Imagens das páginas

Blessings on the blessing children, sweetest gifts of

Heaven to earth, Filling all the heart with gladness, filling all the

house with mirth; Bringing with them native sweetness, pictures of the

primal bloom, Which the bliss for ever gladdens, of the region

whence they come: Bringing with them joyous impulse of a state with

outen care, And a buoyant faith in being, which makes all in nature fair; Not a doubt to dim the distance, not a grief to vex thee, nigh, And a hope that in existence finds each hour a luxury;Going singing, bounding, brightening—never fearing as they go, That the innocent shall tremble, and the loving find afoe;In the daylight, in the starlight, still with thought

that freely flies, Prompt and joyous, with no question of the beauty

in the skies;Genial fancies winning raptures, as the bee still sucks her store, All the present still a garden gleaned a thousand times before;All the future, but a region, where the happy serving thought, Still depicts a thousand blessings, by the winged

hunter caught; Life a chase where blushing pleasures only seem to

strive in flight, Lingering to be caught, and yielding gladly to the

proud delight; As the maiden, through the alleys, looking backward

as she flies, Woos the fond pursuer onward, with the love-light in her eyes.

Oh! the happy life in children, still restoring joy to ours, Making for the forest music, planting for the wayside flowers; Back recalling all the sweetness, in a pleasure pure as rare, Back the past of hope and rapture bringing to the

heart of care. How, as swell the happy voices, bursting through

the shady grove, Memories take the place of sorrows, time restores

the sway to love! We are in the shouting comrades, shaking off the

load of years, Thought forgetting strifes and trials, doubts and

agonies anil tear3; We are in the bounding urchin, as o'er hill and plain

he darts, Share the struggle and the triumph, gladdening in

his heart of hearts; What an image of the vigor and the glorious graeo

we knew,

When to eager youth from boyhood, at a single

bound we grew 1 Even such our slender beauty, such upon our cheek

the glow, In our eyes the life and gladness—of our blood the overflow. Bless the mother of the urchin! in his form wo see her truth:He is now the very picture of the memories in our youth;

Never can we doubt the forehead, nor the sunny flowing hair, Nor the smiling in the dimple speaking chin and

cheek so fair: Bless the mother of the young one, he hath blended

in his grace, All the hope and joy and beauty, kindling once in either face.

Oh 1 the happy faith of children! that is glad in all it sees, And with never need of thinking, pierces still its mysteries, In simplicity profoundest, in their soul abundance blest, Wise in value of the sportive, and in restlessness at rest,

Lacking every creed, yet having faith so large in all they see, That to know is still to gladden, and 'tis rapture but to be. What trim fancies bring them flowers; what rare spirits walk their wood.

What a wondrous world the moonlight harbors of the gay and good I

Unto them the very tempest walks in glories grateful still, And the lightning gleams, a seraph, to persuade

them to the hill: Tis a sweet and loving spirit, that throughout the

midnight rains, Broods beside the shuttered windows, and with

gentle Jove complains; And how wooing, how exalting, with the richness

of her dyes, Spans the painter of the rainbow, her bright arch

along the skies, With a dream like Jacob's ladder, showing to the

fancy's sight, How 'twere easy for the sad one to escape to worlds of light! Ah! the wisdom of such fancies, and the truth in

every dream, That to faith confiding offers, cheering every gloom,

a glenm!

Happy hearts, still cherish fondly each delusion of your youth, Joy is born of well believing, and the fiction wraps the truth.


[The heroine, Bess Matthews, In the wood waits the coming of her lover.]

"He is not come," she murmured, half disappointed, as the old grove of oaks with all its religious solemnity of shadow lay before her. She took her

j seat at the foot of a tree, the growth of a century, whose thick and knotted roots, started from their sheltering earth, shot even above the long grass around them, and ran in irregular sweeps for a considerable distance upon the surface. Here she sat not long, for her mind grew impatient and confused with the various thoughts crowding upon it—sweet

j thoughts it may be, for she thought of him whom she loved,—of him almost only; and of the long hours of happy enjoyment which the future had in store. Then came the fears, following fast upon tho hopes, as the shadows follow the sunlight. Tho doubts of existence—the brevity and the fluctuations of life; these are the contemplations even of happy love, and these beset and saddened her; till, starting up in that dreamy confusion which the scene not less than the subject of her musings had inspired, she glided among the old trees scarce conscious of her movement.

"He docs not come—he does not come," she murmured, as she stood contemplating the thick copse spreading before her, nnd forming the barrier which terminated the beautiful range of oaks which constituted the grove. How beautiful was the green and garniture of that little copse of wood. The leaves were thick, and the grass around lay folded over and over in bunches, with here and there a wild flower, gleaming from its green, and making of it a beautiful carpet of the richest and most various texture. A small tree rose from the centre of a clump around which a wild grape gadded luxuriantly; and, with an incoherent sense of what she saw, she lingered before the little cluster, seeming to survey that which, though it seemed to fix her eye, yet failed to fill her thought Her mind wandered —her soul was far away; and the objects in her vision were far other than those which occupied her imagination. Things grew indistinct beneath her eye. The eye rather slept than saw. The musing spirit had given holiday to the ordinary senses, and took no heed of the forms that rose, and floated, or glided away, before them. In this way, the leaf detached made no impression upon the sight that was yet bent upon it; she saw not the bird, though it whirled, untroubled by a fear, in wanton circles around her head—and the black snake, with the rapidity of an arrow, darted over her path without arousing a single terror in the form that otherwise would have shivered at its mere appearance. And yet, though thus indistinct were all things around her to the musing eye of the maiden, her eye was yet singularly fixed—fastened as it were, to a single spot—gathered and controlled by a single object, ind glazed, apparently, beneath a curious fascination. Before the maiden rose a little clump of bushes,—bright tangled leaves flaunting wide in glossiest green, with vines trailing over them, thickly decked with blue and crimson flowers. Her eye communed vacantly with these; fastened by a starlike shining glance—a subtle ray, that shot out from the circle of green leaves—seeming to be their very eye—and sending out a lurid lustre that seemed to stream across the space between, and find its way into her own eyes. Very piercing and beautiful was that subtle brightness, of the sweetest, strangest power. And now the leaves quivered and seemed to float away, only to return, and the vines waved and swung around in fantastic mazes, unfolding ever-changing varieties of form and color to her gaze; but the star-like eye was ever steadfast, bright and gorgeous gleaming in their midst, and still fastened, with strange fondness, upon her own. How beautiful, with wondrous intensity, did it gleam, and dilate, growing larger and more lustrous with every ray which it sent forth. And her own glance became intense, fixed also; but with a dreaming sense that conjured up the wildest fancies, terribly beautiful, that took her soul away from her, and wrapt it about as with a spell. She would have fled, she would have flown; but she had not power to move. The will was wanting to her flight. She felt that she could have bent forward to pluck the gem-like thing from the bosom of the leaf in which it seemed to grow, and which it irradiated with its bright white gleam; but ever as she aimed to stretch forth her hand, and bend forward, she heard a rush of wings, and a shrill scream from the tree above her—such a scream as the mock-bird makes, when, angrily, it raises its dusky crest, and flaps its wings furiously against its slender sides. Such a scream seemed like a warning, and though yet unawakened to full consciousness, it startled her and forbade her effort More than once in her survey of this strange object, had she heard that shrill note, and still had

it carried to her ear the same note of warning, and to her mind the same vague consciousness of an evil presence. But the star-like eye was yet upon her own—a small, bright eye, quick like that of a bird, now steady in its place, and observant seemingly only of hers, now darting forward with all the clustering leaves about it, and shooting up towards her, as if wooing her to seize. At another moment, riveted to the vine which lay around it, it would whirl round and round, dazzlingly bright and beautiful, even as a torch, waving hurriedly by night in the hands of some playful boy;—but, in all this time, the glance was never taken from her own— there it grew, fixed—a very principle of light—and such a light—a subtle, burnii g, piercing, fascinating gleam, such as gathers in vapor above the old grave, and binds us as we look—shooting, darting directly into her eye, dazzling her gaze, defeating its sense of discrimination, and confusing strangely that of perception. She felt dizzy, for, as she looked, a cloud of colors, bright, gay, various colors, floated and hung like so much drapery around the single object that had so secured her attention and spell-bound her feet Her limbs felt momently more and more insecure—her blood grew cold, und she seemed to feel the gradual freeze of vein by vein, throughout her person. At that moment a rustling was heard in the branches of the tree beside her, and the bird, which had repeatedly uttered a single cry above her, as it were of warning, flew awny from his station with a scream more piercing than ever. This movement had the effect, for which it really seemed intended, of bringing back to her a portion of the consciousness she seemed so totally to have been deprived of before. She strove to move from before the beautiful but terrible presence, but for a while she strove in vain. The rich, star-like glance still riveted her own, and the subtle fascination kept her bound. The mental energies, however, with the moment of their greatest trial, now gathered suddcnly to her aid; and, with a desperate effort, but with a feeling still of most annoying uncertainty and dread, she succeeded partially in the attempt, and threw her arms backwards, her hands grasping the neighboring tree, feeble, tottering, and depending upon it for that support which her own limbs almost entirely denied her. With her movement, however, came the full development of the powerful spell and dreadful mystery before her. As her feet receded, though but a sii gle pace, to the tree against which she now rested, the audibly articulated ring, like that of a watch when wound up with the verge broken, announced the nature of that splendid yet dangerous presence, in the form of the monstrous rattlesnake, now but a few feet before her, lying coiled at the bottom of a beautiful shrnb, with which, to her dreaming eye, many of its own glorious hues had become associated. She was, at length, conscious enough to perceive and to feel all her danger ; but terror had denied her the strength necessary to fly from her dreadful enemy. There still the eye glared beautifully bright and piercing upon her own; and, seemingly in a spirit of sport, the insidious reptile slowly unwound himself from his coil, but only to gather himself up again into his muscular rings, his great flat head rising in the midst, and slowly nodding, as it were, towards her, the eye still peering deeply into her own ;—the rattle still slightly ringing at intervals, nnd givi: g forth that paralysing sound, which, once heard, is remembered for ever. The reptile all this while appeared to be conscious of, and to sport with, while seeking to excite her terrors. Now, with his flat head, distended mouth, and curving neck, would it dart forward its long form towards her,—its fatal teeth, unfolding on cither side of it? upper jaws, seeming to threaten her with instantaneous death, whilst its powerful eye shot forth glances of that fatal power of fascination, malignantly bright, which, by paralysing, with a novel form of terror and of beauty, may readily account for the spell it possesses of binding the feet of the timid, and denying to fear even the privilege of flight. Could she have fled I She felt the necessity; but the power of her limbs was gone! and there still it lay, coiling and uncoiling, its arching neck glittering like a ring of brazed copper, bright and lurid; and the dreadful beauty of its eye still fastened, eagerly contemplating the victim, while the pendulous rattle still rang the death note, as if to prepare the conscious mind for the fate which is momently approaching to the blow. Meanwhile the stillness became death-like with all surrounding objects. The bird had gone with its scream and rush. The breeze was silent. The vines ceased to wave. The leaves faintly quivered on their stems. The serpent once more lay still; but the eye was never once turned away from the victim. Its corded muscles are all in coil. They have but to unclasp suddenly, and the dreadful folds will be upon her, its full length, and the fatal teeth will strike, and the deadly venom which they secrete will mingle with the life-blood in her veins.

The terrified damsel, her full consciousness restored, but not her strength, feels all the danger. She sees that the sport of the terrible reptile is at an end. She cannot now mistake the horrid expression of its eye. She strives to scream, but the voice dies away, a feeble gurgling in her throat. Her tongue is paralysed; her lips are sealed—once more she strives for flight, but her limbs refuse their office. She has nothing left of life but its fearful consciousness. It is in her despair, that, a last effort, she succeeds to scream, a single wild cry, forced from her by the accumulated agony; she sinks down upon the grass before her enemy—her eyes, however, still open, and still looking upon those which he directs for ever upon them. She sees him approach—now advancing, now receding—now swelling in every part with something of anger, while his neck is arched beautifully like that of a wild horse under the cuib; until, at length, tired as it were of play, like the cat with its victim, she sees the neck growing larger and becoming completely bronzed as about to strike—the huge jaws unclosing almost directly above her, the long tubulated fang charged with venom, protruding from the cavernous mouth—and she sees no more. Insensibility came to her aid, and she lay almost lifeless under the very folds of the monster.

In that moment the copse parted—and an arrow, piercing the monster through and through the neck, bore his head forward to the ground, alongside the maiden, while his spiral extremities, now unfolding in his own agony, were actually, in part, writhing upon her person. The arrow came from the fugitive Occonestogn, who had fortunately reached the spot in season, on his way to the Block House. He rushed from the copse as the snake fell, and, with a stick, fearlessly approached him where he lay tossing in agony upon the grass. Seeing him advance the courageous reptile made an effort to regain his coil, shaking the fearful rattle violently at every evolution which he took for that purpose; but the arrow, completely passing through his neck, opposed an unyielding obstacle to the endeavor; and finding it hopeless, and seeing the new enemy about to assault him, with something of the spirit of the white man under like circumstances, he turned desperately round, and striking his charged fangs, so that they were riveted in the wound they made, into a sus

VOi.. II.—28

I ceptible part of his own body, he throw himself over with a single convulsion, and, a moment after, lay dead beside the utterly unconscious maiden.


James H. Hammoxd, Ex-Governor of the State of South Carolina, and a political writer of distinction, was born at Newberry district in that state, November 15, 1807. His father was a native of Massachusetts, a graduate of Dartmouth in 1802, who the next year emigrated to South Carolina and became Professor of Languages in the State College at Columbia. The son received his education at that institution, was admitted to the bar in 1828, and in 1830 became editor at Columbia of a very decided political paper of the nullification era and principles, called the Southern Times.

In 1831, on his marriage with Miss Fitzsimons, he retired from his profession, and settled at his plantation, Silver Bluff, on the eastern bank of the Savannah river, a site famous in the early history, being the point where De Soto found the Indian princess of Cofachiqni, where George Galphin subsequently established his trading post with the Indians, forming one of the frontier posts of the infant colony, distinguished in the Revolution by its leaguer, under Pickens and Leo. He did not, however, withdraw from politics; and as a member of the military family of Governor Hamilton and Governor Wayne, contributed his full quota to the nullification excitement, and recruiting for the nullification army of 1833. He was elected member of Congress, in which body he took his seat in 1835. His health, never vigorous, failed him so entirely in the following spring that he resigned his seat in Congress and travelled a year and a half in Europe, with no benefit to his constitution. For several years after he took no part in politics, though often invited to return to Congress, and generously tendered his seat there by his successor, Col. Elmore.

ne was in 1841 elected General of his brigade of state militia, and in 1842 Governor of the state. In this capacity he paid particular attention to the state military organization, and under his auspices the several colleges were established on tho West Point system. During his governorship he wrote a letter to the Free Church of Glasgow on Slavery, and two letters in reply to an anti-slavery circular of the English Clarkson, which have been since gathered and published in a Pro-Slavery volume, issued in Charleston. From the expiration of his term of service he has resided in retirement on his plantation.

His printed writings, besides a speech in Congress on Slavery, his Governor's Messages, and the letters we have mentioned, are a pamphlet on the Railroad System and the Bank of the State; a review of Mr. Elwood Fisher's "North and South" in the Southern Quarterly; an oration on the Mamifaf luring System of the State, delivered j before the South Carolina Institute in 1849; an elaborate discourse on the Life, Character, and Services of Calhoun, at the request of the city council, in 1850; and an Oration before the Literary Societies of South Carolina College. TJiese I compositions severally display the statesman and the scholar of habits of intellectual energy. A passage from the conclusion of the college address exhibits their prevailing manner:—


Thus if we should pass in review all the pursuits of mankind, and all tlie ends they aim at under the instigation of their appetites and passions, or at the dictation of shallow utilitarian philosophy, we shall find that they pursue shadows and worship idols, or that whatever there is that is good and great and catholic in their deeds and purposes, depends for its accomplishment upon the intellect, and is accomplished just in proportion as that intellect is stored with knowledge. And whether we examine the present or the past, we shall find that knowledge alone is real power—" more powerful," says Bacon, "than the Will, commanding the reason, understanding, and belief," and "setting up a Throne in the spirits and souls of men." We shall find that the progress of knowledge is the only true and permanent progress of our race, and that however inventions, and discoveries, and events which change the face of human affairs, may appear to be the results of contemporary efforts or providential accidents, it is, in fact, the Men of Learning who lead with noiseless step the vanguard of civilization, that mark out the road over which—opened sooner or later—posterity marches; and from the abundance of their precious stores sow seed by the wayside, which spring up in due season, and produce an hundred fold; and cast bread upon the waters which is gathered after many days. The age which gives birth to the largest number of such men is always the most enlightened, and the age in which the highest reverence and most intelligent obedience is accorded to them, always advances most rapidly in the career of improvement.

