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WHAT heroes from the woodland sprung,
The thrilling cry of freedom rung,
Hills flung the cry to hills around,
And ocean-mart replied to mart,
And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, Pealed far away the startling sound
Into the forest's heart.
Then marched the brave from rocky steep,
The borders of the stormy deep,
As if the very earth again
Grew quick with God's creating breath,
And, from the sods of grove and glen,
To battle to the death.
The wife, whose babe first smiled that day, The fair fond bride of yestereve,
And aged sire and matron gray,
Already had the strife begun;
Already blood on Concord's plain Along the springing grass had run, And blood had flowed at Lexington, Like brooks of April rain.
That death-stain on the vernal sward
THE LIVING LOST.
MATRON! the children of whose love,
Each to his grave, in youth hath passed, And now the mould is heaped above
The dearest and the last!
Bride! who dost wear the widow's veil
Yet there are pangs of keener wo,
The tears that scald the cheek,
Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead,
Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve;
And reverenced are the tears ye shed,
But ye, who for the living lost
Who shall with soothing words accost
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.
MIDST greens and shades the Catterskill leaps,
With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs;
But when, in the forest bare and old,
He builds, in the starlight clear and cold,
For whom are those glorious chambers wrought,
Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought