War Song
Remember the Glories of Brien the Brave
Remember the glories of Brien the brave,
Though the days of the hero are o'er,
Though lost to Mononia and cold to the grave,
He returns to Kinkora no more.
That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword,
To light us to victory yet.
Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint
Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of slavery there?
No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,
That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,
Than to sleep but a moment in chains.
Forget not our wounded companions who stoood
In the day of distress by our side;
While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died.
That sun which now blesses our arms with his light,
Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain; --
Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,
To find that they fell there in vain.
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Lay His Sword By His Side
Lay his sword by his side -- it hath served him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.
Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave --
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.
Yet pause -- for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breathed from his brave heart's remains; --
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains."
And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep,
"Though the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep --
It hath victory's life in it yet!
"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,
Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,
Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd,
Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.
But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use
Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,
Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,
Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Befire the Battle
By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life --
Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero in his grave,
'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.
Happy is he o'er whose decline
The smiles of home may soothing shine,
And light him down the steep of years:
But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on victory's breast!
O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls --
Ere the golden evening falls,
May we pledge that horn in triumph round.
Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound: --
But oh how blest that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Brave Little Soldier
Im a brave little soldier
I must be bold and strong
A brave little soldier
And I must carry on
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Im a brave little soldier
I must fight, I must win
Im a brave little soldier
Through hell and back again
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Per rum, pum, pum
Per rum, pum, pum
Per rum, pum, pum, pum, pum
Ye though I am marching through the valley filled with fear
My steps are sure and sturdy and my aim is straight and clear
The enemy is stalking me just waiting for the kill
Like david slewed galiath
I will claim this battle field
Im a brave little soldier
I must do what I can
Im a brave little soldier
And I must take a stand
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Marching, marching onward
Searching out the light of truth
I did not start the war
But its a battle I cant lose
Faith will be my armor
And love my sword and shield
I must defeat the enemy
I will, I will, I will
A brave little soldier
I must be bold and strong
A brave little soldier
And I must carry on
A brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Im a brave little soldier
A brave little soldier
Brave, little soldier
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Hero?
Hail great hero!
Hero brave!
We praise you hero!
I your slave
Now duly fall
On giving knee
In hero worship
Unto thee!
Now did you hero save our globe
When draped in classic hero’s robe?
And did it flow as reddened blood
As battles raged in fields of mud?
Oh hero tell me of your fame:
Were writhing serpents fair your game?
Did you pierce the dragon’s heart
Intrepid hero; play the part
When Tyrant slain in hero’s fight
On quaking ground thro’ battle’s might?
And did you hero conquer evil -
Waste the minions of the devil?
Oh valiant hero, does your armour
Gleam from ventures steeped in valour?
Your sword oh hero, sparks a glint
From charging steel to give the hint
Of what great chapters Hero's Tome
Might tell to us when heroes roam
Through lands of yore when goblins vile
Sought a chance to kill for bile.
Oh hail thy hero,
Hero tall!
Bless you hero,
As I fall
In blushing shame,
I speak to me…
This mirror aids to fantasise
That I be hero worldly wise,
But meek and mild is all I am:
Hero naught; unbridled scam.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Hero hero hero hero
Hero hero hero hero
Hero hero hero hero
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Captain H------D, Of The 65th Regiment
SAY, muse divine, can hostile scenes delight
The warrior's bosom in the fields of fight?
Lo! here the christian and the hero join
With mutual grace to form the man divine.
In H-----D see with pleasure and surprise,
Where valour kindles, and where virtue lies:
Go, hero brave, still grace the post of fame,
And add new glories to thine honour'd name,
Still to the field, and still to virtue true:
Britannia glories in no son like you.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On The Star Of 'The Legion Of Honour' (From The French)
Star of the brave!--whose beam hath shed
Such glory o'er the quick and dead
Thou radiant and adored deceit!
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,
Wild meteor of immortal birth;
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?
Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays;
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;
The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Like a volcano of the skies.
Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there.
Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue
Of three bright colours, each divine,
And fit for that celestial sign;
For Freedom's hand had blended them,
Like tints in an immortal gem.
