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May 30th, 1881 AD (search for this): chapter 36
Memorial ode. [Read before the Grand Army Posts of Boston, Mass., on Memorial Day, May 30, 1881, by Mr. George Riddle.] I. Oy to the three-hilled city!--for each year Heals something of the grief this day records; Each year the plaintive lay Sounds yet more far away, And strains of triumph suit memorial words. The old-time pang becomes a thrill of joy; Again we turn the page Of our heroic age, And read anew the tale of every patriot boy. A modest courage was their simple wont, The dauntless youths who grew to manhood here: Putnam and Savage, Perkins and Revere. It needs no helmet's gleam, No armor's glittering beam, No feudal imagery of shield or spear To gild the gallant deeds that roused us then,-- When Cass fell dying in the battle's front, And Shaw's fair head lay 'mid his dusky men. II. All o'er the tranquil land On this Memorial Day, Coming from near and far, Men gather in the mimic guise of war. They bear no polished steel, Yet by the elbow's touch they march, they wh
Andrew (search for this): chapter 36
l memories of the ear. III. A little while it seems Since those were daily thoughts which now are dreams. A little while is gone Since, the last battle fought, the victory won, We saw sweet Peace come back with all her charms, And watched a million men lay down their arms. But at this morning's call We bridge the interval; And yet once more, with no regretful tears, Live back again, though now men's blood be cooled, Through the long vista of the fading years To days when Sumner spoke, and Andrew ruled. IV. Courage is first and last of what we need To mould a nation for triumphal sway: All else is empty air, A promise vainly fair, Like the bright beauty of the ocean spray Tossed up toward heaven, but never reaching there. Not in the past, but in the future, we Must seek the mastery Of fate and fortune, thought and word and deed. Gone, gone for aye, the little Puritan homes; Gone the beleaguered town, from out whose spires Flashed forth the warning fires Telling the Cambridge rust
Bartletts (search for this): chapter 36
ustics, “Percy comes!” And gone those later days of grief and shame When slavery changed our court-house to a jail, And blood-drops stained its threshold. Now we hail, After the long affray, A time of calmer order, wider aim, More mingled races, manhood's larger frame, A city's broader sweep, the Boston of to-day. V. They say our city's star begins to wane, Our heroes pass away, our poets die, Our passionate ardors mount no more so high. 'T is but an old alarm, the affright of wealth, The cowardice of culture, wasted pain! Freedom is hope and health! The sea on which yon ocean steamers ride Is the same sea that rocked the shallops frail Of the bold Pilgrims; yonder is its tide, And here are we, their sons; it grows not pale, Nor we who walk its borders. Never fear! Courage and truth are all! Trust in the great hereafter, and whene'er In some high hour of need, That tests the heroic breed, The Boston of the future sounds its call, Bartletts and Lowells yet shall answer, “H
Cass (search for this): chapter 36
year the plaintive lay Sounds yet more far away, And strains of triumph suit memorial words. The old-time pang becomes a thrill of joy; Again we turn the page Of our heroic age, And read anew the tale of every patriot boy. A modest courage was their simple wont, The dauntless youths who grew to manhood here: Putnam and Savage, Perkins and Revere. It needs no helmet's gleam, No armor's glittering beam, No feudal imagery of shield or spear To gild the gallant deeds that roused us then,-- When Cass fell dying in the battle's front, And Shaw's fair head lay 'mid his dusky men. II. All o'er the tranquil land On this Memorial Day, Coming from near and far, Men gather in the mimic guise of war. They bear no polished steel, Yet by the elbow's touch they march, they wheel, Or side by side they stand. They now are peaceful men, fair Order's sons; But as they halt in motionless array, Or bow their heads to pray, Into their dream intrudes The swift sharp crack of rifle-shots in woods; Into the
Perkins (search for this): chapter 36
ton, Mass., on Memorial Day, May 30, 1881, by Mr. George Riddle.] I. Oy to the three-hilled city!--for each year Heals something of the grief this day records; Each year the plaintive lay Sounds yet more far away, And strains of triumph suit memorial words. The old-time pang becomes a thrill of joy; Again we turn the page Of our heroic age, And read anew the tale of every patriot boy. A modest courage was their simple wont, The dauntless youths who grew to manhood here: Putnam and Savage, Perkins and Revere. It needs no helmet's gleam, No armor's glittering beam, No feudal imagery of shield or spear To gild the gallant deeds that roused us then,-- When Cass fell dying in the battle's front, And Shaw's fair head lay 'mid his dusky men. II. All o'er the tranquil land On this Memorial Day, Coming from near and far, Men gather in the mimic guise of war. They bear no polished steel, Yet by the elbow's touch they march, they wheel, Or side by side they stand. They now are peaceful men,
