COLUMBIA, THE GEM OF THE OCEAN; OR,
  THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE

1.  O Columbia, the gem of the ocean,
     The home of the brave and the free,
   The shrine of each patriot’s devotion,
     A world offers homage to thee. 
   Thy mandates make heroes assemble,
     When Liberty’s form stands in view,
  Thy banners make tyranny tremble,
    When borne by the red, white and blue.

  CHORUS.

  When borne by the red, white and blue,
  When borne by the red, white and blue,
    Thy banners make tyranny tremble,
  When borne by the red, white and blue.

2.  When war winged its wide desolation. 
     And threatened the land to deform,
   The ark then of freedom’s foundation,
     Columbia, rode safe thro’ the storm;
   With her garlands of vict’ry around her,
     When so proudly she bore her brave crew,
   With her flag proudly floating before her,
     The boast of the red, white and blue.

CHORUS.

3.  The wine-cup, the wine-cup bring hither,
     And fill you it true to the brim;
   May the wreaths they have won never wither,
     Nor the star of their glory grow dim. 
   May the service united ne’er sever,
     But they to their colors prove true. 
   The Army and Navy forever,
     Three cheers for the red, white and blue.

  CHORUS.

  David T. Shaw.

LESSON LXII

LOVE FOR THE DEAD

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.  Every other wound we seek to heal—­every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open—­this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude.  Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang?  Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament?  Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns?  Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved—­when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal—­would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness?

No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul.  If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection—­when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness—­who would root out such a sorrow from the heart?  Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the