THE SONG OF THE CAMP

BAYARD TAYLOR

Bayard Taylor, traveler, descriptive writer, novelist, and poet, was born in Chester Co., Penn., in 1825. He made a pedestrian tour of Europe, and after his return published "Views

Afoot." He afterwards published several other volumes of travels. He wrote several novels, the most noted being "Hannah Thurston," and a large number of poems, the one that follows being most often seen in print.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:

"We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon,

TAYLOR

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory;
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang Annie Laurie.

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,
Their battle eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim

For a singer dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of Annie Laurie.

Sleep, soldiers! Still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing;

The bravest are the tenderest,

The loving are the daring.

MUSIC'S SILVER SOUND

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dump the mind oppress,

Then music with her silver sound,
With speedy help doth lend redress.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN

WALT WHITMAN

O CAPTAIN! My Captain! Our fearful trip is

done,

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought

is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! Heart! Heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells; Rise up for you the flag is flung - for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ;

Here, Captain! Dear father!
This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object.

won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

WHA

THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE

HENRY VAN DYKE

HAT time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,

And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light ; 'Tis then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to

tree,

And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.

This is the carol the Robin throws

Over the edge of the valley;

Listen how boldly it flows

Sally on sally:

Tirra-lirra,

Down the river,

Laughing water

All a-quiver.

Day is near,
Clear, clear.

Fish are breaking,

Time for waking,

Tup, tup, tup!

Do you hear?

All clear

Wake up!

The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with

the dark,

And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; Now forth she fares through friendly woods and diamond fields of dew,

While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world

were new.

This is the ballad the Bluebird sings,

Unto his mate replying,

Shaking the tune from his wings

While he is flying:

Surely, surely, surely,

Life is dear

Even here.

Blue above,

You to love,

Purely, purely, purely.

There's wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell, And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well;