The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/The Battle Field

The Battle Field
The last fading sunbeam has sunk in the ocean, And darkness has shrouded the forest and hill; The scenes that late rang with the battle's commotion, Now sleep ‘neath the moonbeams serenely and still; Yet light misty vapours above them still hover, And dimly the pale beaming crescent discover, Though all the stern clangour of conflict is over, And hush'd the wild trump-note that echoed so shrill.

Around me the steed and the rider are lying, To wake at the bugle's loud summons no more— And here is the banner that o'er them was flying, Torn, trampled, and sullied, with earth and with gore. With morn—where the conflict the wildest was roaring, Where sabres were clashing, and death-shot were pouring, That banner was proudest and loftiest soaring— Now, standard and bearer alike are no more!

All hush'd! not a breathing of life from the numbers That scatter'd around me so heavily sleep,— Hath the cup of red wine lent its fumes to their slumbers, And stain'd their bright garments with crimson so deep? Ah no! these are not like gay revellers sleeping, The night-winds, unfelt, o'er their bosoms are creeping, Ignobly their plumes o'er the damp ground are creeping, And dews, all uncared for, their bright falchions steep.

Bright are they? at morning they were—ay, at morning, Yon forms were proud warriors, with hearts beating high, The smiles of stern valour their lips were adorning, And triumph flash'd out from the glance of their eye! But now—sadly alter'd, the evening hath found them, They care not for conquest, disgrace cannot wound them, Distinct but in name, from the earth spread around them, Beside their red broad-swords, unconscious, they lie.

How still is the scene! save when dismally whooping, The night-bird afar hails the gathering gloom; Or a heavy sound tells that their comrades are scooping A couch, where the sleepers may rest in the tomb. Alas! ere yon planet again shall be lighted, What hearts shall be broken, what hopes will be blighted, How many, ‘midst sorrow's dark storm-clouds benighted, Shall envy, e'en while they lament, for their doom.

Oh war! when thou ‘rt clothed in the garments of glory, When Freedom has lighted thy torch at her shrine And proudly thy deeds are emblazon'd in story, We think not, we feel not, what horrors are thine. But oh! when the victors and vanquish'd have parted, When lonely we stand on the war-ground deserted, And think on the dead, and on those broken-hearted, Thy blood-sprinkled laurel-wreath ceases to shine.