THE LAMENT FOR THE DEAD.
But, oh, the sight of that pent red field,
Weird and terrible for evermore!
’Mid the awful silence of the slain,
Britain’s generous heart is sore.
Though the laurels of fame crown her brow,
She mourns for her immortal slain;
Though famous fore’er and signalized,
She bows her illustrious head in pain.
Thousands marshalled there that sweet June morn,
Strong and beautiful, side by side;
Eve saw them in eternal repose—
Fearless in heart they dared and died.
Play solemn dirges and bear them away,
Play them tenderly, soft and low;
Let the drum’s muffled tone fall on the ear,
Steadily, mournfully, and slow.
Reverently in the valley of death
Lay them away to final sleep;
Fit place to crown the immortal dead,
Where brave, true comrades o’er them weep.
Oh, soldier hearts! grand, intrepid souls!
The years thy laurels shall renew;
Britain thy devotion ne’er can forget,
On that field of fields—Waterloo.
THE DOVE’S SONG.
Listen! for I hear the dove’s sweet song,
So tender and mournfully sad,
Up from the vale where the maples bloom,
And the springtime e’er maketh glad.
Hast wandered afar from a fairer clime?
Was thy home in Southern bowers?
Is life more fair, and more fragrant the air,
Than in this grand Northland of ours?
Tell me, sweet dove; for thy mournful voice
Hath wakened old memories to-day
That have only slept through the weary years
That have silently flown away.
Art thou mateless and all alone, sweet dove,
That thy dear song is never gay?
Art thou calling down the emerald glades
In vain, pleadingly, day by day?
Thy plaintive voice stirs a tenderness
Called up from the shadowed deeps,
Where a pale light flickers o’er hidden graves,
And a dream-world forever sleeps.
Surely ’tis lovely enough, sweet dove,
O’er the hills that are sunny and sweet;
And the lilies bloom in the vale below—
Nature’s sweetness lies at thy feet.