And let not the ambitious aspirant to enrol himself with this illustrious band, to fill the throne which learning "setteth up in the spirits and souls of men,'' and wield its absolute power, be checked, however humble he may be, however unlikely to attain wealth or office, or secure homage as a practical man or man of action, by any fear that true knowledge can be stifled, overshadowed, or compelled to involuntary barrenness. Whenever or wherever men meet to deliberate or act, the trained intellect will always master. But for the most sensitive and modest, who seek retirement, there is another and a greater resource. The public press, accessible to all, will enable him, from the depths of solitude, to speak trumpet-tongued to the four corners of the earth. No matter how he may be situated—if he has facts that will bear scrutiny, if he has thoughts that burn, if he is sure he has a call to tench—the press is a tripod from which he may give utterance to his oracles; and if there be truth in them, the world and future ages will accept it. It is not Commerce that is King, nor Manufactures, nor Cotton, nor any single Art or Science, any more than those who wear the baubles-crowns. Knowledge is Sovereign, and the Press is the royal seat on which she sits, a sceptred Monarch. From this she rules public opinion, and finally gives laws alike to prince and people,—laws framed by men of letters; by the wandering bard; by the philosopher in his grove or portico, his tower or laboratory; by the pale student in his closet. We contemplate with awe the mighty movements of the last eighty years, and we held our breath while we gazed upon the heaving human mass so lately struggling like huge Leviathan, over the broad face of Europe. What has thus stirred the world? The press. The press, which has scattered far and wide the sparks of genius, kindling as they fly. Books, journals, pamphlets, these are

the paixhan balls—moulded often by the obscure and humble, but loaded with fiery thoughts—which have burst in the sides of every structure, political, social, and religious, and shattered too often, alike the rotten and the sound. For in knowledge as in everything else, the two great principles of Good and Evil maintain their eternal warfare, " O aym mm rum ayuvu"—a war amid and above all other wars. But in the strife of knowledge, unlike other contests—victory never fails to abide with truth. And the wise and virtuous who find and use this mighty weapon, are sure of their reward. It may not come soon. Years, ages, centuries may pass away, and the grave-stone may have crumbled above the head that should have worn the wreath. But to the eye of faith, the vision of the imperishable and inevitable halo that shall enshrine the memory is for ever present, cheering and sweetening toil, and compensating for privation. And it often happens that the great and heroic mind, unnoticed by the world, buried apparently in profoundest darkness, sustained by faith, works out the grandest problems of human progress: working under broad rays of brightest light; light furnished by that inward and immortal lamp, which, when its mission upon earth has closed, is trimmed anew by angels' hands, and placed among the stars of heaven.

M. 0. M. Hammond, a younger brother of the preceding, was born in the Newberry district, December 12, 1814. He was educated at Augusta by a son of the Rev. Dr. Waddel, now a professor at Franklin College, Georgia. In 1832 he received a cadet's appointment at West Point, where in 1835 he delivered an oration to the corps, by the unanimous election of his class, on the Influence of Government on the Mind. He was a graduate of 1836. He served two years in the Seminole war, and also in the Cherokee difficulties in 1838; was then for three years stationed at Fort Gibson, Arkansas, returned again to Florida, and in 1842 resigned in ill health. He then married, and became a successful planter, while he occasionally wrote on topics of agriculture, ne was then occupied, under Polk's administration, as paymaster in Louisiana and Texas, where he suffered a severe sun-stroke. Ill health again led to his resignation from the army in 1847. He had previously delivered a discourse before the Agricultural Society, which he had been mainly instrumental in forming, in Burke county, Georgia. In 1849 he began the publication of an elaborate series of military articles in the Southern Quarterly, on Fremont's Command and the Conquest of California; the Commercial and Political Position of California; the Mineral Resources of California; the Battles of the Rio Grande; of Buena Vista; Vera Cruz; Cerro Gordo; Contreras; Chertibusco; Molino del Rey; Chapultepec; the Secondary Combats of the War; an article on Amazonia; in all some six hundred pages, marked by their knowledge of military affairs, and ingenious, candid discrimination.

In 1852 he visited West Point as a member of the Board of Visitors, and was elected their president. He delivered an eloquent oration before the corps of cadets at their request, which was published. He is a resident of South Carolina, and, it is understood, is engaged in a translation of the great military authority Jomini on the art of war, and an original essay on the same subject in reference to the necessities of this country.



