FE in its many shapes was there,
The busy and the gay;
Faces that seemed too young and
To ever know decay.
Wealth, with its waste, its pomp, and pride,
Led forth its glittering train;
And poverty's pale face
Asked aid, and asked in vain.
The shops were filled from many lands,
Toys, silks, and gems, and flowers;
The patient work of many hands,
The hope of many hours.
Yet, mid life's myriad shapes
There was a sigh of death;
There rose a melancholy sound,
The bugle's wailing breath.
They played a mournful Scottish air,
That on its native
Had caught the notes the night-winds
From weeping leaf and rill.'Twas strange to hear that sad wild
Its warning music shed,
Rising above life's busy train,
In memory of the dead.
There came a slow and silent
In sad procession by:
Reversed the musket in each hand,
And downcast every eye.
They bore the soldier to his grave;
The sympathyzing
Divided like a parted
By some dark vessel ploughed.
A moment, and all sounds were mute,
For awe was over all;
You heard the soldier's measured foot,
The bugle's wailing call.
The gloves were laid upon the bier,
The helmet and the sword,
The drooping war-horse followed near,
As he, too, mourned his lord.
Slowly—I followed too—they
To where a church arose,
And flung a shadow o'er the dead,
Deep as their own repose.
Green trees were there—beneath the
Of one, was made a grave;
And there to his last rest was
The weary and the brave.
They fired a volley o'er the
Of an unconscious ear;
The birds sprang fluttering overhead,
Struck with a sudden fear.
All left the ground, the bugles
Away upon the wind;
Only the tree's green branches sighedO'er him they left behind.
Again, all filled with light and breath,
I passed the crowded street—Oh, great extremes of life and death,
How strangely do ye meet!
