Calculus An Applied Approach Brief

International Metric Edition 10th Edition

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C H A P T E R 5
Integration and Its Applications
Section 5.1 Antiderivatives and Indefinite Integrals

Skills Warm Up
x x1 2 7. y = x 2 + 5x + C
1. = = x −1 2

x x 2 = 2 2 + 5( 2) + C
−12 = C
2x ( 2x) = ( 2x) (2x) = ( 2x)
3 13 43
2.
8. y = 3x3 − 6x + C
12 12
5x + 3
x = 5x3
5
+ x5 = 51 2 x3 2 + x5 2
3. ( ) ( ) 2 = 3( 2) − 6( 2) + C
3

−10 = C
1 1 1 1
4. + = + 23
x 3
x2 x1 2 x
9. y = −16x 2 + 26x + C

= x −1 2 + x −2 3
2 = −16(2) + 26( 2) + C
2

( x + 1)
3
( x + 1)
3 14 = C
= ( x + 1)
52
5. =

x +1 ( x + 1)1 2 2
10. y = − 1 x 4 − 5x + C

2 = − 1 ( 2) + 5( 2) + C
4
x x3 2

6. = = x3 2 −1 3 = x 7 6 2
3
x x1 3 2 = −8 + 10 + C
0 = C

1.
d
2x

2
+ C = 2( 2x) = 4x
8.  dr = r +C
dx d
dr
[r + C] = 1
d 5
x + C = 5x 4
dx 
2.
9.  6 dx = 6x + C
d3  9 d
3. +C =
d
(
3x −3 + C = −9x −4 = − ) [6x + C] = 6
 x3
dx2017  dx All Rights Reserved. May not xbe4 scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.
340 © Cengage Learning.
   dx
4.
d
8 x +C =
d
(8x12
)
+ C = 8 x
1 −1 2
 =
4

    10. −4 dx = −4x + C

dx   dx 2  x
d
dx
[−4x + C] = −4
d 4 1  1
5. x + + C  = 4x3 − 2
dx  x  x 7x 2
11.  7x dx =
2
+ C
d d
6.  x − 3 3 x + C  = x − 3x1 3 + C d  7 x2 
dx   dx   + C  = 7x

dx  2 
= 1 − x −2 3

1
= 1− 3
x2
12.  2x dx = x2 + C

d
x 2 + C = 2x
7.  du = u +C
dx  
d
du
[u + C] = 1

340 © 2017 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.
 Sectio n 5.1 Antideriva tives and Indefinit e Integ rals 341

− 9t 3 5 8 y− 4 2
 −9t 
−
13. 2
dt = + C = −3t + C 3
16. 8y dy = + C = − +C
3 −4 y4
d
−3t 3 + C = −9t 2 d
dt  − 2 y −4 + C = 8 y −5
dy 

3t 5
14.  3t 4 dt = + C 32 y5 2 2 52

5 17. y dy =
52
+C =
5
y +C
d 3t 5 
 + C  = 3t 4 d 2 5 2 
 y + C = y3 2
dy  5
dt  5

 

− 5x −2 5  12

15.  5x 3
dx =
−2
+C = −
2x 2
+C 18. v −1 2
dv =
v
+C = 2 v +C
12

d  5 −2 
− x + C = 5x
−3
d 12 −1 2

dx  2  2v +C = v
dv

Original Integral Rewrite Integrate Simplify

x5 3 3 53
  x2 3 dx + C x +C
3
19. x 2 dx
53 5

x −3 1

1
20.
x 4
dx  x−4 dx −3
+ C −
3x 3
+C

x −1 2 2
x
1
x
−3 2
21. dx dx +C − +C
x −1 2 x

x11 4 4 11 4
22.  x 4 x3 dx  x 7 4 dx
11 4
+C
11
x +C

1 1 1  x −2  1
 2x 3 2
23. dx x −3 dx  +C − +C
2  −2  4x 2

1 1 1 x −1  1
 (3x)2 9
24. dx x −2 dx  +C − +C
9  −1  9x

x3
25.  ( x + 3) dx =
x2
2
+ 3x + C 28.  (x
2
)
+ 7 dx =
3
+ 7x + C

d  x2  d  x3 
+ 3x + C  = x + 3 + 7x + C  = x 2 + 7
dx  2  dx  3 

 ( x2 )
x2 1 5
26.  (5 − x) dx = 5x − +C 29. + 5x + 1 dx = x3 + x2 + x + C

© 2017 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.
 2 3 2
d x 2
 d 1 5 
x3 + x 2 + x + C = x 2 + 5x + 1
5x − + C = 5 − x
dx  2  dx 3 2 

x6
27.  ( x5 − 8) dx =
6
− 8x + C

d  x6 
 − 8x + C  = x − 8
5
dx  6 

© 2017 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.
342 Chapter 5 Integration a nd Its Applica tions

x4  x2 
 (x ) 1
30. 3
− 4x + 2 dx = − 4  + 2x + C = x 4 − 2x 2 + 2x + C
4 2 4
d 1 4 
x − 2x 2 + 2x + C  = x3 − 4x + 2
dx  4 

