GREEN BE THE TURF ABOVE THEE BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. GREEN be the turf above thee, None knew thee but to love thee, When hearts, whose truth was proven, It should be mine to braid it While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. THE TRUMPET. BY G. W. PATTEN. FIERCE tempter to the field of death, What charm, O trumpet! sways thy breath, I bind the present to the past, With a magic all my own. There's a charm that lives for the vine-clad bower, And one for the sparkling wine, And one for the lute of a queenly power; But a stronger spell is mine. I speak to the ear of restless love, And his burning eye grows dim, As he turns away from the trysting grove, The battle stirreth at my word Its elements of fear; Leaps from its sheath the restless sword, Flashes the potent spear. The war-drum rolls a wilder call, And the bristling columns form, Red streams the death-flag from the wall, Rattles the leaden storm. My voice is o'er the sleeping seas, I sing upon the rustling breeze, Well did they heed my daring call, TO A GOLDFINCH. BY ROSWELL PARK. BIRD of the gentle wing, Songster of air, Home, from thy wandering, Dost thou repair? |