Fitz-Greene Halleck

Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, The Douglas in red herrings.

This bank-note world.

They love their land because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his Majesty.

There is an evening twilight of the heart, When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest.

Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.

Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines, Shrines to no code or creed confined,— The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind.

One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die.

Strike—for your altars and your fires! Strike—for the green graves of your sires! God, and your native land!