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That old bell now is silent,

And hushed its iron tongue,
But the spirit it awakened
Still lives—forever

And while we greet the sunlight

On the Fourth of each July,
We'll ne'er forget the bellman,

Who, 'twixt the earth and sky,

Which, please God, shall never die!



Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
“ This is my own—my native land!'
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand ?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well !
For him no minstrel raptures swell.
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claiin, -
Despite those titles, power and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Livirg shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.



Written when it was reported that the famous frigate Constitution was to be broken up as unfit for service.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;
The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,

And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,

Or know the conquered knee, –
The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea.
Oh, better that her shattered hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms

The lightning, and the gale!



Adieu, adieu ! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue:
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native land-good-night.

A few short hours, and he will rise

To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,

My dog howls at the gate.


Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava.




During the Criniean War in 1854, when the combined English and Frunch forces were attacking the Russians, by a terrible mistake a brigade of over six hundred English cavalry charged the entire Russian line. Less than two hundred returned uninjured.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Charge for the guns !” he said:
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade !”
Was there a man dismayed ?
Not though the soldiers knew

Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered;

Plunged in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke

Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade!
Oh, the wild charge they made !

All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made !
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!



How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their Country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile pair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!



At Hohenlinden, near Munich, December, 1800, the French and Bavarians defeated the Austrians.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flashed the red artillery.

And redder yet those fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout mid their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave !

And charge with all thy chivalry !

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