Knowing God's own time is best,
In a patient hope I rest

For the full day-breaking!"

So the laird of Ury said,
Turning slow his horse's head

Towards the Tolbooth prison, Where, through iron gates, he heard Poor disciples of the Word

Preach of Christ arisen!

Not in vain, confessor old,
Unto us the tale is told

Of thy day of trial!
Every age on him who strays
From its broad and beaten ways
Pours its sevenfold vial.

Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear,

O'er the rabble's laughter;

And, while hatred's fagots burn,
Glimpses through the smoke discern
Of the good hereafter.

Knowing this,
that never yet
Share of truth was vainly set

In the world's wide fallow;
After hands shall sow the seed,
After hands from hill and mead

Reap the harvests yellow.

Thus, with somewhat of the seer,
Must the moral pioneer

From the future borrow,

Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,
And, on midnight's sky of rain,
Paint the golden morrow!


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ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept ;

All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept.

O the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night!

O the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light!

One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke;

But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.

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On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all | And they robed the icy body, while
the rest,
maiden shame
Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly Changed the pallor of their foreheads
folded on his breast.

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of lambent flame.

For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need,

And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed.


they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er,

And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.

Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out,

And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.

But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,

And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun. then those little maidens children of our foes


they were

Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undis

of stars,

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whispering low,

turbed repose.



"To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country, that

Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the would not be hard."-THE NEIGHBORS.

brooklet's murmuring flow?

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O No, no, let me lie

Not on a field of battle when I die!

Let not the iron tread

Of the mad war-horse crush my helméd head;
Nor let the reeking knife,

That I have drawn against a brother's life,
Be in my hand when Death
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath

His heavy squadron's heels,

And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. of dread.

And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood

Where the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude.

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They had brought some simple garments from

I know that beauty's eye

their wardrobe's scanty store,

And two heavy iron shovels in their slender Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly,

hands they bore.

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,

For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.


And brazen helmets dance,
sunshine flashes on the lifted lance;
I know that bards have sung,
And people shouted till the welkin rung,
In honor of the brave

Who on the battle-field have found a grave;

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I know that o'er their bones Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. Some of those piles I've seen : The one at Lexington upon the green

Where the first blood was shed,

And to my country's independence led ;
And others, on our shore,
The "Battle Monument" at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.

Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;
Thy "tomb," Themistocles,

That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
And which the waters kiss

That issue from the gulf of Salamis.

And thine, too, have I seen,

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,
That, like a natural knoll,

Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,
Watched by some turbaned boy,

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,
And hears, as life ebbs out,

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his


And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout; And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

But as his eye grows dim,

What is a column or a mound to him?

What, to the parting soul,

The mellow note of bugles? What the roll
Of drums? No, let me die

Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,
And the soft summer air,

As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair,
And from my forehead dries

The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies
Seem waiting to receive

My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave
The world when round my bed

Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered,
And the calm voice of prayer
And holy hymning shall my soul prepare
To go and be at rest

With kindred spirits, spirits who have blessed

The human brotherhood

By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.


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AH! whence yon glare, That fires the arch of heaven?-that dark red smoke Blotting the silver moon? The stars are quenched In darkness, and pure and spangling snow Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round!

Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals
In countless echoes through the mountains ring,
Startling pale midnight on her starry throne!
Now swells the intermingling din; the jar
Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb;
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout,
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men
Inebriate with rage; - loud, and more loud
The discord grows; till pale death shuts the scene,
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws
His cold and bloody shroud. - Of all the men

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there,

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on

the sea,

In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts
That beat with anxious life at sunset there,
How few survive, how few are beating now!
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause;

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Save when the frantic wail of widowed love

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen;

Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay Wrapt round its struggling powers.

The gray morn Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous smoke

Before the icy wind slow rolls away,

And the bright beams of frosty morning dance
Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood
Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms,
And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful

Of the outsallying victors; far behind,
Black ashes note where their proud city stood.
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen,
Each tree which guards its darkness from the day
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb.

War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight,
The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade,
And to those royal murderers whose mean

Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore,

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The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, surround
Their palaces, participate the crimes

That force defends, and from a nation's rage
Secure the crown, which all the curses reach
That famine, frenzy, woe, and penury breathe.
These are the hired bravos who defend
The tyrant's throne.


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No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, The picket 's off duty forever.



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All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,
in the cot on the mountain.

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"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,

When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket, this locket of gold;

An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,

Grows gentle with memories tender,

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!-'t is she, My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon

Was her husband Hush! soldier, 't was Heaven's decree,

But that parting was years, long years ago,
He wandered away to a foreign land;
And our dear old mother will never know
That he died to-night by his brother's hand.

We must bury him there, by the light of the The soldiers who buried the dead away

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