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Come from my First, ay, come!
The battle dawn is nigh; And the screaming trump and the thund'ring drum
Are calling thee to die !
Fall as thy father fell,
So—forward ! and farewell !
Toll ye, my Second ! toll!
Fling high the flambeau's light; And sing the hymn for a parted soul,
Beneath the silent night !
The cross upon his breast,
Now take him to his rest!
Call ye my whole, go, call !
The lord of lute and lay;
With a noble song to-day;
No fitter hand may crave
On the turf of a soldier's grave.
My First, in its usual quiet way,
Old Euclid came; he frowned a frown;
The youth was mournful, the youth was mute;
An aged man, with locks of snow,
Sits o'er his glass serenely gay; Plain Tom, the weaver, long ago,
Sir Thomas Clover, Knight, to-day : My First beside his grandsire stands,
A comely stripling, stout and tall, The future lord of his broad lands,
And of his hospitable hall.
“What can it mean, my pretty toy,
With all its wheels, and threads, and springs ?” And, as he speaks, the wondering boy
His arms around his grandsire flings: He's puzzled, puzzled, more and more;
And putting on a look of thought, He turns my Second o'er and o’er,
A silver model deftly wrought.
The good Knight hears with placid smile,
And bids him in the plaything view A proud memorial of the toil
By which his grandsire's fortunes grew : And tells them this, my Whole, shall be
Still handed down from son to son, To teach them by what industry
Their titles and their lands were won.
THE Palmer comes from the Holy Land ;
My Whole leaped out of the road-side ditch,
the rich :