I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

THE BATTLEFIELD

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life blood of her brave Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they sought to save.

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Now all is calm, and fresh, and still;

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;

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A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year,
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot.

The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown - yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshipers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

CONCORD HYMN

Sung at the Completion of the Battle Monument,
July 4, 1837

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps:

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

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On this green bank, by this soft stream,

We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare

To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare

The shaft we raise to them and thee.

THE PROBLEM

I like a church; I like a cowl;

I love a prophet of the soul;
And on my heart monastic aisles

Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles:
Yet not for all his faith can see