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 Seen in their native element, will be Known to a future age, the pride of ours. There is none breathing who can better wield The battle-axe of satire. On its field

The wreath he fought for he has bravely won, Long be its laurel green around his brow! It is too true, I'm somewhat fond of fun And jesting; but for once I'm serious now. Why is he sipping weak Castalian dews? The muse has damned him—let him damn the muse.

But to return once more: the ancients fought Some tolerable battles. Marathon Is still a theme for high and holy thought, And many a poet's lay. We linger on The page that tells us of the brave and free, And reverence thy name, unmatched Thermopylæ.

And there were spirited troops in other days— The Roman legion and the Spartan band, And Swartwout's gallant corps, the Iron Grays— Soldiers who met their foemen hand to hand, Or swore, at least, to meet them undismayed; Yet what were these to General Laight's brigade