 Barbara Frecci, by John G. Whitter, from the junior classics Volume 10, Part 2, Palms Old and New, read for LibriVox.org. Up from the meadows rich with corn, clear in the cool September morn, the clustered spires of Frederick stand, green-walled by the hills of Maryland, round about them orchard sweep, apple and peach tree fruited deep, fair as a garden of the Lord, to the eyes of the famished rebel horde, on that pleasant morn of the early fall, when Lee marched over the mountain wall. Over the mountains winding down, horse and foot into Frederick town, forty flags with their silver stars, forty flags with their crimson bars, flapped in the morning wind the sun, of noon looked down and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frecci then, bowed with her forescore years and ten, bravest of all in Frederick town, she took up the flag the men hauled down. In her attic window the staff, she set, to show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouch, hat left and right, he glanced, the old flag met his sight. Halt! the dust-brown ranks stood fast, fire outblazed the rifle blast. It shivered the window, pain and sash, it rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. She leaned far out on the window sill and took it forth with a royal will. Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, but spare your country's flag, she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, over the face of the leader came, the nobler nature within him stirred, to life at that woman's deed and word. Who touches a hair of young gray head, dies like a dog, march on, he said. All day long through Frederick street, sounded the tread of marching feet, all day long that free flag tossed over the heads of the rebel host. Over its torn folds rose and fell, on the loyal winds that loved it well. And through the hill gaps, sunset light, shone over it with a warm good night. Barbara Fritchie's work is o'er, and the rebel rides on his raids no more. Better to her and let a tear fall for her sake on Stonewall's fire. Over Barbara Fritchie's grave, flag of freedom and union wave, peace and order and beauty draw round thy symbol of light and law, and ever the stars above look down on thy stars below in Frederick town. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Sheridan's Ride by Thomas B. Reed, from the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, read for Libervox.org. From the south at break of day, bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, the affrighted air with a shutter bore, like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, the terrible grumble and rumble and roar, telling the battle was on once more, and Sheridan 20 miles away. And wider still those billows of war, thundered along the horizon's bar, and louder yet into Winchester rolled, the roar of that red sea, uncontrolled, making the blood of the listener cold, as he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, and Sheridan 20 miles away. There is a road from Winchester town, a good-broad highway leading down, and there, through the flush of the morning light, a steed as black as the steeds of night, was seen to pass, as with eagle flight, as if he knew the terrible need. He stretched away with his utmost speed, hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, with Sheridan 15 miles away, still sprung from those swift hoops, thundering south, the dust-like smoke from the cannon's mouth, or a trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, impatient to beware the battlefield calls. Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, with Sheridan only 10 miles away. Under his burning feet the road, like an airowy alpine river flowed, and the landscape sped away behind, like an ocean flying before the wind, and the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, swept on with his wild eye-full of fire, but lo, he is nearing his heart's desire, he is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, with Sheridan only 5 miles away. The first that the general saw were the groups of stragglers and then the retreating troops. What was done, what to do, a glance told him both, then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, he dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, and the wave of retreat checked its course there because, the sight of the master compounded to pause, with foam and with dust the black charger was gray. By the flash of an eye and the red nostrils play, he seemed to the whole great army to say, I have brought you Sheridan all the way, from Winchester down to save the day. Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan, hurrah for horse and man, and when their statues are placed on high under the dome of the Union sky, the American soldier's temple of fame there with the glorious general's name. Be it said in letters both bold and bright, here is the steed that saved the day, by carrying Sheridan into the fight from Winchester twenty miles away. The Republic by Henry W. Longfellow, from the junior classics volume 10 part 2, poems old and new, read for LibriVox.org. Is hanging breathless on by fate, we know what master laid thy keel, what workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, who made each mast and sail and rope, what anvils rang, what hammers beat, in what a forge and what a heat, were shaped the anchors of thy hope, fear not each sudden sound and shock, tis of the wave and not the rock, tis but the flapping of the sail and not a rent made by the gale, in spite of rock and tempest roar, in spite of false lights on the shore, sail on nor fear to breast the sea, our hearts our hopes are all with thee, our hearts our hopes our prayers our tears, our faith triumphant or our fears are all with thee, are all with thee, from the building of the ship. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England by Felicia D. Hermans, from the junior classics volume 10 part 2, poems old and new, read for LibriVox.org. The breaking waves dashed high, on a stern and rock-bound coast, and the woods against a stormy sky, their giant branches tossed, and the heavy night hung dark, the hills and waters o'er, when a band of exiles bore their bark, on the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, they the true hearted came, not with the roll of the stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame, not as the flying come, in silence and in fear. They shook the depths of the desert gloom, with their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, and the stars heard, and the sea, and the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang, and the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang, to the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared, from his nest by the white waste foam, and the rocking pines of the forest roared, this was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair, amidst that pilgrim band. Why had they come to wither here, away from their childhoods land? There was women's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth. There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar, bright jewels of the mine. The wealth of seas, the spoils of war, they sought of face pure shrine. A, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod. They have left unstained what there they found, freedom to worship God. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Eve of Waterloo by Lord Byron. From the Junior Classics, volume 10, part 2, poems old and new, read for Liebervox.org. There was a sound of revelry by night, and Belgium's capital had gathered then. Her beauty and her chivalry and bright, the lamp shone, or fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily, and when, music arose with its voluptuous swell. Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, and all went merry as a marriage bell. But hush, hark, a deep sound strikes, like a rising knell. Did ye not hear it? No, twas but the wind, or the car rattling, or the stony street. On with the dance, let joy be unconfined, no sleep to mourn when youth and pleasure meet. To chase the glowing hours with flying feet, but hark, that heavy sound breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat, and nearer, nearer deadlier than before. Arm, arm, is it, it is the cannon's opening roar. Ah, then and there was hurrying to and fro, and gathering tears and tremblings of distress, and cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, blushed at the praise of their own loveliness. And there were sudden partings, such as press, the life from out, young hearts, and choking sighs, which never might be repeated, who could guess if evermore should meet those mutual eyes. Since upon night so sweet such awful mourn could rise, and there was mounting in hot haste the steed, the mustering squadron, and the clattering car, when pouring forward with impetuous speed, and swiftly forming in the ranks of war, and the deep thunder peel on peel afar, and near the beat of the alarming drum, roused up the soldier ur, the morning star, while throng the citizens with terror dumb, or whispering with white lips the foe, they come, they come. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Concord hymn by R. W. Emerson. From the junior classics, volume 10, part 2, poems old and new, read for Liebervox.org. By the rude bridge that arched the flood, their flag to April's breeze unfurled, here once the embattled farmers stood, and fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept, alike the conqueror silent sleeps, and time the ruined bridge has swept down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank by this soft stream we set to day a votive stone, that memory may their deed redeem, when, like our sires, our sons are gone, spirit that made those heroes dare to die and leave their children free, bid time and nature gently spare, the shaft we raise to them and thee. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. O Captain, my Captain, by Walt Whitman, from the junior classics, volume 10, part 2, poems old and new, read for Liebervox.org. O Captain, my Captain, our fearful trip is done. The ship has weathered every wrack, the price we sought is won. The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting. They'll follow ice a steady keel, the vessel grim and daring. But O heart, heart, heart, how the bleeding drops of red, were on the deck my Captain lies, fallen, cold, and dead. O Captain, my Captain, rise up and hear the bells. Rise up, for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle chills, for you bouquets and ribboned wreaths, for you the shore is a crowding, for you they call the swaying mass their eager faces turning. Here, Captain, dear Father, this arm beneath your head, it is some dream that on the deck you've fallen, cold, and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still. My Father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done. From fearful trip the victorship comes in with object one, exult those shores and ring O bells, but I with mournful tread, walk the deck my Captain lies, fallen, cold, and dead. A nation's strength, by R. W. Emerson, from the junior classics volume 10, part 2, poems old and new, read for LibriVox, recording by John Rushton. Not gold, but only man can make, a people great and strong, men who, for truth and honour's sake, stand fast and suffer long, brave men who work while others sleep, who dare while others fly, they build a nation's pillars deep and lift them to the sky. