Where, as the Benedictine laid Peace dwells not here—this rugged face The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. Such was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine- Dread scourge of many a guilty line. War to the last he waged with all O Time! whose verdicts mock our own, DICKENS IN CAMP [1812-1870] ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow, Dickens in Camp The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, 3373 And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure, To hear the tale anew. And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of "Little Nell." Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,-for the reader But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with "Nell," on English meadows Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes-o'ertaken As by some spell divine— Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story With hop-vine's incense all the pensive glory And on that grave where English oak and holly Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly— This spray of Western pine! Bret Harte [1839-1902] DRAKE'S DRUM [SIR FRANCIS DRAKE, 1540?-1596] DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, Rovin' though his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin', They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago! Henry Newbolt [1862 "Oh, Breathe Not His Name!" 3375 ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE [1795-1820] GREEN be the turf above thee, Tears fell, when thou wert dying, When hearts, whose truth was proven, And I, who woke each morrow It should be mine to braid it While memory bids me weep thee, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. Fitz-Greene Halleck [1790-1867] "OH, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME!" [ROBERT EMMET, 1778-1803] OH, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, As the night-dew that falls on the grave o'er his head. But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. Thomas Moore [1779-1852] VANQUISHED [ULYSSES S. GRANT, 1822-1885] NOT by the ball or brand Sped by a mortal hand, Not by the lightning stroke Not mid the ranks of war Unmoved, undismayed, In the crash and carnage of the cannonade,- Brain that swerved not, heart that quailed not, Steel nerve, iron form,— The dauntless spirit that o'erruled the storm. While the Hero peaceful slept Lightly to the slumberer came, Touched his brow and breathed his name: O'er the stricken form there passed Suddenly an icy blast. The Hero woke: rose undismayed: Saluted Death, and sheathed his blade. The Conqueror of a hundred fields Vanquished but by Death. Francis Fisher Browne [1843-1913] |