MY FRIENDS, 207 My Friends. WITH conscious pride, I view the band "Tis mine their inmost souls to see; Sonnet. FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH. IF e'er I hear the plaint of birds, or sound fair; As sad I sit and muse of love and write- Living, she answers from afar my sighs: "Why art thou wasted ere thy time with grief?” Gently she says, "Why stream those bitter tears? Weep not for me-dying, I changed my brief And transient moments for immortal years; Seeming to close my eyes in deepest night, I opened them to everlasting light!" COME from Charade. my first! ay, come! The battle dawn is nigh; And the screaming trump and the thundering drum Are calling thee to die! Fight as thy father fought; Fall as thy father fell; Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought, So forward; and farewell! Fling high the flambeau's light! And sing the hymn for a parted soul Beneath the silent night. The wreath upon his head, The cross upon his breast; Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed, So take him to his rest. |