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Institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 157 pages of information about De La Salle Fifth Reader.

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77

Brit’ on (un) ant’ lers wrin’ kled vet’ er an im mor’ tal

THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.

He lay upon his dying bed,
His eye was growing dim,
When, with a feeble voice, he called
His weeping son to him: 
“Weep not, my boy,” the veteran said,
“I bow to heaven’s high will;
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The sword of Bunker Hill.”

The sword was brought; the soldier’s eye
Lit with a sudden flame;
And, as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren’s name;
Then said, “My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is richer still,
I leave you, mark me, mark me well,
The sword of Bunker Hill.

“’Twas on that dread, immortal day,
I dared the Briton’s band;
A captain raised his blade on me,
I tore it from his hand;
And while the glorious battle raged,
It lightened Freedom’s will;
For, son, the God of Freedom blessed
The sword of Bunker Hill.

“Oh! keep this sword,” his accents broke,—­
A smile—­and he was dead;
But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade,
Upon that dying bed. 
The son remains, the sword remains,
Its glory growing still,
And twenty millions bless the sire
And sword of Bunker Hill.

William R. Wallace.

[Illustration:]

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78

es’ say buoy’ ant in sip’ id fe quent’ ing scowl’ ing ly sug ges’ tion in tel’ li gence sin’ gu lar ly so lic’ i tude com pet’ i tor phi los’ o pher ve’ he ment ly tre men’ dous ly ex pos tu la’ tion ig no min’ i ous ly

THE MARTYR’S BOY.

It is a youth full of grace, and sprightliness, and candor, that comes forward with light and buoyant steps across the open court, towards the inner hall; and we shall hardly find time to sketch him before he reaches it.  He is about fourteen years old, but tall for that age, with elegance of form and manliness of bearing.  His bare neck and limbs are well developed by healthy exercise; his features display an open and warm heart, while his lofty forehead, round which his brown hair naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence.  He wears the usual youth’s garment, the short toga, reaching below the knee, and a hollow spheroid of gold suspended round his neck.  A bundle of papers and vellum rolls fastened together, and carried by an old servant behind him, shows us that he is just returning home from school.

While we have been thus noting him, he has received his mother’s embrace, and has sat himself low by her feet.  She gazes upon him for some time in silence, as if to discover in his countenance the cause of his unusual delay, for he is an hour late in his return.  But he meets her glance with so frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence, that every cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses him as follows: 

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