slippery lichens grew,
And swamps of slime and melted snow,
And torrents filled to overflow,
Through pathless wilds, in showers and wind,
Where woe to him who lags behind!
Where children slipped in ooze, and lay
Half frozen, buried half in clay;
Young mothers, with their babes at breast,
In chilly stupor dropped to rest.
A sailor lad of years fourteen
Had chanced, as by the waters thrown,
On four that made sad cry and moan
For parents they had lost between
The wreck and shore, or haply missed.
Cheerly and kind their cheeks he kissed,
And folded each in other’s arm.
Upon a sloping mound of moss
He dragged a heavy sail across,
Close-pinned with bowlders, rough yet warm;
And packing it with mosses tight,
Kept steadfast watch the livelong night,
Nor dared depart, lest e’er again
Was found this treasure he had hid,
Some sudden treacherous gust had slid
Beneath that rugged counterpane.
He knew not name or face of one.
He saved them. It was nobly done.
Day dawned at last. The storm had lulled;
And these were happy, sleeping yet.
A few fresh hands of moss he pulled,
Then traced with trembling steps the track
Of many footprints deeply set;
And pressing forward, early met
These children’s parents hasting back,
And filled their hearts with boundless joy,
As with blanched lips and chattering teeth
He told them of his night’s employ;
Feigned, too, he was not much distressed,
Although his dying heart, beneath
His icy-frozen shirt and vest,
Beat faint. They went; and o’er his eyes
A gathering film beclouded light;
And music murmured in his brain,
Such respite sang from toil and strain
That all his senses, wearied quite,
Were lapped to slumber, lulling pain;
Whilst soothing visions seemed to rise,
That brought him scenes of other times,
With cherub faces, beaming bright,
Of many children, and the rhymes
His mother taught him on her knee,
In happy days of infancy.
Then gentlest forms, with rustling wings,
Were wafting him a world of ease
Beneath those downy canopies,
Wherewith they shut out angry skies;
And they with winning beckonings —
Who looked so sweet and saintly wise —
His buoyant spirit drew afar
From creaking timbers, shivering sails,
And ships that strain in autumn gales,
And snow-mixed rains, and sleeting hails,
And wind and waves at endless war.
Oh! who will e’er forget the day,
The bitter tears, the voiceless prayer,
The thoughts of grief we could not say,
The shallow graves within the bay,
The fifteen dear ones buried there,
The grown, the young, who, side by side,
Without or coffin, shroud, or priest,
Were laid; and him we mourned not least, —
The boy that had so bravely died!
The Beggar Maid
HER arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say;
Barefooted came the beggar maid
Before the king Cophetua.
In robe and crown the king stept down
To meet and greet her on her way.
“It is no wonder,” said the lords,
“She is more beautiful than day.”
As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen;
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace,
In all that land had never been;
Cophetua sware a royal oath, —
“This beggar maid shall be my queen.”
Bunker Hill
NOT yet, not yet! Steady, steady!”
On came the foe in even line,
Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine.
We looked into their eyes. “Ready!”
A sheet of flame, a roll of death!
They fell by scores: we held our breath.
Then nearer still they came.
Another sheet of flame,
And brave men fled who never fled before.
Immortal fight!
Foreshadowing flight
Back to the astounded shore.
Quickly they rallied, re-enforced,
’Mid louder roar of ships’ artillery,
And bursting bombs and whistling musketry,
And shouts and groans anear, afar,
All the new din of dreadful war.
Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed
The blood of those stout farmers, aiming
For freedom, manhood’s birthright claiming.
Onward once more they came.
Another sheet of deathful flame!
Another and another still!
They broke, they fled,
Again they sped
Down the green, bloody hill.
Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,
Stormed with commanders’ rage.
Into each emptied barge
They crowd fresh men for a new charge
Up that great hill.
Again their gallant blood we spill.
That volley was the last:
Our powder failed.
On three sides fast
The foe pressed in, nor quailed
A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks
They