And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire.

But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
What was done? what to do? a glance told him both,
Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,

He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because

The sight of the master compelled it to pause.

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;
By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils' play,
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester, down to save the day."

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldiers' Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester-twenty miles away!"

THE MINSTREL BOY.

BY THOMAS Moore.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him ;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him—
"Land of song!" said the warrior bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee !"

The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its cords asunder;

And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery !

Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery !"

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells:

The chord alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

Go where glory waits thee,
But while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,
Oh! then remember me.
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee
Sweeter far may be;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,

Oh! then remember me.

When at eve thou rovest

By the star thou lovest,

Oh! then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we have seen it burning, Oh! thus remember me. Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee, dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! then remember me.
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh! still remember me.
Then, should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thec,—

Oh! then remember me.

LOCHINVAR.

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

OH, young Lochinvar is come out of the west!
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar !
He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none-

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

'Mong bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all! Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword— For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war ?— Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?" "I long woo'd you daughter, my suit you denied: Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide! And now I am come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine! There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, Who would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar !"