Like the fierce northern hurricane Long had the doubtful conflict raged Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 'T was in that hour his stern command His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain And long the pitying sky has wept Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air; Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war his richest spoil- So, 'neath their parent turf they rest, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, While Fame her record keeps, Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb. THEODORE O'HARA Nearer, my God, to Thee. NEARER, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee! E'en though it be a cross Still all my song shall be, Though, like the wanderer, Yet in my dreams I'd be There let the way appear Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee! Then with my waking thougnts Bright with thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise; So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee! Or if on joyful wing Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upward I fly; Still all my song shall be,— Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee. SARAH FLOWER ADAMS. Lines on a Skeleton. BEHOLD this ruin! 'T was a skull This narrow cell was Life's retreat, This space was Thought's mysterious seat Beneath this mouldering canopy If with no lawless fire it gleamed, But through the dews of kindness beamed, Within this hollow cavern hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; And when it could not praise was chained; If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke,— This silent tongue shall plead for thee Say, did these fingers delve the mine? Or with the envied rubies shine? To hew the rock, or wear a gem, Can little now avail to them. Avails it whether bare or shod ANONYMOUS. The Place where Man should Die. How little recks it where men lie, When once the moment 's past Or in its nakedness return Back to its mother's breast! Death is a common friend or foe, But when the spirit, free and warm, Deserts it, as it must, What matter where the lifeless form Dissolves again to dust? The soldier falls 'mid corses piled Upon the battle-plain, Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild Above the mangled slain; But though his corse be grim to see, Hoof-trampled on the sod, What recks it, when the spirit free |