The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse—all his hardships seem o'er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest"O God! thou hast blest me,-I ask for no more.

Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye?
Ah! what is that sound that now 'larums his ear?
"Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crashing of thunder, the groan of the sphere!
He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire; -
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck,
The masts fly in splinters-the shrouds are on fire!

Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell;

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save;— Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death-angel flaps his dark wings o'er the wave.

O sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss; Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright, Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss.

O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again

Shall love, home or kindred thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge.

On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid,
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years and ages shall circle away,

And still the vast waters above thee shall roll; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye

O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul!

88. THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.-Robert Lowell.

P., O. and A., all kinds of force.

Med. Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort!

Low.

We knew that it was the last:
That the enemy's lines crept surely on,
And the end was coming fast.

To yield to that foe was worse than death,
And the men and we all worked on;
It was one day more of smoke and roar,
And then it would all be done.

Med. There was one of us, a corporal's wife,
A fair, young, gentle thing,
Wasted with fever in the siege,

High.

Med.

And her mind was wandering.

She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid,
And I took her head on my knee:

"When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said,
"Oh! then please waken me.

She slept like a child on her father's floor
In the flecking of woodbine-shade,
When the house-dog sprawls by the open door,
And the mother's wheel is staid.

Low. It was smoke and roar and powder-stench,
And hopeless waiting for death;

Med.

And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child,
Seemed scarce to draw her breath.

I sank to sleep; and I had my dream
Of an English village-lane

High. And wall and garden;—but one wild scream
Brought me back to the roar again.

Low.

Med.

4.

There Jessie Brown stood listening,
Till a sudden gladness broke

All over her face, and she caught my hand
And drew me near, as she spoke:

High. "The Hielanders! Oh! dinna ye hear

The slogan far awa?

The McGregor's? Oh! I ken it weel;

It's the grandest o' them a'!

"God bless the bonny Hielanders!

We're saved! we're saved!" she cried;

Med. O. And fell on her knees, and thanks to God
Flowed forth like a full flood-tide

A.

Along the battery-line her cry

Had fallen among the men,

And they started back; - they were there to die;
But was life so near them then?

They listened for life: the rattling fire
Far off, and the far-off roar

Low 0. Were all; and the colonel shook his head,
And they turned to their guns once more.

High. But Jessie said, "The slogan's done;
But winna ye hear it noo?

The Campbells are comin'! It's nae a dream;
Our succors hae broken through!"

Low. We heard the roar and the rattle afar,
Med.
But the pipes we could not hear;

Low. So the men plied their work of hopeless war,
And knew that the end was near.

Med.

It was not long ere it made its way,-
A shrilling, ceaseless sound:

It was no noise from the strife afar,
Or the sappers under ground.

High. It was the pipes of the Highlanders!
And now they played Auld Lang Syne;
It came to our men like the voice of God,
And they shouted along the line.

A.

And they wept, and shook one another's hands,
And the women sobbed in a crowd;

And every one knelt down where he stood
And we all thanked God aloud.

Med. O. That happy time, when we welcomed them,
Our men put Jessie first;

And the general gave her his hand, and cheers
Like a storm from the soldiers burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartans streamed,
Marching round and round our line;
And our joyful cheers were broken with tears
As the pipers played Auld Lang Syne.

89. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.-Alfred Tennyson. Explosive O., medium pitch, poetic monotone.

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Charge," was the captain's cry;

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them,

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well;

Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd:

Plunged in the battery-smoke,
Right thro' the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made'
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!

90. THE BUGLE SONG.-Alfred Tennyson.

Effusive P. and O., medium and high pitch.

The splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story;

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh, hark! Oh, hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;