The stripling clutched it with the strength
Of manhood in his grip,
While flash'd and flam'd his eye

And proudly curl'd his lip!

of fire,

And "Mother," quoth that soldier boy,
As rose and fell his breath,
"I'll with it come, or on it lie,
Subdued alone by death!"

Forth went he then, his young
With glorious, god-like hope,
To war in Lacedæmon's ranks,
And with the Persian cope!

cheek flush'd

He went, he fought, and in the lines
Of Sparta's phalanx band

His scythe-like blade mow'd men like corn,
Held by his red right hand!

Where spears most bristled, and where blood
In purple streams was spent,
There fought he like a lion's whelp,
On deeds of daring bent!

Like bolts of thunder fell the dints,
Thick on his batter'd shield,
But yet his ardent spirit scorn'd
An inch of ground to yield!

And still, as avalanchs of foes
That well-worn shield defied,
The Spartan Lad, his mother's words,
"With it or on it,” cried!

At length the day is gain'd, but lo!
As Parthia's horsemen fly,

The poison'd arrows from their bows,
Becloud the crimson sky:

And one, with aim unerring shot,

More cruel than the rest,

Strikes through the stripling's coat of mail,
And lodges in his breast.

Alack! the tide of life wells out,
The film is on his eyes,

As with last breath the Spartan youth,
"On it, not with it," cries!

'Tis done! they place him on the shield—
Place his cold body there,

For ah! his brave young soul is now
Pluming Elysian air.

They lay, then, on the shield his corpse,

Slain in an evil hour;

That bud of valour, that seem'd form'd
To bloom a perfect flow'r.

On the broad buckler set they it,
And back to Sparta go,
Calm and unruffl'd ev'ry face,

But big each heart with woe!

And at his Spartan mother's feet,
Her boy, but now so strong,
They lay-not with his shield in hand,
But on it stretch'd along!

(Contributed by the Author.)

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

[Mr. Greene was born in Providence, Rhode Island, February 10th, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, and graduated 1820. He was admitted a member of the American

The stripling clutched it with the strength
Of manhood in his grip,

While flash'd and flam'd his eye of fire,
And proudly curl'd his lip!

And "Mother," quoth that soldier boy,
As rose and fell his breath,
“I'll with it come, or on it lie,
Subdued alone by death!"

Forth went he then, his young cheek flush'd
With glorious, god-like hope,

To war in Lacedæmon's ranks,
And with the Persian cope!

He went, he fought, and in the lines
Of Sparta's phalanx band

His scythe-like blade mow'd men like corn,
Held by his red right hand!

Where spears most bristled, and where blood
In purple streams was spent,
There fought he like a lion's whelp,

On deeds of daring bent!

Like bolts of thunder fell the dints,
Thick on his batter'd shield,
But yet his ardent spirit scorn'd
An inch of ground to yield!

And still, as avalanchs of foes
That well-worn shield defied,
The Spartan Lad, his mother's words,
"With it or on it,” cried!

At length the day is gain'd, but lo!
As Parthia's horsemen fly,

The poison'd arrows from their bows,
Becloud the crimson sky:

And one, with aim unerring shot,

More cruel than the rest,

Strikes through the stripling's coat of mail,
And lodges in his breast.

Alack! the tide of life wells out,
The film is on his eyes,

As with last breath the Spartan youth,
"On it, not with it," cries!

'Tis done! they place him on the shield—
Place his cold body there,

For ah! his brave young soul is now
Pluming Elysian air.

They lay, then, on the shield his corpse,
Slain in an evil hour;

That bud of valour, that seem'd form'd
To bloom a perfect flow'r.

On the broad buckler set they it,
And back to Sparta go,

Calm and unruffl'd ev'ry face,

But big each heart with woe!

And at his Spartan mother's feet,
Her boy, but now so strong,
They lay-not with his shield in hand,
But on it stretch'd along!

(Contributed by the Author.)

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

[Mr. Greene was born in Providence, Rhode Island, February 10th, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, and graduated 1820. He was admitted a member of the American

bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he obtained official employment.

His poems were chiefly written for periodicals and for delivering at various literary institutions, for which they are well adapted.]

O'ER a low couch the setting sun

Had thrown its latest ray,
Where in his last strong agony
A dying warrior lay,

The stern old Baron RUDIGER,

Whose frame had ne'er been beut
By wasting pain, till time and toil
Its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and
My days of life are o'er,

That I shall mount my noble steed
And lead my band no more;

say

They come, and to my beard they dare
To tell me now, that I,

Their own liege lord and master born,―
That I-ha! ha!-must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft
Before the Paynim spear,-
Think ye he's entered at my gate,

Has come to seek me here ?
I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him,
When the fight was raging hot,—
I'll try his might—I'll brave his power;
Defy, and fear him not.

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,

And fire the culverin,—

Bid each retainer arm with speed,

Call every vassal in;

Up with my banner on the wall,

The banquet board prepare,-
Throw wide the portal of my hall,
And bring my armour there!"