Farewell I breathe again To dim New England's shore; My heart shall beat not when I pant for thee no more. In yon green palmy isle, For thee and thine I pray; Far away, far away. IN MEMORIAM E. B. E. I MOURN upon this battle-field, But not for those who perished here. Whither the angry farmers came, In sloven dress and broken rank, Their deed of blood All mankind praise; Even the serene Reason says, It was well done. The wise and simple have one glance To mark the Briton's friendless grave. Yet it is a stately tomb; The grand return Of eve and morn, The year's fresh bloom, The silver cloud, Might grace the dust that is most proud.1 Yet not of these I muse In this ancestral place, But of a kindred face That never joy or hope shall here diffuse. Ah, brother of the brief but blazing star! For action's field, for victor's car, All inborn power that could |