 | The battle of Niagara |  |
166
CANTO V.
Morning ..... appearance of the field ..... funeral honours ...... parade ..... interment ..... camp ..... death of the Hero ..... his father and wife.
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THE battle is o'er!—and the night is past—
The battle is o'er!
The clouds that were rolling away on the blast,
With the warrior-helm, and the steed's red mane;
Have vanished away,
With the coming of day,
Or lie all along on the verge of the plain,
And are seen no more.
The battle is o'er!
The battle is o'er!
And the men—and the steeds—and the banners there—
Crowding and thronging in the blazing air,
Have all disappeared in its crimson glare—
The battle is o'er!
And the morning comes,
With the cannon roar,
And the roll of drums;
With the furling of flags—and the stooping of helms—
With weltering manes—like steeds that have past
A torrent at night—exhausted—cast
On the shore—with those—that the night overwhelms,
With floating reins,
And clotted manes,
And harness stained—and dark with blood;
With a ridge of foam—on each courser's chest—
As if—in the fight—they had plunged to the breast,
In some crimson foaming flood.
But the war is o'er!
On that silent shore,
And the vulture that shrieked in the night is gone—
And glutted—hath fled
From the banquet of dead—
The trumpets are hushed—and the battle is done.
No more ye'll hear the furious drum
Rolling aloud delirium—
But the steeds that have neighed through the night—
That stand with their sinews quivering yet,
Their trappings entangled—and wet—
Shall go forth undisturbed—
Unharnessed—uncurbed—
For ever and aye to the fight!
The battle is o'er!
The clouds that were rolling away on the blast,
With the warrior-helm, and the steed's red mane;
Have vanished away,
With the coming of day,
Or lie all along on the verge of the plain,
And are seen no more.
The battle is o'er!
The battle is o'er!
And the men—and the steeds—and the banners there—
Crowding and thronging in the blazing air,
Have all disappeared in its crimson glare—
The battle is o'er!
And the morning comes,
With the cannon roar,
And the roll of drums;
With the furling of flags—and the stooping of helms—
With weltering manes—like steeds that have past
A torrent at night—exhausted—cast
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With floating reins,
And clotted manes,
And harness stained—and dark with blood;
With a ridge of foam—on each courser's chest—
As if—in the fight—they had plunged to the breast,
In some crimson foaming flood.
But the war is o'er!
On that silent shore,
And the vulture that shrieked in the night is gone—
And glutted—hath fled
From the banquet of dead—
The trumpets are hushed—and the battle is done.
No more ye'll hear the furious drum
Rolling aloud delirium—
But the steeds that have neighed through the night—
That stand with their sinews quivering yet,
Their trappings entangled—and wet—
Shall go forth undisturbed—
Unharnessed—uncurbed—
For ever and aye to the fight!
Young Morning comes again! with garments blown
Abroad upon the wind; and flow'rets thrown
In garland tresses o'er her opening breast;
With diamonds dropping from her airy crest.
Young Morning comes again! with laughing eye,
With bustling cherubs thronging up the sky;
And pulling thro' the air by braided flowers
Sweet Nature's wicker work! her wild-wood bowers!
Young Morning comes again! in floating car
Of tangled roses: o'er the hill of war
She throws her mantle, kindling on the sight,
With all the hues of heaven's own rainbow-light:
Of woven jasper—threaded sapphire—gold:
And sunshine—pearls—embossed upon its fold—
And thickening gems: a diamond flag unrolled!
Abroad upon the wind; and flow'rets thrown
In garland tresses o'er her opening breast;
With diamonds dropping from her airy crest.
Young Morning comes again! with laughing eye,
With bustling cherubs thronging up the sky;
And pulling thro' the air by braided flowers
Sweet Nature's wicker work! her wild-wood bowers!
Young Morning comes again! in floating car
Of tangled roses: o'er the hill of war
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With all the hues of heaven's own rainbow-light:
Of woven jasper—threaded sapphire—gold:
And sunshine—pearls—embossed upon its fold—
And thickening gems: a diamond flag unrolled!
