 | Poems : medley and Palestina |  |
The Echo Drummer.
The mellow drum of the echoes
Is beating beneath the crag,
And doubtless the elfin warriors
Are gathered round their flag.
Is beating beneath the crag,
And doubtless the elfin warriors
Are gathered round their flag.
I fancy I see them rally,
I fancy I see them form:—
Hurrah! 'tis the oldtime banner;
Once more, battalion, we storm.
I fancy I see them form:—
Hurrah! 'tis the oldtime banner;
Once more, battalion, we storm.
Smoke eddies from ledge and thicket
Where skirmishers crawl and kneel;
From forest and winding valley,
Where flanking regiments wheel.
Where skirmishers crawl and kneel;
From forest and winding valley,
Where flanking regiments wheel.
22
Along the base of the mountain
It streams like a line of spray;
Above, the battery-tempest
Drives billows of curling gray.
It streams like a line of spray;
Above, the battery-tempest
Drives billows of curling gray.
I hear the yell of the colonel,
The captain's hurrying call,
The tramp of the panting soldiers,
The ramrod's hammering fall;
The captain's hurrying call,
The tramp of the panting soldiers,
The ramrod's hammering fall;
The clang of the brass howitzer,
The iron gun's muffled growl,
The thrum of the whirling splinter,
The grapeshot's tigerish howl;
The iron gun's muffled growl,
The thrum of the whirling splinter,
The grapeshot's tigerish howl;
The stunning crash of the volleys,
The longdrawn fire of the files,
The bullet's incessant whistle—
Exultings of death for miles.
The longdrawn fire of the files,
The bullet's incessant whistle—
Exultings of death for miles.
And louder than all, and grimmer,
The jubilant charging yell,
The scream of the old battalion
As it storms through battle's hell.
The jubilant charging yell,
The scream of the old battalion
As it storms through battle's hell.
Again the grasses are reddened
With earth's most precious of dies;
The blood of heroes is flowing—
And tears are blinding my eyes.
With earth's most precious of dies;
The blood of heroes is flowing—
And tears are blinding my eyes.
I waken to hear but only
The summer's warble and hum,
And, stamping in mimic warfare,
An infant beating a drum.
The summer's warble and hum,
And, stamping in mimic warfare,
An infant beating a drum.
| Poems : medley and Palestina | |