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THE SEA.

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled:
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead!

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown.
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen -fair Bingen on the Rhine.

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THROUGH the night, through the night,

In the saddest unrest,

Wrapt in white, all in white,

With her babe on her breast,

Walks the mother so pale,

Staring out on the gale

Through the night!

HOME, SWEET HOME!

Through the night, through the night,

Where the sea lifts the wreck,
Land in sight, close in sight!
On the surf-flooded deck
Stands the father so brave,

Driving on to his grave

Through the night!

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

HOME, SWEET HOME!

'MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it never so humble, there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home! Sweet home!

There's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
O give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call:
Give me these, and the peace of mind dearer than all.
Home, home! Sweet home!

There's no place like home!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

" Mid pleasures & palaces though

Be it ever
A charm from the sky seems

so humble, there's

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which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere!

Home, home! sweet, sweet Home!
There's no place like Home !

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An exile from Home, splendour dazzles in vain! _

Oh, give для

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lowly thatch'd cottage again !

The birds singing gaily that

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call

them! — and the peace of mind dearer than all!

John Stoward Payne.,

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WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot; There, woodınan, let it stand: Thine axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke:

Cut not its earth-bound ties.

O, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here,

My father pressed my hand.
Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand.

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