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Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 1. (ed. Frank Moore) | 2 | 0 | Browse | Search |
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Index, Volume 1. (ed. Frank Moore) | 2 | 0 | Browse | Search |
The Daily Dispatch: December 11, 1861., [Electronic resource] | 2 | 0 | Browse | Search |
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Your search returned 6 results in 3 document sections:
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Poetry and Incidents., Volume 1. (ed. Frank Moore), chapter 411 (search)
130.
it is great for our country to die. by James G. Percival. Oh!
it is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending; Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory awaits us for aye-- Glory that never is dim, shining on with light never-ending-- Glory that never shall fade, never, 0 never, away! Oh!
it is sweet for our country to die!
How softly reposes Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love, Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him with garlands of roses, Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above. Not to the shades shall the youth descend who for country hath perished; Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile; There at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished; Gods love the young who ascend pure from the funeral pile. Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, rolling sea; But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted forever; There shall asse
Rebellion Record: a Diary of American Events: Index, Volume 1. (ed. Frank Moore), Index. (search)
To the Gentina Crinita, the Lait Flower of Autumnby James G. Percival.
Sweet floweret of the waning year, Last blossom of the fading pisins, The leaves are falling wan and sere, And the lone widowed bird complains.
Still then art dearer to my heart Than all the sweets the Spring unveils; Thy bloom a softer mood impart Than violets breathing in the vales.
There is a melancholy grace, That spreads thy lonely portals o'er; They tell that winter comes space.
That soon will rise the tempest's rear.
The flowers decay, the fields are bare, The humble violet tears to blow, The woods no more their honors wear, Light rustling full the leaves below.
Still thou unfoldist thy lonely leaf, And smil'st amid the fields alone, Thou seem it some weeping child of grief, That mourns her comfort flown.
Had I not roved the desert plain, Where heath the hedge you sweet'y blew, Your petals had been spread in vain, Your only guest the evening dew. Or when amid the leafless wood