Hearts of my music -- them dark earth covers; Comrades to die, and to die for, were they; In the width of the world there were no such rovers -- Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished, To spur forth from the crowd and come back never more, And to ride in the track of great souls perished Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o'er. Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands, Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade; And one, far faring o'er orient islands Whose blood yet glints with my blade's accolade; North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing, Last love to the breasts where my own has bled; Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing My star where it rises a Star of the Dead. Comrades. [Richard Hovey] Comrades, pour the wine to-night For the parting is with dawn! Oh, the clink of cups together, With the daylight coming on! Greet the morn With a double horn, When strong men drink together! Comrades, gird your swords to-night, For the battle is with dawn! Oh, the clash of shields together, With the triumph coming on! Greet the foe, And lay him low, When strong men fight together! Comrades, watch the tides to-night, For the sailing is with dawn! Oh, to face the spray together, With the tempest coming on! Greet the sea With a shout of glee, When strong men roam together! Comrades, give a cheer to-night, For the dying is with dawn! Oh, to meet the stars together, With the silence coming on! Greet the end As a friend a friend, When strong men die together! Calverly's. [Edwin Arlington Robinson] We go no more to Calverly's, For there the lights are few and low; And who are there to see by them, Or what they see, we do not know. Poor strangers of another tongue May now creep in from anywhere, And we, forgotten, be no more Than twilight on a ruin there. We two, the remnant. All the rest Are cold and quiet. You nor I, Nor fiddle now, nor flagon-lid, May ring them back from where they lie. No fame delays oblivion For them, but something yet survives: A record written fair, could we But read the book of scattered lives. There'll be a page for Leffingwell, And one for Lingard, the Moon-calf; And who knows what for Clavering, Who died because he couldn't laugh? Who knows or cares? No sign is here, No face, no voice, no memory; No Lingard with his eerie joy, No Clavering, no Calverly. We cannot have them here with us To say where their light lives are gone, Or if they be of other stuff Than are the moons of Ilion. So, be their place of one estate With ashes, echoes, and old wars, -- Or ever we be of the night, Or we be lost among the stars. Uriel. [Percy MacKaye] (In memory of William Vaughn Moody) I