Thou art the rock of empire set mid-seas Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt, Lest. mixed and sullied with his country's guilt The soldier's life-stream flow, and Heaven displease! Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite, GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY. THE softest whisperings of the scented South, And, where the thunders of the fight were born, With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam, But still the thought: Somewhere,-upon the hills, Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave, FRANK L. STANTON. Nor let the reeking knife, That I have drawn against a brother's life, Be in my hand when Death Thunders along, and tramples me beneath His heavy squadron's heels, Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. From such a dying bed, Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red, And the bald eagle brings The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings To sparkle in my sight, O, never let my spirit take her flight! I know that beauty's eye Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance; Who on the battle-field have found a grave; Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. Where the first blood was shed, And to my country's independence led; The Battle Monument " at Baltimore, Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still; That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, That issue from the gulf of Salamis. And thine, too, have I seen, Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green, Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. Such honors grace the bed, I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout; What is a column or a mound to him? The mellow note of bugles? What the roll Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly, As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair, The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave The world when round my bed And holy hymning shall my soul prepare With kindred spirits, - spirits who have blessed By labors, cares, and counsels for their good. JOHN PIERPONT. MY AUTUMN WALK. ON woodlands ruddy with autumn I look on the beauty round me, For the wind that sweeps the meadows Blows out of the far Southwest, Where our gallant men are fighting, And the gallant dead are at rest. The golden-rod is leaning, And the purple aster waves In a breeze from the land of battles, A breath from the land of graves. Full fast the leaves are dropping Before that wandering breath; As fast, on the field of battle, Our brethren fall in death. Beautiful over my pathway The forest spoils are shed; They are spotting the grassy hillocks With purple and gold and red. Beautiful is the death-sleep But who shall comfort the living, The light of whose homes is gone : The bride that, early widowed, Lives broken-hearted on; The matron whose sons are lying I look on the peaceful dwellings Whose windows glimmer in sight, With croft and garden and orchard That bask in the mellow light; After hands shall sow the seed, After hands from hill and mead Reap the harvests yellow. Thus, with somewhat of the seer, From the future borrow, Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. TUBAL CAIN. OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might, And he lifted high his brawny hand On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers, Hurrah for the spear and the sword! Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be king and lord." To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire, And each one prayed for a strong steel blade And he made them weapons sharp and strong, And spoils of the forest free. And they sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain, But a sudden change came o'er his heart, And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done; He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with the blood they shed, In their lust for carnage blind. And he said: "Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man!" And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe; And his hand forbore to smite the ore, And his furnace smouldered low. |