66 'H TAN, 'H 'EII TAN. DEAN TRENCH. 'THIS, or on this!"-" Bring home with thee this shield, Or be thou, dead, upon this shield brought home!" So spake the Spartan mother to the son Whom her own hands had armed. O strong of heart! Yet know I of a fairer strength than this Strength linked with weakness, steeped in tears and fears, But true as hers to duty's perfect law. And such is theirs who in our England now, For those dread posts, too slow, too swift, that haste C. F. HOFFMAN. MONTEREY. WE were not many--we who stood Before the iron sleet that day— Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if he but could Have been with us at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey. And on-still on our column kept Through walls of flame its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Few and stern were our words, The trumpet blast has sounded The green flag is unfolded, While rose the cry of joy"Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner To-day at Fontenoy." We looked upon that banner, And the memory arose Of our homes and perished kindred, Where the Lee or Shannon flows; We looked upon that banner, Loud swells the charging trumpet— Plunge deep the fiery rowels. In a thousand reeking flanks Down, chivalry of Ireland, Down on the British ranks Now shall their serried columns Beneath our sabres reel Through their ranks, then, with the war-horseThrough their bosoms with the steel. O, thrice blessed the hour that witnessed The Briton turn to flee From the chivalry of Erin, And France's "fleur de lis." As we lay beside our camp-fires, THE GRASP OF THE DEAD. 'Twas in the battle-field, and the cold pale moon With his father's sword in his red right hand, Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground, A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength, He loosed his hold, and his English heart Took part with the dead before him ; L. E. LANDON. And he honored the brave who died sword in hand, As with softened brow he leant o'er him. "A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it: Before I would take that sword from thine hand, My own life's blood should dye it. Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth, IMAGE OF WAR. LORD BYRON. HARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands, Flashing afar-and at his iron feet Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. From "Childe Harold." |