
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never ought like this!"
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now, trebly thundering, swelled the gale,
And,-" STANLEY!" was the cry:
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye;
With dying hand, above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "VICTORY!”—
CHARGE! Chester, CHARGE! ON!-Stanley !-ON!"
Were the last words of Marmion.
AN APPEAL TO PATRIOTISM.
OUR bosoms we 'll bare for the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,
To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
Or crushed in its ruins to die!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust,-
God bless the green isle of the brave!
Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust,
It would rouse the old dead from their grave!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide,
Profaning its loves and its charms?
Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side?
To arms! oh, my country, TO ARMS!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand,
And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen ?—Nò;
His head to the sword shall be given,-
A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,
And his blood be an offering to heaven!
Then rise, fellow-freemen, and stretch the right hand, And swear to prevail in your dear native land!
MEET THE FOE.
YE sons of sires, who fought and bled
For liberty and glory,
Whose fame shall ever wider spread
Till Time is bent and hoary,-
Awake to meet the invading foe!
Rouse at the call of danger!
Beat down again his standard low,
And backward hurl the stranger!
They knew no fear, those sires of old,-
'Mid swords and bayonets clashing,
Still high they bore their banner's fold,
Its stars like lightnings flashing.
Be like those sires!-With freeborn might,
Renew the deeds of story!
Who lives, shall win a wreath of light,—
Who falls, shall sleep in glory!
AMBITION, FALSE AND TRUE.
I WOULD not wear the warrior's wreath,
I would not court his crown;
For love and virtue sink beneath
His dark and vengeful frown.
I would not seek my fame to build
Ón glory's dizzy height;
Her témple is with orphans filled ;
Blood soils her scepter bright.
I would not wear the diadem,
By folly prized so dear;
For want and wo have bought each gem,
And every pearl's a tear.
I would not heap the golden chest,
That sordid spirits crave;
For every gain, by penury cursed,-
Is gathered from the grave.
No; let my wreath unsullied be;
My fame be virtuous youth;
My wealth be kindness, charity;
My diadem be truth.
VENGEANCE calls you! quick, be ready,-
Rouse ye, in the name of God:
Onward, onward! strong and steady,-
Grasp the sword!-its edge is keen;
Seize the gun!-its ball is true;
Sweep your land from tyrants clean,-
Haste, and scour it through and through.
Onward, onward!-vengeance cries,
Rush to arms,-the tyrant flies.
Vengeance calls you! quick, be ready,
Think of what your sires have been:
Onward, onward! strong and steady,-
Drive the tyrant to his den.
On, and let the watch-word be:
Country, home, and liberty!
Dash to earth the oppressor's rod.
Vengeance calls! ye brave, ye brave!
Rise, and spurn the name of slave.
ASPIRATION OF YOUTH.
HIGHER, higher will we climb,
Up the mount of glory,
That our names may live through time,
In our country's story;
Happy, when her welfare calls,
He who conquers, he who falls.
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