Dying, may win;

Proudly the banners wave,

What though the goal's the grave?

Death cannot harm the brave,—

Through death they win.

Softly the evening hush

Stilling strife's maddened rush

Cools the fierce battle flush,—

See the day die;

A thousand faces white

Mirror the cold moonlight

And glassy eyes are bright

With Victory.

[Pg 39]

Content.

I have been wandering where the daisies grow,

Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw

Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw

Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow

From timothy and yellow buttercup,

 Prev. P 28/57 next