Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion And though at times impetuous with emotion The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, We will be patient, and assuage the feeling By silence sanctifying, not concealing, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet And Glory guards, with solemn round, No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; Their shivered swords are red with rust, The neighing troop, the flashing blade, Those breasts that never more may feel Like the fierce northern hurricane Who heard the thunder of the fray Long has the doubtful conflict raged The vengeful blood of Spain; "T was in that hour his stern command By rivers of their fathers' gore And well he deemed the sons would pour Full many a norther's breath had swept O'er Angostura's plain And long the pitying sky has wept Above the mouldering slain. That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air; Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war his richest spoil- So 'neath their parent turf they rest, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, No impious footstep here shall tread While Fame her record keeps, Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, When many a vanished age hath flown, Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Shall dim one ray of glory's light HIGHLAND MARY. E banks, and braes, and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green 's the sod, and cauld's the clay That wraps my Highland Mary! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips And mouldering now in silent dust The heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. ROBERT BURNS. |