And we knew that the iron ship of our foes To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death With fiery breath From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. "Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, And the whole air peal'd With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. Lord! how beautiful was thy day : Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the Dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho! brave land! with hearts like these Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam! EXCELSIOR, The shades of night were falling fast His brow was sad, his eye beneath The accents of that unknown tongue- In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Excelsior! "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; "O stay!" the maiden said, "and rest “Beware the pine-tree's wither'd branch! This was the peasant's last Good-night : At break of day, as heavenward A voice cried through the startled air - Excelsior! A traveler, by the faithful hound, That banner with the strange device- There, in the twilight cold and grey, Excelsior! THE RAINY DAY. The day is cold and dark and dreary; My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; Be still, sad heart! and cease repining: CHILDREN. Come to me, O ye children! Ye open the Eastern windows Where thoughts are singing swallows In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, But in mine is the wind of Autumn And the first fall of the snow. Ah! what would the world be to us, What the leaves are to the forest, That to the world are children : Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate Than reaches the trunks below. Come to me, O ye children! What the birds and the winds are singing For what are all our contrivings, Ye are better than all the ballads For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 1807 IN SCHOOL-DAYS. Still sits the school-house by the road, And blackberry vines are running. Within the master's desk is seen, The charcoal frescoes on its wall; Long years ago a winter sun It touch'd the tangled golden curls, |