The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead.
The Golden Legend.
Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
A Metrical Essay.
The freeman casting with unpurchased hand
The vote that shakes the turrets of the land.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky.