Dirge

281

DIRGE FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE.

OOм for a soldier! lay him in the clover;

R He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover;

Make his mound with hers who called him once
her lover:

Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;
Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,
Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole
perches:

Make his mound with sunshine on it,
Where the bee will dine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the rain will rain upon it.

Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover;

Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his

cover;

Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:
Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often
Out of those tender eyes which evermore did soften:
He never could look cold till we saw him in his coffin.
Make his mound with sunshine on it,
Plant the lordly pine upon it,

66

Where the moon may stream upon it,
And memory shall dream upon it.

Captain or Colonel,"-whatever invocation

Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation.

Long as the sun doth shine upon it
Shall glow the goodly pine upon it,
Long as the stars do gleam upon it
Shall memory come to dream upon it.

Thomas William Parsons.

I

THE KEARSARGE.

N the gloomy ocean bed

*

Dwelt a formless thing, and said,

In the dim and countless eons long ago

"I will build a stronghold high,

Ocean's power to defy,

And the pride of haughty man to lay low."

Crept the minutes for the sad,
Sped the cycles for the glad,

But the march of time was neither less nor more;
While the formless atom died,

Myriad millions by its side,

And above them slowly lifted Roncador.

* By kind permission of author.

The Bells

283

Rancador of Caribee,

Coral dragon of the sea,

Ever sleeping with his teeth below the wave;
Woe to him who breaks the sleep!

Woe to them who sail the deep!

Woe to ship and man that fear a shipman's grave!

Hither many a galleon old,
Heavy-keeled with guilty gold,

Fled before the hardy rover smiting sore;
But the sleeper silent lay

Till the preyer and his prey

Brought their plunder and their bones to Roncador.

Be content, O conqueror!
Now our bravest ship of war,

War and tempest who had often braved before,
All her storied prowess past,

Strikes her glorious flag at last

To the formless thing that builded Roncador.

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!

While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinabulation that so musically swells
From the bells, bells bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II.

Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
Slow they ring out their delight!—
From the molten golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells

How it dwells

On the Future; how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

The Bells

285

III.

Hear the loud alarum bells

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror now, their turbulency tells;
In the startled air of night

How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak

They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,

In the clamourous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In the mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire. Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavour
Now-now to sit or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon,
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their tenor tells
Of Despair!

How they clang and crash and roar!
What a horror they out pour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the air it fully knows,

By the twanging,

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the air distinctly tells,

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—