One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes;
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes;
One the pure Spirit's veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light:
The three so mingled did beseem
The texture of a heavenly dream.
Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail!
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.
And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, oh Goddess! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!
The Magyar's New-Year-Eve
By Temèsvar I hear the clarions call:
The year dies. Let it die. It lived in vain.
Gun booms to gun along the looming wall,
Another year advances o'er the plain.
The Despot hails it from his bannered keep:
Ah, Tyrant, is it well to break a bondsman's sleep?
He might have dreamed, and solved the conscious throes
Of Time and Fate in some soft vision blest:
Sighed his thick breath in childhood's happy woes,
Or spent the starry tumult of the breast
On some dear dreamland maid, nor known how high
The blind heart beats to hours like this. 'Tis nigh!
Lo in the air a trouble and a strife;
I feel the future. Mighty days to come
Strain the strong leash a moment into Life:
Shapes beckon: voices clamour and are dumb:
And viewless nations charge upon the blast
That blows the spectral host to silence, and is past.
Hark, hark! the great hour strikes! The stroke peals 'one;'
Again! again! God! Have the earth and sky
Stopped breathing? Will it never end? 'Tis done.
The years are rent asunder with a cry,
The big world groans from all her gulphs and caves,
And sleeping Freedom stirs, and rocks the martyrs' graves.
Oh. ye far Few, who, battle-worn and grey,
Watch from wild peaks the plains where once ye bled,
Oh ye who but in fortune less than they
Keep the lone vigil of the immortal Dead,
Behold! And, like a fire from steep to steep,
Draw, draw the dreadful swords whereon ye lean and weep!
And oh you great brave harvest, that, war-ploughed
And sown with men, a grateful country yields,
You bearded youth who, beardless, saw the proud
Ancestral glories of those smoking fields
That now beneath ten grassy years lie cold,
Rise! Shew your children how your fathers fought of old!
But we are fettered, and a bondsman's ire,
Howe'er it flash, can only end in show'rs.
Who shall unlade these limbs? Alas, the fire
Of passion will not melt such chains as ours;
We have but heated them in wrath of men
To harden them in women's tears. What then?
Less than both hands at once what Freeman gives
To Freedom? Stand up where the Tyrant stands,
Draw in one breath the strength of slavish lives,
Lift the twin justice of your loaded hands,
And with that double thunder in the veins
Launch on his fated head the vengeance of your chains!
They hear! I see them thro' dissolving night!
Like sudden woods they rise upon the hills!
The mountains stream with a descending sight,
The hollow ear of vacant landscape fills,
From side to side the living landscape warms,
To arms! Yon bleeding cloud is spread! Day breaks! To arms!
Aye, Tyrant, the day breaks. Look up and fear.
To arms! A greater day than day is born!
To arms! A larger light than light is near!
A blacker night than midnight foams with morn!
Arise, arise, my Country, from the flood!
Arise, thou god of day, and dye the east with blood!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Call Of Liberty. May 1809
YE nations of Europe! arising to war,
And scorning submission to tyranny's might
Oh! follow the track of my bright blazing car,
Diffusing a path-way of radiance afar,
Dispelling the shadows of night!
And, hark! the destroyer has summon'd his band,
He waves the proud sceptre, his magical wand;
In legions they rush to the field!
'Tis the voice of destruction that swells in the storm,
The cloud and the tempest envelop his form.
O patriots! O heroes! O chiefs of renown!
Awake in my cause, and contend for my crown,
And vict'ry shall hallow your shield!
Oh! think of your fathers, how nobly they fought!
Disdaining each peril, the combat they sought,
And round me intrepid they stood!
They worshipp'd the beam of my sun-darting eye,
Exalted my banner, all-dreadful, on high;
'Twas their pillar of glory! and kindling with pride,
Around it they conquer'd, around it they died,
And ting'd the bright streamer in blood!
To you is intrusted the fire-flashing sword,
For ages defended, for ages ador'd;
The sword that has slumber'd too long!
