The flames rolled on--he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud; 'Say, father! say
If yet my task is done!'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;
He looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair,
And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder-sound--
The boy--O! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea:
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part!
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.
_Hemans._
LXXXII
THE PILGRIM FATHERS
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Pages:
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155