New England's Dead
On every hill they lie;
On every field of strife, made red
by bloody victory.
Each valley, where the battle poured
its red and awful tide,
Behold 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 that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.
The glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviors of the land.
T. McClellan, JR
Soldiers and Sailors of The Revolution
The Bright And Particular Star
He steered unquestioning nor turning back,
Into the darkness and the unknown sea;
He vanished into the starless night, and we
Saw but the shining of his luminous wake
Thou sawest light, but ah, our sky seemed black,
And all too hard the inscrutable degree,
Yet noble heart, full-soon we follow thee,
Lit by the deeds that flamed along thy track.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
Written for his best friend Henry Livermore Abbott
The Soldier Himself
And when the wind in the tree-tops roared,
The soldier asked from the deep dark grave:
Did the banner flutter then?
Not so, my hero, the wind replied.
The fight is done, but the banner won,
Thy comrades of old have borne it hence,
Have borne it in triumph hence.
Then the solder spake from the deep dark grave:
I am content
Then he heareth the lovers laughing pass,
and the soldier asks once more:
Are these not the voices of them that love,
That love-and remember me?
Not so, my hero, the lovers say,
We are those that remember not;
For the spring has come and the earth has smiled,
And the dead must be forgot.
Then the soldier spake from the deep dark grave:
I am content.
Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
Spoken at Harvard in 1895
A portion of this poem was recited in the 1950 Hollywood movie about Holmes,
The Magnificent Yankee
On every field of strife, made red
by bloody victory.
Each valley, where the battle poured
its red and awful tide,
Behold 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 that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.
The glory to that valiant band,
The honored saviors of the land.
T. McClellan, JR
Soldiers and Sailors of The Revolution
The Bright And Particular Star
He steered unquestioning nor turning back,
Into the darkness and the unknown sea;
He vanished into the starless night, and we
Saw but the shining of his luminous wake
Thou sawest light, but ah, our sky seemed black,
And all too hard the inscrutable degree,
Yet noble heart, full-soon we follow thee,
Lit by the deeds that flamed along thy track.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
Written for his best friend Henry Livermore Abbott
The Soldier Himself
And when the wind in the tree-tops roared,
The soldier asked from the deep dark grave:
Did the banner flutter then?
Not so, my hero, the wind replied.
The fight is done, but the banner won,
Thy comrades of old have borne it hence,
Have borne it in triumph hence.
Then the solder spake from the deep dark grave:
I am content
Then he heareth the lovers laughing pass,
and the soldier asks once more:
Are these not the voices of them that love,
That love-and remember me?
Not so, my hero, the lovers say,
We are those that remember not;
For the spring has come and the earth has smiled,
And the dead must be forgot.
Then the soldier spake from the deep dark grave:
I am content.
Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
Spoken at Harvard in 1895
A portion of this poem was recited in the 1950 Hollywood movie about Holmes,
The Magnificent Yankee
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same;
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black,
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads onto way,
I doubted as I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence;
Two roads diverged in a wood and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
A Quiet Life
You scorn my dwelling as you pass it by;
I do not say, come in;
You are a stranger to the company
I entertain therein.
My house is humble, yet within its walls
Contentment doth abide;
And from the wings of Peace a blessing falls,
Like dew at eventide.
You think my soul is narrow, like the room
wherein I toil for bread,
And that, because oblivion is my doom,
I might as well be dead.
Yet are you sure the riches are not mine,
The poverty your own?
Is he not rich who finds his lot divine,
In hovel or on throne?
You judge me by the narrow boundaries
'Twixt which my body moves;
But I behold a wider land that lies
Free to the soul that loves.
Is that not mine in which I hourly take
My largess of delight?
And not all things created for his sake
Who reads their meaning right?
Is this not mine, this landscape I behold? -
Mine to enjoy and use
For all life's noblest uses, though no gold
Has made it mine to lose?
Published in the Atlantic Monthly, (Volume 28, No. 166) August, 1871
"My Father's Shipwreck"
Fanny Abbott Larcom
(Pages 144-160)