“The Death of Napoleon,” by Isaac McClellan (1806-99), was yet another of the good old reader songs taught us by a teacher of good taste. We love those teachers more the older we grow.
Wild was the night, yet a wilder night Hung round the soldier’s pillow; In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight Than the fight on the wrathful billow.
A few fond mourners were kneeling by, The few that his stern heart cherished; They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye, That life had nearly perished.
They knew by his awful and kingly look, By the order hastily spoken, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, And the nations’ hosts were broken.
He dreamed that the Frenchman’s sword still slew, And triumphed the Frenchman’s eagle, And the struggling Austrian fled anew, Like the hare before the beagle.
The bearded Russian he scourged again, The Prussian’s camp was routed, And again on the hills of haughty Spain His mighty armies shouted.
Over Egypt’s sands, over Alpine snows, At the pyramids, at the mountain, Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, And by the Italian fountain,
On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams Dash by the Switzer’s dwelling, He led again, in his dying dreams, His hosts, the proud earth quelling.
Again Marengo’s field was won, And Jena’s bloody battle; Again the world was overrun, Made pale at his cannon’s rattle.
He died at the close of that darksome day, A day that shall live in story; In the rocky land they placed his clay, “And left him alone with his glory.” |
Isaac McClellan.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country’s wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow’d mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung: There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall a while repair To dwell a weeping hermit there! |
William Collins.
“The Flag Goes By” is included out of regard to a boy of eleven years who pleased me by his great appreciation of it. It teaches the lesson of reverence to our great national symbol. It is published by permission of the author, Henry Holcomb Bennett, of Ohio. (1863-.)
Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, A flash of colour beneath the sky: Hats off! The flag is passing by!
Blue and crimson and white it shines Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. Hats off! The colours before us fly; But more than the flag is passing by.
Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, Fought to make and to save the State: Weary marches and sinking ships; Cheers of victory on dying lips;
Days of plenty and years of peace; March of a strong land’s swift increase; Equal justice, right, and law, Stately honour and reverend awe;
Sign of a nation, great and strong Toward her people from foreign wrong: Pride and glory and honour,—all Live in the colours to stand or fall.
Hats off! Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; And loyal hearts are beating high: Hats off! The flag is passing by! |
Henry Holcomb Bennett.
On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array’d Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh’d To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush’d the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden’s hills or stainèd snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulcher. |
Thomas Campbell.
The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home; ’Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; The corn-top’s ripe, and the meadow’s in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day. The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy and bright; By-’n’-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door:— Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!
Weep no more, my lady, O, weep no more to-day! We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home, far away.
They hunt no more for the ’possum and the coon, On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door. The day goes by like a shadow o’er the heart, With sorrow, where all was delight; The time has come when the darkeys have to part:— Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!
The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go; A few more days, and the trouble all will end, In the field where the sugar-canes grow. A few more days for to tote the weary load,— No matter, ’twill never be light; A few more days till we totter on the road:— Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!
Weep no more, my lady, O, weep no more to-day! We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home, far away. |
Stephen Collins Foster.
Way down upon de Swanee Ribber, Far, far away, Dere’s wha my heart is turning ebber, Dere’s wha de old folks stay. All up and down de whole creation Sadly I roam, Still longing for de old plantation, And for de old folks at home.
All de world am sad and dreary, Eberywhere I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home!
All round de little farm I wandered When I was young, Den many happy days I squandered, Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder Happy was I; Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! Dere let me live and die.
One little hut among de bushes, One dat I love, Still sadly to my memory rushes, No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-humming All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo tumming, Down in my good old home?
All de world am sad and dreary, Eberywhere I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home! |
Stephen Collins Foster.
“The Wreck of the Hesperus,” by Longfellow (1807-82), on “Norman’s Woe,” off the coast near Cape Ann, is a historic poem as well as an imaginative composition.
It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now west, now south.
Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed the Spanish Main, “I pray thee put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane.
“Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!” The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable’s length.
“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.”
He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast.
“O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?” “Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”— And he steered for the open sea.
“O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?” “Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!”
“O father! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?” But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savèd she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept Toward the reef of Norman’s Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank,— Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman’s Woe! |
Henry W. Longfellow.
You can look down on the battle-field of Bannockburn from Stirling Castle, Scotland, near which stands a magnificent statue of Robert, the Bruce. How often have I trodden over the old battle-field. The monument of William Wallace, too, looms up on the Ochil Hills, not far away. (1759-96.)
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lower; See approach proud Edward’s power— Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s King and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa’? Let him follow me!
By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us do, or die! |
Robert Burns.