The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck,
Shone round him o’er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud though childlike form.

The flames rolled on; he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, “Say, Father, say,
If yet my task is done!”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, Father!”once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone!” -
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;
And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,
“My Father! must I stay?’’
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound;
The boy - Oh! where was he? -
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea; -

With shroud, and mast, and pennon fair
That well had borne their part, -
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.

Note: Casabianca, the 13-yr old. son of the Admiral of the Orient, stayed at his post after the ship which his father commanded during the Battle of the Nile had taken fire and all guns had been abandoned, dying when the vessel exploded.

“Bring Flowers, Young Flowers”

Bring flower, young flowers, for the festalboard,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale:
Their breath floats on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sun-beam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows -
Bring flowers to stew in the conqueror’s path,
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath;
He comes with the spoils of nations back -
The wine be crushed in his chariot’s track -
The turf looks red where he won the day -
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror’s way.
Bring flowerws, for the bride to wear;
They were born to blush in her shining hair;
She is leaving the hosue of her childish mirth,

She has bid farewell to her father’s hearth,
Her place is now by another’s side -
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride.
Bring flowers, place flowers, o’er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brown of the early dead!
For this, through the eaves has the white rose
 For this, in the weeks was the violent nurs’t;
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
The are love’s last gift - bring flowers, bring flowers.
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel to prayer;
They are Nature’s offering, their place is there;
They speak of hope to the fainting heart;
With a voice of promise they come and part -
They sleep in dust through the winter hours;
They break forth in glory - bring flowers, bring flowers.

The New-York Mirror, and Ladies Literary Gazette (Sat., 5 August, 1826) - The Minstrel [end sect.] (p.16.)Also given here, along with several with poems by unnamed writers): "Lines" - on the painting of "Pharoah’s Submssion by Haydon. In the Gallery of the British Institution. (... Exodus Chap. xxii, ver. 31.) [Available at Google Books - online; accessed 24.03.2012.]