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To hear again such music sung
Would make a yeteran heart grow young."

My mother's cheek turned somewhat red
To hear the praise so bluflly said;
It seemed to bring the vanished days
What time her song was used to praise.
She looked, and smiled, and shook her head,

And said her voice had lost its power,
Her singing summer-day had sped,

And she was in her autumn bower; The water of a spring-time brook

Makes plenteous music through the land, But surely 'twas an idle look

Which sought it in October's sand; Her harp, too, since that night of pain Had never known its chords again.

But still within her secret breast
She thought to humor him were best :
What though her voice had somewhat failed,
His aged ear, so long assailed

By Winter, could not be o'er nice,--
The sense so long inured to storm
Might deem the cadence still was warm,

Nor note its chill of autumn ice :

And thus, to please an old man's whim, With folded hands, she sang to him.



When sailed our swift eagle

O’er valley and highland,
The foe, like a sea-gull,

Fled back to his island, -
Fled back to his king-land,
His home in the

The white cliffs of England,

His pride and devotion.



and contentment
Fill cottage and manor;
No star of resentment

Is lit on our banner.
Our cannon is sleeping

The port-shadows under;
The spell in its keeping

Let naught break agunder.


The impotent taunt let

Go by,--the wind brings it;
But not the red gauntlet,

No matter who flings it.
Who palters and falters,

Ne'er hearken his story,
But strike for your altars,

For Freedom and Glory.

"Nay, never say," the old man cried, “ Your voice is like a brooklet dried; But rather say 'tis filled again, O'erflowing with the autumn rain.

It carries me back, both brain and heart,

As if a gale swept o'er the scroll;

I see the storied past unroll; And now, methinks, I may impart

Something of Nora and the child.

My memory is a restive colt,

Stubborn at times, contrary, wild, At the wrong moment apt to bolt;

But wine upon an old man's lip,
To such a steed, is spur and whip."

Then laughed he his accustomed laugh,

That shook the glasses on the board, And, with a long and breathless quaff,

The wine across his lip was poured: The goblet dropt from out his hold,

And crashed to fragments on the floor; Slow sank his chin, slow drooped his lid, His heavy hands beside him slid;

He slept,-ay, slept,—but breathed no more, And left the story still untold.

As when some monarch of the trees,

Which held so long defiant state Against the lightning and the gale,

O'erborne at last by its own weight, While laughing in the passing breeze,

Falls prone in the astonished vale, So fell our grand old Hercules.


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