With a golden comb she combs it,

And a low song singeth she; A song of sadness and longing, A wonderful melody.

As the strains come floating o'er him,
The boatman, rowing by,

Sees naught of the cliffs before him,
He only looks on high.

Soon the waves are angrily flinging
The boat and boatman down;
And this, with her wondrous singing,
The Lorelei has done.

THE SONG OF THE CAMP

GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camp allied

Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said,
"We storm the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon:

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:

Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With screams of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim

For a singer, dumb and gory;

And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest

Your truth and valor wearing :

The bravest are the tenderest,

The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

“BREATHES THERE THE MAN"

BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land?

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime

Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time,
Soon as the woods on the shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.

Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl,
But, when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon

Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.
THOMAS MOORE.