 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
157
LAMENT OF AN AUSTERLITZ VETERAN.
My glance was not fearfully dim,
Nor the hair on my temples all hoary
When, guided through danger by him,
I came from the fight, red with glory—
Old badges of valor recall
The Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
Nor the hair on my temples all hoary
When, guided through danger by him,
I came from the fight, red with glory—
Old badges of valor recall
The Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
When I think of that isle in the brine
Where his cold, shrouded relics are lying,
Where winds with rough surges combine,
And his dirge are eternally sighing—
Tears, tears like the rain warmly fall
For the Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
Where his cold, shrouded relics are lying,
Where winds with rough surges combine,
And his dirge are eternally sighing—
Tears, tears like the rain warmly fall
For the Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
In dreams of the night I behold
His legions to battle advancing,
And conquering eagles unfold
Bright wings o'er his cavalry prancing,
And again I rejoice in the call
Of thy world-waking trumpet, oh, Gaul!
His legions to battle advancing,
And conquering eagles unfold
Bright wings o'er his cavalry prancing,
And again I rejoice in the call
Of thy world-waking trumpet, oh, Gaul!
Once more, on my withering cheek,
The storm of the Switzer is blowing
And the vulture of war whets his beak
Where the sands of the desert are glowing,
And our Chief in the Mameluke tall
Views a foe not unworthy of Gaul.
The storm of the Switzer is blowing
And the vulture of war whets his beak
Where the sands of the desert are glowing,
And our Chief in the Mameluke tall
Views a foe not unworthy of Gaul.
Again the red war-eagle builds
His perch in the tottering Kremlin,
And the sunbeam of Austerlitz gilds
The field with artillery trembling;
But morning robs night of her pall,
And I mourn the lost Hero of Gaul.
His perch in the tottering Kremlin,
And the sunbeam of Austerlitz gilds
The field with artillery trembling;
158
And I mourn the lost Hero of Gaul.
I was steadfast to suffering France
When the wild-winds of Faction blew on her,
And Hate shook the murderous lance,
And he gave me this bright cross of Honor—
These scars, won at Lodi, recall
The Hero that sleeps far from Gaul
When the wild-winds of Faction blew on her,
And Hate shook the murderous lance,
And he gave me this bright cross of Honor—
These scars, won at Lodi, recall
The Hero that sleeps far from Gaul
If I could have stood by his bed
When his soul, from the fetter that bound him,
To mix with mad elements fled,
That long had been warring around him,
One heart would have burst as the pall
Was flung o'er the Hero of Gaul.
When his soul, from the fetter that bound him,
To mix with mad elements fled,
That long had been warring around him,
One heart would have burst as the pall
Was flung o'er the Hero of Gaul.
O would that yon Seine near his tomb
Could wander, his requiem swelling,
That the sunshine of France could illume
The cold, earthen roof of his dwelling,
That the tears of remembrance could fall
On the grave of thy Hero, oh, Gaul!
Could wander, his requiem swelling,
That the sunshine of France could illume
The cold, earthen roof of his dwelling,
That the tears of remembrance could fall
On the grave of thy Hero, oh, Gaul!
Repining is vain! near the place
Where he moulders, the willow is trailing,
And Ocean the rock-guarded base
Of the desolate isle is assailing,
And the storm-cloud alone weeps the fall
Of the Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
Where he moulders, the willow is trailing,
And Ocean the rock-guarded base
Of the desolate isle is assailing,
And the storm-cloud alone weeps the fall
Of the Hero that sleeps far from Gaul.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |