My lips grow pale and paler,
My eyes are strangely dim,
I wail not as a wailer,
I sing a victor's hymn.
My limbs grow cold and colder,
My room is all in gloom;
Bold death! -- but I am bolder --
Come! lead me to my tomb!
'Tis cold, and damp, and dreary,
'Tis still, and lone, and deep;
Haste, death! my eyes are weary,
I want to fall asleep.
`Strike quick! Why dost thou tarry?
Of time why such a loss?
Dost fear the sign I carry?
'Tis but a simple cross.
Thou wilt not strike? Then hear me:
Come! strike in any hour,
My heart shall never fear thee
Nor flinch before thy power.
I'll meet thee -- time's dread lictor --
And my wasted lips shall sing:
`Dread death! I am the victor!
Strong death! where is thy sting?'"
____
Milan, January, 1873.
Old Trees
Old trees, old trees! in your mystic gloom
There's many a warrior laid,
And many a nameless and lonely tomb
Is sheltered beneath your shade.
Old trees, old trees! without pomp or prayer
We buried the brave and the true,
We fired a volley and left them there
To rest, old trees, with you.
Old trees, old trees! keep watch and ward
Over each grass-grown bed;
'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard
Over the Southern dead;
Old trees, old trees! we shall pass away
Like the leaves you yearly shed,
But ye, lone sentinels, still must stay,
Old trees, to guard "our dead".
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