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THE RETURN OF KANE.
Toll, tower and minster, toll
O'er the city's ebb and flow!
Roll, muffled drum, still roll
With solemn beat and slow!—
A brave and a splendid soul
Hath gone—where all shall go.
O'er the city's ebb and flow!
Roll, muffled drum, still roll
With solemn beat and slow!—
A brave and a splendid soul
Hath gone—where all shall go.
Dimmer, in gloom and dark,
Waned the taper, day by day,
And a nation watched the spark,
Till its fluttering died away.
Waned the taper, day by day,
And a nation watched the spark,
Till its fluttering died away.
Was its flame so strong and calm
Through the dismal years of ice,
To die 'mid the orange and the palm
And the airs of Paradise?
Through the dismal years of ice,
To die 'mid the orange and the palm
And the airs of Paradise?
Over that simple bier
While the haughty Spaniard bows,
Grief may join in the generous tear,
And Vengeance forget her vows.
While the haughty Spaniard bows,
160
And Vengeance forget her vows.
Aye, honor the wasted form
That a noble spirit wore—
Lightly it presses on the warm
Spring sod of its parent shore;
Hunger and darkness, cold and storm
Never shall harm it more.
That a noble spirit wore—
Lightly it presses on the warm
Spring sod of its parent shore;
Hunger and darkness, cold and storm
Never shall harm it more.
No more of travel and toil,
Of Tropic or Arctic wild:
Gently, O Mother Soil,
Take thy worn and wearied child.
Of Tropic or Arctic wild:
Gently, O Mother Soil,
Take thy worn and wearied child.
Lay him—the tender and true—
To rest with such who are gone,
Each chief of the valiant crew
That died as our own hath done—
Let him rest with stout Sir Hugh,
Sir Humphrey, and good Sir John.
To rest with such who are gone,
Each chief of the valiant crew
That died as our own hath done—
Let him rest with stout Sir Hugh,
Sir Humphrey, and good Sir John.
And let grief be far remote,
As we march from the place of death,
To the blithest note of the fife's clear throat,
And the bugle's cheeriest breath.
As we march from the place of death,
To the blithest note of the fife's clear throat,
And the bugle's cheeriest breath.
Roll, stirring drum, still roll!
Not a sign—not a sound of woe,
That a grand and a glorious soul
Hath gone where the brave must go.
Not a sign—not a sound of woe,
That a grand and a glorious soul
Hath gone where the brave must go.
New Orleans, Feb. 24th, 1857.
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