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Burial of Sir John Moore, by Charles Wolfe. From the junior classics volume 10, part 2, poems old and new, read for LibriVox.org. Recording by John Rushton. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, as his course to the rampart we hurried. Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, or the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning, by the struggling moonbeams misty light, and the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, not in sheet or in shroud we wound him, but he lay like a warrior, taking his rest, with his marshal cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, and we spoke not a word of sorrow, but we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, and we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed, and smoothed down his lonely pillow, that the foe and the stranger would tread over his head, and we far away on the billow. Likely they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, and all the cold ashes upbrayed him, but little he'll wreck if they let him sleep on, in the grave where Britain has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done when the clock struck the hour for retiring, and we heard the distant and random gun that the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, from the field of his fame fresh and gory. We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, but we left him alone in his glory. End of Poem This recording is in the Public Domain O Canada by Emma Powell McCulloch From the Juni Classics Volume 10 Part 2 Poems Old and New Read for LibriVox.org Recording by John Rushton O Canada, in praise of thee we sing, From Eckering Hills our anthems proudly ring, With fertile plains and mountains grand, With lakes and rivers clear, eternal beauty Thou doth stand throughout the changing year. Lord God of Hosts, we now implore, Bless our dear land this day and evermore, Bless our dear land this day and evermore. Dear Canada, for thee our fathers wrought Thy good and ours and selfishly they sought. With steadfast hand and fearless mind They fell the forest domes, Content at last to leave behind A heritage of homes. Lord God of Hosts, we now implore, Bless our dear land this day and evermore, Bless our dear land this day and evermore. Bless Canada, the homeland that we love, Thy freedom came, a gift from God above, Thy righteous laws, Thy justice fair, Give matchless liberty. We thank our God that we may share Thy glorious destiny. Lord God of Hosts, we now implore, Bless our dear land this day and evermore. Bless our dear land this day and evermore. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Halt! Each carbine sends its whizzing ball, Now, cling, clang, forward all, into the fight. Dash on beneath the smoking dome, Through level lightning's gallop nearer. One look to heaven, no thoughts of home, The guidons that we bear our dearer. Charge! Clank, clank, forward all, Heaven help those whose horses fall. Cut left and right. They flee before our fierce attack. They fall. They spread in broken surges. Now, comrades, bear our wounded back. And leave the foeman to his dirges. Wheel! The bugle sounds the swift recall. Cling, clang, backward all, home, and good night. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the Life Mask of Abraham Lincoln, by Richard Watson Gilder, From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2. Poems Old and New. Read for LibriVox, by Dale Grossman. His bronze doth keep the very form and mold Of our great martyr's face. That brow, all wisdom, all dignity. That human, humorous mouth. Those cheeks that hold like some harsh landscape. All the summer's gold. That spirit, fit for sorrow. As the sea, for storms to beat on. The lonely agony. Those silent, patient lips. Too well foretold. Yes, this is he who ruled the world of men. As might some prophet of the elder day. Rooting above the tempest and the fray. With deep-eyed thought, and more than mortal can. A power was his beyond the touch of art, or armoured strength. It was his mighty heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Charge of the Library, by Alfred Tennyson. From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2. Poems Old and New. Red for LibriVox. Recording by John Rushton. Half-a-league, half-a-league, half-a-league onwards. All in the valley of death rode the 600. Forward the library gate. Charge for the guns, he said. Into the valley of death rode the 600. Forward the library gate. Was there a man dismayed? Not now, the soldiers knew. Someone had blundered. There's not to make reply. There's not to reason why. There's but to do and die. Into the valley of death rode the 600. Canon to the right of them. Canon to the left of them. Canon in front of them. Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell. Baldly they rode and well. Into the jaws of death. Into the mouth of hell rode the 600. Flashed all their sabers bare. Flashed as they turned in air. Sabering the gunners there. Charging an army, while all the world wondered. Plunged in the battery smoke. Right through the line they broke. Cossack and Russian. Reeled from the saber stroke. Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back. But not. Not the 600. Canon to the right of them. Canon to the left of them. Canon behind them. Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell. While horse and hero fell. They had fought so well. Came through the jaws of death. Back from the mouth of hell. All that was left of them. Left of the 600. When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made. All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made. Honor the light brigade. Noble 600. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. On the 18th of April in 75 hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, if the British march by land or sea from the town tonight, hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch of the north church tower as a signal light. One if by land and two if by sea. An eye on the opposite shore will be ready to ride and spread the alarm through every middle-sex village and farm for the country folk to be up and to arm. He said good night with muffled oar, silently rode to the Charlestown shore. Just as the moon rose over the bay, there swinging wide at her moorings lay the summer-set British man of war. A phantom ship with each mast and spar across the moon like a prison-bar, and a huge black hulk that was magnified by its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile his friend through alley and street wanders and watches with eager ears, till in the silence around him he hears the muster of men at the barrack door, the sound of arms and the tramp of feet, and the measured tread of the grenadiers marching to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread to the belfry chamber overhead, and startled the pigeons from their perch on the somber rafters that round him made masses in moving shapes of shade. Up the light-ladders, lender and tall, to the highest window in the wall, where he paused to listen and look down a moment on the roofs of the quiet town, and the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath in the churchyard lay the dead in their night encampment on the hill, wrapped in silence so deep and still that he could hear like a sentinel's tread the watchful night wind as it went creeping along from tent to tent, and seeming to whisper all as well. A moment only he feels for the spell of the place and the hour, the secret dread of the lonely belfry and the dead, for suddenly all his thoughts were bent on a shadowy something far away, where the river widens to meet the bay, a line of black that bends and floats on the rising tide like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile impatient to mountain ride, booted and spurred with a heavy stride, on the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he padded his horse's side, now gazed on the landscape far near, then impetuous stamped the earth and turned and tightened his saddle girth, but mostly he watched with eager search the belfry tower of the old north church as it rose above the graves on the hill, lonely and spectral and somber and still. And lo, as he looks on the belfry's height, a glimmer and then a gleam of light, he springs to his saddle the bridle he turns, but lingers and gazes till full on his sight a second lamp in the belfry burns. A hurry of hoofs in a village street, a shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, and beneath from the pebbles and passing a spark struck out by a steed that flies fearless in feet. That was all, and yet through the gloom and the light, the fate of a nation was riding that night, and the sparks struck out by that steed in his flight kindled the land into flame with its heat. It was twelve by the village clock when he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock and the barking of the farmer's dog and felt the damp of the river fog that rises when the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock when he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weather cock swim in the moonlight as he passed, and the meeting-house windows blank and bare gaze at him, with a spectral glare, as if they already stood aghast at the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock when he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock and the twitter of the birds among the trees, and felt the breath of the morning breeze blowing over the meadows brown, and one was safe and asleep in his bed, who at the bridge would be first to fall, who that day would be lying dead, pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read how the British regulars fired and fled, how the farmers gave them ball for ball from behind each fence and farmyard wall, chasing the red coats down the lane, then crossing the fields to emerge again under the trees at the turn of the road, and only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere, and so through the night went his cry of alarm to every middle-six village and farm, a cry of defiance and not of fear, a voice in the darkness and knock at the door, and a word that shall echo for evermore. For born on the night wind of the past, through all our history to the last, in the hour of darkness, the peril and need, the people will waken and listen to hear the hurray and hoofbeat of that steed, and the midnight message of Paul Revere. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Oh, wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the north, with your hands and your feet and your raiment all red, and wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout, and wence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread. Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, and crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod. For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong, who sat in the high places and slew the saints of God. It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, when we saw their banners dance and their carasses shine, and the man of blood was there, with his long, essenced hair, and Astley, and Samamajuk, and Rupert of the Rhine. Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, the general rode alongers to form us for the fight, when a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout, among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right, and hark, like the roar of the billows on the shore, the cry of battle rises along their charging line. For God, for the cause, for the church, for the laws, for Charles, King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine. The furious German comes with his clarions and his drums, his bravos of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall. They're bursting on our flanks, grasping your pikes, close the ranks, for Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. They are here, they rush on, we are broken, we are gone, our left is born before them like stubble on the blast. O Lord, put forth thy might, O Lord, defend the right, stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last. Stout skippen hath a wound, the centre hath given ground. Hark, hark, what means the trampling of horsemen at our rear? Whose banner do I see, boys? Tis he, thank God, tis he, boys, bear up another minute. Brave Oliver is here. Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes. Our Caracias have burst on the ranks of the accursed, and at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. Fast, fast the gallant's ride, in some safe nook to hide, their coward heads predestined to rot on Temple Bar, and he, he turns, he flies, shame on those cruel eyes, that bore to look on torture and dare not look on war. Ho Comrade, scour the plain, and ye, he strip the slain, first give another stab to make your search secure, then shake from sleeves and pockets, their broad pieces and lockets, the tokens of the wanton, and the plunder of the poor. Fools your doublet shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold, when you kissed your lily-hands to your lemons today, and to-morrow shell the fox from her chambers in the rocks, lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate, and the fingers that want so busy with your blades, your perfume sat in clothes, your catches and your oaths, your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades, down, down, forever down, with the mitre and the crown, with the beel of the court and the mammon of the pope, there was woe in Oxford Hall, there was wail in Dunham's stall, the Jesuits mites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope, and she of Seven Hills shall mourn her children's ills, and tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword, and the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear what the hand of God hath wrought for the houses and the word. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he, I galloped, Dirk galloped, we galloped all three. Good speed cried the watch as the gate bolts undrew, speed echoed the wall to us galloping through, behind shut the postern, the light sank to rest, and into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other, we kept the great pace, neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place. I turned in my saddle, and made its girth tight, then shortened each stirrup, and set the peak right. Rebuckleds the cheek strap, chained slacker the bit, nor galloped less steadily, roll into wit. Twas moon set at starting, but while we drew near, Lockeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear. At Boem, a great yellow star came out to see, at Dufel, Twas mourning as plain as could be, and from Mecklenchurch steeple we heard the half chime, so Joris broke silence with, yet there is time. At airshot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, and against him the cattle stood black every one. To stare through the mist at us galloping past, and I saw my stout gallop er roland at last, with resolute shoulders each butting away, the haze as some bluff river headlanded spray, and his low head and crest just one sharp ear bent back for my voice, and the other pricked out on his track, and one eye's black intelligence ever that glance, or its white edge at me, his own master, a scance, and the thick heavy spume flakes which eye and anon, his fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. By hassled, dirt groaned, and cried Joris, stay spur, your ruse galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, we'll remember it aches, for when heard the quick wheeze of her chest saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, and sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, as down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So we were left galloping Joris and I, past lows and past tongers, no cloud in the sky, the broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff, till over by Dalhem a domespire sprang white, and gallop, gasped Joris, for aches is in sight. How they'll greet us, and all in a moment his rown, rolled neck and croop over, lay dead as a stone, and there was my Roland to bear the whole weight of the news which alone could save aches from her fate, with nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, and with circles of red for his eye sockets rim. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, shook off both my jackboots, let go, belt, and all, stood up in the stirrup, leaned, padded his ear, called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer, clapped my hands, laughed and sang any noise, bad or good, till it lengthened to aches, Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is friends flocking round, as I sat with his head twitched my knees on the ground, and no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, as I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which the Burgesses voted by common consent, was no more than his dew who brought good news from Ghent. Part 2 Poems Old and New Red for Librivox Recording by John Rushton What of the bow? The bow was made in England, of true wood, of yew wood, the wood of English bows, so men who are free love the old yew tree, and the land where the yew tree grows. What of the cord? The cord was made in England, a rough cord, a tough cord, a cord that bowmen love, so we'll drain our jacks to the English flax, and the land where the hemp was wove. What of the shaft? The shaft was cut in England, a long shaft, a strong shaft, barbed and trim and true, so we'll drink altogether to the grey goose feather, and the land where the grey goose flew. What of the men? The men were bred in England, the bowmen, the yeoman, the lads of Dale and Fell, here's to you, and to you, to the hearts that are true, and the land where the true hearts dwell. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Old Iron Sides by Oliver Wendell Holmes from the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. The mass that Britain strove to bow in vain, and one who listened to the tale of shame, whose heart still answered to that sacred name, whose eye still followed o'er his country's tides, thy glorious flag are brave old iron sides. From Jan Lone Addick in a summer's morn, thus mock the spoilers with his schoolboy scorn. Eye tear her tattered incense down, long has it waved on high, and many an eye has danced to see that banner in the sky. Beneath it rung the battle's shout, and burst the cannon's roar, the meteor of the ocean air shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck once read with hero's blood, where knelt the vanquished foe, when winds were hurrying o'er the flood, and waves were white below. No more shall feel the victor's tread, or know the conquered knee, a harpies of the shore shall pluck the eagle of the sea. O better that her shattered hulk should sink beneath the wave, her thunders shook the mighty deep, and there should be her grave. Nailed to the mast her holy flag, set every threadbare sail, and give her to the god of storms, the lightning and the gale. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Drum by Brett Hart From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox, Recording by Nan Dodge Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, and of armed men the hum, Lo, a nation's hosts have gathered round the quick, alarming drum, saying, Come, free man, come. Air your heritage be wasted, said the quick, alarmed drum. Let me of my heart take counsel. War is not of life the sum, who shall stay and reap the harvest, when the autumn day shall come. But the drum echoed, come. Death shall reap the braver harvest, said the solemn-sounding drum. But when one the coming battle, what of profit springs therefrom? What of conquest, subjugation, even greater ills become? But the drum answered, Come. You must do the sum to prove it, said the Yankee-answering drum. What if, mid the cannon's thunder, whistling shot and bursting bomb, when my brothers fall around me, should my heart grow cold and numb? But the drum answered, Come. Better there in death united than in life a recurrent, Come. Thus they answered, hoping, fearing, sum in faith and doubting some, till a trumpet voice proclaiming, said, My chosen people, come. Then the drum, Lo, was dumb, for the great heart of the nation throbbing, answered, Lord, we come. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Casa Bianca by Felicia D. Hemmons From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New Read for LibriVox by Nam Dodge The boy stood on the burning deck, went all but he had fled. The flame that lit the battle's wreck shone round him, or the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm. A creature of heroic blood, a proud, though childlike form. The flames rolled on, he would not go without his father's word. That father faint in death below, his voice no longer heard. He called aloud, say, Father, say, if yet my task is done. He knew not that the chieftain lay, unconscious of his son. Speak, Father, once again, he cried, if I may yet be gone, and but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair, and looked from that lone post of death. In still, yet brave despair. 