Then, louder than the roaring storm, pealed forth the stern command, "Charge! soldiers, charge!" and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless band,
Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through the flood, And upward o'er the rising ground, they marked their way in blood.
The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his post-
While, unsustained, two hundred stood, to battle with a host!
Then, turning as the rallying ranks with murd'rous fire replied,
They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide.
The fallen! And the first who fell in that unequal strife,
Was he whom mercy sped to save when justice claimed his life—
The pardon'd soldier! And while yet the conflict raged around,
While yet his life-blood ebbed away through every gaping wound—
While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death bedimmed his eye-
He called his comrades to attest he had not feared to die.
And in his last expiring breath, a prayer to heaven was sent,
That God, with His unfailing grace, would bless our President.
FRANCIS DE HAES JANVIER.
[This exquisite poem was written after a visit to Vesuvius. It should be read in a manner adapted to its soft, rich Oriental magnif. cence.]
My soul to-day
Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My wingéd boat,
A bird afloat,
Swims round the purple peaks remote :
Round purple peaks
It sails, and seeks
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,
Where high rocks throw,
Through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.
Far, vague, and dim,
The mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,
With outstretched hands,
The gray smoke stands
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.
It is Thanksgiving morning, and near, and far away,
The glad church bells are ringing to hail Thanksgiving day;
With their silvery entreaty they call the heart to prayer,
From traffic and from labor, from merriment and care.
And in one ancient dwelling, whose walls, time-stained and gray,
Remember in their silence the bullets of that day
When from Lexington to Concord a thrilling message ran,
And behind each hedge and tree-boll there lurked an earnest man,
A man whose life was ready, held in unshrinking hand,
To be offered up for Liberty, for God, and Native Land;
In that time-honored dwelling an ancient couple wait,
To hear their children's voices make music at the gate.
"Are all things ready, Mary?" the old man's eyes were dim
And the face he sees is lovely with girlhood's flush to him.
It was Thanksgiving morning, just fifty years ago,
When o'er that ancient threshold in raiment white as snow,
With cheeks rose-bud with blushes, and eyes as violets blue,
And face so fresh and innocent, and heart so leal and true;
A fragile little blossom, that blossomed at his side,
She came there first beside him—he brought her home his bride.
"All things are ready, Richard," she said, and then she thought
Of their fifty years together, and the changes they had brought.
She remembered how her babes had played about her there,
With the sunshine's shifting splendor in their curling, golden hair.
And when they'd tired of playing, and slept upon her breast,
What prayers she said above them, while she lulled them to rest.
Where are those children's faces? She almost thought to see
Blue eyes and golden ringlets still glinting at her knee.
The years have wrought strange marvels-the children are no more,
No more their frolic footsteps fly through the open door.
Five men, toil-worn and weary, five women bowed with care-
Are these the merry children, with sunshine in their hair?
She tries to smile. Thanksgiving is the time for joyous cheer—
And the old man does not see her as she wipes away a tear.
"Had you thought about it, Richard, how the children have grown
How they've left their youth behind them, like a story that is told?
"Last time I saw our Martha her hair was gray as mine; Will's chestnut curls are turning, and Ralph is forty-nine. It's all the better, Richard, we shan't be long apart;
In the land where we are going I sometimes think my heart
"Will miss the children's voices, and be lonely till they come; But we shan't have long to wait, dear, for the children coming home." They sat a little longer, in a silence like a prayer,
Waiting together, hand in hand-God's angel found them there.
In the bright Thanksgiving morning, fifty changeful years ago,
She had crossed that ancient threshold, in her raiment white as snow.
Now her husband led her onward, as in youth-time, hand in hand,
Till they crossed another threshold-entered on that other land,
Where the fountains flow forever, where the many mansions be,
And the fruit of life hangs glowing from the boughs of every tree.
In the cold November sunshine in the middle of the day,
Sons and daughters stood in silence, gathered there from far away,
'Neath the old familiar roof-tree; but they dared not mourn or weep
For the two they found together-those dead faces calm as sleep.
Silently they kissed each other, silently they kneeled to pray,
Lifting up their hearts to heaven on the blest Thanksgiving day.
Years are short and cares are heavy-soon they'll lay their burden down;
He who helps the cross to carry shall be first to wear the crown.
They shall keep their best Thanksgiving when their tired feet cease to
Where the parents still are waiting for the chiaren coming home.
THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.
[This admirable poem may be used as a single reading, or it may be divided into two or three, as desired.]
Come from the woods with the citron-flowers,
Come with your lyres for the festal hours,
Maids of bright Scio! They came, and the breeze
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas;-
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crowned,
The bride of the morn, with her train around.
Jewels flashed out from her braided hair,
Like starry dews midst the roses there;
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone,
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone;
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale,
Gleamed from beneath her transparent veil;
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue,
Tho' clear as a flower which the light looks through;
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye,
For the aspect of woman at times too high,
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam.
She looked on the vine at her father's door,
Like one that is leaving his native shore;
She hung o'er the myrtle once called her own,
As it greenly waved by the threshold tone;
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