The Fallen Brave.

A poem by George Pope Morris

From Cypress and from laurel boughs
Are twined, in sorrow and in pride,
The leaves that deck the mouldering brows
Of those who for their country died:
In sorrow, that the sable pall
Enfolds the valiant and the brave;
In pride that those who nobly fall
Win garlands that adorn the grave.

The onset--the pursuit--the roar
Of victory o'er the routed foe--
Will startle from their rest no more
The fallen brave of Mexico.
To God alone such spirits yield!
He took them in their strength and bloom,
When gathering, on the tented field,
The garlands woven for the tomb.

The shrouded flag--the drooping spear--
The muffled drum--the solemn bell--
The funeral train--the dirge--the bier--
The mourners' sad and last farewell--
Are fading tributes to the worth
Of those whose deeds this homage claim;
But Time, who mingles them with earth
Keeps green the garlands of their fame.

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