SONG.
The bright tear of beauty, in sadness, is stealing,—
The gems of the east are less sparkling than these;—
Her cheek is all flush'd with the anguish of feeling,—
Her white bosom carelessly bared to the breeze.
'T is the bride of the Soldier,—and Fancy had flourish'd
In day dreams that circle the phantom of Love,
For the visions of bliss that the maiden had nourish'd,
Her soul, in the warmth of its tenderness, wove.
But hark!—'t is the rush and the roaring of battle
That rolls on the lingering wings of the wind;
The sabres gleam bright; and the cannon's loud rattle
Speaks death to the maiden, left weeping behind.
The turf is his pillow;—his mantle is heaven;—
The warrior is sleeping the sleep of the brave!
The chains of affection are awfully riven,
And moulder away in the gloom of the grave.
