The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth ::

When England feared invasion, and the man
To whom we owe the friendly aid of France
Was slandered and abused by all our prints,
The clowns in rustic districts, and the hands
Of mills and foundries in our crowded towns,
Were all invited by the Government
To serve as soldiers one month out of twelve;
So that if ever on our native shores
Invading armies landed, there might be
A population fitly trained and armed
To meet the invader and defend our homes.
Then I, and other idlers like myself,
Gave up a certain portion of our time
To change a thousand men of Lancashire
From rough, uncouth civilians into pawns,
Steady upon the chessboard of the field—
Well-disciplined battalions. Of this force

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We were the captains, and we had our work.
But soon by constant drilling, day by day,
And sifting of the refuse, we became
More soldier-like; and in the second year
Of our enrolment it occurred to me
To gain a new impression.

Every day,
When we were wearied with battalion drill,
With marching twenty times across the field,
And forming squares, preparing to resist
Imaginary squadrons, with four fronts
Of thickly glistening bayonets, firing blank
On the blank wind, or charging it in line,—
When we were tired of these heroic toils,
The bugle sounded, and we grounded arms.
Then suddenly the green field in the sun
Was sprinkled with red jackets, for the men
Reclined to rest their limbs; we officers,
Forming a little group upon the grass,
Discussing pay, accounts, and stoppages,
And all the business of our companies.
And once, as we remarked about the men,
How in repose they took so many ways
Of gaining rest, that all the thousand men
Displayed a thousand attitudes, a thought
Occurred to one which I shall not forget:
He said, “They 're like the wounded and the dead
After a battle—left upon the field.”

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Then suddenly I pictured to myself
A thousand helpless creatures lying there,
Dead, or in pain. The stillness of repose
Grew deathlike, and the motion of a limb
A tortured writhing; so I looked and looked,
And let imagination do its work.

It was an awful fancy—thickly strewn
The corpses of our men; and I went forth
In thought among the dead to recognise
The features that I knew. The baleful sun
Rotted the bodies, and with divers wounds
Too horrible to think of or describe,
The living also putrified and stank;
And here and there a wandering carrion soul
Plundered the dead and dying—groans of pain

My dread illusion was destroyed at once;
Our band struck up, and all my wounded men,
Aye, and the dead, sprang lightly to their feet,
And flocked to hear the music; and the sun,
No longer baleful, kissed the brazen horns.

University of Virginia Library

AFTER A BATTLE.