| Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, |
| And colored with the heaven's own blue, |
| That openest when the quiet light |
| Succeeds the keen and frosty night, |
| |
| Thou comest not when violets lean |
| O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, |
| Or columbines, in purple dressed, |
| Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. |
| |
| Thou waitest late and com'st alone, |
| When woods are bare and birds are flown, |
| And frosts and shortening days portend |
| The aged Year is near his end. |
| |
| Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye |
| Look through its fringes to the sky, |
| Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall |
| A flower from its cerulean wall. |
| |
| I would that thus, when I shall see |
| The hour of death draw near to me, |
| Hope, blossoming within my heart, |
| May look to heaven as I depart. |
| |
| William Cullen Bryant. |
| "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 belched its thunder. |
| |
| There was a pause. A guardsman said, |
| "We storm the forts to-morrow; |
| 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." |
| |
| Voice after voice caught up the song, |
| Until its tender passion |
| Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,— |
| Their battle-eve confession. |
| |
| Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, |
| But, as the song grew louder, |
| Something upon the soldier's cheek |
| Washed off the stains of powder. |
| |
| Beyond the darkening ocean burned |
| The bloody sunset's embers, |
| While the Crimean valleys learned |
| How English love remembers. |
| |
| And once again a fire of hell |
| Rained on the Russian quarters, |
| With scream of shot, and burst of shell, |
| And bellowing of the mortars! |
| |
| And Irish Nora's eyes are dim |
| For a singer, dumb and gory; |
| And English Mary mourns for him |
| Who sang of "Annie Laurie." |
| |
| Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest |
| Your truth and valor wearing: |
| The bravest are the tenderest,— |
| The loving are the daring. |
| |
| Bayard Taylor. |
| She walks in beauty, like the night |
| Of cloudless climes and starry skies; |
| And all that's best of dark and bright |
| Meet in her aspect and her eyes: |
| Thus mellowed to that tender light |
| Which heaven to gaudy day denies. |
| |
| One shade the more, one ray the less, |
| Had half impaired the nameless grace |
| Which waves in every raven tress, |
| Or softly lightens o'er her face; |
| Where thoughts serenely sweet express |
| How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. |
| |
| And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, |
| So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, |
| The smiles that win, the tints that glow, |
| But tell of days in goodness spent, |
| A mind at peace with all below, |
| A heart whose love is innocent! |
| |
| Lord Byron. |