And there his countrymen shall come, With memory proud, with pity dumb, And strangers, far and near, For many and many a year!
For many a year and many an age,
While History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll
Of that paternal soul!
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.
(GEN. PHILIP KEARNEY.)
LOSE his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,
Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!
As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in silent night,
Sleep forever and forever;
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!
Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death-bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!
Leave him to God's watching eye,
Trust him to the hand that made him;
Mortal love weeps idly by,
God alone has power to aid him.
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know!
Lay him low!
GEORGE HENRY BOKER.
Let others traverse sea and land,
And toil through various climes,
1 turn the world round with my hand,
Reading these poets' rhymes.
From them 1 learn whatever lies
Beneath each changing zone,
And see, when looking with their
Or moral, and of minds to virtue won
(From "The Pleasures of the Imagination," Book IV.) By the sweet magic of harmonious verse.
Of Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands;
where
Oft as the giant flood obliquely strides,
And his banks open, and his lawns extend,
Stops short the pleased traveler to view
Presiding o'er the scene some rustic tower
Founded by Norman or by Saxon hands!
O ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook
The rocky pavement and the mossy falls
Of solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream,
How gladly I recall your well-known seats
Beloved of old, and that delightful time,
When all alone, from many a summer's day,
I wandered through your calm recesses, led
In silence by some powerful band unseen!
Nor will I e'er forget you; nor shall e'er
The graver tasks of manhood, or the advice
Of vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaim
Those studies which possessed me in the dawn
Of life, and fixed the color of my mind
For every future year; whence even now
From sleep I rescue the clear hours of morn,
And, while the world around lies overwhelm-
In idle darkness, am alive to thoughts Of honorable fame, of truth divine
(From The West Indies."')
THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world be
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, valor, virtue, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth;
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting
shores,
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that
pole;
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
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