The sheathless weapon glimmers on the sight:
Pale cheeks and sunken eyes once more are bright—
But not with life, O, no!—their souls have flown:
Their last dread trump amid the fight was blown.
Their feathers glance again; an idle red
Burns o'er their prostrate forms and bloody bed.
Here was the deadliest strife! this youthful group
Are the last remnants of a martyred troop.
Here their young banner waved! and here—they fell!
There lies that banner!—let its fragments tell,
Yet grasped in death—if 'twas defended well.
The rich, green sward is scarred with leaping hoofs;
And all along the field are seen the proofs
Of soldier rivalry. And where ye tread
Along the hill, the very turf turns red,
As 'twere surcharged with blood:—while all about—
As from an o'er-pressed sponge, there issues out
A thickening purple—settling—eddying where
The print of charging hoofs have laid the green all bare,
Filling the footsteps of unwounded men
With blood—dark blood—that's ne'er absorbed again,
And round about—opposing plumes and crests
Of snow and crimson lie—the reeking tests,
That prove where soldiers met—and strove—and died!
In pairs they lie—embracing—side by side.
A strong, strong death is in their hard-clenched hands;
Their mingled trappings, and their hiltless brands:—
The desperate grasp—the half raised form!—and eye
Yet glaring with the threat of agony:
The bleeding banner and the dripping crest:
The dying war-horse, with his heaving chest,
Yet struggling to arise, and o'er the plain
Blaze forth in dimmed caparisons again—
And loosen to the wind his crimson streaming mane!
Pale cheeks and sunken eyes once more are bright—
But not with life, O, no!—their souls have flown:
Their last dread trump amid the fight was blown.
Their feathers glance again; an idle red
Burns o'er their prostrate forms and bloody bed.
Here was the deadliest strife! this youthful group
Are the last remnants of a martyred troop.
Here their young banner waved! and here—they fell!
There lies that banner!—let its fragments tell,
Yet grasped in death—if 'twas defended well.
The rich, green sward is scarred with leaping hoofs;
And all along the field are seen the proofs
Of soldier rivalry. And where ye tread
Along the hill, the very turf turns red,
As 'twere surcharged with blood:—while all about—
As from an o'er-pressed sponge, there issues out
A thickening purple—settling—eddying where
The print of charging hoofs have laid the green all bare,
Filling the footsteps of unwounded men
With blood—dark blood—that's ne'er absorbed again,
And round about—opposing plumes and crests
Of snow and crimson lie—the reeking tests,
That prove where soldiers met—and strove—and died!
In pairs they lie—embracing—side by side.
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Their mingled trappings, and their hiltless brands:—
The desperate grasp—the half raised form!—and eye
Yet glaring with the threat of agony:
The bleeding banner and the dripping crest:
The dying war-horse, with his heaving chest,
Yet struggling to arise, and o'er the plain
Blaze forth in dimmed caparisons again—
And loosen to the wind his crimson streaming mane!
O, there's no mockery like the morning light,
Smiling o'er relicks of a bloody night;
Like a red lustre on a barren mount:
Like the rich moon-beam o'er a silent fount,
Swimming in feverish splendour, while it tells,
But the more certain, where the turf-home swells—
Where Hope is stretched in death, and Desolation dwells.
Smiling o'er relicks of a bloody night;
Like a red lustre on a barren mount:
Like the rich moon-beam o'er a silent fount,
Swimming in feverish splendour, while it tells,
But the more certain, where the turf-home swells—
Where Hope is stretched in death, and Desolation dwells.
As on a mountain altar, thick are laid,
These midnight victims to the Battle-shade:
Slain in the darkness, by an unseen hand—
With eye half closed—dead hair—and shivered brand:
In solitude they lie!—with no friend near:
Not stretched in soldier pomp upon the bier,
With the high casque—and crimson plume—and sword,
With blow of trumpets—roll of drums—and word
Of slow command—and dragging tramp of steeds—
And all the pageantry the dead man needs—
The banner stretching dark, and float of dusky weeds.