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 wrapped the ship in splendor wild, they caught the flag on high, and streamed above the gallant child like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound. The boy, o'er was he, ask of the winds that far around with fragments, strewed the sea, with mast and helm and pen and fare, that well had borne their part, but the noblest thing that perished there was that young faithful heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Divine Ode by Joseph Addison From the Junior Classics Volume 10 Part 2 Poems Old and New, Red for LibriVox Recording by Nan Dodge The spacious firmament on high with all the blue, ethereal sky, and spangled heavens a shining frame, their great original proclaim. The unwirried son from day to day does his creator's power display, and publishes to every land the work of Anne Almighty Hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, the moon takes up the wondrous tale, and nightly to the listening earth repeats the story of her birth. Whilst all the stars that round her burn, and all the planets in their turn, confirm the tidings as they roll, and spread the truth from pole to pole. What though in solemn silence all move round the dark terrestrial ball, what though nor real voice nor sound amidst their radiant orbs be found, in reason's ear they all rejoice and utter forth a glorious voice, for ever singing as they shine, the hand that made us is Divine. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. The Character of a Happy Life by Sir Henry Watten From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poem's Old and New, Read for LibriVox Recording by Nan Dodge How happy is he born and taught that Servith not another's will, whose armor is his honest thought and simple truth, his utmost skill, whose passions not his masters are, whose soul is still prepared for death, untied unto the world by care, of public fame or private breath, who envies none that chance stoth raise, nor vice who never understood how deepest wounds are given by praise, nor rules of state but rules of good, who half his life from rumors freed, whose conscience is his strong retreat, whose state can neither flatterers feed, nor ruin make oppressors great, who God doth late and early pray more of his grace than gifts to lend, and entertains the harmless day with a religious book or friend. This man is freed from servile bands of hope, to rise or fear to fall, Lord of himself, though not of lands, and having nothing, yet half all. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. The Rodora, on being asked, Wents is the Flower by Ralph W. Emerson From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox Recording by Nam Dodge In May, when sea winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rodora in the woods, spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, to please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals fall in in the pool, made the black water with their beauty gay, here might the redbird come, his plumes to cool, and court the flower that cheapens his array. Rodora, if the sages ask thee why, this charm is wasted on the earth and sky, tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, then beauty is its own excuse for being. Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose? I never thought to ask, I never knew, but in my simple ignorance suppose, the self-same power that brought me there, brought you. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. Laos Deo by John G. Whittier From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox Recording by Nam Dodge It is done, clang of bell and roar of gun, send the tidings up and down, how the bell-freeze rock and reel, how the great guns peal on peal, cling the joy from town to town. Ring, O bells, every stroke exulting tells, of the burial hour of crime, loud and long that all may hear, ring for every listening ear of eternity and time. Let us kneel, God's own voice is in that peal, and this spot is holy ground. Lord, forgive us, what are we, that our eyes this glory see, that our ears have heard the sound? For the Lord, on the whirlwind, is abroad, in the earthquake he has spoken, he has smitten with his thunder, the iron walls asunder, and the gates of brass are broken. Loud and long lift the old exulting song, sing with Miriam by the sea, he has cast the mighty down. Horse and rider sink and drown, he has triumphed gloriously. Did we dare in our agony of prayer ask for more than he has done? When was ever his right hand over any time or land, stretched as now beneath the sun? How they pale, ancient myth and song and tale in this wonder of our days, when the cruel rod of war blossoms white with righteous law, and the wrath of man is praise. Blotted out, all within and all about, shall a fresher life begin. Preer, breathe the universe as it rolls its heavy curse on the dead and buried sin. It is done, in the circuit of the sun shall the sound thereof go forth. It shall bid the sad rejoice, it shall give the dumb a voice, it shall belt with joy the earth, ring and swing, bells of joy on morning's wing send the song of praise abroad, with the sound of broken chains tell the nations that he reigns, who alone is Lord and God. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Colored Band by Paul Lawrence Dumbar from the Junior Classics Vol. 2 Holmes Old and New redforlibbervox.org Recording by Chad Horner from Ballet Claire in County Antwerp, Northern Ireland situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. When the Colored Band comes matching down the street, you can hear the ladies all Iran repeat. Ain't they handsome, ain't they grand, ain't they splendid goodness land, when these perfect from their foreheads to their feet, and such stepping to the music down the line, turn the music by itself that makes it fine, hits the walkin' step by step, and the keepin' time with hip, that it make a common dirty sound divine. Oh, the White Band play its music, and hits mighty good to hyay, ain't it sometimes leaves a ticklin' in your feet, but the heat goes into business for to help Erlong Diye, when the Colored Band goes marching down the street. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Wind in a Frolick by William Howitt from the Junior Classics Vol. 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New Red for LibriVox Recording by John Rushton The wind one morning sprang up from sleep, saying now for a frolic, now for a leap, now for a madcap galloping chase, I'll make a commotion in every place. So it swept with the bustle right through a great town, cracking the signs and scattering down shutters, and whisking with merciless squalls, old women's bonnets, and gingerbread stalls. There never was heard a lustier shout, as the apples and oranges trundled about, and the urchins that stand with their therish eyes, for ever on watch, ran off each with a prize. Then away to the field it went blustering and humming, and the cattle all wondered whatever was coming. It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows, and tossed the colts' mains all over their brows, till, offended by such an unusual salute, they all turned their backs and stood sulky and mute. So on it went capering and playing its pranks, whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks, puffing the birds as they sat on the spray, or the traveller's grave on the king's highway. It was not too nice to hustle the bags, of a beggar and flutter his dirty rags. It was so bold that it feared not to play its joke, but the doctor's wig, or a gentleman's cloak. Through the forest it wore, and cried gaily, Now you sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow, and it made them bow without much ado, or it cracked their great branches through and through. Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm, striking their dwellers with sudden alarm, and they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm. There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps, to see if their poultry were free from mishaps. The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, and the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd. There was rearing of ladders and logs laying on, where the thatch on the roof threatened soon to be gone. But the wind had swept on, and had met in a lane, with a schoolboy who panted and struggled in vain. For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood, with his hat in a pool, and his shoes in the mud. Then away went the wind on its holiday glee, and now it was far on the billowy sea, and the lordly ships felt its staggering blow, and the little boat started to and fro, but lo it was night and it sank to rest, on the seabird's rock in the gleaming west, laughing to think, in its fearful fun, how little mischief it really had done. End of Poem This recording is in the Public Domain, Ivory by Thomas Babington Macaulay, from the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, read for LibriVox.org. Recording by John Rushton Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are, and glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre. Now let there be a merry sound, of music and of dance, through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France, and thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, again let rapture write the eyes, of all thy mourning daughters, as thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, for cold and stiff, and still are they, who wrought thy walls annoy. Hooray! Hooray! A single field had turned the chance of war. Hooray! Hooray! For Ivory, and Henry of Navarre. Oh, how our hearts were beating, when at dawn of day, we saw the army of the league drawn out in long array, with all its priests like citizens, and all its rebel peers, and Appenzell stout infantry, and Ergmont's Flemish spears. They rode the broad of false terrain, the curses of our land, and dark mayan was in the midst, a trenching in his hand. And, as we looked on them, we thought of sains and purple flood, and good Cologniz's hoary hair, all dappled with his blood. And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, to fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The king has come to marshall us, in all his armor dressed, and he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye. He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smelled in us, and rolled from wing to wing, down all the line a deafling shout, God save our Lord the King! And if my standard bearer fall, as fallful well he may, for never saw I'd promise yet of such a bloody fray, press where ye see my white plume shine amid the ranks of war, and be your oriflame to-day, the helmet of Navarre. Hooray! the foes are moving, hark to the mingled din, of fife and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverine. The fiery duke is pricking fast across St. Andrew's plain, with all his highling chivalry, of goulders and a mane, and now by lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, charge for the golden lilies now, upon them with the lance. A thousand spears are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, a thousand knights are pressed close behind the snow-white crest, and in they