"THIS, or on this!”—“ Bring home with thee this shield, Whom her own hands had armed. O strong of heart! Yet know I of a fairer strength than this Strength linked with weakness, steeped in tears and fears, But true as hers to duty's perfect law. And such is theirs who in our England now, For those dread posts, too slow, too swift, that haste C. F. HOFFMAN. MONTEREY. We were not many--we who stood Yet many a gallant spirit would Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey. And on-still on our column kept Through walls of flame its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, The slippery streets of Monterey. We looked upon that banner, Loud swells the charging trumpet- There are memories to destroy, Plunge deep the fiery rowels In a thousand reeking flanksDown, chivalry of Ireland, Down on the British ranks Now shall their serried columns Beneath our sabres reel Through their ranks, then, with the war-horseThrough their bosoms with the steel. With one shout for good King Louis, Triumphant our hurrah, And we smote them down, still cheering "Erin, slanthagal go bragh." As prized as is the blessing From an aged father's lip— As welcome as the haven To the tempest-driven ship- The smile of gentle maid- See their shattered forces flying, For your brow to-day we twine. O, thrice blessed the hour that witnessed The Briton turn to flee From the chivalry of Erin, And France's "fleur de lis." As we lay beside our camp-fires, Who had perished in the fray- THE GRASP OF THE DEAD. 'Twas in the battle-field, and the cold pale moon With his father's sword in his red right hand, Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground, A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength, He loosed his hold, and his English heart Took part with the dead before him; L. E. LANDON. And he honored the brave who died sword in hand, "A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it: Before I would take that sword from thine hand, My own life's blood should dye it. Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Who in life had trembled before thee." Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, And he laid him there in honor and rest, IMAGE OF WAR. LORD BYRON. HARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands, Flashing afar-and at his iron feet Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. From "Childe Harold." |