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She tore the kerchief from her breast
And laid her bosom bare:
He saw, delighted, left the clif
And sought the banquet there.

15. THE ORPHAN.—Anonymous.

I have no mother!-for she died
When I was very young,

But her memory still, around my heart,
Like morning mists has hung.

They tell me of an angel form
That watched me while I slept,
And of a soft and gentle hand
That wiped the tears I wept.

And that same hand that held my own
When I began to walk,

And the joy that sparkled in her eyes
When first I tried to talk ;-

For they say the mother's heart is plassed
When infant charms expand-

I wonder if she thinks of me

In that bright happy land:

For I know she is in heaven now--
That holy place of rest-
For she was always good to me
And the good alone are blest.

I remember, too, when I was ill,
She kissed my burning brow;
And the tear that fell upon my cheek
I think I feel it now.

And I have still some little books

She learned me how to spell;

And the chiding, or the kiss she gave
I still remember well.

And then she used to kneel with me,
And teach me how to pray,

And raise my little hands to heaven,
And tell me what to say.

Oh, mother! mother! in my heart
Thy image still shall be,

And I will hope in heaven at last
That I may meet with thee.

16. MOTHER, WHAT IS DEATH ?—Anonymous.

"Mother, how still the baby lies!
I cannot hear his breath;
I cannot see his laughing eyes-
They tell me this is death.

My little work I thought to bring,
And sat down by his bed,
And pleasantly I tried to sing-
They hushed me he is dead.

They say that he again will rise,
More beautiful than now,-
That God will bless him in the skies-
Oh, mother, tell me how!"

"Daughter, do you remember, dear,
The cold, dark thing you brought,
And laid upon the casement here,-
A withered worm, you thought?

I told you that Almighty power
Could break that withered shell,
And show you, in a future hour,
Something would please you well.

Look at the chrysalis, my love,-
An empty shell it lies:-

Now raise your wandering glance above,
To where yon insect flies ""

"Oh, yes, mamma! how very gay

Its wings of starry gold

And see it lightly flies away
Beyond my gentle hold!

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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
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud though childlike form.

The flames rolled on-he would not go,
Without his father's word;

That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud :-" say, father, say
If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!
And"-but the booming shots replied-
And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath.
And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

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My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea.

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-
But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that
young faithful heart.

18.

THE BATTLE OF BUSACO.-Anonymous.

Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,
When far had rolled the sultry sun,
And night her pall of gloom had thrown
On nature's still convexity!

High on the heath our tents were spread,
The cold turf was our cheerless bed,
And o'er the hero's dew-chilled head

The banners flapped incessantly.

The loud war-trumpet woke the morn,
The quivering drum, the pealing horn,-
From rank to rank the cry is borne,

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Arouse, for death or victory!"

The orb of day, in crimson dye,
Began to mount the morning sky;
Then, what a scene for warrior's eye
Hung on the bold declivity!

The serried bayonets glittering stood,
Like icicles, on hills of blood;
An aerial stream, a silver wood,

Reeled in the flickering canopy.

Like waves of ocean rolling fast,
Or thunder-cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions, stern and vast,

Rushed to the dreadful revelry.

The pause is o'er; the fatal shock
A thousand thousand thunders woke :
The air grows sick; the mountains rock;
Red ruin rides triumphantly.

Light boiled the war-cloud to the sky,
In phantom towers and columns high,
But dark and dense their bases lie,

Prone on the battle's boundary.

The thistle waved her bonnet blue,
The harp her wildest war-notes threw,
The red rose gained a fresher hue,
Busaco, in thy heraldry.

Hail, gallant brothers! Wo befall
The foe that braves thy triple wall!
Thy sons, Oh wretched Portugal!

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,
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung

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

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