All, all was calm; all, all was bright;
The moon was climbing to yon height,
Of Heaven’s blue cone, rough round with stars,
With Venus—­but no angry Mars.

THE SONG OF THE SLAIN AT THE BATTLE OF TICONDEROGA.

Farewell to the land which we sought o’er the wave;
We made it our home; it will now be our grave: 
Farewell, ye proud mountains, and valleys uneven,
And thou, bright shining Glory, now setting in heaven.

Farewell to our hearthstones, our cherished ones there,
Our wives and our children, now reft of our care: 
Farewell, everloved of our souls—­nevermore,
Shall we look on your faces—­our lifetime is o’er.

We march to the field—­’twill be red with our blood,
Which shall make of its soil there a horrible mud;
Where our bones by wild beasts on the desolate plain,
Shall be torn, and be whiten’d by tempest and rain.

We march to the field—­and our comrades in war,
Shall shout to the heavens their triumph afar—­
And Victory shall perch on our banners on high
And Tyrants fore’er from our country shall fly;

Yet never shall we view that glorious sight—­
We sink, with yon sun, in the deathgloom of night;
Farewell to our homes and our country for aye,
We go to our graves, with the setting of day.

Farewell, yes, farewell, Earth, Heavens and all
Which here in the last hour of life we recall: 
Farewell! we are doomed to the night of the grave,—­
But our mem’ry shall live with the names of the brave.

TO MY COPY OF SHAKSPEARE WHICH HAD BEEN LOST.

Hast thou come back, my Shakspeare! bard,
  Who didst dethrone and drive away those others,
From cold Parnassus, fate that seem’d too hard,
  To be inflicted on thy gentle brothers.

Thou didst spare one, left him enthroned fast,
  The blind old man of Scio, hoary Homer,
So that of all the harpers first and last,
  To call him king, is not a base misnomer.

There on those far and ever whiten’d rocks,
  You two sit monarchs of a rich dominion;
But I forgot dark Milton’s sacred locks,
  Serenely resting from his seraph pinion!

Hast thou come back, great bard, to charm and bless
  My heart with many a grand, illusive vision,
And show those gorgeous fields of happiness,
  With vistas and with rivers all Elysian?

Stay now with me; no more through all the years,
  Wilt thou and I, O glorious friend! be parted;
Or, if e’er so, my overflowing tears,
  Will prove that I am grieved, or broken-hearted.

Yes stay, and I shall haste to thy converse,
  With full delight, at rosiate morn, calm even,
And I shall dream of rich and golden verse
  From angel lyres within the bowers of Heaven.

I LOVE THEE.