Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your _homes_ retire?
Look behind you!--they're afire!
And, before you, see
Who have done it! From the vale
On they come!--and will ye quail?
Leaden rain and iron hail
Let their welcome be!
In the God of battles trust!
Die we may,--and die we must:
But, O, where can dust to dust
Be consigned so well,
As where heaven its dews shall shed
On the martyred patriot's bed,
And the rocks shall raise their head,
Of his deeds to tell?
JOHN PIERPONT.
* * * * *
"THE LONELY BUGLE GRIEVES."
FROM AN "ODE ON THE CELEBRATION OF THE
BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL, JUNE 17, 1825,"
The trump hath blown,
And now upon that reeking hill
Slaughter rides screaming on the vengeful ball;
While with terrific signal shrill,
The vultures from their bloody eyries flown,
Hang o'er them like a pall.
Now deeper roll the maddening drums,
And the mingling host like ocean heaves;
While from the midst a horrid wailing comes,
And high above the fight the lonely bugle grieves!
GRENVILLE MELLEN.
* * * * *
NATHAN HALE.[A]
[Footnote A: Hanged as a spy by the British, in New York City,
September 22, 1776.]
To drum-beat and heart-beat
A soldier marches by:
There is color in his cheek,
There is courage in his eye,
Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat
In a moment he must die.
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