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.
Upon his brow he felt their breach,
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 wrapped the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
Then 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 borne their part,
But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that young, faithful heart.
O, who would not love to have such a child as that! Is not such a boy more noble than one who will disobey his parents merely that he may have a little play, or that he may avoid some unpleasant duty? The brave little Casablanca would rather die than disobey. He loved his father. He had confidence in him. And even when death was staring him in the face, when
"The flames rolled on, he would not go,
Without his father's word."