In honor of the brave Who on the battle-field have found a grave; Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still; That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, That issue from the gulf of Salamis. And thine, too, have I seen, Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green, Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout; What is a column or a mound to him? What, to the parting soul, The mellow note of bugles? What the roll Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly, As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair, The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave With kindred spirits, - spirits who have blessed By labors, cares, and counsels for their good. JOHN PIERPONT. MY AUTUMN WALK. ON woodlands ruddy with autumn I look on the beauty round me, For the wind that sweeps the meadows Blows out of the far Southwest, But a sudden change came o'er his heart, And Tubal Cain was filled with pain He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with the blood they shed, And for many a day old Tubal Cain And bared his strong right arm for work, "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made," And he fashioned the first plowshare. And men, taught wisdom from the past, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And sang: "Hurrah for Tubal Cain ! Our stanch good friend is he; And for the plowshare and the plow |