'Tis the weapon of Liberty! sacred its aid,
For heav'n, truth, and justice, have hallow'd the blade;
Oh! seize it with ecstacy, wield it, ye brave!
Oh! seize it to punish, to conquer, to save!
Oh, hail it, ye minstrels, in song!
Fair, dazzling, unblemish'd, its lustre is pure,
For martyrs have died to preserve it secure,
And heroes to guard it have bled!
'Twas this that illumin'd the fields of the fight,
When the Chief of Vimeira was matchless in might;
In lightning effulgence at Baylen it stream'd,
At Corunna, the zenith of glory, it beam'd
O'er the warrior, the patriot, the dead!
O Albion! my throne, and my temple of rest,
Fair light of the waves! lovely star of the west!
Ever steady, resplendent, the same;
Thou shrine of my spirit! thou land of my heart!
Where life, inspiration, and hope I impart;
Behold where my cynosure brilliant appears,
And beams thro' the mist-veil of darkness and tears,
To guide thee to conquest and fame!
Oh! thou art my guardian! supreme o'er the sea!
Still foremost, undaunted, to combat for me,
Thou planet! thou empress of isles!
Oh! fearless in danger, awake at my call:
Shall the standard, the altar of Liberty, fall?
No, never, fair queen! while thy sons of the main,
My trophies, my rights, and my banners maintain,
And live in the heav'n of my smiles!
Ye nations of Europe! all rous'd by alarms,
Oh! imitate Albion, the peerless in arms,
Who kindles my torch from afar!
Her children are mine, an invincible band,
My look is the sun-beam that brightens their land!
And never, oh! never, that sun-beam shall cease,
And ne'er shall the light of my presence decrease,
While they follow my bright blazing car!
O Austrian warriors! who rise in my cause,
Ye fight with my falchion, ye fight for my laws!
And your's is the armour of right!
Then rush to the battle-field, scorning a fear,
And Justice and Freedom shall frown on your spear;
In valor, in truth, and in ardor the same,
All kindling with energy, breathing with flame,
Ye shall conquer—a torrent of might!
The slain shall exult in resigning their breath,
They shall smile, they shall burn, they shall triumph in death;
And who might not envy their bier?
The living, victorious, shall strew o'er their tomb
The garlands of conquest, unfading in bloom;
And glory's fair Amaranth proudly shall wave,
In beauty unsullied adorning their grave,
Too bright to be stain'd with a tear!
And you, brave Iberians! oh! ever disdain,
The sword of oppression; and tyranny's chain!
Be free, gallant Spaniards, or die!
For you, when surrounded by darkness and foes,
The day-spring of Freedom in radiance arose:
Tho' shadows and clouds may obscure it awhile,
Oh! yet it may brighten, oh! yet it may smile,
And beam in meridian on high!
But where is the patriot, undaunted and bold,
Whose name is immortal, whose deeds are enroll'd
On adamant, high in my fame?
My Palafox! oft must I weep to recal
Thy trophies, my hero! thy fame, and thy fall!
Thy sabre was lightning! thy spirit was fire!
Thy arm and thy bosom 'twas mine to inspire,
Young martyr to glory and Spain!
O Heav'n! when he fought undismay'd by my side,
Why, why was thine aid, was thine armour deny'd?
Were justice and vengeance no more?
Yet, yet let me hope that the flame of his soul
Will burn in his countrymen, scorning control;
The foes of mankind and religion consume,
The dark'ning horizon of Europe illume,
And the days of her triumph restore!
Ye realms and ye nations, your legions unite!
Oh! righteous and hallow'd your war!
Unfurl the red standard, fair Hope is your light,
And this be your watch-word in danger and fight,
'O Liberty! thou art our star!'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Walcheren Expedition
Ye brave, enduring Englishmen,
Who dash through fire and flood,
And spend with equal thoughtlessness
Your money and your blood,
I sing of that black season,
Which all true hearts deplore,
When ye lay,
Night and day,
Upon Walcheren's swampy shore.
'Twas in the summer's sunshine
Your mighty host set sail,
With valour in each longing heart
And vigour in the gale;
The Frenchman dropp'd his laughter,
The Fleming's thoughts grew sore,
As ye came
In your fame
To the dark and swampy shore.
But foul delays encompass'd ye
More dang'rous than the foe,
As Antwerp's town and its guarded fleet
Too well for Britons know;
One spot alone ye conquer'd
With hosts unknown of yore;
And your might
Day and night,
Lay still on the swampy shore.
In vain your dauntless mariners
Mourn'd ev'ry moment lost,
In vain your soldiers threw their eyes
In flame to the hostile coast;
The fire of gallant aspects
Was doom'd to be no more,
And your fame
Sunk with shame
In the dark and the swampy shore.
Ye died not in the triumphing
Of the battle-shaken flood,
Ye died not on the charging field
In the mingle of brave blood;
But 'twas in wasting fevers
Full three months and more,
Britons born,
Pierc'd with scorn,
Lay at rot on the swampy shore.
No ship came o'er to bring relief,
No orders came to save;
But DEATH stood there and never stirr'd,
Still counting for the grave.
They lay down, and they linger'd,
And died with feelings sore,
And the waves
Pierc'd their graves
Thro' the dark and the swampy shore.
Oh England! Oh my Countrymen!
Ye ne'er shall thrive again,
Till freed from Councils obstinate
Of mercenary men.
So toll for the six thousand
Whose miseries are o'er,
Where the deep,
To their sleep,
Bemoans on the swampy shore.
poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Death-Day Of Korner
A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
The youth went down to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride.
He went, with his noble heart unworn,
And pure, and high;
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,
Only to die!
He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone
Beneath his hand
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone,
And his Father-land.
And with all his glorious feelings yet
In their first glow,
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met
To chain its flow.
A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride.
He hath left a voice in his trumpet-lays
To turn the flight,
And a guiding spirit for after days,
Like a watch-fire's light.
And a grief in his father's soul to rest,
Midst all high thought;
And a memory unto his mother's breast,
With healing fraught.
And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautiful beautiful and bright,
In life and death!
A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To E.S. Salomon
What! Salomon! such words from you,
Who call yourself a soldier? Well,
The Southern brother where he fell
Slept all your base oration through.
Alike to him - he cannot know
Your praise or blame: as little harm
Your tongue can do him as your arm
A quarter-century ago.
The brave respect the brave. The brave
Respect the dead; but you - you draw
That ancient blade, the ass's jaw,
And shake it o'er a hero's grave.
Are you not he who makes to-day
A merchandise of old reknown
Which he persuades this easy town
He won in battle far away?
Nay, those the fallen who revile
Have ne'er before the living stood
And stoutly made their battle good
And greeted danger with a smile.
What if the dead whom still you hate
Were wrong? Are you so surely right?
We know the issues of the fight -
The sword is but an advocate.
Men live and die, and other men
Arise with knowledges diverse:
What seemed a blessing seems a curse,
And Now is still at odds with Then.
The years go on, the old comes back
To mock the new - beneath the sun
Is nothing new; ideas run
Recurrent in an endless track.
What most we censure, men as wise
Have reverently practiced; nor
Will future wisdom fail to war
On principles we dearly prize.
We do not know - we can but deem,
And he is loyalest and best
Who takes the light full on his breast
And follows it throughout the dream.
The broken light, the shadows wide -
Behold the battle-field displayed!
God save the vanquished from the blade,
The victor from the victor's pride.
If, Salomon, the blessed dew
That falls upon the Blue and Gray
Is powerless to wash away
The sin of differing from you,
Remember how the flood of years
Has rolled across the erring slain;
Remember, too, the cleansing rain
Of widows' and of orphans' tears.
The dead are dead - let that atone:
And though with equal hand we strew
The blooms on saint and sinner too,
Yet God will know to choose his own.
The wretch, whate'er his life and lot,
Who does not love the harmless dead
With all his heart and all his head -
May God forgive him, I shall not.
