WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE.
“Where hath not woman stood
Strong in affection’s might? a reed, upborne
By an o’ermastering current!”
Gentle and lovely form!
What didst thou here,
When the fierce battle-storm
Bore down the spear?
Banner and shiver’d crest,
Beside thee strown,
Tell that amidst the best
Thy work was done!
Yet strangely, sadly fair,
O’er the wild scene,
Gleams, through its golden hair,
That brow serene.
Low lies the stately head,—
Earth-bound the free;
How gave those haughty dead
A place to thee?
Slumberer! thine early bier
Friends should have crown’d,
Many a flower and tear
Shedding around;—
Soft voices, clear and young,
Mingling their swell,
Should o’er thy dust have sung
Earth’s last farewell;—
Sisters, above the grave
Of thy repose,
Should have bid violets wave
With the white rose.
Now must the trumpet’s note,
Savage and shrill,
For requiem o’er thee float,
Thou fair and still!
And the swift charger sweep
In full career,
Trampling thy place of sleep—
Why cam’st thou here?
Why? Ask the true heart why
Woman hath been
Ever where brave men die,
Unshrinking seen?
Unto this harvest ground
Proud reapers came,—
Some, for that stirring sound,
A warrior’s name;
Some for the stormy play
And joy of strife;
And some to fling away
A weary life;—
But thou, pale sleeper! thou
With the slight frame,
And the rich locks, whose glow
Death cannot tame;
Only one thought, one power,
Thee could have led,
So, through the tempest’s hour,
To lift thy head!
Only the true, the strong,
The love, whose trust
Woman’s deep soul too long
Pours on the dust!