|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 62
Onward, aye, onward still,
Far past the weary town,
Till languor doth seize on her feeble knees,
And the heavy hands hang down.
But bravely she struggles on,
Breasting the cold, dank rain,
And, heavy and chill, the mist from the hill
Sweeps down upon the plain.
Hark! far behind she hears
A dull and muffled tramp,
But before her the gleam of the watch-fire's beam
Shines out from the Southern camp.
She hears the sentry's challenge,
Her work of love is done;
She has fought a good fight, and on Fame's proud height
Hath a crown of glory won.
Oh, they tell of a Tyrol maiden,
Who saved from a ruthless foe
Her own fair town, 'mid its mountains brown,
Three hundred years ago.
And I've read in tales heroic
How a noble Scottish maid
Her own life gave, her king to save
From the foul assassin's blade.
But if these, on the rolls of honor,
Shall live in lasting fame,
Oh, close beside, in grateful pride,
We'll write this matron's name.
And when our fair-haired children
Shall cluster round our knee,
With wondering gaze, as we tell of the days
When we swore that we would be free,
We'll tell them the thrilling story,
And we'll say to each childish heart,
"By this gallant deed, at thy country's need,
Be ready to do thy part."
The Two Armies.
By Henry Timrod.
Two armies stand enrolled beneath
The banner with the starry wreath:
One, facing battle, blight, and blast,
Through twice a hundred fields has passed;
Its deeds against a ruffian foe,
Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know,
Till every wind that sweeps the land
Goes, glory-laden, from the strand.
The other, with a narrower scope,
Yet led by not less grand a hope,
Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place,
And wears its fame with meeker grace.
Wives march beneath its glittering sign,
Fond mothers swell the lovely line:
And many a sweetheart hides her blush
In the young patriot's generous flush.
No breeze of battle ever fanned
The colors of that tender band;
Its office is beside the bed,
Where throbs some sick or wounded head.
It does not court the soldier's tomb,
But plies the needle and the loom;
And, by a thousand peaceful deeds,
Supplies a struggling nation's needs.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|