Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Busy as the busy bee, his rest should be the clover;
Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;
Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:
Where the rain may rain upon it,

Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often
Out of those tender eyes which evermore did soften;
He never could look cold, till we saw him in his coffin:
Make a mound with sunshine on it,

[ocr errors]

Where the wind may sigh upon it,
Where the moon may stream upon it,

And Memory shall dream upon it.

'Captain or Colonel,"-whatever invocation

Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,—

On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty

nation!

Long as the sun doth shine upon it

Shall grow the goodly pine upon it,

Long as the stars do gleam upon it

Shall Memory come to dream upon it.

Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892]

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER

CLOSE his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,

Rise of moon, or set of sun,
Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:

Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,

Proved his truth by his endeavor;

Let him sleep in solemn night,

Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death-bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:

Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye;

Trust him to the hand that made him.

Mortal love weeps idly by:

God alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:

Lay him low!

George Henry Boker [1823-1890]

"BLOW, BUGLES, BLOW"

BLOW, bugles, blow, soft and sweet and low,

Sing a good-night song for them who bravely faced the foe;

Sing a song of truce to pain,

Where they sleep nor wake again,

'Neath the sunshine or the rain

Blow, bugles, blow.

Wave, banners, wave, above each hero's grave,

Fold them, O thou stainless flag that they died to save;

All thy stars with glory bright,

Bore they on through Treason's night,

Through the darkness to the light—

Wave, banners, wave.

"Such is the Death the Soldier Dies " 2245

Fall, blossoms, fall, over one and all,

They who heard their country's cry and answered to the call;

'Mid the shock of shot and shell,

Where they bled and where they fell,
They who fought so long and well-

Fall, blossoms, fall.

Sigh, breezes, sigh, so gently wandering by,
Bend above them tenderly, blue of summer sky;
All their weary marches done,
All their battles fought and won,
Friend and lover, sire and son—

Sigh, breezes, sigh.

John S. McGroarty [1862

"SUCH IS THE DEATH THE SOLDIER DIES"

SUCH is the death the soldier dies:

He falls, the column speeds away;
Upon the dabbled grass he lies,

His brave heart following, still, the fray.

The smoke-wraiths drift among the trees,

The battle storms along the hill;

The glint of distant arms he sees;
He hears his comrades shouting still.

A glimpse of far-borne flags, that fade
And vanish in the rolling din:

He knows the sweeping charge is made,
The cheering lines are closing in.

Unmindful of his mortal wound,

He faintly calls and seeks to rise;

But weakness drags him to the ground:

Such is the death the soldier dies.

Robert Burns Wilson [1850

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

THE maid who binds her warrior's sash
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though Heaven alone records the tear,
And Fame shall never know her story,
Her heart has shed a drop as dear

As e'er bedewed the field of glory.

The wife who girds her husband's sword,
Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,

What though her heart be rent asunder,
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of death around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon the field of battle!

The mother who conceals her grief

While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief, Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,

With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her, Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on Freedom's field of honor!

Thomas Buchanan Read [1822-1872]

SOMEBODY'S DARLING

INTO a ward of the whitewashed walls
Where the dead and the dying lay-
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls-
Somebody's darling was borne one day.

Somebody's darling! so young and so brave, Wearing still on his pale, sweet faceScon to be hid by the dust of the graveThe lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mould—
Somebody's darling is dying now.

Back from the beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now-
Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for Somebody's sake;
Murmur a prayer, soft and low;
One bright curl from the cluster take-
They were Somebody's pride, you know.
Somebody's hand hath rested there;

Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in those waves of light?

God knows best. He has Somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above,

Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay;

Somebody clung to his parting hand;—

Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
There he lies-with the blue eyes dim,
And the smiling, child-like lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab at his head,
"Somebody's darling slumbers here!"
Marie R. La Conte [18

« AnteriorContinuar »