Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
"What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"
"Why, you shall say at break of day:
'Sail oni sail on! sail on! and on!'

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
"Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say-
He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
"This mad sea shows his teeth tonight.
He curls his lip, he lies in wait,
He lifts his teeth as if to bite!
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?"
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then pale and worn, he paced his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! And then a speck-
A light! A light! At last a light!

It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

The Defense of the Alamo

Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come;
There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade;
There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum-

Full seven proud thousand in pomp and parade,

The chivalry, flower of all Mexico;

And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo !

And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through; For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long. "Surrender, or die!"-"Men, what will you do?"

And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong; Drew a line at his feet. "Will you come? Will you go?

I die with my wounded, in the Alamo."

Then Bowie gasped, “Guide me over that line!"

Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun, Crossed with him; then never a word or a sign

Till all, sick or well, all, all, save but one,

One man. Then a woman stopped praying, and slow
Across, to die with the heroes of the Alamo.

Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that night,
When all men silently prayed and thought

Of home; of tomorrow; of God and the right;

Till dawn; then Travis sent his single last cannon-shot,
In answer to insolent Mexico,

From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.

Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame:

Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand:

Such an unequal fight as never had name

Since the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band.
All day-all day and all night, and the morning? so slow,
Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo.

Then silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay dead
In a crescent outside! And within? Not a breath
Save the gasp of a woman, with gory, gashed head,
All alone, with her dead there, waiting for death;
And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we know
Another like this of the Alamo?

Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!"

I say, 'tis not always with the hosts that win; say that the victory, high or low,

I

Is given the hero who grapples with sin,
Or legion or single; just asking to know
When duty fronts death in his Alamo.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD (1841-)

Driving Home the Cows

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turned them into the river-lane;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow-bars again.

Under the willows, and over the hill,
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,

And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go:
Two already were lying dead

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp.

Across the clover, and through the wheat,
With resolute heart and purpose grim,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late.

He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming one by one:

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grassBut who was it following close behind?

Loosely swung in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead unto life again;
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes;
For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb:
And under the silent evening skies

Together they followed the cattle home.

CHARLES EDWARD CARRYL (1841—)

Robinson Crusoe's Story

The night was thick and hazy
When the "Piccadilly Daisy"

Carried down the crew and captain in the sea;
And I think the water drowned 'em;
For they never, never found 'em

And I know they didn't come ashore with me.

Oh! 'twas very sad and lonely
When I found myself the only
Population on this cultivated shore;
But I've made a little tavern
In a rocky little cavern,

And I sit and watch for people at the door.

I spent no time in looking
For a girl to do my cooking,

As I'm quite a clever hand at making stews;
But I had that fellow Friday,

Just to keep the tavern tidy,

And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.

I have a little garden

That I'm cultivating lard in,

As the things I eat are rather tough and dry;
For I live on toasted lizards,

Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards,

And I'm really very fond of beetle-pie.

The clothes I had were furry,
And it made me fret and worry

When I found the moths were eating off the hair;
And I had to scrape and sand 'em,

And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em,

Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.

I sometimes seek diversion
In a family excursion

With the few domestic animals you see;
And we take along a carrot
As refreshment for the parrot,

And a little can of jungleberry tea.

Then we gather as we travel,
Bits of moss and dirty gravel,

And we chip off little specimens of stone;

And we carry home as prizes
Funny bugs, of handy sizes,

Just to give the day a scientific tone.

If the roads are wet and muddy
We remain at home and study,-
For the Goat is very clever at a sum,-
And the Dog, instead of fighting,
Studies ornamental writing,

While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.

We retire at eleven,

And we rise again at seven ;

And I wish to call attention, as I close,
To the fact that all the scholars
Are correct about their collars,
And particular in turning out their toes.

SIDNEY LANIER (1842-1881)

The Marshes of Glynn

Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven
With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven
Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs,-
Emerald twilights,-
Virginal shy lights,

Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, When lovers pace timidly down through the green colonnades Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods,

Of the heavenly woods and glades,

That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within
The wide sea-marshes of Glynn;-

Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noonday fire,—
Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire,

Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves,

Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves,

Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood,
Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good ;-

O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine,
While the riotous noonday sun of the June-day long did shine
Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine;
But now when the moon is no more, and riot is rest,
And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West,
And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem
Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream-