B. HIGGINS

The moan of centuries breaks around these shores, Whispers of sultry ages, and of woes Low-trumpeted against the arch of Heaven.... A land that bows beneath the crescent moon And shrinks within its glinting gaze—is this The mausoleum of our nation's dead? Yea, for their glory gathers on this strand! Mourn not the brave with tears. These pagan hills Are touched with sanctity: the Voice of God Thrills thro' the barrenness of shrivell'd fields And lingers where these warriors lie entombed— 'Neath the vast solitudes of Asian skies, Where sleep they in a hush of eventide, The sea their dirge, the stars their monuments!

A thrush throbs out his mournful melody, And shadowy fingers of approaching Dusk Clutch vaguely at the trees And shroud the purple hills: And softly sobbing noon-winds float astir, Bedewing tearful kisses on the buds That freeze in filmy fold: The waters, icy-chill, Are gurgling from their depths, and nestling birds Stand sunset-splashed, with plumage all dismay'd, To join the woeful chant, The dirge of waning day.