The Song of the Camp

By Bayard Taylor

 "GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camps allied

Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 5

Lay, grim and threatening, under;

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff

No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said,

"We storm the forts to-morrow; 10

Sing while we may, another day

Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery’s side,

Below the smoking cannon:

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 15

And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;

Forgot was Britain’s glory:

Each heart recalled a different name,

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 20

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,—

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 25

But, as the song grew louder,

Something upon the soldier’s cheek

Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned

The bloody sunset’s embers, 30

While the Crimean valleys learned

How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 35

And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim

For a singer, dumb and gory;

And English Mary mourns for him

Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 40

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest

Your truth and valor wearing:

The bravest are the tenderest,—

The loving are the daring.

To M. T.

By Bayard Taylor

 THOUGH thy constant love I share,

Yet its gift is rarer;

In my youth I thought thee fair:

Thou art older and fairer!

Full of more than young delight 5

Now day and night are;

For the presence, then so bright,

Is closer, brighter.

In the haste of youth we miss

Its best of blisses: 10

Sweeter than the stolen kiss

Are the granted kisses.

Dearer than the words that hide

The love abiding,

Are the words that fondly chide, 15

When love needs chiding.

Higher than the perfect song

For which love longeth,

Is the tender fear of wrong,

That never wrongeth. 20

She whom youth alone makes dear

May awhile seem nearer:

Thou art mine so many a year,

The older, the dearer!

America

From the National Ode, July 4, 1876

By Bayard Taylor

FORESEEN in the vision of sages,

Foretold when martyrs bled,

She was born of the longing of ages,

By the truth of the noble dead

And the faith of the living fed! 5

No blood in her lightest veins

Frets at remembered chains,

Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head.

In her form and features still

The unblenching Puritan will, 10

Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace,

The Quaker truth and sweetness,

And the strength of the danger-girdled race

Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness.

From the homes of all, where her being began, 15

She took what she gave to Man;

Justice, that knew no station,

Belief, as soul decreed,

Free air for aspiration,

Free force for independent deed! 20

She takes, but to give again,

As the sea returns the rivers in rain;

And gathers the chosen of her seed

From the hunted of every crown and creed.

Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine; 25

Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;

Her France pursues some dream divine;

Her Norway keeps his mountain pine;

Her Italy waits by the western brine;

And, broad-based under all, 30

Is planted England’s oaken-hearted mood,

As rich in fortitude

As e’er went worldward from the island-wall!

Fused in her candid light,

To one strong race all races here unite; 35

Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen

Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan.

’T was glory, once, to be a Roman:

She makes it glory, now, to be a man!

Song

By Bayard Taylor

DAUGHTER of Egypt, veil thine eyes!

I cannot bear their fire;

Nor will I touch with sacrifice

Those altars of desire.

For they are flames that shun the day, 5

And their unholy light

Is fed from natures gone astray

In passion and in night.

The stars of Beauty and of Sin,

They burn amid the dark, 10

Like beacons that to ruin win

The fascinated bark.

Then veil their glow, lest I forswear

The hopes thou canst not crown,

And in the black waves of thy hair 15

My struggling manhood drown!