No solemn host goes trailing by
    The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
  Men start not at the battle-cry,—­
    O, be it never heard again!

  Soon rested those who fought; but thou
    Who minglest in the harder strife
  For truths which men receive not now,
    Thy warfare only ends with life.

  A friendless warfare! lingering long
    Through weary day and weary year;
  A wild and many-weaponed throng
    Hang on thy front and flank and rear.

  Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
    And blench not at thy chosen lot;
  The timid good may stand aloof,
    The sage may frown,—­yet faint thou not.

  Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
    The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
  For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
    The victory of endurance born.

  Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again,—­
    The eternal years of God are hers;
  But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
    And dies among his worshippers.

  Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
    When they who helped thee flee in fear,
  Die full of hope and manly trust,
    Like those who fell in battle here!

  Another hand thy sword shall wield,
    Another hand the standard wave,
  Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed
    The blast of triumph o’er thy grave.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

* * * * *

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE.

  How sleep the brave who sink to rest
  By all their country’s wishes blest! 
  When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
  Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
  She there shall dress a sweeter sod
  Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.

  By fairy hands their knell is rung
  By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
  There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
  To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
  And Freedom shall awhile repair,
  To dwell a weeping hermit there!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

* * * * *

OUR FALLEN HEROES.

  The angel of the nation’s peace
    Has wreathed with flowers the battle-drum;
  We see the fruiting fields increase
    Where sound of war no more shall come.

  The swallow skims the Tennessee,
    Soft winds play o’er the Rapidan;
  There only echo notes of glee,
    Where gleamed a mighty army’s van!

  Fair Chattanooga’s wooded slope
    With summer airs is lightly stirred,
  And many a heart is warm with hope
    Where once the deep-mouthed gun was heard.

  The blue Potomac stainless rolls,
    And Mission Ridge is gemmed with fern;
  On many a height sleep gallant souls,
    And still the blooming years return.

  Thank God! unseen to outward eye,
    But felt in every freeman’s breast,
  From graves where fallen comrades lie
    Ascends at Nature’s wise behest,