Ere the god of torment taught her While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring: Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home. ON DEATH BY JOHN KEATS Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, How strange it is that man on earth should roam, His rugged path; nor dare he view alone THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER BY FRANCIS SCOTT KEY O say, can you see by the dawn's early light What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, And where is that band who so vauntingly swore No refuge could save the hireling and slave O, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave RECESSIONAL / BY RUDYARD KIPLING God of our fathers, known of old, The tumult and the shouting dies - An humble and a contrite heart. Far-called our navies melt away On dune and headland sinks the fire- If, drunk with sight of power, we loose For heathen heart that puts her trust AMEN. O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? BY WILLIAM KNOX The following poem was a particular favorite with Abraham Lincoln. It was first shown to him when a young man by a friend, and afterwards he cut it from a newspaper and learned it by heart. He said to a friend, "I would give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to ascertain." He did afterwards learn the name of the author. O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, The infant a mother attended and loved, The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by; Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised. The head of the king, that the sceptre hath borne; The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath worn; |