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HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo:

No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.

On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,

And glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance

Now swells upon the wind:

No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind:
No vision of the morrow's strife

The warrior's dream alarms,

No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their pluméd heads are bowed,

Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,

Is now their martial shroud,

-

And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are passed,
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Comes down the serried foe.

Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day

Was victory or death.

Full many a norther's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain,

And long the pitying sky has wept

Above its mouldered slain.

The raven's scream or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,

Alone now wake each solemn height

That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,
Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air;

Your own proud land's heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave :

She claims from war its richest spoil,

The ashes of her brave.

Thus, 'neath their parent turf they rest,

Far from the gory field,

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast

On many a bloody shield.

The sunshine of their native sky

Smiles sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave.
Nor shall your glory be forgot

While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone

In deathless song shall tell,

When

many a vanished year The story how ye fell;

hath flown,

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,

Nor Time's remorseless doom,

Can dim one ray of holy light

That gilds your glorious tomb.

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HEEL me into the sunshine,

Wheel me into the shadow;

There must be leaves on the woodbine, Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow ?

Wheel me down to the meadow,

Down to the little river;

In sun or in shadow

I shall not dazzle or shiver,
I shall be happy anywhere,
Every breath of the morning air
Makes me throb and quiver.

Stay wherever you will,

By the mount or under the hill,
Or down by the little river :
Stay as long as you please,
Give me only a bud from the trees,
Or a blade of grass in morning dew,

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