With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour'd around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs Where amid these you journey, With the toiling, toiling bells' perpetual clang; I give you my sprig of lilac. I come presently But a moment I linger I understand you; for the lustrous star has detained me; The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me. O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love ? Sea winds, blown from east and west, Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting: These, and with these, and the breath of my chant, I perfume the grave of him I love. WALT WHITMAN. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN ! O CAPTAIN ! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up you the bugle trills, for you the flag is flung for For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths for you the shores acrowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You 've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won. Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. WALT WHITMAN. HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD HOME they brought her warrior dead: She nor swooned, nor uttered cry; All her maidens, watching, said, Then they praised him, soft and low, Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee, Like summer tempest came her tears, ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (The Princess). FAREWELL THE same year calls, and one goes hence with another, Time takes them home that we loved-fair names and famousTo the soft, long sleep, to the broad, sweet bosom of death; But the flower of their souls he shall take not away to shame us, I have seen A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract |