The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.-- The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust;-- His soul is with the saints, I trust.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

_How Sleep the Brave!_

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest!

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

_Dirge_

_For One Who Fell in Battle._

Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover; He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover; Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover: Where the rain may rain upon it, Where the sun may shine upon it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the bee will dine upon it.

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches; Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches, Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches: Make his mound with sunshine on it, Where the bee will dine upon it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the rain will rain upon it.

Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover; Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover; Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over: Where the rain may rain upon it, Where the sun may shine upon it, Where the lamb hath lain upon it, And the bee will dine upon it.

Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often Out of those tender eyes which evermore did soften: He never could look cold till we saw him in his coffin.

Make his mound with sunshine on it.

Plant the lordly pine upon it, Where the moon may stream upon it, And memory shall dream upon it.

"Captain or Colonel,"--whatever invocation Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,-- On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation!

Long as the sun doth shine upon it, Shall glow the goodly pine upon it, Long as the stars do gleam upon it, Shall memory come to dream upon it.

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

_The Burial of Sir John Moore_

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

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 smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

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.

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 in his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.

_Soldier, Rest!_

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking: Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing; Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more: Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang, or war-steed's champing; Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

Yet the lark's shrill fife may come, At the day-break, from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow.

Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

_From "The Lady of the Lake."_

_Recessional_

G.o.d of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies-- The captains and the kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire-- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

_The Fatherland_

Where is the true man's fatherland?

Is it where he by chance is born?

Doth not the yearning spirit scorn In such scant borders to be spanned?

Oh yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is, Where G.o.d is G.o.d and man is man?

Doth he not claim a broader span For the soul's love of home than this?

Oh yes! his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

Where'er a human heart doth wear Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves, Where'er a human spirit strives After a life more true and fair, There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland!