* * * * *
Let us learn that old North Edda
Chanted grandly on the grave,
Still for man the one thing needful
In his world is to be brave.
Valkyrs yet are forth and choosing
Who must be among the slain;
Let us, like that grim old Sea-King,
Smile at Death upon the plain,--
Smile at tyrants leagued with falsehood,
Knowing Truth, eternal, stands
With the book God wrote for Freedom
Always open in her hands,--
Smile at fear when in our duty,
Smile at Slander's Jotun-breath,
Smile upon our shrouds when summoned
Down the darkling deep of death.
Valor only grows a manhood;
Only this upon our sod,
Keeps us in the golden shadow
Falling from the throne of God.
* * * * *
=_Walter Whitman, 1819-.[86]_=
From Leaves of Grass.
=_401._= THE BROOKLYN FERRY AT TWILIGHT.
I too, many and many a time cross'd the river, the sun half an hour
high;
I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls--I saw them high in
the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their
bodies,
I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies,
and left the rest in strong shadow,
I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward
the south.
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