And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky;
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Thro' the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves. Where other groves, and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And heard the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropp'd into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantel blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
"Give 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.
They 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 Laurie.'
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 upon 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 Laurie."
Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing: The bravest are the tenderest- The loving are the daring.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is awake. Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart: Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around- Earth and her waters and the depths of air— Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
*Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, by permission of D. Appleton & Co.
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon.
The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings, The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods-rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste- Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest-and what if thou withdraw Unheeded by the living-and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite fantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-- Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Oh! that last day in Lucknow fort! We knew that it was the last:
That the enemy's mines had crept surely in, And the end was coming fast.
To yield to that foe meant worse than death; And the men and we all worked on:
It was one day more, of smoke and roar, And then it would all be done.
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