When, Salomon, you come to quaff
The Darker Cup with meeker face,
I, loving you at last, shall trace
Upon your tomb this epitaph:
'Draw near, ye generous and brave -
Kneel round this monument and weep
For one who tried in vain to keep
A flower from a soldier's grave.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To-- : From The French
Must thou go, my glorious Chief,
Sever'd from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warrior's grief,
Maddening o'er that long adieu?
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal,
Dear as both have been to me
What are they to all I feel,
With a soldier's faith for thee?
Idol of the soldier's soul!
First in fight, but mightiest now;
Many could a world control;
Thee alone no doom can bow.
By thy side for years I dared
Death; and envied those who fell,
When their dying shout was heard,
Blessing him they served so well.
Would that I were cold with those,
Since this hour I live to see;
When the doubts of coward foes
Scarce dare trust a man with thee,
Dreading each should set thee free!
Oh! although in dungeons pent,
All their chains were light to me,
Gazing on thy soul unbent.
Would the sycophants of him
Now so deaf to duty's prayer,
Were his borrow'd glories dim,
In his native darkness share?
Were that world this hour his own,
All thou calmly dost resign,
Could he purchase with that throne
Hearts like those which still are thine?
My chief, my king, my friend, adieu!
Never did I droop before;
Never to my sovereign sue,
As his foes I now implore:
All I ask is to divide
Every peril he must brave;
Sharing by the hero's side
His fall, his exile, and his grave.
Fields Of The Brave
Sometimes I close my eyes
And picture the plains
I see Buffalo Bill and the Iroquois
Riding again
Open skies, fertile ground
This was heaven on earth
That they found
We got what they gave
By their God we were saved
They were humble not depraved
These streets were afraid of
Once were the fields of the brave
The fields of the brave
Where a Chevrolet rusts
By a closed shopping mall
Can you see through the dust
Where the brave ones stood tall
Buried deep where they fell
They live on in the stories we tell
They got what they gave
By their God they were saved
And I say this as I pray
I cant help but dream of
The days these were fields of the brave
The fields of the brave
After all this time
And the struggles in between
We stand next in line
With the chance we can build on their dreams
In the
Fields of the brave
Fields of the brave
We got what they gave
In the fields of the brave
Let their spirits be saved
And I pray this on their graves
Therell be a return of
The days these were fields of the brave
The fields of the brave
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Ye Spirits Of The Free
Ye spirits of the free,
Can ye forever see
Your brother man
A yoked and scourged slave
Chains dragging to his grave,
And raise no hand to save?
Say if you can.
In pride and pomp to roll,
Shall tyrants from the soul
God’s image tear,
And call the wreck their own,—
While, from the eternal throne,
They shut the stifled groan
And bitter prayer?
Shall he a slave be bound,
Whom God hath doubly crowned
Creation’s lord ?
Shall men of Christian name,
Without a blush of shame
Profess their tyrant claim
From God’s own word ?
No! at the battle cry,
A host prepared to die,
Shall arm for fight—
But not with martial steel,
Grasped with a murderous zeal ;
No arms their foes shall fell,
But love and light.
Firm on Jehovah’s laws,
Strong in their righteous cause,
They march to save.
And vain the tyrant’s mail,
Against their battle—hail,
Till cease the woe and wail
Of tortured slave !
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In The Years Of Sarsfield
I wish I were over the Curlew Mountains,
Marching to Sligo by valley and fen;
I wish I were back in the years of Sarsfield,
Tramping the rough roads with him and his men.
I wish that I stood upon Yellow Island,
Watching the camp that the Williamites made;
I wish that my good gun was pressed to my shoulder
And that my caubeen held the white cockade.
I wish I were out with 'galloping Hogan,'
Happy a guide for my hero to be,
Encamped for the night on the Keeper Mountain,
Ready to guard with the brave rapparee.
I wish I had been in the woods of Cullen
In the dark night when the battle began;
I wish I had heard at the wan moon's rising
'Sarsfield the word, and Sarsfield the man.'