( )
3 6 3
31.  3x3 − 6x 2 + 2 dx = x 4 − x 3 + 2x + C = x 4 − 2x 3 + 2x + C

4 3 4
d 3 4 
x − 2x 3 + 2x + C  = x 3 − 6x 2 + 2
dx  4 

 5  3 t2 + 1 2

 (2x ) ( ) dt
x 9x
32. 4
− 9x + 8 dx = 2
2
− + 8x + C 34.  dt = 1 + t−

5 3 t2
2 5 t−1
= x − 3x 3 + 8x + C = t + +C
5 −1

d 2  1
x5 − 3x3 + 8x + C = 2x 4 − 9x 2 + 8 = t − +C

dx  5  t
d 1  1 t2 + 1
t − + C = 1 + 2 =
3
dt  t t t2
2x − 1  
33.  x3
dx =  (2 − )
x −3 dx
−2  5x + 4 
x dx = x −1 3 5x + 4 dx
= 2x −
−2
+ C 35.   3 
x   ( )

= 2x +
1
+ C
=  (5x + 4x ) dx
2x 2 23 4x 2 3−1 3

5x5 3
d  1  = + +C
2x + + C = 2 − x −3 53 23
dx  2x 2 

= 3x5 3 + 6x 2 3 + C
1
= 2 − 23

x3 = 3x (x + 2) + C

2x 3 − 1 d 53 23 23 −1 3

= 3x + 6x + C = 5x + 4x
x3 dx

4
= 5x 2 3 +
x1 3
7 4 34

14 x − 3 
36. dy = x −1 4 (14x − 3) dx = (14x3 4 )
− 3x −1 4 dx =
14 x
−
3x
+ C = 8x 7 4 − 4x 3 4 + C
 4
x
   74 34
 
d 3
8x 7 4 − 4x 3 4 + C = 14x 3 4 − 3x −1 4 = 14x 3 4 − 1 4
dx  x

 ( x + 1)(3x − 2 ) dx  (3x )
37. 2 3 1 2
= + x − 2 dx = x + 2x
− 2x + C

© 2017 Cengage Learning. All Rights Reserved. May not be scanned, copied or duplicated, or posted to a publicly accessible website, in whole or in part.
Another document from Scribd.com that is
random and unrelated content:
“Shall I ever then behold him

Who hath been my life so long,—

Ever to this sick heart fold him,—

Be the spirit of his song?

“Touch not, sea, the blessed letters

I have traced upon thy shore,

Spare his name whose spirit fetters

Mine with love forever more!”

Swells the tide and overflows it,

But with omen pure and meet,

Brings a little rose and throws it

Humbly at the maiden’s feet.

Full of bliss she takes the token,

And, upon her snowy breast,

Soothes the ruffled petals broken

With the ocean’s fierce unrest.

“Love is thine, O heart! and surely

Peace shall also be thine own,

For the heart that trusteth purely

Never long can pine alone.”

III.
In his tower sits the poet,

Blisses new, and strange to him

Fill his heart and overflow it

With a wonder sweet and dim.

Up the beach the ocean slideth

With a whisper of delight,

And the moon in silence glideth

Through the peaceful blue of night.

Rippling o’er the poet’s shoulder

Flows a maiden’s golden hair,

Maiden lips, with love grown bolder,

Kiss his moonlit forehead bare.

“Life is joy, and love is power,

Death all fetters doth unbind,

Strength and wisdom only flower

When we toil for all our kind.

Hope is truth, the future giveth

More than present takes away,

And the soul forever liveth

Nearer God from day to day.”

Not a word the maiden muttered,

Fullest hearts are slow to speak,

But a withered rose-leaf fluttered

Down upon the poet’s cheek.

THE HERITAGE.
HE rich man’s son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,

And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,

Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man’s son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn,

A breath may burst his bubble shares,

And soft, white hands could hardly earn

A living that would serve his turn;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man’s son inherits wants.

