 | The Wounded Soldier, a poem |  |
3
THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.
The Sun was just retired, the dews of Eve,
Their glow-worm lustre scatter'd oe'r the vale;
The lonely Nightingale, began to grieve,
Telling, with many a Pause, her tend'rest tale.
Their glow-worm lustre scatter'd oe'r the vale;
The lonely Nightingale, began to grieve,
Telling, with many a Pause, her tend'rest tale.
No clamours rude disturbed the pensive Hour,
And the young Moon, yet fearful of the Night;
Rear'd her pale crescent, o'er the burnished Tower,
That caught the parting Orb's still lingering light.
And the young Moon, yet fearful of the Night;
Rear'd her pale crescent, o'er the burnished Tower,
That caught the parting Orb's still lingering light.
'Twas then, where peasant Footsteps marked the way,
A Wounded Soldier feebly moved along,
Nor ought regarded he the Soft'ning ray,
Nor the melodious Bird's expressive Song.
A Wounded Soldier feebly moved along,
Nor ought regarded he the Soft'ning ray,
Nor the melodious Bird's expressive Song.
4
On Crutches borne, his mangled Limbs he drew,
Unsightly remnants of the Battles rage;
While Pity, in his youthful form, might view
A helpless Prematurity of Age.
Unsightly remnants of the Battles rage;
While Pity, in his youthful form, might view
A helpless Prematurity of Age.
Then as with strange contortions, lab'ring slow
He gained the summit of his native Hill,
And saw the well known Prospect spread below,
The Farm, the Cot, the Hamlet and the Mill.
He gained the summit of his native Hill,
And saw the well known Prospect spread below,
The Farm, the Cot, the Hamlet and the Mill.
In spite of Fortitude, one struggling sigh,
Shook the firm Texture of his tortured Heart,
And from his hollow and dejected Eye,
One tremb'ling Tear hung ready to depart.
Shook the firm Texture of his tortured Heart,
And from his hollow and dejected Eye,
One tremb'ling Tear hung ready to depart.
“How chang'd” he cried “is the fair scene to me,
“Since last across this narrow Path I went:
“The soaring Lark felt not superior Glee,
“Nor any human Breast, more true Content.
“Since last across this narrow Path I went:
“The soaring Lark felt not superior Glee,
“Nor any human Breast, more true Content.
“When the fresh Hay was o'er the Meadow thrown
“Amidst the Bussy Throng I still appeared,
“My Prowess too at Harvest Time was shewn,
“While Lucy's carrol ev'ry Labour cheered.
“Amidst the Bussy Throng I still appeared,
“My Prowess too at Harvest Time was shewn,
“While Lucy's carrol ev'ry Labour cheered.
“The burning rays I scarcely seemed to feel,
“If the dear Maiden near me chanc'd to rove,
“Or if she deigned to share my frugal meal,
“It was a rich Repast, a Feast of Love.
“If the dear Maiden near me chanc'd to rove,
“Or if she deigned to share my frugal meal,
“It was a rich Repast, a Feast of Love.
5
“And when at Evening, with a Rustics' pride,
I dared the sturdiest Wrestler on the Green,
“What Joy was mine! to hear her at my side,
Extol my Vigour, and my manly Mien.
I dared the sturdiest Wrestler on the Green,
“What Joy was mine! to hear her at my side,
Extol my Vigour, and my manly Mien.
“Ah! now no more the sprightly Lass shall run,
“To bid me welcome from the sultry plain;
“But her averted Eye my sight shall shun,
“And all our cherish'd fondest Hopes be vain.
“To bid me welcome from the sultry plain;
“But her averted Eye my sight shall shun,
“And all our cherish'd fondest Hopes be vain.
“Alas! my Parents, must ye too endure,
“That I should gloom for e'er your homely mirth,
“Exist upon the pittance ye procure,
“And make me curse the Hour that gave me birth.
“That I should gloom for e'er your homely mirth,
“Exist upon the pittance ye procure,
“And make me curse the Hour that gave me birth.
“O hapless Day! when at a neighb'ring Wake,
The gaudy Sergeant caught my wond'ring Eye;
“And as his Tongue of War and Honor spake,
“I felt a wish to Conquer or to Die.
The gaudy Sergeant caught my wond'ring Eye;
“And as his Tongue of War and Honor spake,
“I felt a wish to Conquer or to Die.
“Then while he bound the Ribbands on my Brow,
“He talked of Captains kind, and Generals good;
“Said a whole Nation would my Fame avow,
“And Bounty call'd the Purchase of my Blood.
