Classic Poem

What is this thunder-music from the other side of the world,
That pulses through the severing seas and round the planet runs?
'Tis the death-song of old Spain floating from the Asian main;
There's a tale of crumbling empire in the song of Dewey's guns!

The hand that held the sceptre once of all the great world seas,
And paved its march with dead men's bones 'neath all the circling suns,
Grew faint with deadly fear when that thunder song drew near,
For the dirge of Spain was sounded by the song of Dewey's guns!

There is music in a cannon yet for all the Sons of Peace —
Yea, the porthole's belching anthem is soft music to her sons
When the iron thunder-song sings the death of ancient wrong —
And a dying wrong was chanted by the song of Dewey's guns.

UNCOMMONLY ATTACHED TO LEARNING .

Here, Stranger! pause, and, sadly, o'er this stone
A moment ponder, on the deeds of Fate:
Snatch'd hence, in blooming Youth, here mouldersone,
Whose life seem'd worthy of a longer date.

Mild was his temper, and his soul serene;
Truth warm'd his breast, and dwelt upon his tongue:
Oft would he wander, from the noisy scene,
To list, while Virgil, or bold Homer sung.

With such a Son, what was his Parents joy,
No thought can reach it, nor no tongue can tell;
Nor paint their anguish, when the lovely Boy,
By Death assaulted, pale and lifeless fell.

Yet they submit to Heav'n's wise-acting Pow'r;
And think, O Reader! as thou treads this sod,
He once, like thee, enjoy'd Life's glitt'ring hour;
Thou soon, like him, must pass Death's gloomy road.