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Literary Gazette, 8th June, 1822, Pages 362-363

ORIGINAL POETRY. POETIC SKETCHES.

Second Series - Sketch the Sixth. THE DESERTER.

Alas, for the bright promise of our youth! How soon the golden chords of hope are broken, How soon we find that dreams we trusted most Are very shadows.

‘Twas a sweet summer morn,—the lark had just Sprang from the clover bower around her nest, And poured her blithe song to the clouds; the sun Shed his first crimson o'er the dark grey walls Of the old church, and stained the sparkling panes Of ivy-covered windows. The damp grass, That waved in wild luxuriance round the graves, Was white with dew, but early steps had been And left a fresh green trace round yonder tomb: 'Twas a plain stone, but graven with a name That many stopped to read—a Soldier's name— And two were kneeling by it, one who had Been weeping; she was widow to the brave, Upon whose quiet bed her tears were falling. From off her cheek the rose of youth had fled, But beauty still was there, that softened grief, Whose bitterness is gone, but which was felt Too deeply for forgetfulness; her look, Fraught with high feelings and intelligence, And such as might beseem the Roman dame