 | Poems of home and country |  |
“LIVING STILL.”
FOR THE CLASS OF 1829.
Broken and bruised, from fields of strife,
A remnant saved retires,—
Few, but still warm with their young life,—
To stir the old campfires;
How many marched with banners gay,
Who now, among the slain,
Sleep their last sleep at setting day,
And come no more again!
A remnant saved retires,—
Few, but still warm with their young life,—
To stir the old campfires;
How many marched with banners gay,
Who now, among the slain,
Sleep their last sleep at setting day,
And come no more again!
We con the old familiar list
Of boys, grown gray-haired men;
Names and old faces, long time missed,
We see them,—boys again.
The ancient roll, whose magic date
Falls pleasant on the ear,
Rich as an argosy, its freight
Grows richer every year.
Of boys, grown gray-haired men;
Names and old faces, long time missed,
We see them,—boys again.
The ancient roll, whose magic date
Falls pleasant on the ear,
Rich as an argosy, its freight
Grows richer every year.
Dear is the roll of fresh young hearts
Which started for the fray,
Eager and strong, their honored parts,
On life's broad field to play.
Fond memory wakes them,—each and all;
We call them, name by name;
Or long to stand, or soon to fall,
They come as erst they came.
Which started for the fray,
Eager and strong, their honored parts,
On life's broad field to play.
Fond memory wakes them,—each and all;
We call them, name by name;
Or long to stand, or soon to fall,
They come as erst they came.
172
While spring-time lingered in our sky,
Some early passed away;
Some, when the sun of life rode high,
And poured his noontide ray;
And some—as autumn fruits, more late,
In mellow ripeness fall—
Fell,—and like watchers at the gate,
The rest await the call.
Some early passed away;
Some, when the sun of life rode high,
And poured his noontide ray;
And some—as autumn fruits, more late,
In mellow ripeness fall—
Fell,—and like watchers at the gate,
The rest await the call.
Unchanged on memory's scroll they live,—
Each face and form we see;
Time, which mars all things, does but give
Our dreams intensity;
Like paintings which old mouldings guard,
Drawn with a master's skill,
Ranged in old catalogues, and starred,
To us they're living still.
Each face and form we see;
Time, which mars all things, does but give
Our dreams intensity;
Like paintings which old mouldings guard,
Drawn with a master's skill,
Ranged in old catalogues, and starred,
To us they're living still.
| Poems of home and country | |