Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Dying Soldier

The Dying Soldier.

The tumult of battle had ceased—high in air
The standard of Britain triumphantly waved;
And the remnant of foes had all fled in despair,
Whom night, intervening, from slaughter had saved:

When a veteran was seen, by the light of his lamp,
Slow pacing the bounds of the carcass-strewn plain;
Not base his intent,—for he quitted his camp
To comfort the dying,—not plunder the slain.

Though dauntless in war, at a story of woe
Down his age-furrowed cheeks the tears often ran;
Alike proud to conquer or spare a brave foe,
He fought like a hero!—"but felt like a man!"

As he counted the slain,—"Ah, conquest!" he cried,
"Thou art glorious indeed, but how dearly thou'rt won!
"Too dearly, alas!" a voice faintly replied—
It thrilled through his heart, 'twas the voice of his son!

He listened aghast!—all was silent again;
He searched by the beams which his lamp feebly shed,
And found his brave son amid hundreds of slain,
The corse of a comrade supporting his head!

"My Henry!"—the sorrowful parent exclaimed,
"Has fate rudely withered thy laurels so soon?"
The youth ope'd his eyes as he heard himself named,
And awoke for awhile from his death-boding swoon.

He gazed on his father, who knelt by his side,
And seizing his hand, pressed it close to his heart;
"Thank heaven, thou art here, my dear father!" he cried;
"For soon! ah, too soon, we for ever must part!

"Though death early calls me from all that I love!
From glory, from thee, yet perhaps 'twill be given
To meet thee again in yon regions above!"
His eyes beamed with hope as he fixed them on heaven.

"Then let not thy bosom with vain sorrow swell;
Ah! check, ere it rises, the heart-rending sigh!
I fought for my king!—for my country!—I fell
In defence of their rights: and I glory to die!"