Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untamed,
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring--
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.
A FISHERMAN'S SONG.
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Hurrah! the craft is dashing
Athwart the briny sea;
Hurrah! the wind is lashing
The white sails merrily;
The sun is shining overhead,
The rough sea heaves below;
We sail with every canvas spread,
Yo ho! my lads, yo ho!
Simple is our vocation,
We seek no hostile strife;
But 'mid the storm's vexation
We succour human life;
O, simple are our pleasures,
We crave no miser's hoard,
But haul the great sea's treasures
To spread a frugal board.
Pages:
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356