burst and on they rushed, while like a guiding star, amid the thickest carnage, blaze the helmet of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours, May Anne has turned his reign, du Alamein has cried for quarter, the Flemish Count is slain, thy ranks are breaking like thin clouds, before a bisque gale, the field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags and cloven mail, and then we thought on vengeance, and all along the van, remember Saint Bartholomew was passed from man to man, but outspake gentle Henry, no Frenchman is my foe, down-down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go. Who was there such a night, in friendship or in war, as our sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre? Right well fought all the Frenchmen, who fought for France to-day, and may a lordly banner God gave them for a prey, but we of the religion have borne as best in fight, and the good Lord of Rosney has taken the cornet white, our own true Maximilian, the cornet white hath taken, the cornet white with cross-black, the flag of false Lorraine, up with it high and furl it wide, that all the hosts may know, how God hath humbled their proud house, which wrought his church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpet sound their loudest point of war, fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre, home maidens of Vienna, home matrons of Lucerne, weep, weep, and rend your hair, for those who never shall return. Ho Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pistols, that antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright, ho burgers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward tonight, for our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, and mocked the council of the wise, the valour of the brave. Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are, and glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre. End of poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. The Heart of the Bruce by William E. Aton From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New Read for LibriVox Recording by Nam Dodge It was upon an April morn, while yet the frost lay whore, we heard Lord James's bugle horn sound by the rocky shore, then down we went a hundred nights all in our dark array, and flung our armour in the ships that rode within the bay. We spoke not as the shore grew less, but gazed in silence back, where the long billows swept away the foam behind our track, and I, the purple hues, decayed upon the fading hill, and but one heart in all that ship was tranquil, cold, and still. The good Lord Douglas paced the deck, and, oh, his face was wan, unlike the flush it used to wear, when in the battle ban. Come hither, come hither, my trusty night, Sir Simon of the Lee, there is a fright lies near my soul, I feign would tell to thee, thou knowest the words King Robert spoke upon his dying day, how he bade take his noble heart, and carry it far away, and lay it in the holy soil where once the Saviour trod, since he might not bear the blessed cross, nor strike one blow for God. Last night, as in my bed I lay, I dreamed a dreary dream, me thought I saw a pilgrim stand in the moonlight's quivering beam. His robe was of the azure dye, snow-white his scattered hairs, and even such a cross he bore, as good St. Andrew bears. Why go ye forth, Lord James, he said, with spear and belted brand? Why do you take its dearest pledge from this, our Scottish land? The sultry breeze of Galilee creeps through its groves of palm, the olives on the holy mount stand glittering in the calm. But is not there that Scotland's heart shall rest by God's decree, till the great angel calls the dead to rise from earth and sea? Lord James of Douglas, mark my reed that heart shall pass once more in fiery fight against the foe, as it was want of your. And it shall pass beneath the cross and save King Robert's vow. But other hand shall bear it back, not dames of Douglas, thou. Now by thy nightly faith I praise her, Simon of the Lee, for truer friend had never man, than thou hast been to me. If nare upon the holy land his mind in life to tread, bear thou to Scotland's kindly earth, the relics of her dead. The tear was in Sir Simon's eye, as he wrung the warrior's hand. Betide me wheel, betide me woe, I'll hold by thy command. But if in battlefront, Lord James, tis ours once more to ride, nor force of man, nor craft of being, shall cleave me from thy side. And I we sailed and I we sailed across the weary sea, until one more in the coast of Spain rose grimly on our lee. And as we rounded to the port beneath the watchtower's wall, we heard the clash of the adabals and the trumpet's wavering call. Why sound, John, eastern music here so wantonly and long? And who's the crowd of armoured men that round John's standard throng? The moors have come from Africa to spoil and waste and slay, and King Alonzo of Castile must fight with them to-day. Now shame at work, cried good Lord James, shall never be said of me, that I and mine have turned aside from the cross in jeopardy. Have down, have down, my merry men all, have down unto the plain, we'll let the Scottish lion loose within the fields of Spain. Now welcome to me, noble Lord, thou and thy stalwart power, dear is the sight of a Christian knight who comes in such an hour. Is it for bond or faith you come, or yet for golden fee, or bring ye France's lilies here, or the flower of Burgundy? God greet thee well, thou valiant king, thee and thy belted peers. Sir James of Douglas, am I called, and these are Scottish spears. We do not fight for bond or plight. Nor yet for golden fee, but for the sake of our blessed Lord who died upon the tree. We bring our great King Robert's heart across the weltering wave, to lay it in the holy soil, hard by the Saviour's grave. True pilgrims we, by land or sea, wear danger bars the way, and therefore are we here, Lord King, to ride with thee this day. The King has bent his stately head and the tears were in his eyeing. God's blessing on thee, noble knight, for this brave thought of thine. I know thy name full well, Lord James, and honoured may I be, that those who fought beside the Bruce should fight this day for me. Take thou the leading of the van and charge the moors amane. There is not such a lance as thine and all the host of Spain. The Douglas turned towards us then, but, oh, his glance was high. There is not one of all my men, but is as bold as I. There is not one of all my knights, but bears as true a spear, than onward Scottish gentlemen and think King Robert's here. The trumpets blew, the crossbolts blew, the arrows flashed like flame, as spur inside and spear in rest against the foe we came. And many a bearded Saracen went down, both horse and man, for through their ranks we rode like corn so furiously we ran. But in behind our path they closed, though feigned to let us through, for they were forty thousand men and we were wondrous few. We might not see a lance's length, so dense was their array. But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade still held them, hard at bay. Make in, make in, Lord Douglas cried. Make in, my brethren dear. Sir William of St. Clair is down. We may not leave him here. But thicker thicker grew the swarm and sharper shot the rain, and the horses reared amid the press, but they would not charge again. Now Yezu help thee, said Lord James, thou kind and true St. Clair, and if I may not bring thee off of die beside thee there, then in his stirrups up he stood so lion-like and proud, and held the precious heart aloft, all in its case of gold. He flung it from him far ahead, and never spake he more, but pass thou first thou dauntless heart, as thou wert want of yore. The roar of fight rose fiercer yet, and heavier still the store, till the spears of Spain came shivering in and swept away the moor. Now praised be God, the day is won, they fly o'er flood and fell, why dost thou draw the rain so hard, good night, that fought so well? Oh, ride ye on, Lord King, he said, and leave the dead to me, for I must keep the drearest watch that ever I shall drear. There lies above his master's heart the Douglas stark and grim, and woe is me I should be here, not side by side with him. The world grows cold, my arm is old, and thin my liart hair, and all that I loved best on earth is stretched before me there. O Bothwell banks that bloom so bright beneath the sun of May, the heaviest cloud that ever blew is bound for you this day. And Scotland thou mayest veil thy head in sorrow and in pain, the sores stroke upon thy brow hath fallen this day in Spain. We'll bear them back unto our ship, we'll bear them o'er the sea, and lay them in the hallowed earth within our own country. And be thou strong of heart, Lord King, for this I tell thee sure, the sod that drank the Douglas's blood shall never bear the moor. The king he lighted from his horse he flung his brand away, and took the Douglas by the hand, so stately as he lay. God give thee rest, thou valiant soul, that fought so well for Spain, I'd rather half my land were gone, so thou wert here again. We bore the good Lord James away, and the priceless heart we bore, and heavily we steered our ship towards the Scottish shore. No welcome greeted our return, nor clang of marshal tread, but all were dumb and hushed as death before the mighty dead. We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk, the heart in fair Melrose, and woeful men were we that day, God grant their souls repose. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. On the sea and at the hoag, 1692, did the English fight the French? Woe to France! And the 31st of May, held to skelter through the blue, like a crowd of frightened porpoises, a shawl of sharks pursue, king crowding ship on ship to St. Malloy on the rants, with the English fleet in view, towards the squadron that escaped, and the victor in full chase, first and foremost of the drove in his great ship, Danfaville. Close on him fled great and small, 22 good ships in all, and they signalled to the place, help the winners of a race, get his guidance, give us harbour, take us quick or quicker still, here's the English can and will. Then the pilots of the place, put out brisk and leapt on board. Why, what hope or chance of ships like these to pass, laugh they? Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all a passage scarred and scored, shall a formidable hear, with a twelve and eighty guns, think to make the river-mouth by a single narrow way? Trust to enter west, is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, and with flow at full besides, now it is slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring, rather say, while the rock stand and water runs, not a ship will leave the bay. Then was called a council straight, brief and bitter the debate. Here's the English at our heels, would you have them taking tow, all that's left as of the fleet, linked together, stern and bow, for a prize to Plymouth's sound? Better run the ships aground, ended Danfaville his speech. Not a minute more to wait, let the captains all in each, shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach, France must undergo her fate. Give the word, but no such word was ever spoke or heard, for upstood, for out-stepped, for in-struck amid all these, a captain, a lieutenant, a mate, first, second, third. No such man of mark and meet, with his betters to compete, but a simple Breton sailor, pest by Torville for the fleet. Poor coasting pilot he, her they reel the crosser-keys. And what mockery or malice have we here, cries her they reel. Are you mad, you mullowins? Are you cowards, rogues, or fools? