While yet, beset in homelier fray, They learn from you the lesson plain That Life may go, so Honor stay, The deeds you wrought are not in vain! ENVOY Heroes of old! I humbly lay The laurel on your graves again; Whatever men have done, men may,— The deeds you wrought are not in vain! Austin Dobson [1840 THE CAPTAIN'S FEATHER THE dew is on the heather, Shall through the battle ride, The dust is on the heather, It is the cannon's thunder- The blood is on the heather, Samuel Minturn Peck [1854 ENGLAND'S DEAD SON of the ocean isle! Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is reared o'er Glory's bed. Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free, the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead. On Egypt's burning plains, By the pyramid o'erswayed, With fearful power the noonday reigns, And the palm-trees yield no shade. But let the angry sun From heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose task is done,— The hurricane hath might Along the Indian shore, And far, by Ganges' banks at night But let the sound roll on! It hath no tone of dread For those that from their toils are gone;There slumber England's dead! Loud rush the torrent-floods The western wilds among, And free, in green Columbia's woods But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?— There slumber England's dead! The mountain-storms rise high And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, Like rose-leaves on the breeze. But let the storm rage on! Let the forest-wreaths be shed: On the frozen deep's repose, But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done,— The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, Go, stranger! track the deep, Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead. Felicia Dorothea Hemans [1793-1835] THE PIPES O' GORDON'S MEN HOME comes a lad with the bonnie hair, And the kilted plaid that the hill-clans wear; And you hear the mother say, "Whear ha' ye ben, wee Laddie; whear ha' ye ben th' day?" "O! I ha' ben wi' Gordon's men; Dinna ye hear th' bagpipes play? And I followed th' soldiers across the green, And doon th' road ta Aberdeen. And when I'm a man, my Mother, And th' Hielanders parade, I'll be marchin' there, wi' my Father's pipes, Beneath the Soudan's sky ye ken the smoke, As the clans reply when the tribesmen spoke. Then the charge roars by! The death-sweat clings to the kilted form that the stretcher brings, And the iron-nerved surgeons say, "Whear ha' ye ben, my Laddie; whear ha' ye ben th' day?" "O, I ha' ben wi' Gordon's men; Dinna ye hear th' bagpipes play? And I piped th' clans from the river barge CORONACH Upon the hill-side, high and steep, Where rank on rank the soldiers sleep, Where the silent cannons beside the path, Point the last forced-march that the soldier hath,— The round-shot, heaped in a pyramid A white stone rises. Across its face You can read the words that the chisels trace: "Whear ha' ye ben, wee Laddie; whear ha' ye ben th' day?" "O, I ha' ben wi' Gordon's men; Dinna ye hear th' bagpipes play?" J. Scott Glasgow [18 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the Judgment Day:Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, From the silence of sorrowful hours Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe:- Waiting the Judgment Day: Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray. So, with an equal splendor Waiting the Judgment Day: Broidered with gold, the Blue; So, when the summer calleth, Wet with the rain, the Gray. |