His stomach craves for dainty fare;

With sated heart he hears the pants

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,

And wearies in his easy chair;

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part

In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit?

Wishes o’erjoy’d with humble things,

A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,

Content that from employment springs,

A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit?

A patience learn’d of being poor,

Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,

A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man’s son! there is a toil,

That with all others level stands;

Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft, white hands,—

This is the best crop from thy lands;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man’s son! scorn not thy state;

There is worse weariness than thine,

In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,

And makes rest fragrant and benign;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,

Are equal in the earth at last;

Both, children of the same dear God,

Prove title to your heirship vast

By record of a well-fill’d past;

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.

ACT FOR TRUTH.

HE busy world shoves angrily aside

The man who stands with arms akimbo set,

Until occasion tells him what to do;

And he who waits to have his task mark’d out

Shall die and leave his errand unfulfill’d.

Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds;

Reason and Government, like two broad seas,

Yearn for each other with outstretched arms

Across this narrow isthmus of the throne,

And roll their white surf higher every day.

One age moves onward, and the next builds up

Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood

The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild,

Rearing from out the forests they had fell’d

The goodly framework of a fairer state;

The builder’s trowel and the settler’s axe

Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand;

Ours is the harder task, yet not the less

Shall we receive the blessing for our toil

From the choice spirits of the after-time.

The field lies wide before us, where to reap

The easy harvest of a deathless name,

Though with no better sickles than our swords.

My soul is not a palace of the past,

Where outworn creeds, like Rome’s gray senate, quake,

Hearing afar the Vandal’s trumpet hoarse,

That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit.

The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change;

Then let it come: I have no dread of what

Is call’d for by the instinct of mankind;

Nor think I that God’s world will fall apart

Because we tear a parchment more or less.

Truth is eternal, but her effluence,

With endless change, is fitted to the hour:

Her mirror is turn’d forward, to reflect

The promise of the future, not the past.

He who would win the name of truly great

Must understand his own age and the next,

And make the present ready to fulfil

Its prophecy, and with the future merge

Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave.

The future works out great men’s destinies;

The present is enough for common souls,

Who, never looking forward, are indeed

Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age

Are petrified forever: better those

Who lead the blind old giant by the hand

From out the pathless desert where he gropes,

And set him onward in his darksome way.

I do not fear to follow out the truth,

Albeit along the precipice’s edge.

Let us speak plain: there is more force in names

Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep

Its throne a whole age longer if it skulk

Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name.

Let us all call tyrants tyrants, and maintain

That only freedom comes by grace of God,

And all that comes not by His grace must fall;

For men in earnest have no time to waste

In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

HE snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway

With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl,

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree

Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara

Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow,

The stiff rails were softened to swan’s down,

And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window

The noiseless work of the sky,

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,

Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn

Where a little headstone stood;

How the flakes were folding it gently,

As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”

And I told of the good All-father

Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall

And thought of the leaden sky

That arched o’er our first great sorrow,

When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience

That fell from that cloud like snow,

Flake by flake, healing and hiding

The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered,

“The snow that husheth all,

Darling, the merciful Father

Alone can make it fall!”

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;

And she, kissing back, could not know

That my kiss was given to her sister,

Folded close under deepening snow.

FOURTH OF JULY ODE.

I.

UR fathers fought for liberty,

They struggled long and well,

History of their deeds can tell—

But did they leave us free?

II.

Are we free from vanity,

Free from pride, and free from self,

Free from love of power and pelf,

From everything that’s beggarly?

III.

Are we free from stubborn will,

From low hate and malice small,

From opinion’s tyrant thrall?

Are none of us our own slaves still?

IV.

Are we free to speak our thought,

To be happy, and be poor,

Free to enter Heaven’s door,

To live and labor as we ought?

V.

Are we then made free at last

From the fear of what men say,

Free to reverence To-day,

Free from the slavery of the Past?

VI.

Our fathers fought for liberty,

They struggled long and well,

History of their deeds can tell—

But ourselves must set us free.

