Lead on! my orphan boy! Thy home is not so desolate to thee, And the low shiver in the linden tree May bring to thee a joy; But, oh! how dark is the bright home before thee, To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee! Lead on! for thou art now My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, And the strong heart I leaned upon is broken; And I have seen his brow, The forehead of my upright one, and just, Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust. He will not meet thee there Who blest thee at the eventide, my son! And when the shadows of the night steal on, He will not call to prayer. The lips that melted, giving thee to God, Are in the icy keeping of the sod! Aye, my own boy! thy sire Is with the sleepers of the valley cast, And the proud glory of my life hath past, With his high glance of fire. Wo! that the linden and the vine should bloom, And a just man be gathered to the tomb! Why, bear them proudly, boy! It is the sword he girded to his thigh, It is the helm he wore in victory! And shall we have no joy? For thy green vales, O Switzerland, he died! I will forget my sorrow--in my pride! THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD, MEMBER OF THE SENIOR CLASS OF YALE COLLEGE. Ye’ve gathered to your place of prayer With slow and measured tread; Your ranks are full, your mates all there; But the soul of one has fled. He was the proudest in his strength, The manliest of ye all; Why lies he at that fearful length, And ye around his pall? Ye reckon it in days since he Strode up that foot-worn aisle, With his dark eye flashing vividly, And his lip wreathed with a smile. Oh! had it been but told you then To mark whose lamp was dim, From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, Would ye have singled him? Whose was the sinewy arm which flung Defiance to the ring? Whose laugh of victory loudest rung, Yet not for glorying? Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, No rivalry might brook, And yet distinction claiming not? There lies he; go and look! On now! his requiem is done; The last deep prayer is said. On to his burial, comrades! on, With the noblest of the dead! Slow! for it presses heavily; It is a man ye bear! Slow! for our thoughts dwell wearily On the noble sleeper there. Tread lightly, comrades! we have laid His dark locks on his brow Like life, save deeper light and shade; We’ll not disturb them now. Tread lightly; for ’tis beautiful, That blue-veined eyelid’s sleep, Hiding the eye death left so dull; Its slumber we will keep.