20.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

THE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew

still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

- LORD BYRON.

21.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

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 dreamt 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!

-THOMAS CAMPBELL.

22.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell! - but the foeman's chain

-

Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!"

- THOMAS MOORE.

23.

THE LAST BUCCANIER.

OH England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high,

But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;
And such a port for mariners I shall ne'er see again
As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and

stout,

All furnished well with small arms and cannons round

about;

And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and

free

To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,

Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;

Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as

stone,

Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

Oh the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold;

And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to be

hold;

And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did

flee,

To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

Oh sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze
A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,
With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the

roar

Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched. the shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down

were we.

All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night;

And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died;

But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by,

And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going - I'm sure I can't tell

where;

One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse

off there:

If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main,
To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

24.

MY NATIVE VALE.

DEAR is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;

Close by my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree

And shells his nuts at liberty.