maiden shame On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all | And they robed the icy body, while no glow of the rest, Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush then those little maidens they were children of our focs Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undis of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars. Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low, turbed repose. ANONYMOUS. NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. "To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country, that Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the would not be hard."-THE NEIGHBORS. brook let's murmuring flow? Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground, Came two little maidens, light and hasty tread, sisters, O No, no, let me lie Not on a field of battle when I die! Let not the iron tread Of the mad war-horse crush my helméd head; That I have drawn against a brother's life, with a Thunders along, and tramples me beneath And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. of dread. And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood their wardrobe's scanty store, I know that beauty's eye And two heavy iron shovels in their slender Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, hands they bore. Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. And brazen helmets dance, And people shouted till the welkin rung, In honor of the brave Who on the battle-field have found a grave; I know that o'er their bones Where the first blood was shed, And to my country's independence led ; Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still; That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, That issue from the gulf of Salamis. And thine, too, have I seen, Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green, Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. Such honors grace the bed, I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And there lay the rider distorted and pale, And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shout; And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; But as his eye grows dim, What is a column or a mound to him? What, to the parting soul, The mellow note of bugles? What the roll Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly, As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair, The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered, With kindred spirits, spirits who have blessed By labors, cares, and counsels for their good. JOHN PIERPONT. AH! whence yon glare, That fires the arch of heaven?-that dark red smoke Hark to that roar, whose swift and deafening peals THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there, THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, the sea, In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Save when the frantic wail of widowed love Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan The gray morn | As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous smoke Before the icy wind slow rolls away, And the bright beams of frosty morning dance Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms, And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful path Of the outsallying victors; far behind, Black ashes note where their proud city stood. Within yon forest is a gloomy glen, Each tree which guards its darkness from the day Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore, That force defends, and from a nation's rage PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And he thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed, Far away in the cot on the mountain. The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead; The picket's off duty forever. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Grows gentle with memories tender, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 382 “Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket !—'t is she, | But that parting was years, long years ago, My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon - Was her husband Hush soldier, 't was Heaven's decree, He wandered away to a foreign land; We must bury him there, by the light of the The soldiers who buried the dead away Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace, But laid them to sleep till the judgment-day, Heart folded to heart, and face to face. SARAH T. BOLTON. MY AUTUMN WALK. ON woodlands ruddy with autumn I look on the beauty round me, For the wind that sweeps the meadows Blows out of the far Southwest, Where our gallant men are fighting, And the gallant dead are at rest. The golden-rod is leaning, And the purple aster waves In a breeze from the land of battles, A breath from the land of graves. Full fast the leaves are dropping Before that wandering breath; As fast, on the field of battle, Our brethren fall in death. Beautiful over my pathway The forest spoils are shed; They are spotting the grassy hillocks With purple and gold and red. Beautiful is the death-sleep But who shall comfort the living, The light of whose homes is gone: The bride that, early widowed, Lives broken-hearted on; The matron whose sons are lying I look on the peaceful dwellings Whose windows glimmer in sight, With croft and garden and orchard That bask in the mellow light; 383 "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen, -fair Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age; For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, — but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the Rhine. Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, = O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes some. times heaviest mourning! |