Paul Redding a tale of the Brandywine |
Preface. |
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 | Paul Redding |  |
Preface.
Preface.
Not mine the measured tread of solemn marches,
When sable weeds float plume-like on the air;
Nor stately step beneath triumphal arches,
When conq'ring heroes flowery chaplets wear.
Not of the days of armor, shields, and lances,
When monarchs bade the tournament begin;
When woman's presence made uncertain chances
More fatal still amid the clashing din;—
When flowed the tide of war with purpose holy,
And spread its waves of blood o'er Palestine;
And when, to expiate some sin or folly,
The weary pilgrim sought the distant shrine.
Not from those days, so olden and romantic,
My humble wand would raise the scene sublime;
A mightier voice hath called from graves gigantic
The stalwart champions of that iron time.
Nor have I sat amid those lofty towers
Where Speculation broods with visage pale;
Nor walked with impious feet Love's sacred bowers,
To tell once more an oft-repeated tale;—
No individual wrongs have deigned to borrow,
To swell the story; nor disturbed the dead;
But through the changing paths of joy and sorrow,
Have followed where Imagination led.
When sable weeds float plume-like on the air;
Nor stately step beneath triumphal arches,
When conq'ring heroes flowery chaplets wear.
Not of the days of armor, shields, and lances,
When monarchs bade the tournament begin;
When woman's presence made uncertain chances
More fatal still amid the clashing din;—
When flowed the tide of war with purpose holy,
And spread its waves of blood o'er Palestine;
And when, to expiate some sin or folly,
The weary pilgrim sought the distant shrine.
Not from those days, so olden and romantic,
My humble wand would raise the scene sublime;
A mightier voice hath called from graves gigantic
The stalwart champions of that iron time.
Nor have I sat amid those lofty towers
Where Speculation broods with visage pale;
Nor walked with impious feet Love's sacred bowers,
To tell once more an oft-repeated tale;—
No individual wrongs have deigned to borrow,
To swell the story; nor disturbed the dead;
But through the changing paths of joy and sorrow,
Have followed where Imagination led.
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| Paul Redding | |