 | Poems |  |
DEATH.
The warrior on the battle plain,Elated feels that Death is gain!
He knows that many a tongue will tell,
He bravely fought and nobly fell;
That many a young and ardent heart
Will burn to act his glorious part,
And often as his name he hears,
Will see the pictured scene arise,
Though mellowed by the mist of years,
Distinct before his envious eyes;
The deadly storm of desperate blows
The furious charge—the fatal close!
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May even there be comforted;
He sees around the falling tear
Of weeping friends who watch him near,
And knows, however dark his lot,
He will not here be all forgot!
The poor man worn and wearied dies,
And finds a place of rest—
The rich man every pleasure tries,
And finds them poor at best;
Then sick of all he loved before,
With nothing left to live for more,
Dies, like a sated guest!
Hope gives the good man strength to bear,
And pride can make the wicked dare
This last, this trying test,
Uphold them in Death's darkest hour,
And bid them mock his vaunted power!
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