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Rio Bravo, thou wilt name not that lone corse upon thy shore,
But in prayer sad Inez names him-names him praying evermore.
Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo! lady ne'er mourned such a knight,
Since the fondest hearts were broken by the Roncesvalles fight.

THE ORIGIN OF THE MARSEILLAISE.

SCOURGE of mankind! with all the dread array,
That wraps in wrath thy desolating way,
As the wild tempest wakes the slumbering sea,
Thou only teachest all that man can be.
Alike thy tocsin has the power to charm
The toil-knit sinews of the rustic's arm,
Or swell the pulses in the poet's veins,
And bid the nations tremble at his strains.

O. W. HOLMES.

The city slept beneath the moonbeam's glance,
Her white walls gleaming through the vines of France,
And all was hushed, save where the footsteps fell,
On some high tower, of midnight sentinel.
But one still watched; no self-encircled woes
Chased from his lids the angel of repose;

He watched, he wept, for thoughts of bitter years
Bowed his dark lashes, wet with burning tears;
His country's sufferings and her children's shame
Streamed o'er his memory like a forest's flame,
Each treasured insult, each remembered wrong,
Rolled through his heart and kindled into song;
His taper faded; and the morning gales

Swept through the world the war-song of Marseilles !

From "Poetry, A Metrical Essay."

"QUI VIVE!"

'QUI VIVE!" The sentry's musket rings,

The channelled bayonet gleams;

High o'er him, like a raven's wings
The broad tri-colored banner flings
Its shadow, rustling as it swings

Pale in the moonlight beams;

O. W. HOLMES.

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On Egypt's burning plains,

By the pyramid o'erswayed,

With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done!-There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread,

For those that from their toils are gone,-
There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,

And free, in green Columbia's woods
The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on!

Let the arrow's flight be sped!

Why should they reck whose task is done?There slumber England's dead!

The mountain-storms rise high

In the snowy Pyrenees,

And toss the pine boughs through the sky,

Like rose leaves on the breeze.

But let the storm rage on!

Let the fresh wreaths be shed!

For the Roncesvalles' field is won,--
There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deeps repose
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower.

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But ah! the dreadful seal is broke

In darkness walks abroad

The pestilence, whose silent stroke
Is like the doom of God!
And the hero by its fell decree

In death is sleeping now,
With the laurel wreath of victory
Still green upon his brow.

BALAKLAVA.

DEAN TRENCH.

MANY a deed of faithful daring may obtain no record here,
Wrought where none could see or note it, save the one Almighty Seer.

Many a deed awhile remembered, out of memory needs must fall,
Covered, as the years roll onward, by oblivion's creeping pall:

But there are which never, never to oblivion can give room,
Till in flame earth's records perish, till the thunder-peal of doom.
And of these through all the ages married to immortal fame,
One is linked, and linked for ever, Balaklava, with thy name-

With thine armies three that wondering stood at gaze and held their breath,

With thy fatal lists of honor, and thy tournament of death.

O our brothers that are sleeping, weary with your great day's strife, On that bleak Crimean headland, noble prodigals of life—

Eyes which ne'er beheld you living, these have dearly mourned you dead,

All your squandered wealth of valor, all the lavish blood ye

shed.

And in our eyes tears are springing, but we bid them back again;
None shall say, to see us weeping, that we hold your offering vain :

That for nothing, in our sentence, did that holocaust arise,
With a battle-field for altar, and with you for sacrifice.

Not for naught; to more than warriors armed as you for mortal fray,
Unto each that in life's battle waits his Captain's word ye say:-
"What by duty's voice is bidden, there where duty's star may guide,
Thither follow, that accomplish, whatsoever else betide."

This ye taught; and this your lesson solemnly in blood ye sealed:
Heroes, martyrs, are the harvest Balaklava's heights shall yield.

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