Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, Not as a child shall we again behold her; In our embraces we again enfold her, But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion And though at times impetuous with emotion The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, We will be patient, and assuage the feeling By silence sanctifying, not concealing, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat No more on Life's parade shall meet And Glory guards, with solemn round, No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; The warrior's dream alarms; Their shivered swords are red with rust, The neighing troop, the flashing blade, Those breasts that never more may feel Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Who heard the thunder of the fray Long has the doubtful conflict raged For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide. "T was in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his belovéd land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore And well he deemed the sons would pour Full many a norther's breath had swept O'er Angostura's plain— And long the pitying sky has wept Above the mouldering slain. 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 his richest spoil- So 'neath their parent turf they rest, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, No impious footstep here shall tread While Fame her record keeps, Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, When many a vanished age hath flown, Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Shall dim one ray of glory's light HIGHLAND MARY. E banks, and braes, and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace, And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green 's the sod, and cauld's the clay That wraps my Highland Mary! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips And mouldering now in silent dust ROBERT BURNS. |