Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd And once again a fire of hell Rain'd on the Russian quarters, And Irish Nora's eyes are dim Sleep, soldiers! still in honor'd rest BAYARD TAYLOR. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN ! (Abraham Lincoln, died April 15, 1865.) O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won: Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. WALT. WHITMAN. ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN GREEN be the turf above thee, Tears fell, when thou wert dying, When hearts whose truth was proven, And I, who woke each morrow It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, While memory bids me weep thee, The grief is fix'd too deeply That mourns a man like thee. FITZ-GREENE Halleck. 'TIS BUT A LITTLE FADED FLOWER. 'Tis but a little faded flower, But oh, how fondly dear! 'Twill bring me back one golden hour, I may not to the world impart But treasured in my inmost heart, Where is the heart that does not keep, Within its inmost core, Some fond remembrance, hidden deep, Of days that are no more? Who hath not saved some trifling thing A faded flower, a broken ring, A tress of golden hair? ELLEN CLEMINTINE HOWARTH. THE OLD BEAU. How cracked and poor his laughter rings, But still a courtly pathos clings About his bent and withered form. To-night, where mirth with music dwells, His wrinkled cheek, his locks of snow, Gleam near the grandsons of the belles We watch him here, and half believe Our gaze may witness, while he prates, EDGAR FAWCETT. THE TEA-GOWN. My lady has a tea-gown That is wondrous fair to see, It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed, As a tea-gown ought to be; And I thought she must be jesting Last night at supper when She remarked, by chance, that it came from France, And had cost but two pounds ten. Had she told me fifty shillings, I might (and wouldn't you?) Have referred to that dress in a way folks express By an eloquent dash or two; But the guileful little creature Knew well her tactics when She casually said that that dream in red Had cost but two pounds ten. Yet our home is all the brighter For the dainty, sentient thing, |