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That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm
With banquet song and dance, and wine;
And thou art terrible:
the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come, when his task of fame is wrought;
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought;
Come, in her crowning hour- and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight
Of sky and stars to prison'd men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh
To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytien seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee: there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime.

She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,

Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,

In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb;

But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said,
At palace couch and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears;
And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys—
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,"
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's.
One of the few, the immortal names
That were not born to die.



BOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily bloom,

An angel, writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said:

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made all of sweet accord,

Answered: "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerily still; and said: "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night

It came again, with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had bless'dAnd, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.


ET me lie down


Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,
Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see
The surge of the combat, and where I may hear
The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer:
Let me lie down.

Oh, it was grand!

Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share;
The tempest - its fury and thunder were there:
On, on, o'er intrenchments, o'er living and dead,
With the foe under foot, and our flag overhead:
Oh, it was grand!

Weary and faint,

Prone on the soldier's couch, ah! how can I rest,
With this shot-shatter'd head and sabre-pierced breast?
Comrades, at roll-call, when I shall be sought,
Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,
Wounded and faint.

Oh, that last charge!

Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell,
Through without faltering-clear through with a yell!
Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom,
Like heroes we dashed, at the mandate of doom!
Oh, that last charge!

It was duty!

Some things are worthless, and some others so good
That nations who buy them pay only in blood.
For Freedom and Union each man owes his part;
And here I pay my share, all warm from my heart:
It is duty.

Dying at last!

My mother, dear mother! with meek, tearful eye,
Farewell! and God bless you, forever and aye!
Oh, that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest!
Dying at last!

I am no saint;

But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins,
"Our Father," and then says, "Forgive us our sins:
Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then
I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say,

Ah! I'm no saint!

Hark! there's a shout!

Raise me up, comrades! We have conquer'd, I know!—
Up on my feet, with my face to the foe!

Ah! there flies the flag, with its star-spangles bright,
The promise of glory, the symbol of right!

Well may they shout!

I'm muster'd out.

O God of our fathers, our freedom prolong,
And tread down rebellion, oppression, and wrong!
O land of earth's hope, on thy blood-redden'd sod,
I die for the nation, the Union, and God!

I'm muster'd out.


"The King of Aragon now entered Castile, by way of Soria and Osma, with a powerful army; and, having been met by the queen's forces, both parties encamped near Sepulveda, and prepared to give battle.

"This engageinent, called, from the field where it took place, de la Espina, is one of the most famous of that age. The dastardly Count of Lara fled at the first shock, and joined the queen at Burgos, where she was anxiously awaiting the issue; but the brave Count of Candespina (Gomez Gonzalez) stood his ground to the last, and died on the field of battle. His standard-bearer, a gentleman of the house of Olea, after having his horse killed under him, and both hands cut off by sabre-strokes, fell beside his master, still clasping the standard in his arms, and repeating his war-cry of 'Olea!'"-Annals of the Queens of Spain.


CARCE were the splinter'd lances dropp'd,
Scarce were the swords drawn out,

Ere recreant Lara, sick with fear,

Had wheel'd his steed about:

His courser rear'd, and plunged, and neigh'd,
Loathing the fight to yield;

But the coward spurr'd him to the bone,
And drove him from the field.

Gonzalez in his stirrups rose:

“Turn, turn, thou traitor knight! Thou bold tongue in a lady's bower, Thou dastard in a fight!"

But vainly valiant Gomez cried
Across the waning fray:
Pale Lara and his craven band
To Burgos scour'd away.

"Now, by the God above me, sirs,
Better we all were dead,

Than a single knight among ye all
Should ride where Lara led!

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