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“No” if you can,
you can, - only take care you make it clear to yourselves why you say “No.” It's a proof of the highest courage if done from true Christian motives. It's quite right and justifiable, if done from a simple aversion to physical pain and danger. But don't say “No” because you fear a licking, and say or think it's because you fear God, for that's neither Christian nor honest. And if you do fight, fight it out; and don't give in while you can stand and see.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled ;
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A proud, though child-like form.
Without his father's word;
His voice no longer heard.
If yet my task is done ?”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
“Speak, father!” once again he cried,
“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;
In still, yet brave despair.
My father! must I stay ?”
The wreathing fires made way.
They caught the flag on high,
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-
Was that young faithful heart.
HOME they brought him, slain with spears,
They brought him home at even-fall;
Sounding on the morrow.
The sun peep'd in from open field,
The boy began to leap and prance,
Rode upon his father's lance, Beat upon his father's shield
“O hush, my joy, my sorrow.”
THE LADY OF THE LAKE."
SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing; Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er, Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed's champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here,
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,
At the day-break, from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guard's nor warder's challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé. Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream, in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
William CULLEN BRYANT.
OUR band is few but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold,
When Marion's name is told.
Our tent the cypress tree,
As seamen know the sea.
Its glades of reedy grass,
Within the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldiery,
That little dream us near !
A strange and sudden fear,
They grasp their arms in vain;
Are beat to earth again,
A mighty host behind,
Upon the hollow wind.
From danger and from toil;