23.

Devotion breathed in every sigh;
Freedom heaved their souls on high,
And steeled each hero's breast

Charging then the coursers sprang,
Sword and helmet clashing rang,
Steel-clad warriors mixing clang
Echoed round the field.
Deathful see their eyeballs glare!
See the nerves of battle bare!
Arrowy tempests cloud the air,

And glance from every shield.

Hark, the bowmen's quivering strings!
Death on grey-goose pinions springs!
Deep they dip their dappled wings,
Drunk in heroes' gore.

Lo! Edward, springing on the rear,
Plies his Caledonian spear:
Ruin marks his dread career,

And sweeps them from the shore.

See how red the streamlets flow!
See the reeling, yielding foe,
How they melt at every blow!
Yet we shall be free!

Darker yet the strife appears;
Forest dread of flaming spears!
Hark! a shout the welkin tears!
Bruce has victory!

HENRY V, AT THE SIEGE OF HARFLEUR.-Shakspeare

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead.

In

peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility;

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:

Stiffen the sinews,-summon up the blood,-
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head,

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it,
As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To its full height !--On, on, you noble English,
Whose blood is set from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers, that like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought,
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument :
Be copy now for men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war; and you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs are made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture: let us swear

That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not:
For there is none of you so mean and base
That hath not noble lustre in your eye:

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's a-foot;
Follow your spirit; and upon this charge,
Cry, heaven for Harry, England, and St. George!

24.

HENRY V, ENCOURAGING HIS SOLDIERS.- -Shakspeare

What's he that wishes for more men from England? My cousin Westmoreland! No, my fair cousin, If we are marked to die, we are enow

To do our country loss: and if to live,

The fewer men the greater share of honor;

Heaven's will! I pray thee wish not one man more.
In truth, I am not covetous of gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honor,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, good my lord, wish not a man from England: Heaven's peace, I would not lose so great an honor As one man more methinks would share from me, For the best hopes I have. Wish not one more : Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he who hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart, his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian;
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand on tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian :

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispian, Crispian, ne'er go by

From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered!

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers!

25.

NEW-ENGLAND'S DEAD.-)
-McLellan.

"The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every state, from New-England to Georgia; and there they will remain for ever."-Webster.

New-England's dead! New-England's dead!
On every hill they lie;

On every field of strife, made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle poured
Its red and awful tide,

Beheld the brave New-England sword

With slaughter deeply died.
Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,

By brook and river, lake, and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;
For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.

Then glory to that valiant band,

The honored saviors of the land!

They left the ploughshare in the mold,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garnered, on the plain,

And mustered in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress;

To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

Oh, few and weak their numbers were

A handful of brave men;

But to their God they gave their

And rushed to battle then.

prayer,

The God of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory

26. AMBITION.-Neal.

I loved to hear the war-horn cry,
And panted at the drum's deep roll;
And held my breath, when flaming high,
I saw our starry banners fly,

As challenging the haughty sky,

They went like battle o'er my soul:

For I was so ambitious then,

I burned to be the slave of men.

I stood and saw the morning light,
A standard swaying far and free:
And loved it, like the conquering flight
Of angels, floating wide and bright,
Above the stars, above the fight,
Where nations warred for liberty;
And thought I heard the battle-cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky.

I sailed upon the dark blue deep,

And shouted to the eaglet soaring;
And hung me from a rocky steep,
When all but spirits were asleep;
And oh! my very soul would leap

To hear the gallant water's roaring:
For every sound and shape of strife,
To me, was but the breath of life.

But, I am strangely altered now-
I love no more the bugle's voice—

The rushing wave-the plunging prow-
The mountain with its clouded brow,
The thunder when the blue skies bow,
And all the sons of God rejoice-
I love to dream of tears, and sighs,
And shadowy hair, and half-shut eyes.

Upon the ocean's swelling tide,
Where mountain billows rave,
Behold the sailor's eye of pride
Glance o'er the angry wave:
High on the slippery bending mast
He reefs the snow-white sail,
And fears no angry threatening blast,
The lightning or the gale.

The sailor is a wanderer free,
And like the breeze will fly,
Far o'er the wide and trackless sea
With billows mounting high.
A lion-heart that feels no pain—
A soul that knows no care;
He gaily sings and toils for gain,
That others too may share.

He firmly braves the swelling sea,
To earn a scanty sum;
His soul is friendly, just and free,
As generous as the sun :-
Diffusing warmth to those in need,
From out his hard-earned store;
And when his purse is low indeed,
He gladly toils for more.

His hand is hard-his heart is soft,
And freely he bestows,

The mite received from Him above,
To cheer both friends and foes.
His life is toil-his morsels tough-
His hopes are dull and dim;
But though to us the outside's rough,
A diamond dwells within.