 | The poetical writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck, with extracts from those of Joseph Rodman Drake |  |
93
THE IRON GRAYS.
We twine the wreath of honor
Around the warrior's brow,
Who, at his country's altar, breathes
The life-devoting vow,
And shall we to the Iron Grays
The meed of praise deny,
Who freely swore, in danger's days,
For their native land to die?
Around the warrior's brow,
Who, at his country's altar, breathes
The life-devoting vow,
And shall we to the Iron Grays
The meed of praise deny,
Who freely swore, in danger's days,
For their native land to die?
For o'er our bleeding country
Ne'er lowered a darker storm,
Than bade them round their gallant chief
The iron phalanx form.
When first their banner waved in air,
Invasion's bands were nigh,
And the battle-drum beat long and loud,
And the torch of war blazed high!
Ne'er lowered a darker storm,
Than bade them round their gallant chief
The iron phalanx form.
When first their banner waved in air,
Invasion's bands were nigh,
And the battle-drum beat long and loud,
And the torch of war blazed high!
Though still bright gleam their bayonets,
Unstained with hostile gore,
Far distant yet is England's host,
Unheard her cannon's roar.
Yet not in vain they flew to arms;
It made the foeman know
That many a gallant heart must bleed
Ere freedom's star be low.
Unstained with hostile gore,
Far distant yet is England's host,
Unheard her cannon's roar.
Yet not in vain they flew to arms;
It made the foeman know
94
Ere freedom's star be low.
Guards of a nation's destiny!
High is that nation's claim,
For not unknown your spirit proud,
Nor your daring chieftain's name.
'Tis yours to shield the dearest ties
That bind to life the heart,
That mingle with the earliest breath,
And with our last depart.
High is that nation's claim,
For not unknown your spirit proud,
Nor your daring chieftain's name.
'Tis yours to shield the dearest ties
That bind to life the heart,
That mingle with the earliest breath,
And with our last depart.
The angel-smile of beauty
What heart but bounds to feel?
Her fingers buckled on the belt,
That sheathes your gleaming steel
And if the soldier's honored death
In battle be your doom,
Her tears shall bid the flowers be green
That blossom round your tomb.
What heart but bounds to feel?
Her fingers buckled on the belt,
That sheathes your gleaming steel
And if the soldier's honored death
In battle be your doom,
Her tears shall bid the flowers be green
That blossom round your tomb.
Tread on the path of duty,
Band of the patriot brave,
Prepared to rush, at honor's call,
“To glory or the grave.”
Nor bid your flag again be furled
Till proud its eagles soar,
Till the battle-drum has ceased to beat,
And the war-torch burns no more.
Band of the patriot brave,
Prepared to rush, at honor's call,
“To glory or the grave.”
Nor bid your flag again be furled
Till proud its eagles soar,
Till the battle-drum has ceased to beat,
And the war-torch burns no more.
| The poetical writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck, with extracts from those of Joseph Rodman Drake | |