When man to man united, I live for those who love me, For the hearts that love me true, For the right that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, And the good that I can do. THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.-M. H. COBB. IF men cared less for wealth and fame, If, writ in human hearts, a name Seemed better than in song and story; If, men instead of nursing pride, Would learn to hate it and abhor it; If more relied on Love to guide, If men dealt less in stocks and lands, And more in bonds and deeds fraternal; And on bruised human hearts would pour it; If more would act the play of life, BATTLE OF WATERLOO. If Custom, gray with ages grown, The world would be the better for it. If men were wise in little things— To isolate their kindly feelings; If men, when Wrong beats down the Right, If Right made Might in every fight, BATTLE OF WATERLOO.-BYRON. THERE was a sound of revelry by night, The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark!-a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! Did ye not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 183 And there were sudden partings, such as press Which ne'er might be repeated-who could guess And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, Roused up the soldier ere the morning star: While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips-"The foe! they come! they come!" And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,-alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent ! |