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The foe himself recoiled aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay,
We swooped his flanking batteries past
And braving full their murderous blast

Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave,

And there our evening bugles play;
Where orange boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave

Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many — we who pressed

Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest,

Than not have been at Monterey ?

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again.

Methought, from the battle-field's dreadful array,

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn,- and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to

part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my

wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. “Stay, stay with us, —rest, thou art weary and worn!”

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,– But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Ye mariners of England,

That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze !
Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,

And ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow

As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean warriors !
Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow

;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow!

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.

MIRIAM'S SONG. THOMAS MOORE.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed, - his people are free!
Sing, — for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, — How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! Jehovah has triumphed, - his people are free!

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord !
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword.
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar of glory,

And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! Jehovah hath triumphed, — his people are free !

FIFE AND DRUM.

JOHN DRYDEN. EXTRACT FROM "THE ODE ON St. Cecilia's Day."

The trumpet's loud clangor
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger
And mortal alarms.

The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum,
Cries, “Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat."

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