I wish I were young at the siege of Limerick,
Holding the breach there and glad in the fight;
Ah, could I but see him, King William of Orange,
With his troops defeated ready for flight.
Had I but stood on the bridge of Athlone, there
Flinging the plank and beam into the wave,
Keeping the broken arch, as the last hero stood
Fighting the fight of death, one of the brave.
I wish I had fought in the flood of the Shannon
With the grim Dutchmen, to conquer or drown,
Left without shot or shell by the false Maxwell,
Into the deep had that traitor gone down.
I wish I had fought in the battle of Aughrim
By the black bog on the side of the hill,
Seeing there Ginkel's men fall to disquietude,
Failing with Sarsfield meant living still.
I wish I had flown with the Wild Geese across the sea,
Knelt on red Landen's plain, facing the foe;
Holding the dear head of Sarsfield on my heart,
Knowing from his brave blood heroes would grow.
Ah, had I sailed to far France out of Galway,
There on the deck the spy Maxwell to see,
Bishop or Luttrell never had stayed me from
'Tossing the Scotsman right into the sea.'
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cleburne
Another ray of light hath fled, another Southern brave
Hath fallen in his country's cause and found a laureled grave-
Hath fallen, but his deathless name shall live when stars shall set,
For, noble Cleburne, thou art one this world will ne'er forget.
'Tis true, thy warm heart beats no more, that on thy noble head
Azrael placed his icy hand, and thou art with the dead;
The glancing of thine eyes are dim; no more will they be bright
Until they ope in Paradise, with clearer, heavenlier light.
No battle news disturbs thy rest upon the sun-bright shore,
No clarion voice awakens thee on earth to wrestle more,
No tramping steed, no wary foe bids thee awake, arise,
For thou art in the angel world, beyond the starry skies.
Brave Cleburne, dream in thy low bed, with pulseless deadened heart;
Calm, calm and sweet, O warrior rest! thou well hast borne thy part,
And now a glory wreath for thee the angels singing twine,
A glory wreath, not of the earth, but made by hands divine.
A long farewell-we give thee up, with all thy bright reknown,
A chieftain here on earth is lost, in heaven an angel found.
Above thy grave a wail is heard-a nation mourns her dead;
A nobler for the South ne'er died, a braver never bled.
A last farewell-how can we speak the bitter word farewell!
The anguish of our bleeding hearts vain words may never tell.
Sleep on, sleep on, to God we give our chieftain in his might;
And weeping, feel he lives on high, where comes no sorrow's night.
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
How Oft Has the Benshee Cried
How oft has the Benshee cried,
How oft has death untied
Bright links that Glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwined by Love.
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;
Long may the fair and brave,
Sigh o'er the hero's grave.
We're fallen upon gloomy days!
Star after star decays.
Every bright name, that shed
Light o'er the land, is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth:
But brightly flows the tear,
Wept o'er a hero's bier.
Quench'd are our beacon lights --
Thou, of the Hundred Fights!
Thou, on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung!
Both mute, -- but long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,
So long shall Erin's pride
Tell how they lived and died.
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Star-Spangled Banner
O! say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there -
O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream -
'Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havock of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul foot-steps' pollution,
No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand
Between their lov'd home, and the war's desolation,
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto - 'In God is our trust!'
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
poem by Francis Scott Key
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Defence of Fort McHenry (Stars and Stripes Forever)
O! say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there -
O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream -
'Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havock of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul foot-steps' pollution,
No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand
Between their lov'd home, and the war's desolation,
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto - 'In God is our trust! '
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
poem by Francis Scott Key
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Weep On, Weep On
Weep on, weep on, your hour is past,
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain;
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again!
Weep on -- perhaps in after days,
They'll learn to love your name,
When many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame.
And when they tread the ruin'd isle,
Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave?
"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate
Your web of discord wove;
And while your tyrants join'd in hate,
You never join'd in love.
But hearts fell off that ought to twine,
And man profaned what God had given;
Till some were heard to curse the shrine
Where others knelt in heaven!"
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!