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Wretch," I cried, “thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he
hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore !
Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore!”
'Prophet !” said I, “ thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil !
“ Prophet!” said I, "thing of evil !-prophet still, if bird or devil !
Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore !"
" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked,
upstarting“ Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken !-quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted-neverinore !
THE LOYAL LEGION.
COLONEL CHAS. G. HALPINE (MILES O'RIELLY).
[This poem was read at the festival in honor of Washington's Birthday, given by the Military Order of the Loyal Legion in Philadelphia, Feb. 220, 1866.)
FOREVER past the days of gloom,
The long, sad days of doubt and fear,
With clasped hands and straining ear;
With further threat of loss and pain,
That told of sons and brothers slain.
The days of calm at length are won,
And, sitting thus, with folded hands,
A silvery tide o'er golden sands.
The saviors of the land return;
Yet larger constellations burn!
Who bore the sag—who won the day?
The young proud manhood of the land,
With eager but untutored hand;
To where the peril hottest burned-
Nor ever from their purpose turned.
THE LOYAL LEGION.
Why tell how long the contest hung,
Now crowned with hope and now depressed,
The truth grew stronger for the test ? 'Twas our own blood we had to meet;
'Twas with full peers our swords were crossed Till in the march, assault, retreat, And in the school of stern defeat
We learned success at bloody cost.
Oh, comrades of the camp and deck!
All that is left by pitying Fate
His flag whose birth we celebrate!
On history's golden tablets gravedBy land, by sea who waged the fight, What guerdon will you ask to-night
For service done, for perils braved ?
The charging lines no more we see,
No more we hear the din of strife; Nor under every greenwood tree, Stretched in their life's great agony.
Are those who wait the surgeon's knife; No more the dreaded stretchers drip,
The jolting ambulances groan; No more, while all the senses slip, We hear from the soon silent lip
The prayer for death as balm alone !
And ye who, on the sea's blue breast,
And down the rivers of the land,
War's lightnings wielded in your hand !
Ye, too, released, no longer feel
The threat of battle, storm and rockTorpedoes grating on the keel, While the strained sides with broadsides reel,
And turrets feel the dinting shock.
Joint saviors of the land! To-day
What guerdon ask you of the land ? No boon too great for you to prayWhat can it give that could repay
The men we miss from our worn band ? The men who lie in trench and swamp,
The dead who rock beneath the waveThe brother-souls of march and camp, Bright spiritseach a shining lamp,
Teaching our children to be brave !
And thou-Great Shade! in whom was nursed
The germ and grandeur of our land In peace, in war, in reverence first, Who taught our infancy to burst
The tightening yoke of Britain's hand ! Thou, too, from thy celestial height
Will join the prayer we make to-day“ Homes for the crippled in the fight, And, what of life is left, made bright
By all that gratitude can pay.”
Teach these who loll in gilded seats,
With nodding plume and jewelled gown,
When thou wert battling Britain's crown, That ere the world a century swims
Though time—this poor, blue-coated host, With brevet-rank of shattered limbs, Will swell the fame in choral hynins
And be of pride the p oudest boast ! **
THE LOYAL LEGION.
Homes for the heroes we implore,
The brave who limbs and vigor gave,
The flag of Washington might wave;
Long years ago, one summer morn,
That a new Nation here was born!
Oh, wives and daughters of the land !
To every gentler impuls : true, To you we raise the invoking hand, Take pity on our stricken band,
These demi-gods disguis d in blue!
Your voice when urging gentle deeds,
When woman's voice. for pity pleads.
To you I leave the soldier's doom,
Your glistening eyes assure me right; Oh, think through many a night of gloom, When round you all was light and bloom,
And he preparing for the fight--
Far from the foe's battalions proud-
The forehead of his spirit bowed !
Oh, by the legions of the dead,
Whose ears even yet our love may reach-
Winging with fire my faltering speech ;