THE OLD CONTINENTALS.

And like hail fell the plunging

Cannon-shot;

When the files

Of the Isles,

From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the ram

pant

Unicorn,

And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn!

Then with eyes to the front all,
And with guns horizontal,

Stood our sires;

While the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly,
Blazed the fires;

As the roar

On the shore,

Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres
Of the plain;

And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder,
Cracking amain!

Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red St. George's

Cannoneers;

And the villainous saltpetre

Rang a fierce, discordant metre

Round our ears.

As the swift

Storm-drift,

THE OLD CONTINENTALS.

With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor On our flanks;

Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks!

A CHARADE.

And his brazen throat was ringing,

Trumpet-loud.

Then the blue

Bullets flew,

And the trooper-jackets reddened at the touch of the leaden

Rifle-breath;

And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder,

And the screaming trump and the thundering drum
Are calling thee to die.

A CHARADE.

Fight as thy fathers fought,

Fall as thy fathers fell!

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought:
So forward! and farewell!

Toll ye my Second - toll!

Fling high the flambeau's light,

And sing the hymn for a parted soul,

Beneath the silent night.

The wreath upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed:
So take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole-ay, call

The lord of lute and lay,
And let him greet the sable pall

With a noble song to-day!

Go, call him by his name:

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame

On the turf of a soldier's grave.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

THE FADED VIOLET.

WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves!
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,

Thou darling of the April rain.

I hold thy faded lips to mine,

Though scent and azure tint are fled;
O dry, mute lips, ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead :

Of something wilted like thy leaves,
Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
Yet, for the love of those white hands
That found thee by a river's brim,

That found thee when thy sunny mouth
Was purpled, as with drinking wine:
For love of her who love forgot,

I hold thy faded lips to mine.

That thou shouldst live when I am dead,
When hate is dead for me, and wrong,

For this I use my subtlest art,

For this I fold thee in my song.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.