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So peace instead of death let us bring:

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet

To our King.”

Then Denmark blest our chief That he gave her wounds repose;

And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day:

While the sun looked smiling bright
O’er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light

Died away

Now joy, old England, raise
For the tidings of thy might,

By the festal cities' blaze,
Whilst the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep
By thy wild and stormy steep,


Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died With the gallant good Riou: Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!

Thomas Campbell




"OLL for the brave

brave! that are no more:
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore.

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel
And laid her on her side;

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave-
Brave Kempenfelt is gone,

His last sea fight is fought,
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle,
No tempest gave the shock,

She sprang no fatal leak,
She ran upon no rock;

His sword was in the sheath,
His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes,

And mingle with your cup
The tears that England owes;

Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,

Full charged with England's thunder,
And plow the distant main;

But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred
Must plow the wave no more.

William Cowper



Come to my sunland! Come with me
To the land I love; where the sun and sea
Are wed forever: where palm and pine
Are filled with singers; where tree and vine
Are voiced with prophets! O come, and you
Shall sing a song with the seas that swirl
And kiss their hands to the cold white girl,
To the maiden moon in her mantle of blue.

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E was all man: let this be said


brave dishonored dead.
I ask no more, this is not much,
Yet I disdain a colder touch
To memory as dear as his;
For he was true as any star,

And brave as Yuba's grizzlies are, Reprinted with the permission of Mrs. Abbie Leland Miller, and of G. P. Putnam's Sons, publishers of Joaquin Miller's complete Poetical Works, copyright, 1923, by Abbie Leland Miller.—The text is substantially that dated by the author"London, 1871," and published by Roberts Brothers, Boston, 1872.

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Yet gentle as the panther is
Mouthing her young in her first fierce kiss;
Tall, courtly, grand as any king,
Yet simple as a child at play,
In camp and court the same alway,
And never moved at anything;
A dash of sadness in his air,
Born, may be, of his over care,
And, may be, born of a despair
In early love—I never knew;
I questioned not, as many do,
Of things as sacred as this is;
I only knew that he to me
Was all a father, friend, could be;
I sought to know no more than this
Of history of him or his.

A piercing eye, a princely air, A presence like a chevalier, Half angel and half Lucifer; Fair fingers, jeweled manifold With great gems set in hoops of gold; Sombrero black, with plume of snow That swept his long silk locks below; A red serape with bars of gold, Heedless falling, fold on fold; A sash of silk, where flashing swung A sword as swift as serpent's tongue, In sheath of silver chased in gold; A face of blended pride and pain, Of mingled pleading and disdain, With shades of glory and of grief; And Spanish spurs with bells of steel That dashed and dangled at the heel —

The famous filibuster chief
Stood by his tent ’mid tall brown trees
That top the fierce Cordilleras,
With bent arm arched above his brow;-
Stood still—he stands, a picture, now-
Long gazing down the sunset seas.


What strange strong bearded men were these He led toward the tropic seas! Men sometime of uncommon birth, Men rich in histories untold, Who boasted not, though more than bold, Blown from the four parts of the earth, Men mighty-thewed as Samson was, That had been kings in any cause, A remnant of the races past; Dark-browed as if in iron cast, Broad-breasted as twin gates of brass, Men strangely brave and fiercely true, Who dared the West when giants were, Who erred, yet bravely dared to err; A remnant of that early few Who held no crime or curse or vice As dark as that of cowardice; With blendings of the worst and best Of faults and virtues that have blest Or cursed or thrilled the human breast.

They rode, a troop of bearded men,
Rode two and two out from the town,
And some were blond and some were brown
And all as brave as Sioux; but when
From San Bennetto south the line

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