She tore the kerchief from her breast 15. THE ORPHAN.—Anonymous. I have no mother!-for she died But her memory still, around my heart, They tell me of an angel form And that same hand that held my own And the joy that sparkled in her eyes For they say the mother's heart is plassed I wonder if she thinks of me In that bright happy land: For I know she is in heaven now-- I remember, too, when I was ill, And I have still some little books She learned me how to spell; And the chiding, or the kiss she gave And then she used to kneel with me, And raise my little hands to heaven, Oh, mother! mother! in my heart And I will hope in heaven at last 16. MOTHER, WHAT IS DEATH ?—Anonymous. "Mother, how still the baby lies! My little work I thought to bring, They say that he again will rise, "Daughter, do you remember, dear, I told you that Almighty power Look at the chrysalis, my love,- Now raise your wandering glance above, "Oh, yes, mamma! how very gay Its wings of starry gold And see it lightly flies away Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder. The boy stood on the burning deck Yet beautiful and bright he stood, A creature of heroic blood, A proud though childlike form. The flames rolled on-he would not go, That father, faint in death below, He called aloud :-" say, father, say He knew not that the chieftain lay "Speak, father!" once again he cried, Upon his brow he felt their breath. And looked from that lone post of death, And shouted but once more aloud, 66 My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, There came a burst of thunder sound- With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 18. THE BATTLE OF BUSACO.-Anonymous. Beyond Busaco's mountains dun, High on the heath our tents were spread, The banners flapped incessantly. The loud war-trumpet woke the morn, Arouse, for death or victory!" The orb of day, in crimson dye, The serried bayonets glittering stood, Reeled in the flickering canopy. Like waves of ocean rolling fast, Rushed to the dreadful revelry. The pause is o'er; the fatal shock Light boiled the war-cloud to the sky, Prone on the battle's boundary. The thistle waved her bonnet blue, Hail, gallant brothers! Wo befall 19. Roused at their feats of chivalry. PULASKI'S BANNER.—Anonymous. The standard of count Pulaski, the noble Pole, who fell in the attack on Savannah, during the American revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moraviza nuns of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. When the dying flame of day, That round banner, which, with prayer, Had been consecrated there; And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while Sung low, in the deep mysterious aisle |