England, I stand on thy imperial ground
Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,
I feel within my blood old battles flow,—
The blood whose ancient founts are in thee found
Still surging dark against the Christian bound
While Islam presses; well its peoples know
Thy heights that watch them wandering below:
I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.
I turn and meet the cruel, turbaned face.
England! 'tis sweet to be so much thy son!
I feel the conqueror in my blood and race;
Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day
Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun
Startles the desert over Africa.
II.
Thou art the rock of empire set mid-seas
Between the East and West, that God has built;
Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,
While run thy armies true with his decrees;
Law, justice, liberty,—great gifts are these.
Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt,
Lest, mixed and sullied with his country's guilt
The soldier's life-stream flow, and Heaven displease!
Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite,
Thy blade of war; and, battle-storied, one
Rejoices in the sheath, and hides from light.
American I am; would wars were done!
Now westward, look, my country bids good night,—
Peace to the world, from ports without a gun!
GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.
* * * * *
THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.
[Dedication of a monument to Kentucky volunteers, killed at Buena
Vista, Mexico.]
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.