Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that drip ping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou 'dst leap within the sea! Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland; Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave. Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among! SAMUEL FERGUSON. The plesant waters I've heard bells chiming Brass tongues would vibrate; But all their music Spoke naught like thine. For memory, dwelling The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling From the Vatican,— Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. Oh! the bells of Shandon The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow; The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer, From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. FRANCIS MAHONY. The Death of Napoleon. WILD was the night, yet a wilder night A few fond mourners were kneeling by, They knew by his awful and kingly look, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, The bearded Russian he scourged again, Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams He led again, in his dying dreams, Again Marengo's field was won, He died at the close of that darksome day, In the rocky land they placed his clay, ISSAC MCCLELLAN, The Grave of Bonaparte. On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle: He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain;— He sleeps his last sleep-he has fought his last battle! No sound can awake him to glory again! O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions And all save the fame of their triumph is gone! They heed not, they hear not, they 're free from all pain: They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle! No sound can awake them to glory again! Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, Widow Malone. ANONYMOUS. DID you hear of the Widow Malone, Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone! O, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts,— Ohone! So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score, Or more, |