THE LAST SOUNDS OF BATTLE.

(For the Mirror.)

Hark! on yonder blood-trod hill,

The sound of battle lingers still,—

But faint it comes, for every blow

Is feebled with the touch of woe:

Their limbs are weary, and forget

They stand upon the battle plain,—

But still their spirit flashes yet,

And dimly lights their souls again!

Like revellers, flush'd with dead'ning wine,

Measuring the dance with sluggish tread,

Their spirits for an instant shine,

Ashamed to show their pow'r hath fled.

Bat hark! e'en that faint sound hath died,

And sad and solemn up the vale

The silence steals, and far and wide

It tells of death the dreadful tale.