Along the street there comes A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; And loyal hearts are beating high: Hats off!

The flag is pa.s.sing by!

HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT.

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills or stained snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave Who rush to glory or the grave!

Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part, where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulcher.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME.

The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home; 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; The corn-top's ripe, and the meadow's in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day.

The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy and bright; By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door:-- Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

Weep no more, my lady, O, weep no more to-day!

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home, far away.

They hunt no more for the 'possum and the c.o.o.n, On the meadow, the hill, and the sh.o.r.e; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door.

The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart, With sorrow, where all was delight; The time has come when the darkeys have to part:-- Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go; A few more days, and the trouble all will end, In the field where the sugar-canes grow.

A few more days for to tote the weary load,-- No matter, 'twill never be light; A few more days till we totter on the road:-- Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

Weep no more, my lady, O, weep no more to-day!

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home, far away.

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

OLD FOLKS AT HOME.

Way down upon de Swanee Ribber, Far, far away, Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber, Dere's wha de old folks stay.

All up and down de whole creation Sadly I roam, Still longing for de old plantation, And for de old folks at home.

All de world am sad and dreary, Eberywhere I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home!

All round de little farm I wandered When I was young, Den many happy days I squandered, Many de songs I sung.

When I was playing wid my brudder Happy was I; Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!

Dere let me live and die.

One little hut among de bushes, One dat I love, Still sadly to my memory rushes, No matter where I rove.

When will I see de bees a-humming All round de comb?

When will I hear de banjo tumming, Down in my good old home?

All de world am sad and dreary, Eberywhere I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home!

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

THE WRECK OF THE "HESPERUS."

"The Wreck of the _Hesperus_," by Longfellow (1807-82), on "Norman's Woe," off the coast near Cape Ann, is a historic poem as well as an imaginative composition.

It was the schooner _Hesperus_, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor, Had sailed the Spanish Main, "I pray thee put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!"

The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?"

"Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"-- And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be?"

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?"

But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.