Where, as the Benedictine laid
His palm upon the convent's guest,
The single boon for which he prayed
Was peace, that pilgrim's one request.

Peace dwells not here this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose;

The sullen warrior sole we trace,

The marble man of many woes.

Such was his mien when first arose

The thought of that strange tale divine—
When hell he peopled with his foes,

Dread scourge of many a guilty line.

War to the last he waged with all
The tyrant canker-worms of earth;
Baron and duke, in hold and hall,
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth;
He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime;
But valiant souls of knightly worth
Transmitted to the rolls of Time.

O Time! whose verdicts mock our own,
The only righteous judge art thou;
That poor, old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other Virgil now.
Before his name the nations bow;
His words are parcel of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.
Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892)

DICKENS IN CAMP

[1812-1870]

ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river sang below;

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure

A hoarded volume drew,

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure, To hear the tale anew.

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell,

He read aloud the book wherein the Master

Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, for the reader

Was youngest of them all,

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,

Listened in every spray,

While the whole camp, with "Nell," on English meadows

Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes o'ertaken

As by some spell divine—

Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire:
And he who wrought that spell?—

Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills

With hop-vine's incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths entwine,

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly—

This spray of Western pine!

Bret Harte [1839-1902]

DRAKE'S DRUM

[SIR FRANCIS DRAKE, 1540?-1596]

DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),

Rovin' though his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them
long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;

Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',

They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago!

Henry Newbolt [1862

"Oh, Breathe Not His Name!" 3375

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE

[1795-1820]

GREEN be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine:

It should be mine to braid it

Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

Fitz-Greene Halleck [1790-1867]

"OH, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME!"

[ROBERT EMMET, 1778-1803]

OH, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,

As the night-dew that falls on the grave o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,

Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

Thomas Moore [1779–1852]

VANQUISHED

[ULYSSES S. GRANT, 1822-1885]

NOT by the ball or brand

Sped by a mortal hand,

Not by the lightning stroke
When fiery tempests broke,-
Not mid the ranks of war
Fell the great Conqueror.

Unmoved, undismayed,

In the crash and carnage of the cannonade,-
Eye that dimmed not, hand that failed not,
Brain that swerved not, heart that quailed not,

Steel nerve, iron form,—

The dauntless spirit that o'erruled the storm.

While the Hero peaceful slept
A foeman to his chamber crept,

Lightly to the slumberer came,

Touched his brow and breathed his name:

O'er the stricken form there passed

Suddenly an icy blast.

The Hero woke: rose undismayed:

Saluted Death, and sheathed his' blade.

The Conqueror of a hundred fields
To a mightier Conqueror yields;
No mortal foeman's blow
Laid the great Soldier low;
Victor in his latest breath-

Vanquished but by Death.

Francis Fisher Browne [1843-1913]