THE DANDELION.
EAR common flower, that grow’st beside the way,

Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,

First pledge of blithesome May,

Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,

High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they

An Eldorado in the grass have found,

Which not the rich earth’s ample round

May match in wealth—thou art more dear to me

Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow

Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,

Nor wrinkled the lean brow

Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease;

’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now

To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,

Though most hearts never understand

To take it at G ’ value, but pass by

The offer’d wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my trophies and mine Italy;

To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;

The eyes thou givest me

Are in the heart, and heed not space or time;

Not in mid June the golden-cuirass’d bee

Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment

In the white lily’s breezy tint,

His conquer’d Sybaris, than I, when first

From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass—

Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,

Where, as the breezes pass,

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways—

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,

Or whiten in the wind—of waters blue

That from the distance sparkle through

Some woodland gap—and of a sky above,

Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood’s earliest thoughts are link’d with thee;

The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song,

Who, from the dark old tree

Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,

And I, secure in childish piety,

Listen’d as if I heard an angel sing

With news from heaven, which he did bring

Fresh every day to my untainted ears,

When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,

 When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!

Thou teachest me to deem

More sacredly of every human heart,

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam

Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,

Did we but pay the love we owe,

And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look

On all these living pages of G ’ book.

THE ALPINE SHEEP.

It is proper, in connection with the writings of Lowell, to insert the following poem by his
wife, Maria White Lowell, a singularly accomplished and beautiful woman, born July 8, 1821,
married to the poet Lowell in 1844, died on the 22d of October, 1853. In 1855 her husband had a
volume of her poetry privately printed, the character of which may be judged from the following
touching lines addressed to a friend after the loss of a child.

HEN on my ear your loss was knell’d,

And tender sympathy upburst,

A little spring from memory well’d,

Which once had quench’d my bitter thirst,

And I was fain to bear to you

A portion of its mild relief,

That it might be a healing dew,

To steal some fever from your grief.

After our child’s untroubled breath

Up to the Father took its way,

And on our home the shade of Death

Like a long twilight haunting lay,

And friends came round, with us to weep

Her little spirit’s swift remove,

The story of the Alpine sheep

Was told to us by one we love.

They, in the valley’s sheltering care,

Soon crop the meadow’s tender prime,

And when the sod grows brown and bare,

The shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pasture green,

That hang along the mountain’s side,

Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mists the sunbeams slide.

But naught can tempt the timid things

The steep and rugged path to try,

Though sweet the shepherds calls and sings,

And sear’d below the pastures lie,

Till in his arms his lambs he takes,

Along the dizzy verge to go:

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,

They follow on o’er rock and snow.

And in these pastures, lifted fair,

More dewy-soft than lowland mead,

The shepherd drops his tender care,

And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable, by Nature breathed,

Blew on me as the south wind free

O’er frozen brooks that flow unsheathed

From icy thraldom to the sea.

A blissful vision through the night

Would all my happy senses sway

Of the Good Shepherd on the height,

Or climbing up the starry way,

Holding our little lamb asleep,

While, like the murmur of the sea,

Sounded that voice along the deep,

Saying, “Arise and follow me.”

S L
 BAYARD TAYLOR.
, .

HE subject of this sketch ♦began life as a farmer

boy. He was born in Chester county,
Pennsylvania, January 11th, 1825. After a few
years study in country schools he was
apprenticed to a West Chester printer, with
whom he remained until he learned that trade. In his boyhood he
wrote verses, and before he was twenty years of age published
his first book entitled, “Ximena and other Poems.” Through this
book he formed the acquaintance of Dr. Griswold, editor of
“Graham’s Magazine,” Philadelphia, who gave him letters of
recommendation to New York, where he received
encouragement from N. P. Willis and Horace Greeley, the latter
agreeing to publish his letters from abroad in the event of his
making a journey, contemplated, to the old world.

♦ “begun” replaced with “began”

 Thus encouraged he set out to make a tour of Europe, having
less than one hundred and fifty dollars to defray expenses. He
was absent two years, during which time he traveled over
Europe on foot, supporting himself entirely by stopping now and
then in Germany to work at the printer’s trade and by his literary
correspondence, for which he received only $500.00. He was
fully repaid for this hardship, however, by the proceeds of his
book (which he published on his return in 1846), “Views Afoot,
or Europe as Seen with Knapsack and Staff.” This was regarded
as one of the most delightful books of travel that had appeared
up to that time, and six editions of it were sold within one year. It
is still one of the most popular of the series of eleven books of
travel written during the course of his life. In 1848 he further
immortalized this journey and added to his fame by publishing
“Rhymes of Travel,” a volume of verse.

