A BARD'S EPITAPH Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, And owre this grassy heap sing dool, Is there a bard of rustic song, But, with a frater-feeling strong, Is there a man whose judgment clear Here pause, and, through the starting tear, The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, 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, In low pursuit ; Know prudent, cautious self-control Robert Burns THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, 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, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone 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! Sleep within these heaps of stones; Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands, With the richest, royallest seed 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, Among the stars that have a different birth, — Percy Bysshe Shelley CONCORD HYMN Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19, 1836 By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 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, That memory may their deed redeem, Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Ralph Waldo Emerson THE MINSTREL BOY The minstrel boy to the war has gone, And his wild harp slung behind him. "Land of song!" said the warrior bard, Though all the world betrays thee, 66 One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, The minstrel fell! but the foeman's chain And said, "No chains shall sully thee, Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery!" Thomas Moore |