Page:Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.pdf/41



THE scene of death is past; the cannon's roar Dies in faint echoes on the distant wave. The Christian and the hero stands alone Encircled by the slain. No flush of joy, Or ray of triumph gilds his thoughtful brow; For though his heart ascends in grateful praise To Him who heard his prayer, it sighs with pain, Lamenting o'er the woe his hand has wrought. That bosom, which amidst the battle's rage, Was calm and tranquil, feels the life-blood creep Chill through its channels, and that manly cheek Which kept its hue unblanch'd, when shrieks of death And agony arose, is pale, and sad, And wet with bitter tears for brethren lost. To them he turns his eye, but meets no glance Of answering friendship. On the deck they sleep Pale, ghastly, silent: while the purple stream Flows slowly ebbing, from their bosoms cold. One short hour since, he saw them full of life, And strength, and courage; now the northern blast Sighs as it passes o'er them—whispering low, "Behold the end of man!"