“He talked of Captains kind, and Generals good;
“Said a whole Nation would my Fame avow,
“And Bounty call'd the Purchase of my Blood.
6
“Yet I refused that bounty, I disdained
“To sell my service in a Righteous cause;
“And such to my dull sense it was explain'd,
“The Cause of Monarchs, Justice, and the Laws.
“To sell my service in a Righteous cause;
“And such to my dull sense it was explain'd,
“The Cause of Monarchs, Justice, and the Laws.
“The Rattling Drums beat loud, the Fifes began,
“My King and Country seem'd to ask my aid,
“Thro' every Vein, the thrilling ardour ran,
“I left my humble Cot, my Village Maid.
“My King and Country seem'd to ask my aid,
“Thro' every Vein, the thrilling ardour ran,
“I left my humble Cot, my Village Maid.
“O hapless Day! torn from my Lucy's charms,
“I thence was hurried to a Scene of Strife;
“To painful Marches, and the din of Arms,
“The wreck of Reason and the waste of Life.
“I thence was hurried to a Scene of Strife;
“To painful Marches, and the din of Arms,
“The wreck of Reason and the waste of Life.
“In loathsome Vessels, now with crowds confin'd,
“Now led with Hosts to Slaughter in the Field;
“Now backward driv'n, like Leaves before the Wind,
“Too weak to Stand, and yet asham'd to Yield.
“Now led with Hosts to Slaughter in the Field;
“Now backward driv'n, like Leaves before the Wind,
“Too weak to Stand, and yet asham'd to Yield.
“Till oft repeated Victories inspir'd
“With tenfold Fury the indignant Foe;
“Who ruthless still advanced, as we retir'd,
“And laid our boasted, proudest Honors low.
“With tenfold Fury the indignant Foe;
“Who ruthless still advanced, as we retir'd,
“And laid our boasted, proudest Honors low.
7
“Thro' frozen Desarts then compell'd to fly,
“Our bravest Legions mouldered fast away;
“Thousands of Wounds and Sickness left to Die,
“While hov'ring Ravens mark'd them for their prey
“Our bravest Legions mouldered fast away;
“Thousands of Wounds and Sickness left to Die,
“While hov'ring Ravens mark'd them for their prey
“Ah! sure Remorse their savage Hearts must rend
“Whose selfish, des'prate phrenzy could decree,
“That in one mass of Murder MAN should blend,
“Who sent the Slave to fight against the Free.
“Whose selfish, des'prate phrenzy could decree,
“That in one mass of Murder MAN should blend,
“Who sent the Slave to fight against the Free.
“Unequal Contest!—at fair FREEDOMS call,
“The lowliest Herd glows with celestial Fire;
“She rules, directs, pervades, and conquers all,
“And Armies at her sacred Glance expire.
“The lowliest Herd glows with celestial Fire;
“She rules, directs, pervades, and conquers all,
“And Armies at her sacred Glance expire.
“Then be this Warfare of the world accurs'd;
“The Son now weeps not on the Fathers Bier;
“But grey Hair'd Age, for Nature is revers'd,
“Drops o'er his Children's Grave an Icy tear.
“The Son now weeps not on the Fathers Bier;
“But grey Hair'd Age, for Nature is revers'd,
“Drops o'er his Children's Grave an Icy tear.
Thus having spoke,—by varying Passions tost,
He reach'd the Threshold of his Father's shed,
Who knew not of his Fate, yet mourn'd him lost,
Amidst the Number of the unnam'd Dead
He reach'd the Threshold of his Father's shed,
Who knew not of his Fate, yet mourn'd him lost,
Amidst the Number of the unnam'd Dead
8
Soon as they heard his well remember'd voice,
A ray of Rapture chas'd habitual Care;
“Our Henry lives, we may again rejoice,
And Lucy sweetly blushed, for she was there.
A ray of Rapture chas'd habitual Care;
“Our Henry lives, we may again rejoice,
And Lucy sweetly blushed, for she was there.
But when he entered in such horid guise,
His Mother shriek'd, and dropp'd upon the Floor;
His Father look'd to Heaven with streaming Eyes,
And Lucy sunk, alas! to rise no more.
His Mother shriek'd, and dropp'd upon the Floor;
His Father look'd to Heaven with streaming Eyes,
And Lucy sunk, alas! to rise no more.
O may this Tale, which agony must close,
Give deep Contrition to the self-call'd great;
And shew the Poor, how hard's the lot of those,
Who shed their Blood, for Ministers of State.
Give deep Contrition to the self-call'd great;
And shew the Poor, how hard's the lot of those,
Who shed their Blood, for Ministers of State.
FINIS.
| The Wounded Soldier, a poem | |