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings. Teller my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell. Picks the offing here and grieve, where the river disembokes. Are you bought by English gold? Is it love, the langues four? Mourn and eve, night and day, I have piloted your bay. Entered free and anchored fast, at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty hoax. Sirs, they know I speak the truth. Sirs, believe me, there's a way. Only let me lead the line. Have the biggest ship to steer. Get this formidable clear? Make the others follow mine. And I lead them most and least, by a passage I know well. Right to Solidor, past grieve. And there lay them safe and sound. And if one ship misbehaves, keel so much as grate the ground? Why, I've nothing but my life. Here's my head, cries her they reel. Not a minute more to wait. Steer is in, then, small and great. Take the helm, lead the line. Save the squadron, cries his chief. Captains, give the sail a place. He is Admiral, in brief. Still the North wind by God's grace. See the noble fellow's face. As the big ship with a bound, clears the entry like a hound. Keeps the passage, as its inch away, where the wide sea profound. See, save through shoal and rock, how they follow in a flock. Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground. Not a spar that comes to grief. The peril, see, is past. All are harboured to the last, and just as her they reel hollers anchor, shore is fate, up the English come, too late. So the storm subsides to calm. They see the green tree's wave, on the heights are looking grieve. Hearts that bled are staunch with balm. Just the rapture too enchants. Let the English rake the bay, gnash their teeth and glare a scance, as they canonade away. Neath rampard solid air, pleasant riding on the rants. Now hope succeeds to spare on each captain's countenance. Outburst all with one accord. This is paradise for hell. Let France, let France's king, thank the man that did the thing. What a shout and all one word. Her they reel. And he stepped in front once more. Not a symptom of surprise in the frank blue Breton eyes, just the same man as before. Then said Damfaville, my friend, I speak out at the end, though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips. You have saved the king his ships. You must name your own reward. Faith, our son, was near eclipse. Demand whatever you will. France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart content and have, or my name's not Damfaville. Then a beam of fun out broke on the bearded mouth that spoke, as the honest heart laughed through those frank eyes of Breton blue. Since I must say my say, since on board the jute is done, and from Malo's row to Crosswick Point, what it is but a run, since tis ask and have, I may, since the others go ashore, come a good whole holiday. Leave to go and see my wife, who I call the bell a roar. That he asked, and that he got. Nothing more. Name and deed alike are lost, not a pillar nor a post, in his cross that keeps alive the fate as it befell, not a head in white and black, on a single fishing-smack, in memory of the man, but for whom had gone to rack, all that France saved from the fight, whence the English bore the bell. Go to Paris, rank on rank, search the heroes, flung pel-mel, on the lou, face and flank, you shall look long enough, ere you come to Hervéryl. So for better and for worse, Hervéryl, accept my verse. In my verse, Hervéryl, do thou once more, save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife, the bell a roar. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Destruction of Sennacherib by Lord Byron, from the junior classics, volume 10, part 2, Poems Old and New, read for Libri Vox by Julian Pratley. The Assyrian came down like a 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 the summer is green, that host with their banners at sunset were seen, like the leaves of the forest when autumn has blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strewn. 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 forever 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 Asher are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of Baal, and the might of the Gentile, unsmoked by the sword, hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Incident of the French Camp by Robert Browning From the Junior Classics Volume 10 Part 2 Poems Old and New Read for LibriVox.org Recording by John Rushton You know, we French Storm Ratisbon, a mile or so away on a little mound, Napoleon stood on our storming day, with neck out thrust, new fancy how, legs wide, arms locked behind, as if to balance the prone bow, oppressive with its mind, just as perhaps he mused, my plans that soar to earth may fall, let once my army leader lanes waver at one yonder wall, outtweaks the battery smokes their flu, a rider bound on bound, full galloping nor bridle drew, until he reached the mound, then off their flung in smiling joy, and held himself erect, by just his horse's mane. A boy you hardly could suspect, so tight he kept his lips compressed, scarce any blood came through, you looked twice, air you saw his breast, was all but shot in two. Well, he cried, Emperor, by God's grace, we got you Ratisbon, the marshals in the marketplace, and you'll be there and on, to see your flagbird flap his vans, where I, to heart's desire, perched him. The chief's eyes flashed, his plans soared up again like fire. The chief's eyes flashed, but presently softened itself, as she's the film the mother's eagle's eye, when her bruised eagleette breathes, you're wounded. Nay, the soldier's pride, touch to the quick, he said, and killed Sire, and his chief beside, smiling, the boy fell dead. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Heraceous at the Bridge by Thomas Bavington Macaulay, from the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox.org Recording by John Rushton Lars Porcina of Clusium, by the nine gods he swore, that the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more, by the nine gods he swore it, and named a tristing day, and bade his messengers ride forth, east and west and south and north, to summon his array. East and west and south and north, the messengers ride fast, and tower and town and cottage, have heard the trumpets blast. Shame on the falsed Truscan, who lingers in his home, when Pocenia of Clusium is on the march for Rome. There be thirty chosen prophets, the wisest of the land, who always by Lars Porcina, both morn and evening stand. Evening and morn the thirty, have turned the verses o'er, traced from the right on linen white, by mighty seers of yore, and with one voice to the thirty, have their glad answer given, go forth, go forth, Lars Porcina, go forth, beloved of heaven, go, and return in glory, to Clusium's royal dome, and hang around Nersissa's altars, the golden shields of Rome. And now hath every city, sent up their tale of men, the foot of Fourscore Thousand, the horse of Thousand's Ten. Before the gates of Sutrinium is met the great array, a proud man was Lars Porcina, upon the tristing day. Now from the Rock of Tarpinion, could the Wann Berger's spy, the lion of burning villages, red in the midnight sky, the fathers of the city? They sat all night and day, for every hour some horsemen came, with tidings of dismay. A whiz in all the senate, there was no heart so bold, but saw it ached, and fasted beat, when that ill news was told. Fourth width uproads the council, uproads the fathers all. In haste they girded up their gowns, and hide them to the wall. They held the council standing, before the river gate. Short time there was, you well may guess, for musing or debate. Outspote the council roundly, the bridge must straight go down. For since Jenny Culliam is lost, naught else can save the town. Just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear. To arms, to arms, sir council, Lars Porcina is here. On the low hills to westward, the council fixed his eye, and saw the swirly swarm of dust ride fast along the sky. But the council's brow was sad, and the council's speech was low, and darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. Their van will be upon us, before the bridge goes down, and if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town! Then out spoke brave Horatius, the captain of the gate, to every man upon this earth, death cometh soon or late, and how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his gods, and for the tender mother who dangled him to rest, and for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast, and for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame to save them from false sextus, that wrought the deed of shame. Cue down the bridge, sir council, with all the speed he may, aye, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. In Yon straight path a thousand, may well be stopped by three, know who will stand on either hand and keep the bridge with me. Then out spoke Spirius Lartius, Aramean proud was he, lo, I will stand on thy right hand and keep the bridge with thee, and out spake brave Herminius, of Titan blood he was, I will abide on thy left side and keep the bridge with thee. The three stood calm and silent, and looked upon the foes, and a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose, and forth three chiefs came sparing before that deep array. To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted high their shields, and flew to win the narrow way. Annus from Green Tiferium, Lord of the Hill of Vines, and Cius whose eight hundred slaves sicken in Alva's mines, and Pius longed to Cleusinium, vassal in peace and war, who led to fight his Umbrian powers, from that gray crag where grit with towers the fortress of Niquinium lowers o' the pale waves of Gnar, Stout Lartius hurled down Annus, into the stream beneath, Herminius struck at Cius, and clove him to the teeth. At Pius brave Horatius, darted one fiery thrust, and the proud Umbrians gilded arms crashed to the bloody dust. Then Oknus of Philaria, rushed on the Roman three, and Lausulus of Ergo, the rover of the sea, and Annus of Vulsinium, who slew the great wild boar, the great wild boar that had his den, amidst the reed of Cosa's fen, and wasted fields and slaughtered men, along Albania's shore. Herminius smoked down Annus, Lartius laid Ocaslo, right to the heart of Lausulus, Horatius