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It was a sabbath morning, and calm the summer air,
And brightly shone the summer sun, upon the day of prayer,
And silver-sweet the village bells o'er mount and valley tolled,
And in the church of St. Florènt were gathered young and old;
When rushing down the woodland hill, in fiery haste was seen,
With panting steed and bloody spur, a noble Angevin;
Then bounding on the sacred floor, he gave his fearful cry,—
"Up, up for France! the time is come, for France to live or die.

"Your Queen is in the dungeon; your King is in his gore;
On Paris waves the flag of death, the fiery Tricolor ;
Your nobles in their ancient halls are hunted down and slain;
In convent cells and holy shrines the blood is poured like rain;
The peasant's vine is rooted up, his cottage given to flame ;
His son is to the scaffold sent, his daughter driven to shame;
With torch in hand, and hate in heart, the rebel host is nigh;
Up, up for France ! the time is come, for France to live or die."

That livelong night the horn was heard, from Orleans to Anjou,
And poured from all their quiet fields our shepherds bold and

true;

Along the pleasant banks of Loire shot up the beacon-fires, And many a torch was blazing bright on Luçon's stately spires; The midnight cloud was flushed with flame that hung o'er Parthenaye,

The blaze that shone o'er proud Brissac was like the breaking day;

Till east and west, and north and south, the loyal beacons shone, Like shooting-stars, from haughty Nantz to sea-begirt Olonne.

And through the night, on foot and horse, the sleepless summons flew,

And morning saw the Lily-flag wide waving o'er Poitou ;
And many an ancient musketoon was taken from the wall,
And many a jovial hunter's steed was harnessed in the stall;
And many a noble's armoury gave up the sword and spear,
And many a bride, and many a babe, was left with kiss and tear;
And many a homely peasant bade "farewell" to his old "dame ;"
As in the days, when France's king unfurled the Oriflame.

We marched by tens of thousands, we marched through day and night,

The Lily standard in our front, like Israel's holy light.
Around us rushed the rebels, as the wolf upon the sheep;

We burst upon their columns, as the lion roused from sleep; We tore the bayonets from their hands, we slew them at their guns;

Their boasted horsemen flew like chaff before our forest-sons; That eve we heaped their baggage high, their lines of dead between,

And in the centre blazed to heaven their blood-dyed Guillotine!

In vain they hid their heads in walls; we rushed on stout
Thouar,-

What cared we for its shot or shell, for battlement or bar?
We burst its gates; then, like the wind, we rushed on
Fontenaye

We saw its flag at morning's light, 'twas ours by setting day.
We crushed like ripened grapes, Montreuil, we tore down old
Vetier-

We charged them with our naked breasts, and took them with a cheer.

We'll hunt the robbers through the land, from Seine to sparkling Rhone.

Now, "Here's a health to all we love. Our king shall have his own."

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THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen :
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

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O YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented-the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all :
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
"Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up;
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup;
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar :
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, ""Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

WORTH makes the man, and want of it the fellow;
The rest is all but leather and prunella.

Go! if your ancient but ignoble blood

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood,
Go! and pretend your family is young,
Nor own your fathers have been fools so long:
What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.

ALEXANDER POPE.

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ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, ""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber doorSome late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door ;

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word; "Lenore !"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore !"

Merely this, and nothing more.

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