L’assiégeant se rangeait sur l’immense plateau...
Or Montcalm l’avait dit : ― L’on me verra, plutôt
Que de céder au nombre,
Jusqu’au dernier moment défendre sans pâlir
Mes derniers bastions, et puis m’ensevelir
Sous leur dernier décombre !
Depuis des mois déjà, l’implacable ennemi
Avait, sans respirer, sur la ville, vomi
Des torrents de...
L’assiégeant se rangeait sur l’immense plateau...
Or Montcalm l’avait dit : ― L’on me verra, plutôt
Que de céder au nombre,
Jusqu’au dernier moment défendre sans pâlir
Mes derniers bastions, et puis m’ensevelir
Sous leur dernier décombre !
Depuis des mois déjà, l’implacable ennemi
Avait, sans respirer, sur la ville, vomi
Des torrents de...
Not as when some great Captain falls
In battle, where his Country calls,
Beyond the struggling lines
That push his dread designs
To doom, by some stray ball struck dead:
Or, in the last charge, at the head
Of his determined men,
Who must be victors then.
Nor as when sink the civic great,
The safer...
Stern be the pilot in the dreadful hour
When a great nation, like a ship at sea
With the wroth breakers whitening at her lee,
Feels her last shudder if her helmsman cower;
A godlike manhood be his mighty dower!
Such and so gifted, Lincoln, mayst thou be,
With thy high wisdom’s low simplicity
And awful tenderness of voted power.
...
This bronze doth keep the very form and mould
Of our great martyr’s face. Yes, this is he:
That brow all wisdom, all benignity;
That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold
Like some harsh landscape all the summer’s gold;
That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea
For storms to beat on; the lone agony
Those silent, patient lips too well...
From the Harvard Commemoration Ode, July 21, 1865
LIFE may be given in many ways,
And loyalty to Truth be sealed
As bravely in the closet as the field,
So bountiful is Fate;
But then to stand beside her,
When craven churls deride her,
To front a line in arms and not to yield,
This shows, methinks, God’s plan...
Foully Assassinated April 14, 1865 1
YOU lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln’s bier,
You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace,
Broad for the self-complacent British sneer,
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,
His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,
His lack of all...
