Mourn no more for our dead,
Laid in their rest serene—
With the tears a Land hath shed
Their graves shall ever be green.

Ever their fair, true glory
Fondly shall fame rehearse—
Light of legend and story,
Flower of marble and verse!

(Wilt thou forget, O Mother!
How thy darlings, day by day,
For thee, and with fearless faces,
Journeyed the darksome way—
Went down to death in the war-ship,
And on the bare hill-side lay?)

For the Giver they gave their breath,
And 'tis now no time to mourn—

Celia , the faithful servant you disown,
Wou'd in obedience keep his Love unknown;
But bright Idea's such as you inspire,
We can no more conceal, than not admire;
My heart at home, in my own brest did dwell,
Like humble Hermit in a peaceful Cell,
Unknown, and undisturb'd, it rested there,
Stranger alike to Hope, and to Despair:
But Loves Tumultuous Train does now invade
The Sacred quiet of this Hallow'd Shade;
His fatal flames shine out to every eye,
Like blazing Comets in a Winters Sky.
Fair and severe like Heaven you injoyn,

Vertues triumphant Shrine! who do'st engage
At once three Kingdomes in a Pilgrimage;
Which in extatick duty strive to come
Out of themselves as well as from their home:
Whilst England grows one Camp, and London is
It self the Nation, not Metropolis;
And loyall Kent renews her Arts agen,
Fencing her wayes with moving groves of men;
Forgive this distant homage, which doth meet
Your blest approach on Sedentary feet:
And though my youth, not patient yet to bear
The weight of Armes, denies me to appear
In Steel before You, yet, Great Sir, approve

Lost in a labyrinth of doubts and joys,
Whom now her smiles reviv'd her scorn destroys:
She will, and she will not; she grants, denies,
Consents, retracts, advances, and then flies;
Approving and rejecting in a breath,
Now proff'ring mercy, now presenting death.
Thus hoping, thus despairing, never sure,
How various are the torments I endure!
Cruel estate of doubt! ah, Mira! try
Once to resolve — Or let me live or die.

When all the years are but a year
Fast drawing to a close,
And I am through with cruising here
Forever, I suppose,
Then upward to the final cross
The last hill I shall climb
And stand before the mighty Boss
Who figures up our time.

He gave me once a world to cruise,
He staked me to a life,
And left me my own way to choose,
A path of peace or strife.
Across the sky He spread His stars,
The sun to travel by,
His great unchanging calendars
For pilgrims such as I.

But there are things He never knew

You have packed up your duffle and put out your fire,
There is nothing ahead but the trail,
But the trail that leads up to the hill you desire —
You will come nevermore to the vale.
'Twas a shelter from storm and a home for the night,
'Twas a place for a fire and a snack;
You are through with it now, you are off with the light —
But you stop and you take a look back.

'Twas a spot for a camp such as seldom you find,
With a slope that would drain it of wet;
There was green grass in front, there was timber behind,

There was a gink
Blew into camp
Not very long ago
Who'd make you think
He had a lamp
Like no one here below.
He bragged about
The fights he had,
He built up quite a rep;
Without a doubt
We thought him bad,
A party full of pep.

His laigs, his arms,
He said were swell,
His uppercut a peach;
His other charms
He used to tell —
His footwork an' his reach.
He bullied us,
I must confess;
We let him have his way:
An' not a cuss
But answered yes,
Whatever he would say.

  Poland has fallen! Heaven! how long
  Shall fraud and tyranny be strong?
How long shall Russia's impious lord be free
  To trample on the hearts of men,
That he may turn, with smiles of savage glee,
  To revel in his Arctic den?
What! must the sword of righteous vengeance sleep?
Must the warm heart its even tenor keep?
  And shroud its feelings from the light,
  And veil its horror and affright,
  Lest we should rouse the Muscovite?
  Alas! how great is England's fall;
  Was it for this she smote the Gaul?

Alone in the twilight tender,
I plan the coming days,
While the supple flames are lapping
In weird, fantastic ways;
When out of the startled darkness
There springs a single note, —
And the first light strains of a prelude
Slow into the silence float.
'T is mother's touch! How quietly she always enters in!
With child-like throb I listen now to hear the song begin:
— Roy's wife of Aldivalloch! — Ah, me! The woful shame!
And — how she cheated him — I learn with honest ire and blame.
And then a moment's silence, a fallen music-page —

Sing us no song of the stripes an' the stars
Callin' us heroes an' such;
We are plumb sick of the music of wars,
Star spangled bannered too much.
Give us a hail
From the tote-road, the trail,
Up where the water's alive;
Give us Paul Bunyan, or some such a tale —
Sing us a song of the drive!

We aren't specially hymnin' our hate,
We aren't damnin' the Hun.
Let us forgit it, a while any rate,
Nix on the sword an' the gun.
Give us a song
As we're marchin' along,
Somethin' to lighten the tramp;