No rumor of the foe’s advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow’s strife The warrior’s dream alarms; No braying horn or screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle’s stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout, are past. Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight. Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Comes down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o’er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was “Victory or Death!” Sons of the dark and bloody ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air! Your own proud land’s heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave: She claims from war its richest spoil,-- The ashes of her brave. Thus, ’neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast On many a bloody shield. The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes’ sepulcher. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave, No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished year hath flown, The story how ye fell. Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight, Nor Time’s remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. THOMAS GRAY. THOMAS GRAY was born in London in 1716. His father neglected his family, and the boy was dependent upon his mother, who worked hard to provide her son with an education. Through the influence of an uncle, who was an assistant at Eton, the future poet was educated at that famous school, and at Cambridge. He spent his vacations at his uncle’s house. He cared nothing for the sports of the times, but loved nature. He would sit for hours in a quiet nook, surrounded by hills and cliffs, reading, dreaming, and watching the gambols of the hares and squirrels.