And mute the Moorish horn, that rang O'er stream and mountain free, And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang, Hath died in Galilee. But thou art swelling on, thou deep, Thou liftest up thy solemn voice To every wind and sky, And all our earth's green shores rejoice It fills the noontide's calm profound, Let there be silence, deep and strange, Thou speak'st of one who doth not change— -So may our hearts repose. CASABIANCA.* THE boy stood on the burning deck, The flame that lit the battle's wreck, 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, Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile), after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder. That father, faint in death below, He call'd aloud-" Say, father, say He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. "Speak, Father!" once again he cried, —And but the booming shots replied, Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair ; And look'd from that lone post of death, And shouted but once more aloud, "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, And stream'd above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder soundThe 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. THE ADOPTED CHILD. "WHY wouldst thou leave me, oh! gentle child? A straw-roof'd cabin with lowly wall— Where many an image of marble gleams, "Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play, And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know- "Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell, Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well; Harps which the wandering breezes tune; Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." |