Long may our land be bright With freedom's holy light; Protect us by thy might, Great God our King.

SAMUEL FRANCIS SMITH.

TWO VIEWS OF WAR.

STIRRING drums in a sunny street,
A bonnie flag in an azure sky,
A luring melody, tramping feet,
And hope in many an eye.

Death in a still and shadowed room,
A pallid boyish face at rest,
A sunbeam quivering in the gloom,
And woe in a woman's breast.

HENRY ROBINSON PALMER.

THE BRAVE AT HOME.

THE maid who binds her warrior's sash
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though Heaven alone records the tear,
And Fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear

As e'er bedewed the field of glory!

The wife who girds her husband's sword, 'Mid little ones who weep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word,

What though her heart be rent asunder, Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear

The bolts of death around him rattle, Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief

While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,

With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on Freedom's field of honor!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

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 footpath 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.