" "I'm not afraid," said Pearl gravely, "I am very brave that way, and don't mind at all.

If I had youth no chains of fear should bind me; I'd brave the heights which older men must shun.

We little guessed how much he did to smooth our pathway day by day, How much of joy he brought to us, how much of care he brushed away; But now that we must tread alone the thorough-fare of life, we find How many burdens we were spared by him who was so brave and kind.

These are the peaks of valor; keeping clean your father's name, Too brave for petty profit to risk the brand of shame, Adventuring for the future, yet mindful of the past, For God, for country and for home, still valorous to the last.

This is the land of the brave and free

For you she gave Long years of love and service brave; For you her youth was spent.

To symbolize our love with flowers is not enough to do; We must be brave as they were brave, and true as they were true.

To symbolize our love with flowers is not enough to do; We must be brave as they were brave, and true as they were true.

You hope as he, You dream of splendors, and so does he; His children must be as you'd have yours be; He shares your love For the Flag above, He laughs and sings For the self-same things; When he's understood He is mostly good, Thoughtful of others and kind and true, Brave, devotedand much like you.

Now the days of strife are over, and the skies are fair again, But those two brave words of courage on our lips should still remain;

There is one that seems a King, As if the ghost of a Crown Still shadowed his jail-bleached hair; I can hear the guillotine ring, As its regicide note rang there, When he laid his tired life down And grew brave in his last despair.

And Liberty's hands were not clean In the day of her pride unchained, Her royal hands were stained With the life of a King and Queen; And darker than that with the blood Of the nameless brave and good Whose blood in witness clings More damning than Queens' and Kings'.

And when in God's good hour Comes the time of the brave and true, Freedom again shall rise With a blaze in her awful eyes That shall wither this robber-power As the sun now dries the dew.

In the dream of the Northern poets, The brave who in battle die Fight on in shadowy phalanx In the field of the upper sky; And as we read the sounding rhyme, The reverent fancy hears The ghostly ring of the viewless swords And the clash of the spectral spears.

The scheme of the heavenly powers; And high brave thoughts float down to us, The echoes of that far fight, Like the flash of a distant picket's gun Through the shades of the severing night.

I know that in the snow-white pines The brave Norse fire of freedom shines, And fain for this I leave the land Where endless summer pranks the vines.

O strong, free North, so wise and brave!

The butterflya flying flower Wheels swift in flashing rings, And flutters round his quiet kin, With brave flame-mottled wings.

Heroes and saints To alien peoples shall they be, my brave And patient warriors; for in their stout hearts God's spirit dwells forever, and their hands Are swift to do his service on his foes.

For when God's smile was with us we were strong To go like sudden lightning to our mark: As on that summer day when Saladin Passing in scorn our host at Antioch, Who spent the days in revel, and shamed the stars With nightly scandalcame with all his host, Its gay battalia brave with saffron silks, Flaunting the banners of the Caliphate Beneath the walls of fair Jerusalem:

The mountain violets and the valley weeds, And drags behind a trail of chaos and death; So burst we on that field, and through and through The gay battalia brave with saffron silks, Crushed and abolished every grace and gleam, And dragged where'er we rode a sinuous track Of chaos and death, till all the plain was filled With battered armor, turbaned trunkless heads, With silken mantles blushing angry gules

And when 'tis done, not miss To give my wench a kiss: And then dance, Canst thou not hit it? Ho, brave William Cricket!

Why this is brave, Far better than to fawn at Gustus' table For a few scraps; no, no such words as these By Pluto, stab the villain, kill the slave:

After a brave resistance, the Roman horse gave way, and those that were not cut down were chased up the river and scattered in the plain; Paullus, wounded, rode to the centre to turn or, if not, to share the fate of the legions.

In the following year (537) he had completely defeated the Carthaginian fleet at the mouth of the Ebro, and after his brother Publius, the brave defender of the valley of the Po, had joined him with a reinforcement of 8000 men, he had even crossed the Ebro, and advanced as far as Saguntum.