DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. BY GEORGE H. BOKER. George Henry Boker, the American poet, was born in Philadelphia in 1823, and died there in 1890. He was educated at Princeton, and studied law, but never practiced. In 1871 he was made Minister Resi dent to Turkey, and from 1875 to 1879 he was Minister to Russia. He wrote several volumes of verse and the tragedies "Francesca da Rimini," "Anne Boleyn," and "Leonore de Guzman." Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon or set of sun, Hand of man or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn might, Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; Leave him to God's watching eye; Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by; God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; 53 Sidney Lanier was born at Macon, Ga., in 1842. On account of ill health he went to Baltimore, where for a while he played the flute in the famous Peabody concerts-he was passionately fond of music and brought marvelous harmonies out of his flute. In 1879 he became lecturer in English literature at the Johns Hopkins university, Baltimore. He died at Lynn, N. C., in 1881. He wrote a novel, "Tiger Lilies," "Centennial Ode," "Science of English Verse," "The English Novel and Its Development," and a volume of poems. Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea, How long they kiss in sight of all the lands, Ah! longer, longer, we. Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; O, night! divorce our sun and sky apart, (COPYRIGHT BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.) I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city Behind the dark church tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, And far in the hazy distance Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing How often, O, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, O, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me It is buried in the sea; Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Each bearing his burden of sorrow, I see the long procession Still passing to and fro The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow! |