I know that beauty’s eye
  Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly,
    And brazen helmets dance,
  And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance;
    I know that bards have sung,
  And people shouted till the welkin rung,
    In honor of the brave
  Who on the battle-field have found a grave;
    I know that o’er their bones
  How grateful hands piled monumental stones. 
    Some of those piles I’ve seen: 
  The one at Lexington upon the green
    Where the first blood was shed,
  And to my country’s independence led;
    And others, on our shore,
  The “Battle Monument” at Baltimore,
    And that on Bunker’s Hill. 
  Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;
    Thy “tomb,” Themistocles,
  That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
    And which the waters kiss
  That issue from the gulf of Salamis. 
    And thine, too, have I seen,
  Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,
    That, like a natural knoll,
  Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,
    Watched by some turbaned boy,
  Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. 
    Such honors grace the bed,
  I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,
    And hears, as life ebbs out,
  The conquered flying, and the conqueror’s shout;
    But as his eye grows dim,
  What is a column or a mound to him? 
    What, to the parting soul. 
  The mellow note of bugles?  What the roll
    Of drums?  No, let me die
  Where the blue heaven bends o’er me lovingly,
    And the soft summer air,
  As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair,
    And from my forehead dries
  The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies
    Seem waiting to receive
  My soul to their clear depths!  Or let me leave
    The world when round my bed
  Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered,
    And the calm voice of prayer
  And holy hymning shall my soul prepare
    To go and be at rest
  With kindred spirits,—­spirits who have blessed
    The human brotherhood
  By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

JOHN PIERPONT.

* * * * *

THE DAY IS COMING.

  Come hither lads and hearken,
    for a tale there is to tell,
  Of the wonderful days a-coming,
    when all shall be better than well.

  And the tale shall be told of a country,
    a land in the midst of the sea,
  And folk shall call it England
    in the days that are going to be.

  There more than one in a thousand,
    in the days that are yet to come,
  Shall have some hope of the morrow,
    some joy of the ancient home.

  For then—­laugh not, but listen
    to this strange tale of mine—­
  All folk that are in England
    shall be better lodged than swine.