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1 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, with the exception of Robert Browning the greatest of the Victorian poets, was born in 1810 at Somersby, Lincolnshire. He was of an ancient family, was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, and published his first poems while still in college. He was made poet-laureate in 1850, on the death of Wordsworth, and was made a peer in 1884. He led a retired life at his homes in the Isle of Wight and in Surrey, and wrote and published many poems. His longest and most important poems are the Idylls of the King and In Memoriam, and his lyrics and songs are many of them of great beauty. He died in 1892.

2 This refers to the period of the war between Mexico and the United States. The battle of Monterey was fought September 24, 1846.

In the mist of the morning damp and gray, These were the words they seemned to say: "Come forth to thy death,

Victor Galbraith!"

Forth he came, with a martial tread;
Firm was his step, erect his head;
Victor Galbraith,

He who so well the bugle played,
Could not mistake the words it said:
"Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!"

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,
He looked at the files of musketry,

Victor Galbraith!

And he said, with a steady voice and eye, "Take good aim; I am ready to die!"

Thus challenges death

Victor Galbraith.

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped;

Victor Galbraith

Falls to the ground, but he is not dead;
His name was not stamped on those balls of lead
And they only scath

Victor Galbraith.

Three balls are in his breast and brain,
But he rises out of the dust again,

Victor Galbraith!

The water he drinks has a bloody stain

"O kill me, and put me out of my pain!" In his agony prayeth

Victor Galbraith.

Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,
And the bugler has died a death of shame,
Victor Galbraith!

His soul has gone back to whence it came,
And no one answers to the name,

When the sergeant saith,
"Victor Galbraith

Under the walls of Monterey

By night a bugle is heard to play,
Victor Galbraith!

Through the mist of the valley damp and gray,
The sentinels hear the sound, and say,

"That is the wraith

Of Victor Galbraith!"

HENRY WADSWORTH LOngfellow.

THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers; There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while the life-blood ebbed away,

And bent with pitying glance to hear each word he

had to say.

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's

hand,

And he said: "I never more shall see my own

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native land!

Take a message and a token to the distant friends of

mine,

For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,

That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting

sun;

And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in

wars,

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars!

But some were young, and suddenly beheld Life's morn decline,

And one had come from Bingen fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her

old age,

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a

cage;

For my father was a soldier, and, even when a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword!

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen - calm Bingen on the

Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,

When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and stead

fast eye,

For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die !

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret and shame ; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen - dear Bingen on the Rhine !

"There's another, not a sister, in happy days gone by,

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorn

ing,

O! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life for ere the morn be risen,

My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of

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I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sun

light shine

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen fair Bingen on the

Rhine!

I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed

to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;

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