STUART HOLLAND. "Amidst all the terrible incidents attendant upon the destruction of the Arctic, there is one which impresses us with a feeling of awe and admiration, and shows alí the world that the age of heroes is not altogether gone by. We refer to the young man, Stuart Holland, whose post of duty, throughout the trying scene, was the firing of a signal gun, at intervals, in the hope of attracting the attention of vessels in the distance to the scene of the disaster. He was in the very act of firing, as the vessel disappeared below the waters." EATH on the waters! hark! the cry Dof hundreds in their agony, Of Who, helpless, crowd the deck; There manhood sternly marks his tomb, What quiet grandeur in his air His right arm raised—his forehead bare, And mist-wreaths rolling dun! "Save, save thyself!" the captain cried- But thou art free-thy mother waits Grand as a young Greek god who smiles Beneath the bolted storm! In vain, in vain the loud gun roars Of shivering horror rends the sky – Then nought but mist and wave, Soul of the brave! when sounds the trump Oh, 't is not then, it is not there, 'Tis when with calm, untrembling breath, The hero, smiling, faces Death Upon the land or brine, And knowing not if e'er his name Shall murmur from the harp of fame, But looking from a troubled zone Brave Holland! such a wreath is thine, Stamped on the pyramid that Time Oh, dweller of the crag and cloud, Or through the Northland's wintry night: 'Tis sweet for one's own land to die! The soul of yore, the soul that gave From Vernon's mount and Ashland's grave, THE BATTLE OF IVRY. NOW glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, The King has come to marshal us, all in his armor drest; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein, D'Aumale hath cried for quarter-the Flemish Count is slain; Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van "Remember St. Bartholomew "" was passed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry, then: "No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, Ho! maidens of Vienna ! ho! matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return! Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls! Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright! And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. ITH fingers weary and worn, WITH With eyelids heavy and red, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, "Work-work-work Till the brain begins to swim; |