These midnight victims to the Battle-shade:
Slain in the darkness, by an unseen hand—
With eye half closed—dead hair—and shivered brand:
In solitude they lie!—with no friend near:
Not stretched in soldier pomp upon the bier,
With the high casque—and crimson plume—and sword,
With blow of trumpets—roll of drums—and word
Of slow command—and dragging tramp of steeds—
And all the pageantry the dead man needs—
The banner stretching dark, and float of dusky weeds.
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Hear ye that sound? 'twould make the stoutest quail:
It is the morning—lamentation—wail
Of outbreathed hearts, that load the morning air;
Of those who kneel among the dead in prayer,—
Collecting relicks—locks of bloody hair.
Who thinks of battle now? The stirring sounds
Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds
On this sad—still—and melancholy morn,
As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn
Came dancing on the winds; and pealed to heaven!
In gone-by hours, before the battle-even?
The very horses move with halting pace:
No more they heave their manes with fiery grace—
With plunge—and reach—and step that leaves no trace:
No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling
Their light hoofs on the air! The bugles sing;
And yet the meteor mane, and rolling eye
Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy.
No more their housings blaze: no more the gold,
Or purple, flashes from the opening fold:
No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride
Of changing hues all—all!—is crimson-dyed.
They move with slow—far step: they hear the tread
That measures out the tombing of the dead:
The cannon speaks: but now, no longer rolls
In heavy thunders to the answering poles.
But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies—
At breathless intervals along the skies,—
As if some viewless sentinel were there,
Whose challenge peals at midnight thro' the air;
Each sullen steed goes on—nor heeds its roar:
Nor pauses when its voice is heard no more:
But snuffs the tainted breeze, and lifts his head—
And slowly wheeling—with a cautious tread—
Shuns—as in reverence—the mighty dead:
Or—rearing suddenly!—with flashing eye,
Where some young war-horse lies—he passes by.
Then, with unequal step, he smites the ground,
Utters a startling neigh—and gazes round—
And wonders that he hears no answering sound.
This!—while his rider can go by the bier
Of slaughtered men, and never drop a tear.
And only—when he meets a comrade there—
Stretched calmly out—with brow and bosom bare—
And stiffened hand uplifted in the air,—
With lip still curled—and open, glassy eye,
Fixed on the pageant that is passing by;—
And only then—in decency will ride
Less stately in his strength—less lordly in his pride.
It is the morning—lamentation—wail
Of outbreathed hearts, that load the morning air;
Of those who kneel among the dead in prayer,—
Collecting relicks—locks of bloody hair.
Who thinks of battle now? The stirring sounds
Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds
On this sad—still—and melancholy morn,
As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn
Came dancing on the winds; and pealed to heaven!
In gone-by hours, before the battle-even?
The very horses move with halting pace:
No more they heave their manes with fiery grace—
With plunge—and reach—and step that leaves no trace:
No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling
Their light hoofs on the air! The bugles sing;
And yet the meteor mane, and rolling eye
Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy.
No more their housings blaze: no more the gold,
Or purple, flashes from the opening fold:
No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride
Of changing hues all—all!—is crimson-dyed.
They move with slow—far step: they hear the tread
That measures out the tombing of the dead:
The cannon speaks: but now, no longer rolls
In heavy thunders to the answering poles.
But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies—
At breathless intervals along the skies,—
As if some viewless sentinel were there,
Whose challenge peals at midnight thro' the air;
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Nor pauses when its voice is heard no more:
But snuffs the tainted breeze, and lifts his head—
And slowly wheeling—with a cautious tread—
Shuns—as in reverence—the mighty dead:
Or—rearing suddenly!—with flashing eye,
Where some young war-horse lies—he passes by.