Putnam (search for this): chapter 36
nd Army Posts of Boston, Mass., on Memorial Day, May 30, 1881, by Mr. George Riddle.] I. Oy to the three-hilled city!--for each year Heals something of the grief this day records; Each year the plaintive lay Sounds yet more far away, And strains of triumph suit memorial words. The old-time pang becomes a thrill of joy; Again we turn the page Of our heroic age, And read anew the tale of every patriot boy. A modest courage was their simple wont, The dauntless youths who grew to manhood here: Putnam and Savage, Perkins and Revere. It needs no helmet's gleam, No armor's glittering beam, No feudal imagery of shield or spear To gild the gallant deeds that roused us then,-- When Cass fell dying in the battle's front, And Shaw's fair head lay 'mid his dusky men. II. All o'er the tranquil land On this Memorial Day, Coming from near and far, Men gather in the mimic guise of war. They bear no polished steel, Yet by the elbow's touch they march, they wheel, Or side by side they stand. They no
Revere (search for this): chapter 36
on Memorial Day, May 30, 1881, by Mr. George Riddle.] I. Oy to the three-hilled city!--for each year Heals something of the grief this day records; Each year the plaintive lay Sounds yet more far away, And strains of triumph suit memorial words. The old-time pang becomes a thrill of joy; Again we turn the page Of our heroic age, And read anew the tale of every patriot boy. A modest courage was their simple wont, The dauntless youths who grew to manhood here: Putnam and Savage, Perkins and Revere. It needs no helmet's gleam, No armor's glittering beam, No feudal imagery of shield or spear To gild the gallant deeds that roused us then,-- When Cass fell dying in the battle's front, And Shaw's fair head lay 'mid his dusky men. II. All o'er the tranquil land On this Memorial Day, Coming from near and far, Men gather in the mimic guise of war. They bear no polished steel, Yet by the elbow's touch they march, they wheel, Or side by side they stand. They now are peaceful men, fair Order'
George Riddle (search for this): chapter 36
Memorial ode. [Read before the Grand Army Posts of Boston, Mass., on Memorial Day, May 30, 1881, by Mr. George Riddle.] I. Oy to the three-hilled city!--for each year Heals something of the grief this day records; Each year the plaintive lay Sounds yet more far away, And strains of triumph suit memorial words. The old-time pang becomes a thrill of joy; Again we turn the page Of our heroic age, And read anew the tale of every patriot boy. A modest courage was their simple wont, The dauntless youths who grew to manhood here: Putnam and Savage, Perkins and Revere. It needs no helmet's gleam, No armor's glittering beam, No feudal imagery of shield or spear To gild the gallant deeds that roused us then,-- When Cass fell dying in the battle's front, And Shaw's fair head lay 'mid his dusky men. II. All o'er the tranquil land On this Memorial Day, Coming from near and far, Men gather in the mimic guise of war. They bear no polished steel, Yet by the elbow's touch they march, they w
Savage (search for this): chapter 36
ts of Boston, Mass., on Memorial Day, May 30, 1881, by Mr. George Riddle.] I. Oy to the three-hilled city!--for each year Heals something of the grief this day records; Each year the plaintive lay Sounds yet more far away, And strains of triumph suit memorial words. The old-time pang becomes a thrill of joy; Again we turn the page Of our heroic age, And read anew the tale of every patriot boy. A modest courage was their simple wont, The dauntless youths who grew to manhood here: Putnam and Savage, Perkins and Revere. It needs no helmet's gleam, No armor's glittering beam, No feudal imagery of shield or spear To gild the gallant deeds that roused us then,-- When Cass fell dying in the battle's front, And Shaw's fair head lay 'mid his dusky men. II. All o'er the tranquil land On this Memorial Day, Coming from near and far, Men gather in the mimic guise of war. They bear no polished steel, Yet by the elbow's touch they march, they wheel, Or side by side they stand. They now are peace
Shaw (search for this): chapter 36
away, And strains of triumph suit memorial words. The old-time pang becomes a thrill of joy; Again we turn the page Of our heroic age, And read anew the tale of every patriot boy. A modest courage was their simple wont, The dauntless youths who grew to manhood here: Putnam and Savage, Perkins and Revere. It needs no helmet's gleam, No armor's glittering beam, No feudal imagery of shield or spear To gild the gallant deeds that roused us then,-- When Cass fell dying in the battle's front, And Shaw's fair head lay 'mid his dusky men. II. All o'er the tranquil land On this Memorial Day, Coming from near and far, Men gather in the mimic guise of war. They bear no polished steel, Yet by the elbow's touch they march, they wheel, Or side by side they stand. They now are peaceful men, fair Order's sons; But as they halt in motionless array, Or bow their heads to pray, Into their dream intrudes The swift sharp crack of rifle-shots in woods; Into their memory swells The trumpet's call, the sc
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