Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war its richest spoil –

The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield.

The sunshine of their native sky
Shines sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dead as the blood ye gave;
No impious footsteps here shall tread
The herbage of your grave!
Nor shall your glory be forgot

While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished year hath flown,

The story how ye fell;

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,

Nor time's remorseless doom,

Can dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.

HOME, SWEET HOME

FROM THE OPERA OF CLARI, THE MAID OF MILAN."

BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home!
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with else-
where.

Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

There's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain:
O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly that came at my call;
Give me them, and the peace of mind dearer than
all!

Home! home! sweet, sweet home!

There's no place like home!

WARREN'S ADDRESS

BY JOHN PIERPONT

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!

Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will ye

look for greener graves?

Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?

Hear it in that battle-peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!

Ask it, ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?
Look behind you !—they're afire!
And, before you, see

Who have done it! From the vale

On they come! - and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail

Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust!
Die we may, and die we must:
But, O, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,

As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,

And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell?

THE BELLS

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Hear the sledges with the bells

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight, -
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells -
Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!

O, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!

How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells

Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells bells,

Bells, bells, bells,

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells.

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,

In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavor,
Now now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
O the bells, bells, bells,

What a tale their terror tells

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!

In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

And the people-ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,

And who tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone,
They are neither man nor woman,
They are neither brute nor human,