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The chief's eye flash’d, but presently
Soften'd itself, as sheathes A film the mother eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes : “You're wounded !" “ Nay,” his soldier's pride
Touch'd to the quick, he said, “ I'm kill'd, sire!" And, his chief beside,
Smiling, the boy fell dead.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
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
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
flown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the
blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolld 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-heating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail ;
sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !
BINGEN ON THE RHINE.
A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was
dearth of woman's tears, But a
comrade stood beside him, whi his life
blood ebb'd away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he
might say. The dying soldier falter'd as he took that comrade's
hand, And he said, “ I never more shall see my own, my
native land ; Take a message and a token to some distant friends
of mine, For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the
“Tell my brothers and companions, when they
meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard
ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the
day was done
Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the
setting sun. And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown
old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last
of many scars; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's
morn decline, And one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the
“ Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort
her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home
a cage, For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leap'd forth to hear him tell of struggles
fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty
hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my
father's sword, And with boyish love I hung it where the bright
light used to shine On the cottage-wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on
“ Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with
drooping head, When the troops are marching home again with
glad and gallant tread,