Tms accomplished writer, to whom the engagements of literature were a relaxation from other duties, was born at Savannah, Ga., Jan. 19, 1807. His father was Judge Thomas U. P. Charlton, whose position and social virtues were renewed by the son. He was early admitted to the bar; on his arrival at age was in the state legislature; became United States District Attorney; and at twenty-seven was appointed Judge of the Supreme Court of the Eastern District of Georgia. In 1852 he was in the United States Senate. He was known for his polished oratory and his genial powers in society. His literary productions were in prose and verse: essays, sketches, lectures, and literary addresses. Many of these, including a series of sketches entitled Leaves from the Portfolio of a Georgia Lawyer, appeared in the Knickerbocker Magazine. They are all indicative of his cultivated talents and amiable temperament.


In 1839 Mr. Charlton published a volume of poems, in which he included the poetical remains marked by a delicate sentiment, of his brother, Dr. Thomas J. Charlton, a young physician, who died in September, 1835, a victim to his professional zeal. This volume appeared in a second edition at Boston in 1842, with alterations and additions. It includes, besides the poems of the brothers, two prose compositions by R. M. Charlton, a eulogy on Doctor John Cumming, an esteemed citizen of Savannah, who was lost in the steamer Pulaski, and an historical lecture on Serjeant Jasper, the hero of Fort Moultrie and Savannah, delivered before the Georgia Historical Society in 1841.

The poems of Mr. R. M. Charlton are written in a facile style, expressive of a genial and pathetic susceptibility, rising frequently to eloquence.

He died at Savannah Jan. 8, 1854.


O wave, that glidest swiftly

On thy bright and happy way,
From the morning until evening,

And from twilight until day,
Why leapest thou so joyously,

Whilst coldly on thy shore,
Sleeps the noble and the gallant heart,

For aye and evermore?

Or dost thou weep, O river.

And is this bounding ware.
But the tear thy bosom sheddeth

As a tribute o'er his grave?
And when, in midnight's darkness,

The winds above thee moan,
Are they mourning for our sorrows,

Do they sigh for him that's gone I

Keep back thy tears, then, river,

Or, if they must be shed,
Let them flow but for the living:

They are needless for the dead.

CHARLTON. 435His soul shall dwell in glory,
Where bounds a brighter wave,

But our pleasures, with his troubles,
Are buried in the grave.


They are passing away, they are passing away— The joy from our hearts, and the light from our day, The hope that beguiled us when sorrow was near, The loved one that dashed from our eye-lids the tear, The friendships that held o'er our bosoms their sway; They are passing away, they are passing away.

They are passing away, they are passing away—
The cares and the strifes of life's turbulent day,
The waves of despair that rolled over our soul,
The passions that bowed not to reason's control,
The dark clouds that shrouded religion's kind ray;
They are passing away, they are passing away.

Let them go, let them pass, both the sunshine and shower, The joys that yet cheer us, the storms that yet lower: When their gloom and their light have all faded and past,

There's a home that around us its blessing shall cast, Where the heart-broken pilgrim no longer shall say,

"We are passing away, we are passing away."


T was amidst a scene of blood,

On a bright autumnal day,
When misfortune like a flood,

Swept our fairest hopes away;
T was on Savannah's plain,

On the spot we love so well,
Amid heaps of gallant slain,

That the daring Jasper fell 1

He had borne him in the fight,

Like a soldier in his prime,
Like a bold and stalwart knight,

Of the glorious olden time;
And unharmed by sabre-blow,

And untouched by leaden ball,
He had battled with the foe,

'Till he heard the trumpet's call.

But he turned him at the sound,

For he knew the strife was o'er,
That in vain on freedom's ground,

Had her children shed their gore;
So he slowly turned away,

With the remnant of the band,
Who, amid the bloody fray,

Had escaped the foeman's hand.

But his banner caught his eye,
As it trailed upon the dust,
And he saw his comrade die,
Ere he yielded up his trust,
"To the rescue!" loud he cried,
"To the rescue, gallant men I"
And he dashed into the tide
Of the battle-stream again.

And then fierce the contest rose,
O'er its field of broidered gold,

And the blood of friends and foes,
Stained alike its silken fold;

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