The Field Of Battle

The Deed of Blood is o'er!
And, hark, the Trumpet's mournful breath
Low murmurs round it a Note of Death—
The Mighty are no more!

How solemn slow that distant Groan!—
O, could

ON, wild with fear,
The deep prophetic Warning hear,
And, looking, listning vain around
For one soul-soothing, softer sound,
While near, unseen, the Fiends of Hell
Toll round the wretch his fancied Knell,
Rave all alone!
But, hark, soft Plaints arise!—
Friendship, adieu; farewel, soft Love!
I go to smiling Peace above:—
The Friend, the Lover dies!

Yet, happy Soul to Freedom giv'n,
Go where no proud tyrannic Lord
Drives Man upon his Brother's sword;
Where Angels from thine arms shall tear
The Chains

ON bade thee wear;
Where, on the once pale Cheek of Woe,
In Smiles immortal,

Roses blow—
The Bloom of Heav'n!