Epitaph

        Our loved ones lay them down to sleep
            And leave us here to grieve and mourn,
        While we, our silent watches keep,
            O'er their low graves whence they are bourne.
        Some heroes are in battle slain,
            Their names are honored far and near,
        While others die on beds of pain
            And no sad mourner sheds a tear.

        This day we honor each and all
            Whose soul has left its temporal case;
        And be he great, or be he small,
            We'll reverence his resting place.

Alan L. Strang

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Alan L. Strang

The Lily Of The Valley

Alan L. Strang, Simple Poetry

Our Boys

Alan L. Strang, Simple Poetry

A Small Boy's Desire

Alan L. Strang, Simple Poetry

English

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In Memoriam. - Colonel Samuel Colt,

Died at Hartford, on Friday morning, January 10th, 1862.


And hath he fallen,--whom late we saw
    In manly vigor bold?
That stately form,--that noble face,
    Shall we no more behold?--
Not now of the renown we speak
    That gathers round his name,
For other climes beside our own
    Bear witness to his fame;

Nor of the high inventive power
    That stretched from zone to zone,
And 'neath the pathless ocean wrought,--
    For these to all are known;--
Nor of the love his liberal soul
    His native City bore,
For she hath monuments of this
    Till memory is no more;

Nor of the self-reliant force
    By which his way he told,
Nor of the Midas-touch that turn'd
    All enterprise to gold,
And made the indignan...

Lydia Howard Sigourney

Two Monuments.

    Two men were born the self-same hour:
    The one was heir to untold wealth,
    To pride of birth and love of power;
    The other's heritage was health.

    A sturdy frame, an honest heart,
    Of human sympathy a store,
    A strength and will to do his part,
    A nature wholesome to the core.

    The two grew up to man's estate,
    And took their places in the strife:
    One found a sphere both wide and great,
    One found the toil and stress of life.

    Fate is a partial jade, I trow;
    She threw the rich man gold and frame,
    The laurel wreath to deck his brow,
    High place, the multitude's acclaim.

    The common things the other had -
    The common hopes to thrill him deep,
    The common joys to make h...

Jean Blewett

Verses Written In Westminster Abbey. [1]

Whoe'er thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.[2]
There sleeps the dust of Him for ever gone;
How near the Scene where once his Glory shone!
And, tho' no more ascends the voice of Prayer,
Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful Dream that comes again,
Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,
Still do I see (while thro' the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving Pomp along the shadowy Isle,
That, like a Darkness, fill'd the solemn Pile;
The illustrious line, that in long order led,
Of those that lov'd Him living, mourn'd Him dead;
Of those, the Few, that for their Country stood
Round Him who dar'd be singularly good;
All, of all ranks, that claim'd Him f...

Samuel Rogers

In Memoriam - Nicol Drysdale Stenhouse

Shall he, on whom the fair lord, Delphicus,
Turned gracious eyes and countenance of shine,
Be left to lie without a wreath from us,
To sleep without a flower upon his shrine?

Shall he, the son of that resplendent Muse,
Who gleams, high priestess of sweet scholarship,
Still slumber on, and every bard refuse
To touch a harp or move a tuneful lip?

No! let us speak, though feeble be our speech,
And let us sing, though faltering be our strain,
And haply echoes of the song may reach
And please the soul we cannot see again.

We sing the beautiful, the radiant life
That shone amongst us like the quiet moon,
A fine exception in this sphere of strife,
Whose time went by us like a hallowed tune.

Yon tomb, whereon the moonlit grasses sigh,
Hide...

Henry Kendall

Address To The Scholars Of The Village School

I come, ye little noisy Crew,
Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.
I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand:, it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead.
By night or day blow foul or fair,
Ne'er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair,
Or stand between his knees again.
Here did he sit confined for hours;
But he could see the woods and plains,
Could hear the wind and mark the showers
Come streaming down the streaming panes.
Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound
He rests a prisoner of the ground....

William Wordsworth

A Wreath Of Flowers

        Written for Decoration Day, May 30, 1918.


        I wove me a wreath of flowers
            To place in memories hall,
        In honor of the brave and fearless men
            Who had answered our country's call.
        The men who had answered, and fought, and died
            For the cause of freedom, our country's pride!

        I wove me a wreath of flowers
            With many a sigh and tear,
        As a tribute to all the good and true
            Who were given few honors here.
        The man of humble piety
            Who lived and died in obscurity.

        A wreath of flowers, a little thing
            For flowers wither and fade;
        But the fragrance they shed is not soon forgot
            By me, who th...

Alan L. Strang