THE DYING WARRIOR.
A warrior lay, with a heaving breast,
On the field of the dying and dead;
His cheek was pale and his lips compressed,
And the fading light from the distant west
Shone o'er his gory bed.
The night came on, and the moon arose
With her soft and tremulous glow;
She shed her light o'er friends and o'er foes,
All sleeping together in dull repose
On the battle-field below.
The warrior gazed with a mournful sigh
On the blue and the star-spangled dome;
While tears shone bright in his sunken eye,
And vivid thoughts like the lightning fly
To his childhood's distant home.
He thought of the mother who used to bend
O'er his couch, when in sorrow and pain—
Who to his complaints an ear would lend;
But alas! he knew that that dearest friend
Would never bend o'er him again.
He thought of the scenes where once he strayed
With his brothers in days of yore;
He thought of the stream, the peaceful glade,
The cottage that stood in the dark green shade,
With the vines around the door.
He thought, with a pang of dark despair,
'Twas the hour they all used to meet
With grateful heart for the evening prayer;
He thought of the group that were gathered there;
He thought—of a vacant seat.
He knew that a fervent prayer would rise
For the loved and the long-absent one;
He knew that the tears would flow from their eyes,
And his father's voice would be choked with sighs,
As he prayed for his erring son.
He knew for him they would all implore
A renewed and a sanctified heart;
That when the toils of this life were o'er
They all might embrace each other once more,
Never, no never to part!
One trembling hand to his brow he pressed,
And the tears of contrition he shed;
He implored for pardon, a home with the blest;
Then he wrapped his cloak round his gory breast,
And the warrior's spirit fled!