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Not a drum was heard, not 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.

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,

Not a tear for the friends that sink; We'll fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles,

As mute as the wine we drink. So stand to your glasses steady,

'Tis in this that our respite lies; One cup to the dead already

Hurrah for the next that dies!
Time was when we frowned at others,

We thought we were wiser then;
Ha! ha! let those think of their mothers,

Who hope to see them again. No! stand to your glasses steady,

The thoughtless are here the wise; A cup to the dead already

Hurrah for the next that dies!

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

There's many a hand that's shaking,

There's many a cheek that's sunk; But soon, though our hearts are breaking,

They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. So stand to your glasses steady,

'Tis here the revival lies; A cup to the dead already

Hurrah for the next that dies!

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.

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And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self

secure, Didst walk on earth unguessed at-Better so!

All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, Find their sole voice in that victorious brow.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

MILTON.

Pale student, leave thy cobwebbed dim alcove,

And stretch one restful summer's afternoon

Thoughtless amidst the thoughtless things of June, Beneath these boughs with light and murmur wove! Drop book and pen, a thrall released rove

The Sisyphean task flung off; impugn
The withered Sphinx-with earth's fresh heart

attune:
Thou, man, the origin of evil prove!
O leave that dark soil where the spider delves,

To trap the unwary reasoner in his lair, And weave oblivious veils round learnéd shelves; List to the beat of Ariel's happy wings,

And cool thy brain in this balm-laden air; Here whispered peace shall still thy questionings.

MYRON B. BENTON.

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

ON THE MOUNTAIN.

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

MILTON.

All else lies far beneath me, or above,

And I, between two worlds, uncertain stand;

With eyes uplifted to a vision grand,
Yet without power to soar or upward move.
The steps to heaven are builded of our love,

And mine, alas, so timid on the land

Could never find the way without His hand. Naught have I in my heart by which to prove My right to something I've not found below

Except this constant, strong desire to rise; It seems so strange the higher up we go

The farther from earth's sinful, suffering cries, That our unworthiness should haunt us so, And wreck us at the gate of Paradise.

MARY AUGUSTA MASON.

I PACE the sounding sea-beach and behold,
How the voluminous billows roll and run,

Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun
Shines through their sheeted emerald far unrolled,
And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold

All its loose-folding garments into one,

Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold.

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Yet keen of sight, to whom men's souls lay bare, Stripped clean of shams, unclothed of all disguise.

Revealed to thee as if at each soul's birth Thou hadst been nigh to stamp it foul or fairWhy shouldst thou seek new schools to make

thee wise, Heir of heaven's secrets even while on earth!

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

HUSHED Now, forever, that beloved voice

All craved to hear--heard but within my soul,

Across those mighty water-worlds that roll 'Twixt two great earth-worlds. Only death destroys, In souls unstained as his, those stainless joys

That come to hearts at rest in love's control;

Though round him shone the singer's aureole, His mighty heart was simple as a boy's. His pine woods felt him, and his loved winds blow,

For requiem, round his more than palace home. Dumb the King's mortal lips, for aye; but, lo!

Through what he wrote the soul is never dumb, Though the stars, wheeling proudly, seem to know That he who loved them to his own is come.

Philip BOURKE MARSTON.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Thou wast not robbed of wonder when youth fled,

But still the bud had promise to thine eyes,

And beauty was not sundered from surprise,
And reverent, as reverend, was thy head.
Thy life was music, and thou mad'st it ours,

Not thine, crude scorn of gentle household things;

And yet thy spirit had the sea-bird's wings, Nor rested long among the chestnut flowers.

WHEN JUNE SHALL COME AGAIN.

TO EMILY PFEIFFER.

These are the weeping moments of the year.

Earth weareth her gray mantle wrapped around,

And ever pensive looketh on the ground That she may watch the daffodils appear; When, knowing that her loved one, Spring, draws

Spain's coast of charm and all the North Sea's

cold Thou knewest, and thou knewest the soul of eld,

And dusty scroll and volume we beheld
To gold transmuted-not to hard-wrought gold,

But that clear shining of the eastern air,
When Helios rising shakes the splendor of his
hair.

HELEN GRAY CONE.

near

She'll don her kirtle green, with pale buds

crowned And laugh with joy, until the echoes bound With “Roses! Roses of full June are here."

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TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL

FOR HER ALBUM.

An original something, fair maid, you would win me

To write—but how shall I begin ?
For I fear I have nothing original in me-
Excepting Original Sin!

THOMẠS CAMPBELL,

EPIGRAM ON THE “RHYME OF THE ANCIENT

MARINER.”
Your poem must eternal be,

Dear sir; it cannot fail;
For, 'tis incomprehensible,
And without head or tail.

SAMVEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

The melody of other men's delight
There are, alas! who can as little bear.

Ibid.
THE DIAMOND.
I ONLY polished am in mine own dust-

Naught else against my hardness will prevail: And thou, O man, in thine own sufferings must Be polished: every meaner art will fail.

IBID. FALLING STARS. ANGELS are we, that once from heaven exiled,

Would climb its crystal battlements again; But have their keen-eyed watchers not beguiled, Hurled by their glittering lances back again.

IBID. DARWIN. THERE was an ape in the days that were earlier; Centuries passed, and his hair grew curlier; Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist, Then he was a Man and a Positivist.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

THE ERMINE.

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