He call'd aloud:-"Say, Father! say,
If yet my task is done?

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

Speak, Father!" once again he cried,

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If I may yet be gone?

And"-but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,

And look'd from that lone post of death,
In still, but brave despair.

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While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?

Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strew'd the sea—

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;

But the noblest thing which perish'd there,
Was that young, faithful heart!


WHAT'S he that wishes more men from England?
My cousin Westmoreland?—No, my fair cousin!
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and, if to live,

The fewer men the greater share of honour.

No, no, my lord!-wish not a man from England:
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland! throughout my host,
That he who hath no stomach to this fight,

May straight depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns, for convoy, put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company!
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian;-
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, To-morrow is St. Crispian!

Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.

Old men forget, yet shall not all forget,

But they'll remember, with advantages,

What feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster,
Be, in their flowing cups, freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispian's day shall ne'er go by,
From this time to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers!
For, he to-day that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother: be he e'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition;

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks
That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day.


SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS defined the grand style to consist ina certain assemblage of contrary qualities. Upon some such principle as this, the Romans might be accounted a great people; for never was there any which combined such opposite requisites for the purpose of attaining empire; the utmost daring and the most guarded caution; a philosophical indifference to other religions, and a fanatical superstition; an austere self-denial, and an untamed rapacity; individual decency, and national effrontery; a great facility of incorporating foreign states with themselves, and the most exclusive nationality. Their discipline was of iron rigour. It would have broken the spirit of almost any other people; but, instead of subduing, it helped to sustain in them that enthusiastic courage, which, on the day of battle, filled their whole frame, gave a terrible beauty to their bearing, flashed from their eyes, and defeated the very minds of their enemies. The generals who plundered and wasted nations, and filled all Italy with their spoils, were at home plain, simple, frugal, humane men, whose rude cupboards did not contain a single vessel of gold or silver, and whose houses were distinguished only by a total absence of ornament. Factions raged at home; abroad, they presented nothing but unanimity. Mutual oppression was common, but that, too, was an exclusive privilege; wo to the king or state that touched the hair of a Roman's head, or wounded with a haughty look the majesty of the republic in the meanest of her sons! Law, again, notwithstanding some

gross and daring infractions, was, on the whole, regarded with much respect, and held in high honour. In fact, their domestic virtue was the great means by which rapacity and tyranny did their work abroad. It was on that stock the boldest shoots of every vicious disposition in their external policy were engrafted, and they flourished with an increased wildness of vigour from the very perversity of the principle. Had not the cement of civil justice been employed, their power would have been as transitory as that of the Turks or Mongols; if it held longer and firmer, it is mainly to be attributed to this, that it was in the bosom of household virtues, domestic affections, and social charities, their eagle plumed his wings for the most daring flights of infamous oppression.


I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother, oh! where is that radiant shore-
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?
Not there, not there, my child!

Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?

Not there, not there, my child!

Is it far away, in some region old,

Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold,

Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?
Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?
Not there, not there, my child!

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy,
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
Sorrow and death may not enter there,
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb-
It is there, it is there, my child!


No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the west; no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still-
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And, hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
Most musical, most melancholy bird!
A melancholy bird? oh, idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy:

But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced
With the resemblance of a grievous wrong,

Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
First named these notes a melancholy strain;

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