Taylor was an insatiable nomad, visiting in his travels the

remotest regions. “His wandering feet pressed the soil of all the
continents, and his observing eyes saw the strange and beautiful
things of the world from the equator to the frozen North and
South;” and wherever he went the world saw through his eyes
and heard through his ears the things he saw and heard. Europe,
India, Japan, Central Africa, the Soudan, Egypt, Palestine,
Iceland and California contributed their quota to the ready pen of
this incessant traveler and rapid worker. He was a man of
buoyant nature with an eager appetite for new experiences, a
remarkable memory, and a talent for learning languages. His
poetry is full of glow and picturesqueness, in style suggestive of
both Tennyson and Shelly. His famous “Bedouin Song” is
strongly imitative of Shelly’s “Lines to an Indian Air.” He was
an admirable parodist and translator. His translation of “Faust”
so closely adheres to Goethe’s original metre that it is considered
one of the proudest accomplishments in American letters. Taylor
is generally considered first among our poets succeeding the
generation of Poe, Longfellow and Lowell.

The novels of the traveler, of which he wrote only four, the

scenes being laid in Pennsylvania and New York, possess the
same eloquent profusion manifest in his verse, and give the
reader the impression of having been written with the ease and
dash which characterize his stories of travel. In fact, his busy life
was too much hurried to allow the spending of much time on
anything. His literary life occupied only thirty-four years and in
that time he wrote thirty-seven volumes. He entered almost
every department of literature and always displayed high literary
ability. Besides his volumes of travel and the four novels
referred to he was a constant newspaper correspondent, and then
came the greatest labor of all, poetry. This he regarded as his
realm, and it was his hope of fame. Voluminous as were the
works of travel and fiction and herculean the efforts necessary to
do the prose writing he turned off, it was, after all, but the
antechamber to his real labors. It was to poetry that he devoted
most thought and most time.

In 1877 Bayard Taylor was appointed minister to Berlin by

President Hayes, and died December 19th, 1878, while serving
his country in that capacity.

THE BISON-TRACK.
TRIKE the tent! the sun has risen; not a cloud has
ribb’d the dawn,

And the frosted prairie brightens to the westward,

far and wan;

Prime afresh the trusty rifle—sharpen well the hunting-spear—

For the frozen sod is trembling, and a noise of hoofs I hear!

Fiercely stamp the tether’d horses, as they snuff the morning’s

fire,

And their flashing heads are tossing, with a neigh of keen

desire;

Strike the tent—the saddles wait us! let the bridle-reins be

slack,

For the prairie’s distant thunder has betray’d the bison’s track!

See! a dusky line approaches; hark! the onward-surging roar,

Like the din of wintry breakers on a sounding wall of shore!

Dust and sand behind them whirling, snort the foremost of the
van,

And the stubborn horns are striking, through the crowded

caravan.

Now the storm is down upon us—let the madden’d horses go!

We shall ride the living whirlwind, though a hundred leagues it

blow!

Though the surgy manes should thicken, and the red eyes’
angry glare

Lighten round us as we gallop through the sand and rushing

air!

Myriad hoofs will scar the prairie, in our wild, resistless race,

And a sound, like mighty waters, thunder down the desert

space:

Yet the rein may not be tighten’d, nor the rider’s eye look back
—
Death to him whose speed should slacken on the madden’d
bison’s track!

Now the trampling herds are threaded, and the chase is close
and warm

For the giant bull that gallops in the edges of the storm:

Hurl your lassoes swift and fearless—swing your rifles as we

run!

Ha! the dust is red behind him; shout, my brothers, he is won!

Look not on him as he staggers—’tis the last shot he will need;

More shall fall, among his fellows, ere we run the bold
stampede—

Ere we stem the swarthy breakers—while the wolves, a hungry

pack,

Howl around each grim-eyed carcass, on the bloody bison-

track!

THE SONG OF THE CAMP.

IVE us a song!” the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camps allied

Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay, grim and threatening, under;

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff

No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said,

“We storm the forts to-morrow,

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow.”

There lay along the battery’s side,

Below the smoking cannon,

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,

And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;

Forgot was Britain’s glory;

Each heart recalled a different name

But all sang “Annie Lawrie.”

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,—

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,

But, as the song grew louder,

Something on the soldier’s cheek

Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned

The bloody sunset’s embers,

While the Crimean valleys learned

How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot, and burst of shell,

And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim

For a singer, dumb and gory;

And English Mary mourns for him

Who sang of “Annie Lawrie.”

Sleep, soldier! still in honored rest

Your truth and valor wearing;

The bravest are the tenderest,—

The loving are the daring.

BEDOUIN SONG.
ROM the Desert I come to thee

On a stallion shod with fire;

And the winds are left behind

In the speed of my desire.

