That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And 'mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen,— fair Bingen on the Rhine. 3. "Tell my mother, that her other son shall comfort her old age; For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the Rhine. 4. "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with droop ing head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and stead fast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die : And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name, For the honor of old Bingen,-dear Bingen on the Rhine. 5. "There's another not a sister; in the happy days gone by; You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning,— O, friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her the last night of my life,- (for ere the moon be risen, My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison,)— I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,- fair Bingen on the Rhine. 6. "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along,— I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,— But we'll meet no more at Bingen,- loved Bingen on the Rhine." 7. His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,- his grasp was childish weak,— His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and ceased to speak : His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn ; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bingen on the LESSON 103. THE WIND IN A FROLIC. THE wind, one morning, sprang up from sleep, Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap! Now for a madcap galloping chase! I'll make a commotion in every place!" 2. So it swept with a bustle right through a great town, Shutters, and whisking, with merciless squalls, 3. Then away to the fields it went blustering and humming, They all turned their backs, and stood silently mute. 4. So on it went, capering and playing its pranks; 5. It was not too nice to bustle the bags Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags. 'T was so bold that it feared not to play its joke With the doctor's wig, and the gentleman's cloak. 6. Through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, "Now, And it made them bow without more ado, Or it cracked their great branches through and through. 7. Then it rushed, like a monster, o'er cottage and farm, And they ran out, like bees, in a midsummer swarm. caps, To see if their poultry were free from mishaps; The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud. Wm. Howitt. LESSON 104. THE SOLDIER'S REST. OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er, SOLDIE Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking, In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 2. No rude sound shall reach thine ear, |