Then, with unequal step, he smites the ground,
Utters a startling neigh—and gazes round—
And wonders that he hears no answering sound.
This!—while his rider can go by the bier
Of slaughtered men, and never drop a tear.
And only—when he meets a comrade there—
Stretched calmly out—with brow and bosom bare—
And stiffened hand uplifted in the air,—
With lip still curled—and open, glassy eye,
Fixed on the pageant that is passing by;—
And only then—in decency will ride
Less stately in his strength—less lordly in his pride.
Now shouts the trump again! The muskets ring!
Drums travel loud!—and merry bugles sing!
And once more, in the breeze, the rainbow banners swing!
Drums travel loud!—and merry bugles sing!
And once more, in the breeze, the rainbow banners swing!
Such sounds are wanted, when the morning red
Comes warm and richly o'er unburied dead:
The brawling drum must roll: the keen-toned fife,
Must sting the sluggish pulses into life;
Or all that had survived would kneel in prayer;
And pour their hearts out in the morning air:
And consecrate their bloody swords to peace;
And call for mercy, loud; and never cease
Their supplications, till the God of Heaven
Had offered them some sign that murder was forgiven.
Comes warm and richly o'er unburied dead:
The brawling drum must roll: the keen-toned fife,
Must sting the sluggish pulses into life;
Or all that had survived would kneel in prayer;
And pour their hearts out in the morning air:
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And call for mercy, loud; and never cease
Their supplications, till the God of Heaven
Had offered them some sign that murder was forgiven.
Come, Glory, come! Let's chant the soldier's dirge:
Step from thy thrones, and from thy clouds emerge!
Bring thy black cypress clotted in the shade:
Of weeping-willow let a wreath be made,
To crown the warrior-brow, that lately sought
Thy battle-laurel: him who lately fought
Reddest and fiercest, where the war-god sung:
Where the loud death-sobs came, and falchions rung;
Twine him a heavy garland! steep it well;
And mutter o'er its gloom thy darkest spell;
With broken heart-strings, be it twisted round;
Tread it in wrath upon the soaking ground;
And where the stagnant blood lies deepest, there
Complete thy curse—the chaplet of despair!
Call back his spirit from the eternal bar:
Show him that clotted foliage—talk of war;
Wake thy swift bugle, let it sing away
Freshly and clear, like clarion of the day!
Loosen thy banners on the mountain winds!
Call up thy thunders!—while thy hot hand binds,
That wreath around his mad, consuming brain—
Tell him 'tis his reward!—will he complain
Of wasted life—of bloody hand arrayed
In sacrifice for thee?—when blade met blade;
And man met man, and like the desert beast,
That bleeds and battles 'till his breath has ceased;
Toiled dark upon the mount to spread the vultures, feast.
Step from thy thrones, and from thy clouds emerge!
Bring thy black cypress clotted in the shade:
Of weeping-willow let a wreath be made,
To crown the warrior-brow, that lately sought
Thy battle-laurel: him who lately fought
Reddest and fiercest, where the war-god sung:
Where the loud death-sobs came, and falchions rung;
Twine him a heavy garland! steep it well;
And mutter o'er its gloom thy darkest spell;
With broken heart-strings, be it twisted round;
Tread it in wrath upon the soaking ground;
And where the stagnant blood lies deepest, there
Complete thy curse—the chaplet of despair!
Call back his spirit from the eternal bar:
Show him that clotted foliage—talk of war;
Wake thy swift bugle, let it sing away
Freshly and clear, like clarion of the day!
Loosen thy banners on the mountain winds!
Call up thy thunders!—while thy hot hand binds,
That wreath around his mad, consuming brain—
Tell him 'tis his reward!—will he complain
Of wasted life—of bloody hand arrayed
In sacrifice for thee?—when blade met blade;
And man met man, and like the desert beast,
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Toiled dark upon the mount to spread the vultures, feast.
