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And startled at the sight, like the weird

woman of Endor,

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn !

KILLED AT THE FORD.

HE is dead, the beautiful youth,
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose
pleasant word,

Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along,
Down the dark of the mountain gap,
To visit the picket-guard at the ford,
Little dreaming of any mishap,
He was humming the words of some old

song:

"Two red roses he had on his cap, And another he bore at the point of his sword."

Sudden and swift a whistling ball Came out of a wood, and the voice was still;

Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead; But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him up to his saddle again, And through the mire and the mist and the rain

Carried him back to the silent camp,
And laid him as if asleep on his bed;
And I saw by the light of the surgeon's
lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,
And one, just over his heart, blood-red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth,
Till it reached a town in the distant
North,

Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;
And a bell was tolled, in that far-off town,
For one who had passed from cross to
crown,

And the neighbors wondered that she should die.

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O STAR of morning and of liberty!

O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines

Above the darkness of the Apennines, Forerunner of the day that is to be! The voices of the city and the sea,

The voices of the mountains and the pines,

Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights,

Through all the nations, and a sound is heard,

As of a mighty wind, and men devout, Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,

In their own language hear thy wondrous word,

And many are amazed and many doubt.

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Derrière eux un Bordelais,
Gascon, s'il en fut jamais,
Parfumé de poésie

Riait, chantait, plein de vie, "Bons amis,

J'ai soupé chez Agassiz!'

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Avec ce beau cadet roux,
Bras dessus et bras dessous,
Mine altière et couleur terne,
Vint le Sire de Sauterne;
"Bons amis,
J'ai couché chez Agassiz!"

Mais le dernier de ces preux,
Etait un pauvre Chartreux,
Qui disait, d'un ton robuste,
"Bénédictions sur le Juste !
Bons amis
Bénissons Père Agassiz!"

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