Alone now wake each solemn height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave : She claims from war its richest spoil, The ashes of her brave. Thus, 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast And kindred eyes and hearts watch by Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished year The story how ye fell; hath flown, Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. HEEL me into the sunshine, There must be leaves on the woodbine, Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow ? Wheel me down to the meadow, Down to the little river; In sun or in shadow I shall not dazzle or shiver, Stay wherever you will, By the mount or under the hill, Give me only a bud from the trees, Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, Wheel, wheel through the sunshine, Must I choose? Then anchor me there Beyond the beckoning poplars, where Among the thicket hazels of the brake In those old days, when I was young and strong, Beside the nursery. Ah, I remember how I loved to wake, And find him singing on the selfsame bough (I know it even now) Where since the flit of bat, In ceaseless voice he sat, Trying the spring night over, like a tune, Beneath the vernal moon; And while I listed long, Fell out of the tall trees he sang among, Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang, Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair. Is it too early? I hope not. But wheel me to the ancient oak, Let me hear the raven's croak Let us rest by the ancient oak, Like those wrestlers' nets of old, And when you've rested, brother mine, Take me over the meadow; Take me along the level crown |