Our little systems have their day, We have but faith: we cannot know; Let knowledge grow from more to more, But vaster. We are fools and slight; Forgive what seem'd my sin in me; Forgive my grief for one removed, 20 24 28 32 36 40 1849. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Forgive them where they fail in truth, 44 Lord Tennyson. THE BATTLE-FIELD ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave,Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. Now all is calm and fresh and still; And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering Men start not at the battle-cry,- 12 16 Soon rested those who fought; but thou A friendless warfare! lingering long 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, 20 24 The sage may frown,-yet faint thou not. 28 Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, For with thy side shall dwell, at last, Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again,— Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, Die full of hope and manly trust, 32 36 40 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. 1837. 44 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet On Fame's eternal camping-ground And Glory guards, with solemn round, No rumor of the foe's advance No troubled thought at midnight haunts No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 16 And plenteous funeral tears have washed And the proud forms, by battle gashed, The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feel Like the fierce northern hurricane Who heard the thunder of the fray Knew well the watchword of that day Long had the doubtful conflict raged Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 24 32 40 48 |