There was a tumult in the city
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From "The Lady of the Last Minstrel," Canto VI.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High through his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentrated all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. -Sir Walter Scott By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave grass quiver, Asleep are the ranks of the dead;- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgement day;- Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet;- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;- Under the laurel, the Blue; Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe,- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;- Under the roses, the Blue; Under the lilies, the Gray. So with an equal splendor The morning sun rays fall, With a touch, impartially tender, On the blossoms blooming for all;- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;- 'Broidered with gold, the Blue; Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain With an equal murmur falleth The colling drip of the rain;- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;- Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading. No braver battle was won;- Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;- Under the blossoms, the Blue; Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead! Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judment day;- Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. -Francis Miles Finch There's a graveyard near the White House
Where the Unknown Soldier lies, And the flowers there are sprinkled With the tears from mother's eyes. I stood there not so long ago With roses for the brave, And suddenly I heard a voice Speak from out the grave: "I am the Unknown Soldier," The spirit voice began, "And I think I have the right To ask some questions man to man. "Are my buddies taken care of? Was their victory so sweet? Is that big reward you offered Selling pencils on the street? "Did they really win the freedom They battled to achieve? Do you still respect the Croix de Guerre Above the empty sleeve? "Does a gold star in the window Now mean anything at all? I wonder how my old girl feels When she hears a bugle call. "And that baby who sang 'Hello, Central, give me no man's land- Can they replace her daddy With a military band? "I wonder if the profiteers Have satisfied their greed? I wonder if a soldier's mother Ever is in need? "I wonder if the kings, who planned it all Are really satisfied? They played their game of checkers And eleven million died. "I am the Unknown Soldier And maybe I died in vain, But if I were alive and my country called, I'd do it all over again." -Billy Rose A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold,
And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach: But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons, The men below who batter the foe-the men behind the guns! II Oh, light and mercy of heart are they when they swing into port once more, When, with more than enough of the "green-back stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore; And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat- Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys-the lads who serve the guns. III But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on, Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and "Don," Till over the deep and tempest's sweep of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is mad Despair in the throes of a living hell; Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps-the men behind the guns! IV Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death, And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith! The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil, And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil- But not till the foe has gone belowor turns his prow and runs, Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns! -John Jerome Rooney Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead.
The fight that ye so bravely led We've taken up. And we will keep True faith with you who lie asleep With each a cross to mark his bed, In Flanders fields. Fear not that ye have died for naught. The torch ye threw to us we caught. Ten million hands will hold it high, And Freedom's light shall never die? We've learned the lesson that ye taught In Flanders fields. -R.W. Lilliard In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. -John McCrae America, O Power benign, great hearts revere your name,
You stretch your hand to every land, to weak and strong the same; You claim no conquest of the sea, nor conquest of the field, But conquest for the rights of man, that despots all shall yield. Chorus: America, fair land of mine, home of the just and true, All hail to thee, land of the free, and the Red-White-and-Blue. America, staunch, undismayed, your spirit is our might: No splendor falls on feudal walls upon your mountain's height, But shafts of Justice pierce your skies to light the way for all, A world's great brotherhood of man, that cannot, must not fall. America, in God we trust, we fear no tyrant's horde: There's light that leads toward better deeds than conquest by the sword; Yet our cause is just, if fight we must until the world be free Of every menace, breed, or caste that strikes at Liberty. America, home of the brave, our song in praise we bring- Where Stars and Stripes the winds unfurl, 'tis there that tributes ring; Our fathers gave their lives that we should live in Freedom's light- Our lives we consecrate to thee, our guide the Might of Right. -Arthur Nicholas Hosking O Beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain! America! America! God shed His grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea! O beautiful for pilgrim feet, Whose stern, impassioned stress A thoroughfare for freedom beat Across the wilderness! America! America! God mend thine every flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law! O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife, Who more than self their country loved, And mercy more than life! America! America! May God thy gold refine, Till all success be nobleness And every gain divine! O beautiful for patriot dream That sees beyond the years Thine alabaster cities gleam Undimmed by human tears! America! America! God shed His grace on thee, And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea! -Katharine Lee Bates I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple blossoms fill the air- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand, And lead me into his dark land, And close my eyes and quench my breath- It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, When Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year; And to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. -Alan Seeger |
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