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But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field his fame fresh and gory ! We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
Wearied arm and broken sword
Wage in vain the desperate fight;
He is but a single knight.
Through the wilderness resounds,
Now they heap the fatal pyre,
And the torch of death they light:
Who will shield the captive knight?
Wheel and dance the savage crowd,
Cold the victim's nien, and proud,
Who will shield the fearless heart?
Who avert the murderous blade?
See there springs an Indian maid.
I am daughter of the king,
Dauntlessly aside she Alings
Lifted axe and thirsty knife;
And her bosom guards his life !
Still 'tis told by Indian fires,
How a daughter of their sires
“The dead hand clasped a letter."-Special Correspondence.
Here in this leafy place,
Quiet he lies,
Turned to the skies;
Carry his body hence,
Kings must have slaves;
Over men's graves:
What was the white you touched,
There, at his side?
Tight ere he died;-
Hardly the worst of us
Here could have smiled !-
Words of a child;
Look. She is sad to miss,
Morning and night,
Tries to be bright,
Slumbered the pain !
Slept with the slain !
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing;
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near; Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
With large and sinewy hands;
Are strong as iron bands.
His face is like the tan;
He earns whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears his daughter's voice,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise !
How in the grave she lies;
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, -rejoicing, --sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each evening sees it close;
Has earned a night's repose.
For the lesson thou hast taught !
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Each burning deed and thought!
THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING
See the Kitten on the wall,