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“Speak, father!" once again he cried,
“ If I may yet be gone!" And—but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
And in his waving hair,
In still yet brave despair :
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 caught the flag on high,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound
The boy-oh! where was he ? Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea ! With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart !
HOU art no lingerer in monarch's hallA joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! A bearer of hope unto land and seaSunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee ?
Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles ; Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles; Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, And gladdened the sailor like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
arcades; And the quivering leaves that have caught thy
I looked on the peasant's lowly cot-
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Thou takest through the dim church-aisle thy
way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold.
And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
Sunbeam of Summer! oh, what is like thee?
dow autumn strews on every plain,
In rich profusion pours around
The infant corn, in vernal hours,
The valleys echo to the strains
The Home of England
HE stately homes of England !
How beautiful they stand,
O’er all the pleasant land !
Through shade and sunny gleam,
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England !
Around their hearths by night
Meet in the ruddy light!
Or childhood's tale is told,
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England !
How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.