'Tis now the very witching time of night;
When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world; now could I drink hot blood,
And do such business as the better day
Would quake to look on. Soft: now to my mother-
Oh, heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom :
Let me be cruel, not unnatural:
I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
A BALLAD OF NANTUCKET.
"WHERE go you, pretty Maggie,
Where go you in the rain?"
"I go to ask the sailors
Who sailed the Spanish main,
"If they have seen my Willie,
If he'll come back to me,-
It is so sad to have him
A-sailing on the sea."
"O Maggie, pretty Maggie,
Turn back to yonder town;
Your Willie's in the ocean,
A hundred fathoms down!
"His hair is turned to sea-kelp,
His eyes are changed to stones,
And twice two years have knitted
The coral round his bones!
"The blossoms and the clover
Shall bloom and bloom again,
But never shall your lover
Come o'er the Spanish main!"
But Maggie never heeded,
For mournfully she said:
"It is so sad to have him
A-sailing on the sea."
She left me in the darkness:
I heard the sea-gulls screech,
And burly winds were growling
With breakers on the beach.
The bells of old Nantucket,
What touching things they said,
When Maggie lay a-sleeping
With lilies round her head.
The parson preached a sermon,
And prayed and preached again, -
But she had gone to Willie
Across the Spanish main!
THE IVY-GREEN.
OH! a dainty plant is the ivy-green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old;
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lonely and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To please his dainty whim;
And the moldering dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy-green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old head hath he;
How closely he 'twineth - how tightly he clings
To his friend, the huge oak-tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs, and crawleth round
The rich mold of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death hath been,
A rare old plant is the ivy-green.
Whole ages have fled and works decay'd,
And nations have scatter'd been;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten on the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the ivy's food at last.
Creeping where grim death hath been,
A rare old plant is the ivy-green.
THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.
U SAY, can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly stream
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream;
'Tis the star-spangled banner! O, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
O, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto, "In God is our trust;"
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Francis Scott Key.
THE MARSEILLES HYMN.
YE sons of freedom, wake to glory!
Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries.
Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While peace and liberty lie bleeding?
To arms! to arms! ye brave!
Th' avenging sword unsheath:
March on
march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death.
Now, now, the dangerous storm is rolling,
Which treacherous kings confederate raise;
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
And lo! our fields and cities blaze;
And shall we basely view the ruin,
While lawless force with guilty stride,
Spreads desolation far and wide,
With crimes and blood his hands imbruing?
To arms! to arms! ye brave, &c.
With luxury and pride surrounded,
The vile, insatiate despots dare
(Their thirst of power and gold unbounded)
To mete and vend the light and air.
Like beasts of burden would they load us,
Like gods would bid their slaves adore;
and who is more?
Then shall they longer lash and goad us?
To arms! to arms! ye brave, &c.
O Liberty, can man resign thee,
Once having felt thy generous flame?
Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee?
Or whips thy noble spirit tame?
Too long the world has wept, bewailing
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