The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but him had fled -

The flams 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 caleed aloud - "Say father say ,

If yet my task be done ?" -

He knew not that the cheiftan lay

Unconcious 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.

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.

An 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 wrapped thew ship in splendour wild,

And streamed about the gallant child,

hey wrapped thew ship in splendour wild,

And streamed about 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 mast and helm and pennon fair,

That well had born their part !

But the noblest thing that perished there,

Was that young faithful heart !