"No" if 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.

CASABIANCA.

MRS. HEMANS.

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll'd on-he would not go
Without his father's word;

That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

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,
"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, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

66

My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor 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 that perish'd there,
Was that young faithful heart.

HOME.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

HOME they brought him, slain with spears,
They brought him home at even-fall;
All alone she sits and hears

Echoes in his empty hall,

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."

SOLDIER, REST!

WALTER SCOTT. SONG FROM

"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.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

OUR band is few but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold,
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress tree,
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.
We know its vales of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery,
That little dream us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear,
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain ;
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again,

And they who fly in terror, dream
A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil;