Ere the god of torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe's, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet

While she held the goblet sweet,

And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh
Of the Fancy's silken leash;

Quickly break her prison-string,

And such joys as these she'll bring:

Let the winged Fancy roam,

Pleasure never is at home.

ON DEATH

BY JOHN KEATS

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.

How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake

His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom, which is but to awake.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

BY FRANCIS SCOTT KEY

O say, can you see by the dawn's early light What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight

O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming!

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still

there;

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,

Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream;
"T is the star-spangled banner! O, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps'
pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

O, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heaven-rescued land

Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto, "In God is our trust";

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

RECESSIONAL /

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle line
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies -
The Captains and the Kings depart -
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away

On dune and headland sinks the fire-
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

AMEN.

O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

BY WILLIAM KNOX

The following poem was a particular favorite with Abraham Lincoln. It was first shown to him when a young man by a friend, and afterwards he cut it from a newspaper and learned it by heart. He said to a friend, "I would give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain." He did afterwards learn the name of the author.

O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
As the young and the old, the low and the high,
Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved,
The father that mother and infant who blest,
Each, all, are away to that dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by;
And alike from the minds of the living erased

Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised.

The head of the king, that the sceptre hath borne; The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath worn;