But ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals’ feeble rill,
The sickness of my soul declare.
But yet, with fortitude resigned,
I’ll thank the inflicter of the blow;
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of misery flow.
The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,
Which God, my east, my sun, reveals.
THE SONG OF THE CAMP.
BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
Bayard Taylor was born in Pennsylvania in 1825. He was connected with the New York Tribune 1849–’50. Most of his life was spent in travel. In 1853 he joined Perry’s expedition to Japan. He corresponded with the American papers, and on his return to this country he lectured. From 1862–’63 he lived at St. Petersburg as Secretary of the Legation there. He died in Berlin, where he was United States Minister, in 1878. He has written of his travels, has translated Goethe’s “Faust,” and was besides a poet and novelist.
“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried,
The outer trenches guarding,
When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.
The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay grim and threatening under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belch’d its thunder.
There was a pause. A guardsman said:
“We storm the forts tomorrow;
Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow.”
They lay along the battery’s side,
Below the smoking cannon;
Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde
And from the banks of Shannon.
They sang of love and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain’s glory;
Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang “Annie Laurie.”