2nd Off. I saw a sight above there, just now, that sickened me of warfare.
1st Off. And what was that, pry'thee?
2nd Off. Oh nothing,—'twas nothing but a dead soldier; a common sight enough, indeed; but this was a mere youth;—he was lying in a little hollow on the roadside, and as I crossed in haste, I had well-nigh set my foot on his brow. Such a brow it was, so young, so noble, and the dark chesnut curls clustering about it. I think I never saw a more classic set of features, or a look of loftier courage than that which death seemed to have found and marbled in them. Hark—that's a water-fall we hear.
1st Off. I saw him, there was another though, lying not far thence, the sight of whom moved me more. He was younger yet, or seemed so, and of a softer mould; and, torn and bloody as they were, I fancied I could see in his garb and appointments, and in every line of his features, the traces of some mother's tenderness.
2nd Off. Listen, Andre! This is beautiful! There's some cascade not far hence, worth searching for.
Andre. Yes, just in among those trees you'll find a perfect drawing-room, carpeted, canopied, and dark as twilight; its verdant seats broidered with violets and forget-me-nots; and all untenanted it seems, nay, deserted rather, for the music wastes on the lonely air, as if the fairy that kept state there, in gossip mood had stolen down some neighboring aisle, and would be home anon. I would have bartered all the glory of this campaign for leave to stretch myself on its mossy bank, for a soft hour or so.
Mor. Ay, with Chaucer or the "Faery Queen." If one could people these lovely shades with the fresh creations of the olden time, knight and lady, and dark enchantress and Paynim fierce, instead of Yankee rebels—
Andre. 'Twere well your faery-work were of no lasting mould, or these same Yankee rebels would scarce thank you for your pains,—they hold that race in little reverence. Alas,—
No grot divine, or wood-nymph haunted glen,
Or stream, or fount, shall these young shades e'er know.
No beautiful divinity, stealing afar
Through darkling nooks, to poet's eye thence gleam;
With mocking mystery the dim ways wind,
They reach not to the blessed fairy-land
That once all lovely in heaven's stolen light,
To yearning thoughts, in the deep green-wood grew.
Ah! had they come to light when nature
Was a wonder-loving, story-telling child!—
The misty morn of ages had gone by,
The dreamy childhood of the race was past,
And in its tame and reasoning manhood,
In the daylight broad, and noon-day of all time,
This world hath sprung. The poetry of truth,
None other, shall her shining lakes, and woods,
And ocean-streams, and hoary mountains wear.
Perchance that other day of poesy,
Unsung of prophets, that upon the lands
Shall dawn yet, thence shall spring. The self-same mind
That on the night of ages once, for us
Those deathless clusters flung, the self-same mind,
With all its ancient elements of might,
Among us now its ancient glory hides;
But, from its smothered power, and buried wealth,
A golden future sparkles, decked from deeper founts,
A new and lovelier firmament,
A thousand realms of song undreamed of now,
That shall make Romance a forgotten world,
And the young heaven of Antiquity,
With all its starry groups, a gathered scroll.
Mor. Ay, Andre, you were born a poet, and have mistaken your art. Prythee excuse me, who am but a poor soldier, for marring so fine a rhapsody with any thing so sublunary; but, methinks, for an enemy's quarters, yonder fort shows as peaceable a front of stone and mortar as one could ask for. What can it mean that they are so quiet there?