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Our little systems have their day,
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness; let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me;
What seem'd my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

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1849.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;

Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.

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Lord Tennyson.

THE BATTLE-FIELD

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armèd hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her brave,Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm and fresh and still;
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine, are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering
wain;

Men start not at the battle-cry,-
Oh, be it never heard again!

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Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weaponed throng

Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot;

The timid good may stand aloof,

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The sage may frown,-yet faint thou not. 28

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;

For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again,—
Th' eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,

Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here!

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Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. William Cullen Bryant.

1837.

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THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.

On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,

And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife

The warrior's dream alarms;

No braying horn nor screaming fife

At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed;

Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now now their martial shroud.

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And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,

And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from Anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;

Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal

Shall thrill with fierce delight

Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe.

Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,

Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or Death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide;

Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.

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