Under thy window I stand,

And the midnight hears my cry:

I love thee, I love but thee,

With a love that shall not die

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment

Book unfold!

Look from thy window and see

My passion and my pain;

I lie on the sands below,

And I faint in thy disdain.

Let the night-winds touch thy brow

With the heat of my burning sigh,

And melt thee to hear the vow

Of a love that shall not die

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment

Book unfold!
My steps are nightly driven,

By the fever in my breast,

To hear from thy lattice breathed

The word that shall give me rest.

Open the door of thy heart,

And open thy chamber door,

And my kisses shall teach thy lips

The love that shall fade no more

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars are old,

And the leaves of the Judgment

Book unfold!

THE ARAB TO THE PALM.

EXT to thee, O fair gazelle,

O Beddowee girl, beloved so well;

Next to the fearless Nedjidee,

Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee;

Next to ye both I love the Palm,

With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm;

Next to ye both I love the Tree

Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three

With love, and silence, and mystery!

Our tribe is many, our poets vie

With any under the Arab sky;

Yet none can sing of the Palm but I.

The marble minarets that begem

Cairo’s citadel-diadem

Are not so light as his slender stem.

He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam’s glance

As the Almehs lift their arms in dance—

A slumberous motion, a passionate sign,

That works in the cells of the blood like wine.

Full of passion and sorrow is he,

Dreaming where the beloved may be.

And when the warm south-winds arise,

He breathes his longing in fervid sighs—

Quickening odors, kisses of balm,

That drop in the lap of his chosen palm.

The sun may flame and the sands may stir,

But the breath of his passion reaches her.

O Tree of Love, by that love of thine,

 Teach me how I shall soften mine!

Give me the secret of the sun,

Whereby the wooed is ever won!

If I were a King, O stately Tree,

A likeness, glorious as might be,

In the court of my palace I’d build for thee!

With a shaft of silver, burnished bright,

And leaves of beryl and malachite.

With spikes of golden bloom a-blaze,

And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase:

And there the poets, in thy praise,

Should night and morning frame new lays—

New measures sung to tunes divine;

But none, O Palm, should equal mine!

LIFE ON THE NILE.

――“The life thou seek’st

Thou’lt find beside the eternal Nile.”

—Moore’s Alciphron.

E Nile is the Paradise of travel. I thought I had already fathomed all the
depths of enjoyment which the traveler’s restless life could reach—
enjoyment more varied and exciting, but far less serene and enduring,
than that of a quiet home; but here I have reached a fountain too pure and
 powerful to be exhausted. I never before experienced
such a thorough deliverance from all the petty
annoyances of travel in other lands, such perfect
contentment of spirit, such entire abandonment to the
best influences of nature. Every day opens with a
jubilate, and closes with a thanksgiving. If such a balm and blessing as
this life has been to me, thus far, can be felt twice in one’s existence,
there must be another Nile somewhere in the world.

Other travelers undoubtedly make other experiences and take away

other impressions. I can even conceive circumstances which would
almost destroy the pleasure of the journey. The same exquisitely
sensitive temperament, which in our case has not been disturbed by a
single untoward incident, might easily be kept in a state of constant
derangement by an unsympathetic companion, a cheating dragoman, or a
fractious crew. There are also many trifling desagrémens, inseparable
from life in Egypt, which some would consider a source of annoyance;
but, as we find fewer than we were prepared to meet, we are not troubled
thereby.

Our manner of life is simple, and might even be called monotonous;

but we have never found the greatest variety of landscape and incident so
thoroughly enjoyable. The scenery of the Nile, thus far, scarcely changes
from day to day, in its forms and colors, but only in their disposition with
regard to each other. The shores are either palm-groves, fields of cane
and dourra, young wheat, or patches of bare sand blown out from the
desert. The villages are all the same agglomerations of mud walls, the
tombs of the Moslem saints are the same white ovens, and every
individual camel and buffalo resembles its neighbor in picturesque
ugliness. The Arabian and Libyan Mountains, now sweeping so far into
the foreground that their yellow cliffs overhang the Nile, now receding
into the violet haze of the horizon, exhibit little difference of height, hue,
or geological formation. Every new scene is the turn of a kaleidoscope,
in which the same objects are grouped in other relations, yet always
characterized by the most perfect harmony. These slight yet ever-
renewing changes are to us a source of endless delight. Either from the
pure atmosphere, the healthy life we lead, or the accordant tone of our
spirits, we find ourselves unusually sensitive to all the slightest touches,