Full well he feels life’s tide is ebbing fast,—
When hark! ‘They run; see how they run!’ they cry.
‘Who run?’ ‘The foe.’ His eyes flash forth one gleam,
Then murm’ring low he sighs, ‘Praise God, in peace I die.’
Far rolls the battle’s din, and leaves its dead,
As when a cyclone thro’ the forest cleaves;—
And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain,
As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn leaves.
The Fleur de Lys lies trodden on the ground,—
The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave,—
‘All’s well’ resounds from tower and battlement,
And England’s banners proudly o’er the ramparts wave.
Slowly the mighty warships sail away,
To tell their country of an empire won;
But, ah! they bear the death-roll of the slain,
And all that mortal is of Britain’s noblest son.
With bowèd head they lay their hero down,
And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;—
Loud salvoes sing the soldier’s lullaby,
And weeping millions bathe with tears his honoured grave.
Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion’s hills,—
And rends the very sky a people’s joy;—
And even when grief broods o’er the vacant chair,
The mother’s heart still nobly gives her gallant boy.
And while broad England gleams with glorious light,
And merry peals from every belfry ring;—
One little village lies all dark and still,
No fires are lighted there—no battle songs they sing.
There in her lonely cot, in widow’s weeds,
A mother mourns—the silent tear-drops fall;—
She too had given to swell proud England’s fame,
But, ah! she gave the widow’s mite—she gave her all!
Duncan Anderson.