And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
    But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
    And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
    And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

    And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
    With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail,
    And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
    The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

    And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
    And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
    And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
    Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

LORD BYRON.

 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

    I remember, I remember
    The house where I was born,
    The little window where the sun
    Came peeping in at morn;
    He never came a wink too soon
    Nor brought too long a day;
    But now, I often wish the night
    Had borne my breath away.

    I remember, I remember
    The roses, red and white,
    The violets, and the lily-cups—­
    Those flowers made of light! 
    The lilacs where the robin built,
    And where my brother set
    The laburnum on his birthday,—­
    The tree is living yet!

    I remember, I remember
    Where I was used to swing,
    And thought the air must rush as fresh
    To swallows on the wing;
    My spirit flew in feathers then
    That is so heavy now,
    And summer pools could hardly cool
    The fever on my brow.

    I remember, I remember
    The fir trees dark and high;
    I used to think their slender tops
    Were close against the sky: 
    It was a childish ignorance,
    But now ’tis little joy
    To know I’m farther off from Heaven
    Than when I was a boy.

THOMAS HOOD.

 DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

    Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
      He turned them into the river lane;
    One after another he let them pass,
      Then fastened the meadow bars again.

    Under the willows and over the hill,
      He patiently followed their sober pace;
    The merry whistle for once was still,
      And something shadowed the sunny face.

    Only a boy! and his father had said
      He never could let his youngest go: 
    Two already were lying dead,
      Under the feet of the trampling foe.

    But after the evening work was done,
      And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp,
    Over his shoulder he slung his gun,
      And stealthily followed the footpath damp.

    Across the clover, and through the wheat,
      With resolute heart and purpose grim: 
    Though the dew was on his hurrying feet,
      And the blind bat’s flitting startled him.