THE DEAD. BY GEORGE F. TALBOT. THE mighty dead, earth's teeming brood, I move amidst life's busy crowd, Thou greedy earth, whose fertile rind What is thy solid mould but men, Oh! cruel mother, yield us back THE DEAD. Where o'er thine orb from pole to pole, Did man ne'er yield his breath? What space hast thou of sea or shore Unhallowed by a death? Thy fields yield verdure fair as erst Thy zephyrs yet blow coolly by, Thy woodland streams run free ; As pure an azure tints thy sky, And yet not all thy aspects, Earth, Of changeless joy appear; Not all unknelled the dead have gone, Not all unwept their bier. There's moaning for them in the rush The waves, that roll o'er mouldering men, There's sobbing in the thunder-cloud 135 And widowed nature yearly mourns, And lays aside her flowers. From him, who felt the unknown pang To those, whose unchanged forms now lie How oft disease, and sword, and flood, Hushed is the Medes' invading tramp, Their spears consumed with rust, The hosts that swelled through Babel's gates, Have mingled with their dust. On Afric's stormy strand are thrown Nor now can boast the fearful ones, Mourn not the Greek on Marathon, The nation, rescued by their death, Sunk in less glorious graves. THE DEAD. Time, Carthage, has avenged thy wrongs, 137 Thy captive sons through Rome's proud streets, Are numbered with thy dead. Jerusalem weeps not her slain, Nor hates her conquering foes, The mountains saved not them who fled, Nor yet their victory those. Ranks fell on ranks on Waterloo, And Borodino's plain, And Russia's snows have crimson grown With blood of thousands slain. The peasant by his cottage fire, The savage in his wilderness, Oh! all the race of men are dead, Like flitting shadows of the past, A few still linger here. LYRIC POETRY. BY WILLIAM CUTTER. MUSIC, one day, was straying At length, with feasting sated, She found herself belated, And thought it best to stay. The dewy leaves among. |