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A BARD'S EPITAPH

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near,

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowd among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
Wild as the wave;

Here pause, and, through the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

Reader, attend

And stain'd his name!

whether thy soul

Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkly grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit ;

Know prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

Robert Burns

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

Charles Wolfe

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,

Since God is marching on."

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call

retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment

seat:

Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant my feet! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men

free,

While God is marching on.

Julia Ward Howe

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

Mortality, behold and fear

What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones

Sleep within these heaps of stones;

Here they lie, had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands,
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
Here's an acre sown indeed

With the richest, royallest seed
That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin :

Here the bones of birth have cried,

"Though gods they were, as men they died!"

Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:

Here's a world of pomp and state

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

Francis Beaumont

TO THE MOON

Art thou pale for weariness

Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a different birth, —
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

Percy Bysshe Shelley

CONCORD HYMN

Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19, 1836

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone,

That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare

To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

THE MINSTREL BOY

The minstrel boy to the war has gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him,
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him. "Land of song!" said the warrior bard, Though all the world betrays thee,

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One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The minstrel fell! but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder,

And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

They shall never sound in slavery!"

Thomas Moore

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