A solemn march is heard: a measured tread:—
Banners are furled again—and o'er the dead,
By martial hands, the crimson pall is spread.
A band on foot approach, they bear a form,
Like the rent mountain oak, that braves the storm—
Heaves its young branches to the raging skies—
Receives the Thunderer's bolt—and prostrate lies!
Whence is that band—and whose the form they bear
With high—pale brow, and darkly clustered hair?
That hair is wet—but not with dews of night;
Its lifeless length was loaded in the fight.
Disfigured—motionless—with bosom bare—
And arm—still stretched abroad!—he slumbers there.
He was careering in the hottest fight;
His black barb leaping in his stormy might;
His banner—floating loudly on the ear,
As if some mighty Bird were hovering near:
His starry troops were conquering at his side;
Their plumes were blazing in their fiercest pride—
When suddenly—his heart!—its lordly swell
Was gone for ever!—as he dimly fell,
His hand once stretched his sabre to his foes!
His form dilated!—more erect he rose!—
His dark eye flashed once more!—but flashed in vain:
His wounded charger felt the loosened rein:—
Felt the strong hand that grasped his bloody mane—
And sprang to bear him off!—One desperate bound—
One gallant neigh he gave!—and on the ground
Stretched his dark limbs—triumphantly—and died!
On the wide battle field—in warrior pride;
Far from the noise of strife, and by his master's side.
Banners are furled again—and o'er the dead,
By martial hands, the crimson pall is spread.
A band on foot approach, they bear a form,
Like the rent mountain oak, that braves the storm—
Heaves its young branches to the raging skies—
Receives the Thunderer's bolt—and prostrate lies!
Whence is that band—and whose the form they bear
With high—pale brow, and darkly clustered hair?
That hair is wet—but not with dews of night;
Its lifeless length was loaded in the fight.
Disfigured—motionless—with bosom bare—
And arm—still stretched abroad!—he slumbers there.
He was careering in the hottest fight;
His black barb leaping in his stormy might;
His banner—floating loudly on the ear,
As if some mighty Bird were hovering near:
His starry troops were conquering at his side;
Their plumes were blazing in their fiercest pride—
When suddenly—his heart!—its lordly swell
Was gone for ever!—as he dimly fell,
His hand once stretched his sabre to his foes!
His form dilated!—more erect he rose!—
His dark eye flashed once more!—but flashed in vain:
His wounded charger felt the loosened rein:—
Felt the strong hand that grasped his bloody mane—
And sprang to bear him off!—One desperate bound—
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Stretched his dark limbs—triumphantly—and died!
On the wide battle field—in warrior pride;
Far from the noise of strife, and by his master's side.
Know ye that form—those features—and that air?
Have ye e'er seen that thickly clustered hair?
That!—was the brown-cheeked youth, with eye of fire,
Who rode a courser like the winds. His sire
Bows proudly o'er his course. His bloody bier
With precious dew is bathed—the cold sad tear—
The heart's last offering! o'er those ruins fall,
That lie concealed beneath a bleeding pall:
And one is there, whose trembling hands are prest
In desperate calmness on her swelling breast:
Whose mute—pale lip—whose sadly wandering eye
Speaks more than sorrow—suffering—agony!—
While gazing tearless on the form before her;
Father of Mercies! Father! Oh, restore her!
Have ye e'er seen that thickly clustered hair?
That!—was the brown-cheeked youth, with eye of fire,
Who rode a courser like the winds. His sire
Bows proudly o'er his course. His bloody bier
With precious dew is bathed—the cold sad tear—
The heart's last offering! o'er those ruins fall,
That lie concealed beneath a bleeding pall:
And one is there, whose trembling hands are prest
In desperate calmness on her swelling breast:
Whose mute—pale lip—whose sadly wandering eye
Speaks more than sorrow—suffering—agony!—
While gazing tearless on the form before her;
Father of Mercies! Father! Oh, restore her!
| The battle of Niagara | |