'T was in that hour his stern command The flower of his beloved land, His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain. The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 56 Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave: She claims from war his richest spoil The ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield; 72 1847. The sunshine of their native sky And kindred eyes and hearts watch by Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! No impious footstep here shall tread Or Honor points the hallowed spot Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone When many a vanished age hath flown, Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb. 96 Theodore O'Hara. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AFTER CORUNNA Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 4 We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And we far away on the billow! 8 12 16 20 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. 28 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. 32 1817. Charles Wolfe. CORONACH From The Lady of the Lake HE is gone on the mountain, From the raindrops shall borrow, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, Waft the leaves that are serest, Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, 16 1810. 1746. Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Thou art gone; and for ever! Sir Walter Scott. ODE WRITTEN IN 1745 How sleep the brave who sink to rest, By fairy hands their knell is rung; William Collins. MAGNOLIA CEMETERY Sung at Charleston, S. C., over the SLEEP Sweetly in your humble graves, 24 6 12 |