E. B. E.
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mourn upon this battle-field,But not for those who perished here.Behold the river-bankWhither the angry farmers came,In sloven dress and broken rank,Nor thought of fame.Their deed of bloodAll mankind praise;Even the serene Reason says,It was well done.The wise and simple have one glanceTo greet yon stern head-stone,Which more of pride than pity gaveTo mark the Briton's friendless grave.Yet it is a stately tomb;The grand returnOf eve and morn,The year's fresh bloom,The silver cloud,Might grace the dust that is most proud. Yet not of these I museIn this ancestral place,But of a kindred faceThat never joy or hope shall here diffuse. Ah, brother of the brief but blazing star!What hast thou to do with theseHaunting this bank's historic trees?Thou born for noblest life,For action's field, for victor's car,Thou living champion of the right?To these their penalty belonged:I grudge not these their bed of death,But thine to thee, who never wrongedThe poorest that drew breath. All inborn power that couldConsist with homage to the goodFlamed from his martial eye;He who seemed a soldier born,He should have the helmet worn,All friends to fend, all foes defy,Fronting foes of God and man,Frowning down the evil-doer,Battling for the weak and poor.His from youth the leader's lookGave the law which others took,And never poor beseeching glanceShamed that sculptured countenance. There is no record left on earth,Save in tablets of the heart,Of the rich inherent worth,Of the grace that on him shone,Of eloquent lips, of joyful wit;He could not frame a word unfit,An act unworthy to be done;Honour prompted every glance,Honour came and sat beside him,In lowly cot or painful road,And evermore the cruel godCried, "Onward!" and the palm-crown showed.Born for success he seemed,With grace to win, with heart to hold,With shining gifts that took all eyes,With budding power in college-halls,As pledged in coming days to forgeWeapons to guard the State, or scourgeTyrants despite their guards or walls.On his young promise Beauty smiled,Drew his free homage unbeguiled,And prosperous Age held out his hand,And richly his large future planned,And troops of friends enjoyed the tide,--All, all was given, and only health denied. I see him with superior smileHunted by Sorrow's grisly trainIn lands remote, in toil and pain,With angel patience labour on,With the high port he wore erewhile,When, foremost of the youthful band,The prizes in all lists he won;Nor bate one jot of heart or hope,And, least of all, the loyal tieWhich holds to home 'neath every sky,The joy and pride the pilgrim feelsIn hearts which round the hearth at homeKeep pulse for pulse with those who roam. What generous beliefs consoleThe brave whom Fate denies the goal!If others reach it, is content;To Heaven's high will his will is bent.Firm on his heart relied,What lot soe'er betide,Work of his handHe nor repents nor grieves,Pleads for itself the fact,As unrepenting Nature leavesHer every act. Fell the bolt on the branching oak;The rainbow of his hope was broke;No craven cry, no secret tear,--He told no pang, he knew no fear;Its peace sublime his aspect kept,His purpose woke, his features slept;And yet between the spasms of painHis genius beamed with joy again. O'er thy rich dust the endless smileOf Nature in thy Spanish isleHints never loss or cruel breakAnd sacrifice for love's dear sake,Nor mourn the unalterable DaysThat Genius goes and Folly stays.What matters how, or from what ground,The freed soul its Creator found?Alike thy memory embalmsThat orange-grove, that isle of palms,And these loved banks, whose oak-boughs boldRoot in the blood of heroes old.
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