sent a blow. Lie there, he cried, fell pirate, no more aghast and pale. From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark, the track of thy destroying bark, no more Campania's hind shall fly, to woods and caverns where they spy, thy thrice accursed sail. But now no sound of laughter, was heard among the foes, a wild and wrathful clamour, from all the vanguard rows. Six-beers length from the entrance, halted that deep array, and for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way. But Hark, the cry is uster, and lo the ranks divide, and the great Lord of Lunar comes with his stately stride, upon his ample shoulders, clangs lowered the fourfold shield, and in his hand he shakes the brand, which no one but he can wield. He smiled on those bold Romans, a smile serene and high, he eyed the flinching truscans, and scorn was in his eye, quoth he, the she-wolf's litter, stands savagely at bay, but ye will dare to follow, if aster clears the way. Then whirling up his broadsword, with both hands to the height, he rushed against Horatius, and smote with all his might, the shield and blade Horatius, right deftly turned the blow, the blow though turned, came yet to nigh, it missed his helm, but gashed his thigh, the truscans raised a cheerful droid, to see the red blood flow. He reeled, and on herminius, he leaned one breathing space, then like a wild cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Aster's face, through teeth and skull and helmet, so fierce a thrust he sped, the good sword stood a hand-breath out, behind the truscans' head, and the great lord of Lunar fell at that deadly stroke, as falls on Mount Avinius, a thunder smitten oak, far o'er the crashing forest, the giant arms lay spread, and the pale augurs muttering low, gaze on the blasted head, on Aster's throat Horatius, right firmly pressed his heel, and thrice and four times tugged a mane, ere he wrenched out the steel, and see he cried, the welcome, for guests that wait you here, what noble Lucomo comes next, to taste our Roman cheer. But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran, mingle with wrath and shame and dread, along that glittering van, there lacked not men of prowess, nor men of lordly race, for all itruly as noblest were round the fatal place. But all itruly as noblest felt their heart sink to sea, on the earth the bloody corpses, in the path of the Dauntless Three, and from the ghastly entrance, where those bold Romans stood, all shrank, like boys who were unaware, ranging wood to start a hair, come to the mouth of the dark lair, where growling low, a face all bare, lies amidst bone and blood, was known who would be foremost, to lead such dire attack, but those behind cried forward, and those before cried back, and backward now and forward, wavers the deep array, and on the tossing sea of steel, to and fro the standards real, and the victorious trumpet peel, dies fitfully away. Yet one man, for one moment, strode out before the crowd, well known he was to all the three, and they gave him a greeting loud, now welcome, welcome, Sextus, now welcome to thy home, why doth thy stand and turn away, here lies the road to Rome, thrice lookedee at the city, thrice lookedee at the dead, and thrice came on in fury, and thrice turned back in dread, and white, with fear and hatred, scowled at the narrow way, where wallowing in a pool of blood, the brave Tuscans lay. But meanwhile acts and lever, have manfully been plied, and now the bridge hangs tottering, above the boiling tide. Come back, come back, Horatius! Bide cried the fathers all, back Lartius, back Herminius, back ere the ruin fall, back darted Spurious Lartius, Herminius darted back, and as they passed beneath their feet, they felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, and on the father's shore, saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed once more. But with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam, and like a dam, the mighty wreck, lay right a thought the stream, and a long shout of triumph, rose from the walls of Rome, as to the highest turret tops, was splashed the yellow foam. And like a horse unbroken, when first he feels the rain, the furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny mane, and burst the curb and bounded, rejoicing to be free, and whirling down in fierce career, battlement and plank and pier, rushed headlong to the sea. Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind, thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind. Down with him cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale face. Now yield thee, cries Lard Porcina, now yield thee to our grace. Round turned he, as not daining, there was craven ranks to see, nought spake he too large Porcina, to Sextus nought spake he. But he saw on Pultinius, the white porch of his home, and he spake to the noble river, that rolled by the towers of Rome. O Tyber, Father Tyber, to whom all Romans pray, a Romans life, a Romans arms, take thou in charge this day. So he spake, and speaking, sheathed the good sword by his side, and with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide. No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank, but friends and foe, in dumb surprise, with parted lips and straining eyes, stood gazing where he sank. And when, above the surges, they saw his crest appear, all Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forebear a cheer. But fiercely round the current, swollen high with months of rain, and fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain, and heavy with his armour, and spent with clanging blows, and off they thought him sinking, but still again he rose. Never Iween did swimmer, in such an evil chase, struggle through such a raging flood, safe to the landing-place. But his limbs were born up bravely, by the brave heart within, and our good Father Tyber, bare bravely up his chin. Curse on him, quoth false ecstas, not will the villain drown, but for this day, air-close of day, we should have sacked the town. Heaven help him, quoth Lars Porcina, and bring him safe to shore, for such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before. And now he feels the bottom, and now on dry earth he stands, now rounding him throng the Fathers, to press his gory hands, and now with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, he enters through the river-gate, born by the joyous crowd. They gave him of the corn-land, that was of public right, as much as two strong oxen could plow from moor until night, and they made a molten image, and set it up on high, and there it stands, and to this day, to witness, if I lie, it stands in their comitium, plain for all folk to see, heracious in his harness, halting upon one knee, and underneath is written, in letters all of gold, how valiantly he kept the bridge, in the brave days of old. And still his name sounds stirring, and to the men of Rome, and the trumpets blast the cries to them, the charge of Volcicium's home, and wives still pray to Juno, for boys with hearts as bold, as his who kept the bridge so well, in the brave days of old, and in the nights of winter, when the cold north winds blow, and the long howling of the wolves is heard amidst the snow, when round the lonely cottage was loud the tempest's din, and the good logs of Aldidius roar the louder yet within, when the oldest cask is opened, and the largest lamp is lit, when the chestnuts glow in the embers, and the kid turns on the spit, when young and old encircle, around the firebrand's clothes, when the girls are weaving baskets, and the lads are shaping bows, when the good man mens his armour, and trims his helmets plume, when the good wife's shuttle merrily goes flashing through the loom, with weeping and with laughter, still is the story told, how well Horatius kept the bridge, in the brave days of old. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. After Blenheim by Robert Southey From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New Read for Librivox Recording by John Rushton It was a summer evening, Orcasper's work was done, and he, before his cottage door, was sitting in the sun, and by him sported, on the green, his little grandchild, Willamene. She saw her brother Peterkin, roll something large and round, which he, beside the rivulet, in playing there, had found. He came to ask what he had found, that was so large and smooth and round. Orcasper took it from the boy, who stood expectant by, and then the old man shook his head, and with a natural sigh, to some poor fellow's skull said he, who fell in the great victory. I find them in the garden, for there's many here about, and often when I go to plow, the plowshare turns them out. For many thousand men, said he, were slain in that great victory. Now tell us what it was all about. Young Peterkin, he cries, and little Willamene looks up, with wonder-waiting eyes. Now tell us all about the war, and what they fought each other for. It was the English, Orcasper cried, who put the French to rout. But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out. But everybody said, quoth he. That was a famous victory. My father lived in Blenheim then. He on little stream, hard by. They burned his dwelling to the ground, and he was forced to fly. So with his wife and child he fled. Nor had he where to rest his head. With fire and sword the country round, was wasted far and wide, and many a childing mother then, and newborn baby died. But things like that, you know, must be at every famous victory. They say it was a shocking sight, after the field was won. For many thousand bodies here, lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be after a famous victory. Great praise, the Duke of Malbrowen, and our good Prince Eugene. Why, it was a very wicked thing, said little Willamene. No name, my little girl, quoth he. It was a famous victory. And everybody praised the Duke, who this great fight did win. But what good came of it at last? Quoth little Peterkin. Why, that I cannot tell, said he. But it was a famous victory. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Lady Claire, by Alfred Tennyson. From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New. Read for LibriVox.org. Recording by John Rushton. It was the time when lilies blow, and clouds are highest up in air. Lord Ronald brought a lily-white dough, to give his cousin, Lady Claire. I trod they did not part in scorn. Lovers long betrothed they were. They too were wed tomorrow morning. God's blessing on the day. He doth not love me for my birth, nor for my land so broad and fair. He loves me for my own true worth. And that is well, said Lady Claire. In there came Old Alistair Nurse. Said, Who was this that went from thee? It was my cousin, said Lady Claire. Tomorrow he weds with me. O God be thanked, said Alistair Nurse, that all comes round so just and fair. Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, and you are not the Lady Claire. Are ye out your mind, my nurse, my nurse? Said Lady Claire. That ye speak so wild? As God's above, said Alistair Nurse, I speak the truth. You are my child. The old Earl's daughter died at my breast. I speak the truth, as I lived by bread. I buried her like my own sweet child, and put my child in her stead. Falsely, falsely have ye done. O mother, she said, if this be true, to keep the best man under the sun, so many years from his due. Nay now, my child, said Alistair Nurse. But keep the secret for your life, and all you have will be Lord Ronald's, when you are man and wife. If I am a beggar-born, she said, I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, and fling the diamond necklace by. Nay now, my child, said Alistair Nurse. But keep the secret all ye can. She said, not so, but I will know, if there be any faith in man. Nay now, what faith, said Alistair Nurse. The man will cleave unto his right, and he shall have it, the lady replied, though I should die to-night. Yet give one kiss to your mother, dear. Alas, my child, I sinned for thee. O mother, mother, mother, she said, so strange it seems to me. And here's a kiss for my mother, dear. My mother, dear, if this be so, and lay your hand upon my head, and bless me, mother, ere I go. She clad herself in russet gown. She was no longer Lady Claire. She went by dale, and she went by down, with a single rose in her hair. The lily-white dough Lord Ronald had bought, let up from where she lay, dropped her head in the maiden's hand, and followed her all the way. Down-step, Lord Ronald, from his tower. O Lady Claire, you shame your worth. Why come you dressed like a village maid, that are the flower of the earth? If I come like a village maid, I am, but as my fortunes are, I am a beggar-born, she said, and not the Lady Claire. Play me no tricks, said Lord Ronald. For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks, said Lord Ronald. Your riddle is hard to read. O, and proudly stood she up, her heart within her did not fail. She looked in two Lord Ronald's eyes, and told him all her nurse's tale. He laughed a laugh of Mary's scorn, and turned and kissed her where she stood. If you are not the heiress born, and I said he, the next in blood, if you are not the heiress born, and I said he, the lawful heir, we too will wed tomorrow morn, and you shall still be, Lady Claire. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Greenwood Shrift by Robert McCowline-Southy From The Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New, Red for Librivox Recording by John Rushton Outstretched beneath the leafy shade, a Windsor's forest deepest glade, a dying woman lay. Three children round her stood, and there went up from the Greenwood a woeful wail that day. O mother, was the mingle cry. O mother, mother, do not die, and leave us all alone. My blessed babes, she tried to say, but the faint accents died away in a low and sobbing moan. And then, life struggling hard with death, and fast and strong she drew her breath, and up she raised her head, and peering through the deepwood maze, with a long, sharp and earthly gaze, was she not come, she said. Just then, departing bows between, a little maid's light form was seen, or breathless with her speed. And following closer, man came on, a poorly man to look upon, who led a panting steed. Mother, the little maiden cried, aware she reached the woman's side and kissed her cold clay cheek. I have not idled in the town, but long went wandering up and down, the minister to seek. They told me here, they told me there, I think they mocked me everywhere, and when I found his home, and begged him on my bended knee to bring his book and come with me, mother, he would not come. I told him how you dying lay, and could not go in peace away without the minister. I begged him, for dear Christ's sake, but oh, my heart was fit to break. Mother, he would not stir. So though my tears were blinding me, I ran back, fast as fast could be, to come again to you. And here, close by, this squire I met, who asked so mild, what made me fret, and when I told him true. I will go with you, child, he said. God sends me to this dying bed. Mother, he's here, hard by. While thus the little maiden spoke, the man, his back against an oak, looked on with glistening eye, the bridle on his neck hung free, with crivering frank and trembling knee, pressed close his bonny bay. A stately a man, a stately a steed, never on green's ward pace I read, than those to dare that day. So while the little maiden spoke, the man, his back against an oak, looked on with glistening eye, and folded arms, and in his look, something that, like a sermon book, preached all his vanity. But when the dying woman's face turned towards him with a witsful gaze, he stepped to where she lay, and kneeling down, bent over her, saying, I am a minister, my sister, let us pray. And well, without an book or stall, God's words were printed on his soul, into the dying ear he breathed, twas were an angel's strain, that things that unto life pertain, and death's dark shadows clear, he spoke of sinner's lost estate, in Christ's renewed regenerate, of God's most blessed decree, that not a single soul shall die who turns repentant with a cry, be merciful to me. He spoke of trouble, pain, toil, endured but for a little while, in patience, faith, and love, sure in God's own good time to be exchanged for an eternity of happiness above. Then, as the spirit ebbed away, he raised his hands and eyes to pray, that peaceful it might pass. And then the orphan's sobs alone were heard, and they knelt, everyone, close round on the green grass. Such was the sight their wandering eyes beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise, who reigned their courses back, just as they found the longer stray, who, in the heat of chase that day, had wandered from their track. But each man reigned his pouring steed, and lighted down, as if agreed, in silence at his side, and there, uncovered all, they stood. It was a wholesome sight and good, that day, for mortal pride. For the noblest of the land was that deep hushed, bare-headed band, and, central in the ring, by the dead pauper on the ground, her ragged orphans clinging round, knelt there, appointed king. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. The Arab to his favourite steed, by Caroline E. Norton. From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2, Poems Old and New. Read for LibriVox.org. Recording by John Rushton. My beautiful, my beautiful, that stand eth meekly by, with their proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye, fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed, I may not mount on thee again, thou art sold, my Arab steed, fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind, the father that thy flyest now, so far I am behind, the stranger hath thy bridal reign, thy master hath his gold. Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell, thou art sold, my steed, thou art sold. Farewell, those free, untired limbs, for many a mile must roam, to reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home. Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare, thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again, but nevermore with thee, shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were want to be. Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain, some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again. Yes, thou must go, the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky, thy master's house, from all of these, my exiled one must fly. Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet, and vainly shall thy arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright. Only in sleep shall I hear again, that step so firm and light, and when I raise my dreaming arm, to check or cheer thy speed, then must I, starting, wake to feel, thou art sold, my Arab steed. Are rudely, then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, till foam-breathe's lie, like crested waves along thy panting side, and the rich blood that in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein. Will they ill-use thee, if I thought? But no, it cannot be. Thou art so swift, yet easily curb, so gentle, yet so free. And yet, if happily, when thou gone, my lonely heart should yearn, can the hand which cast thee from it, now command thee to return. Return, alas, my Arab steed, what shall thy master do? When thou, who wasst his all of joy, has vanished from his view, when the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears, thy bright form, for a moment, like a false mirage, appears. Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone, where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou after hast borne me on, and sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think. It was here he bowed his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink. When last I saw him drink, away the fear of a dream is o'er. I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more. They tempted me, my beautiful, for hunger's power is strong. They tempted me, my beautiful, but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou was sold? Tis false, tis false, my Arab steed. I fling them back their gold. Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains. Away, who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for his pains. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Old Oaken Bucket by Samuel Woodworth From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New Red for Librivox Recording by John Rushden How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, when fond recollection presents them to view, the orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, and every love spot which my infancy knew, the widespreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, the bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, the cot of my father, the dairy-house night, and e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well, the Old Oaken Bucket, the iron-bound bucket, the moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure, for often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it a source of an exquisite pleasure, the purist and sweetest that nature can yield, how ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, and quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell, then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, and dripping with coolness it rose from the well, the Old Oaken Bucket, the iron-bound bucket, the moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, as poised on the curb it inclined to my lips, not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, the brightest at beauty or revelry sips, and now, far removed from the loved habitation, the tear of regret will intrusively swell, as fancy reverts to my father's plantation, and sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well. The Old Oaken Bucket, the iron-bound bucket, the moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well. End of poem.