And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
The wind's sweet tenor in the standing corn;
With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam,
And blue skies bending over love and home.
But still the thought: Somewhere,—upon the hills,
Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills,
Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat
For the loved sound of unreturning feet,
And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave,
Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave!
FRANK LEBBY STANTON.
* * * * *
THE BATTLE-FIELD.
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armèd hands
Encountered in the battle-cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave,—
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.