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NEW ENGLAND's dead! New England's dead!


On every hill they lie;

every field of strife, made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle pour'd
Its red and awful tide,

Beheld the brave New England sword
With slaughter deeply dyed.
Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,
And holy where they fell;

For by their blood the land was bought,
The land they loved so well.

Then glory to that valiant band,
The honor'd warriors of the land.

O, few and weak their numbers were—

A handful of brave men; But to their GOD they gave their


And rushed to battle then.
The GoD of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.

They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garner'd, on the plain,
And muster'd, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,
To right those wrongs, come weal, or woe,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

'And where are ye, O fearless men? And where are ye to-day?

I call: the hills reply again

That ye have pass'd away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright Above each soldier's mound.'

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,

And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,

For they have pass'd away.



WILD was the night; yet a wilder night
Hung round the soldier's pillow;
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight
Than the fight of the wrathful billow.

A few fond mourners were kneeling by,
The few that his stern heart cherish'd;
They knew, by his glaz'd and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perish'd.

They knew by his awful and kingly look,
By the order hastily spoken, (j)

That he dream'd of days when the nations shook,
And the nations' hosts were broken.

He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And triumph'd the Frenchman's 'eagle;'
And the struggling Austrian fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again,
The Prussian's camp was routed,
And again, on the hills of haughty Spain,
His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows,

At the pyramids, at the mountain,

Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, And by the Italian fountain,

On the snowy cliffs, where mountain streams Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,

He led again, in his dying dreams,

His hosts, the broad earth quelling.

Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle;
Again the world was overrun,

Made pale at his cannons' rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day, A day that shall live in story:

In the rocky land they placed his clay,

'And left him alone in his glory.'


WITH sunny smiles and showery tears
The soft, young June-day morn appears;
Above each twisting old tree-root,

Above the verdurous springing grass,
Above the green sward's tender shoot
Thy dancing footsteps pass.

Thy clear eye swims in liquid light,
Thy golden tresses unbound flow,

Thy gay voice ringeth with delight,

Thy checks with healthful beauty glow.

Sweet June! with thy fair forehead bound
With dewy wild-flowers, and with roses crown'd,
I love thee well.

Deep in the heart of man, all o'er the earth,
Thy presence spreads a lively tone of mirth,
A soft, deep spell.

The newly-budded groves repeat thy call
With joy through all their thick arcades;
And the hoarse-plunging waterfall

Rejoices in its dim, primeval shades.

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