"DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI."
OH! it is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending;
Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory awaits us for aye,— Glory that never is dim, shining on with light never ending,— Glory that never shall fade, never, oh, never, away!
Oh! it is sweet for our country to die! How softly reposes
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love,
Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him with garlands
of roses,
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above.
Not to the shades shall the youth descend who for country hath perished;
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished; Gods love the young who ascend pure from the funeral pile.
Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious rivor;
Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue-rolling sea; But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted forever; There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free.
Oh! then, how great for our country to die,-in the front rank to
Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in our ear! Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory cherish; We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music
WHAT'S hallowed ground? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod
By man, the image of his God,
Erect and free,
Unscourged by Superstition's rod
To bow the knee?
That's hallowed ground, where, mourned and missed. The lips repose our love has kissed :
But where's their memory's mansion? Is't
Yon church-yard's bowers?
No! in ourselves their souls exist,
What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!-
In dews that heavens far distant weep
Their turf may bloom,
Or genii twine, beneath the deep,
Their coral tomb.
But, strew his ashes to the wind,
Whose sword or voice has served mankind,
And is he dead whose glorious mind
Lifts thine on high ?—
To live in hearts we leave behind,
Is not to die.
Give that, and welcome War to brace
Her drums, and rend heaven's reeking space!
The colors, planted face to face.
The charging cheer,
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase,
And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven!--but Heaven rebukes my zeal!
The cause of truth and human weal,
O God above!
Transfer it from the sword's appeal
To Peace and Love.
Peace, Love! the cherubim, that join
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine,-
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,
Where they are not.
The heart alone can make divine
What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!—
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
Earth's compass round;
And your high-priesthood shall make earth
THE GRAVES OF THE PATRIOTS.
HERE rest the great and good,—here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gathers them again, as winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre,-green sods
Are all their monument; and yet it tells
A nobler history than pillared piles,
Or the eternal pyramids. They need
No statue nor inscription to reveal
Their greatness. It is round them; and the joy
With which their children tread the hallowed ground
That holds their venerated bones, the peace
That smiles on all they fought for, and the wealth
That clothes the land they rescued, these, though mute,
As feeling ever is when deepest,-these
Are monuments more lasting than the fanes
Reared to the kings and demi-gods of old.
Touch not the ancient elms, that bend their shade
Over the lowly graves; beneath their boughs
There is a solemn darkness, even at noon,
Suited to such as visit at the shrine
Of serious liberty. No factious voice
Called them unto the field of generous fame,
But the pure consecrated love of home.
No deeper feeling sways us, when it wakes
In all its greatness. It has told itself
To the astonished gaze of awe-struck kings,
At Marathon, at Bannockburn, and here,
Where first our patriots sent the invader back,
Broken and cowed. Let these green elms be all
To tell us where they fought, and where they lie.
Their feelings were all nature; and they need
No art to make them known. They live in us,
While we are like them, simple, hardy, bold,
Worshipping nothing but our own pure hearts
And the one universal Lord. They need
No column pointing to the heaven they sought,
To tell us of their home. The heart itself,
Left to its own free purposes, hastens there,
And there alone reposes. Let these elms
Bend their protecting shadow o'er their graves,
And build with their green roof the only fane,
Where we may gather on the hallowed day,
That rose to them in blood, and set in glory.
Here let us meet; and while our motionless lips
Give not a sound, and all around is mute
In the deep sabbath of a heart too full
For words or tears,-here let us strew the sod
With the first flowers of spring, and make to them
An offering of the plenty, Nature gives,
And they have rendered ours,-perpetually.
COLUMBIA, THE LAND OF THE BRAVE.
O COLUMBIA, the gem of the ocean,
The home of the brave and the free,
The shrine of each patriot's devotion,
A world offers homage to thee.
Thy mandates make heroes assemble,
When Liberty's form stands in view,
Thy banners make tyranny tremble,
When borne by the Red, White, and Blue.
Chorus. When borne by the Red, White, and Blue,
When borne by the Red, White, and Blue,
Thy banners make tyranny tremble,
When borne by the Red, White, and Blue.
When war winged its wide desolation,
And threatened the land to deform,
The ark then of Freedom's foundation,
Columbia, rode safe through the storm,
With the garlands of victory around her,
When so proudly she bore her brave crew,
With her flag proudly floating before her,
The boast of the Red, White, and Blue.
Chorus.
The wine-cup, the wine-cup bring hither,
And fill you it true to the brim.
May the wreaths they have won never wither,
Nor the stars of their glory grow dim.
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