Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/248

236

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain, Where every step was over the slain; But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by, And he came to his native land to die. 'Twas hard to come to that native land, And not clasp one familiar hand! 'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead, Or ere he could hear his welcome said! But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more, And to lay his bones on his own loved shore; To think that the friends of his youth might weep O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep!

The bugles ceased their wailing sound As the coffin was lowered into the ground;