For Memorizing OVER AND OVER AGAIN. Over and over again, No matter which way I turn, I must take my turn at the mill, I must grind out the golden grain, I must work at my task with a resolute will, Over and over again. We cannot measure the need Of even the tiniest flower, Nor check the flow of the golden sands, But the morning dews must fall, And the sun and the summer rain Over and over again The brook through the meadows flows, And over and over again The ponderous mill-wheel goes. Once doing will not suffice, Though doing be not in vain; And a blessing failing us once or twice, For Memorizing Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed 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 tolled 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, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone in his glory. -Charles Wolfe. For Memorizing My life is cold, and dark and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. -Longfellow. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corse 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 moonbeams misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. For Memorizing Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Where breathes the foe but falls before us, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! -Joseph Rodman Drake. THE RAINY DAY. The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; For Memorizing And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free; To hover in the sulphur smoke, Like rainbows on the clouds of war, Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high! When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on, Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance; And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreathes the battle-shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. |