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But redder yet their fires shall glow
On Linden's heights of crimson'd snow;
And bloodier still the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where fiery Frank and furious Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy!

The combat deepens!

On, ye brave,

Who rush to glory or the grave!

Wave, Munic h! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet ;
And every sod beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre !



HERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

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The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

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Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours;

Amid these earthly damps,

What seem to us but sad funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death!

What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life Elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She not dead-the child of our affection

But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
As Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day, we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

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Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her,
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,

That cannot be at rest;

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay ;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.


[HENRY WADSWorth LongfelLOW, by far the most successful of the American poets, occupies a distinguished position in a New England University. He is an accomplished linguist, and his poems display the advantages of his careful studies, especially of German literature.]


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Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty Hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of her birth;
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,

Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

[JOSEPH ADDISON, the masterly essayist, the elegant classic scholar, and, above all, the sincere Christian, was born in 1672, and educated at Oxford. He had reached his thirtieth year, and was still almost unknown to fame, when the poem of "The Campaign," written in celebration of Marlborough's earlier victories in the great war He held several of the Spanish succession, brought him Court patronage and fortune. high offices, and at last became one of the Under-Secretaries of State. Addison's fame is more identified with The Spectator than with his poetry. His tragedy of "Cato" has always been popular. He died in 1719.]

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