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I know that o'er their bones Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. Some of those piles I've seen : The one at Lexington upon the green

Where the first blood was shed,

And to my country's independence led ;
And others, on our shore,
The "Battle Monument" at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.

Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;
Thy "tomb," Themistocles,

That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
And which the waters kiss

That issue from the gulf of Salamis.

And thine, too, have I seen,

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,
That, like a natural knoll,

Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,
Watched by some turbaned boy,

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,
And hears, as life ebbs out,

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his

pride:

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout; And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

But as his eye grows dim,

What is a column or a mound to him?

What, to the parting soul,

The mellow note of bugles? What the roll
Of drums? No, let me die

Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,
And the soft summer air,

As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair,
And from my forehead dries

The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies
Seem waiting to receive

My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave
The world when round my bed

Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered,
And the calm voice of prayer
And holy hymning shall my soul prepare
To go and be at rest

With kindred spirits, spirits who have blessed

The human brotherhood

By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

JOHN PIERPONT.

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AH! whence yon glare, That fires the arch of heaven?-that dark red smoke Blotting the silver moon? The stars are quenched In darkness, and pure and spangling snow Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round!

Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals
In countless echoes through the mountains ring,
Startling pale midnight on her starry throne!
Now swells the intermingling din; the jar
Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb;
The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout,
The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men
Inebriate with rage; - loud, and more loud
The discord grows; till pale death shuts the scene,
And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws
His cold and bloody shroud. - Of all the men

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there,

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on

the sea,

In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts
That beat with anxious life at sunset there,
How few survive, how few are beating now!
All is deep silence, like the fearful calm
That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause;

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Save when the frantic wail of widowed love

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen;

Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay Wrapt round its struggling powers.

The gray morn Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous smoke

Before the icy wind slow rolls away,

And the bright beams of frosty morning dance
Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood
Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms,
And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments
Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful
path

Of the outsallying victors; far behind,
Black ashes note where their proud city stood.
Within yon forest is a gloomy glen,
Each tree which guards its darkness from the day
Waves o'er a warrior's tomb.

War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight,
The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade,
And to those royal murderers whose mean
thrones

Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore,

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The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, surround
Their palaces, participate the crimes

That force defends, and from a nation's rage
Secure the crown, which all the curses reach
That famine, frenzy, woe, and penury breathe.
These are the hired bravos who defend
The tyrant's throne.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

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No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, The picket 's off duty forever.

CIVIL WAR.

MRS. HOWLAND.

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All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,
Far
away
in the cot on the mountain.

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"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,

When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket, this locket of gold;

An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,

Grows gentle with memories tender,

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."

"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!-'t is she, My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon

Was her husband Hush! soldier, 't was Heaven's decree,

But that parting was years, long years ago,
He wandered away to a foreign land;
And our dear old mother will never know
That he died to-night by his brother's hand.

We must bury him there, by the light of the The soldiers who buried the dead away

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A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was

dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life

blood ebbed away,

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name

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he And to hang the old sword in its place (my famight say. The dying soldier faltered, and he took that com- For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on

rade's hand,

And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own,

my native land;

Take a message, and a token, to some distant

friends of mine,

For I was born at Bingen, - at Bingen on the
Rhine.

ther's sword and mine)

the Rhine.

"There's another, not a sister; in the happy days gone by

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning,

Ampelopis, mock-grape. I have here literally trans- O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes some

lated the botanical name of the Virginia creeper, an appellation too cumbrous for verse.

times heaviest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon | And upon platforms where the oak-trees grew,

be risen,

My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of

prison),

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine

Trumpets he set, huge beyond dreams of wonder,

Craftily purposed, when his arms withdrew,

To make him thought still housed there, like the thunder:

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, -fair Bingen on And it so fell; for when the winds blew right, the Rhine. They woke their trumpets to their calls of might.

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or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well

remembered walk!

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in

mine,

But we'll meet no more at Bingen, - loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak,

His eyes put on a dying look,

ceased to speak;

he sighed and

Unseen, but heard, their calls the trumpets blew,
Ringing the granite rocks, their only bearers,
Till the long fear into religion grew,

And nevermore those heights had human darers.
Dreadful Doolkarnein was an earthly god;

His walls but shadowed forth his mightier frowning;

Armies of giants at his bidding trod

From realm to realm, king after king dis

crowning.

When thunder spoke, or when the earthquake stirred,

Then, muttering in accord, his host was heard.

But when the winters marred the mountain shelves,

And softer changes came with vernal mornings, Something had touched the trumpets' lofty selves, And less and less rang forth their sovereign warnings;

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of Fewer and feebler; as when silence spreads

life had fled,

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[In Eastern history are two Iskanders, or Alexanders, who are sometimes confounded, and both of whom are called Doolkar.

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nein, or the Two-Horned, in allusion to their subjugation of East So did fear dream; though now, with not a sound

and West, horns being an Oriental symbol of power.

One of these heroes is Alexander of Macedon; the other a con. queror of more ancient times, who built the marvellous series of

ramparts on Mount Caucasus, known in fable as the wall of Gog and Magog, that is to say, of the people of the North. It reached from the Euxine Sea to the Caspian, where its flanks originated the subsequent appellation of the Caspian Gates.]

WITH awful walls, far glooming, that possessed The passes 'twixt the snow-fed Caspian fountains,

Doolkarnein, the dread lord of East and West, Shut up the northern nations in their mountains;

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