And the sunshine of June, sprinkling gold on the corn,
Hath no harvest that ripeneth like BETHEL'S red morn,—
"Column! Forward!"
When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath,
Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in death;
And the heart of brave WINTHROP grew mute, with his lyre,
When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in fire,—
"Column! Forward!"
Where he fell shall be sunshine as bright as his name,
And the grass where he slept shall be green as his fame;