Classic Poem

I

Toll the slow bell,
Toll the low bell,
Toll, toll,
Make dole
For them that wrought so well.
Come, come,
With muffled drum
And wailing lorn
Of dolorous horn
The solemn measure slow
Toll and beat and blow;
Put out all glories that adorn
The sweet, unheeding morn.
Come, come;
To the muffled drum
And the sad horns
Bring flowers for them that took the thorns.
Knell, knell;
Let the slow bell
Be struck and the troubled drum;
Come, come,
The solemn measure slow
Toll and beat and blow;
Rebuke this bright, unpitying light.
The solemn measure slow
Toll and beat and blow
For them our beauty and our might
Gone on the unreturning way,
For them that took the night
That we might have the day.

II

Hark! voices, joyous voices break
From the green martyr-mounds: " Wake, wake!
The Lord our God, once more He saith,
This hand made all — it made not death.
Let the blithe bells ring,
The May air sing;
Strike the quick drum,
Smite sorrow dumb;
Blow the glad horn,
This glad May morn;
Lift the valiant measures high
Of the proud earth and sky
For them that tent
Beyond the firmament,
And on the field of light
Still gather to the fight.

" Blow the glad horn,
This glad May morn;
Stanch, undaunted measures blow,
Gathering courage as they go, —
Valiant measures high,
Carolled of earth and sky;
Set the bright, triumphal stave
For them that fought so well,
That faltered not nor fell;
For them and all whereso yon colors wave,
Unto the four winds given
And the proud earth and heaven.
There believe and battle they
Whose face is toward the day,
The ever-living light,
Where is no night,
Where is no death nor shadow of the grave. "