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The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.


The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.


So the multitude goes-like the flower and the weed That wither away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes-even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that hath often been told.


For we are the same things that our fathers have been, We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, i We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fathers have run.


The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink;

To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling—
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.


They loved-but their story we cannot unfold;
They scorned-but the heart of the haughty is cold,
They grieved but no wail from their slumbers may come,
They joyed-but the voice of their gladness is dumb.


They died—ay they died! and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.


Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;

And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.


"Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroudO why should the spirit of mortal be proud?



On came the whirlwind-like the last
But fiercest sweep of tempest blast→→→
On came the whirlwind-steel-gleams broke
Like lightning through the rolling smoke;
The war was waked anew;

Three hundred cannon-mouths roared loud,
And from their throats, with flash and cloud,
Their showers of iron threw.
Beneath their fire in full career,
Rushed on the ponderous cuirassier
The lancer couched his ruthless spear,
And hurrying as to havoc near,
The cohorts' eagles flew.

In one dark torrent broad and strong,
The advancing onset rolled along,

Forth harbingered by fierce acclaim,
That from the shroud of smoke and flame,
Pealed wildly the imperial name.

But on the British heart were lost
The terrors of the charging host;
For not an eye the storm that viewed
Changed its proud glance of fortitude;
Nor was one forward footstep staid,
As dropped the dying and the dead.
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear,
Fast they renewed each serried square;
And on the wounded and the slain

Closed their diminished files again;
Till from their line scarce spears' lengths three,
Emerging from the smoke they see

Helmet and plume, and panoply—.

Then waked their fire at once!
Each musketeer's revolving knell
As fast, as regularly fell,
As when they practise to display
Their discipline on festal day.

Then down went helm and lance,
Down were the eagle-banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent;
And to augment the fray,

Wheeled full against their staggering flanks,

The English horsemen's foaming ranks
Forced their resistless way:

Then to the musket-knell succeeds

The clash of swords the neigh of steeds :
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade;
And while amid their close array
The well-served cannon rent their way,
And while amid their scattered band,
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoiled in common rout and fear
Lancer, and guard, and cuirassier,
Horsemen and foot,-a mingled host,
Their leaders fallen, their standards lost.

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