 | Poems, by Joseph Cottle |  |
These swelling words may charm the careless ear,
These artful sounds disperse the shallow tear;
Yet, with indignant spirit, Truth disdains
To crouch in silence, bound by Falshood's chains,
She rends the veil that hides her glorious ray,
And dares the spoils of demon War display.
These artful sounds disperse the shallow tear;
Yet, with indignant spirit, Truth disdains
To crouch in silence, bound by Falshood's chains,
She rends the veil that hides her glorious ray,
And dares the spoils of demon War display.
Hard are the ills a Soldier must endure,
Grief is his lot, and Death his only cure;
He little knows what fierce opponents wait
To hand the chalice at the hour of fate;
He little dreams, whilst number'd with the brave,
What dangers lurk to sink him to the grave.
Few are the favour'd breasts who sudden feel
The gun's swift ruin, or destruction's steel;
Too often, wounds the sinking frame oppress,
Torpid and pale, with hopeless wretchedness:
Or if from wounds protected he remain,
Distemper's venom swells his burning vein;
A foe's dank prison bounds his feeble view,
While on his brow sits death's untimely dew;
Or in the ship that bore him to the fight,
He breaths the air of pestilence and night;
Or on his scanty straw-bed, rests his arm,
And, sighing, asks for War's seductive charm;
For which he left a father's house, alone,
To pine unnotic'd, and to die unknown;
Whilst round the tent expiring veterans lie;
His sad participants in misery!
These are no scenes in Fancy's clothing drest,
Framed with strange cares to pierce the feeling breast;
But, true, too true! for ere they bade farewel,
Thus, oh ye Mothers! thus your Children fell.
Grief is his lot, and Death his only cure;
He little knows what fierce opponents wait
To hand the chalice at the hour of fate;
He little dreams, whilst number'd with the brave,
What dangers lurk to sink him to the grave.
93
The gun's swift ruin, or destruction's steel;
Too often, wounds the sinking frame oppress,
Torpid and pale, with hopeless wretchedness:
Or if from wounds protected he remain,
Distemper's venom swells his burning vein;
A foe's dank prison bounds his feeble view,
While on his brow sits death's untimely dew;
Or in the ship that bore him to the fight,
He breaths the air of pestilence and night;
Or on his scanty straw-bed, rests his arm,
And, sighing, asks for War's seductive charm;
For which he left a father's house, alone,
To pine unnotic'd, and to die unknown;
Whilst round the tent expiring veterans lie;
His sad participants in misery!
These are no scenes in Fancy's clothing drest,
Framed with strange cares to pierce the feeling breast;
94
Thus, oh ye Mothers! thus your Children fell.
| Poems, by Joseph Cottle | |