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| SO bright the sun puts forth his glorious beams, | |
| So fair the field beneath his lustre gleams, | |
| So soft the south-wind wanders o’er the corn, | |
| While on its wing a thousand scents are borne, | |
| So bright and fair, so peaceful and serene, | 5 |
| So soft and calm and undisturbed the scene, | |
| It seems as if no storm had ever rose, | |
| Or e’er could rise, to break its sweet repose. | |
| |
| But on this lovely spot when last I stood, | |
| What was that field?—a theatre of blood! | 10 |
| The war-fiend here unfurled his baleful wing, | |
| Here mocked at pain, and smiled at suffering: | |
| Yelling with joy as each new victim bled, | |
| Gloated his eye on hecatombs of dead; | |
| Steeped his foul pinions in a sea of gore, | 15 |
| And, drenched with slaughter, still demanded more. | |
| Yes, for the blue of yonder cloudless sky, | |
| Above us hung a sulphurous canopy; | |
| For murmuring rill, and carol of the bird, | |
| Were whizzing shot and roaring cannon heard; | 20 |
| Bristled the bayonet, gleamed the deadly glaive, | |
| Where thickest now the golden harvests wave; | |
| Where tender harebells wave in azure bloom, | |
| Floated the pennon with the warrior’s plume; | |
| For rural echoes, or the wild bees’ hum, | 25 |
| Brayed the hoarse trumpet, rolled the hollow drum; | |
| And where yon meadow’s turf most verdant is, | |
| There fell the fiercest of our enemies. | |
| |
| They fell indeed!—but with them what a host | |
| Of conquerors, comrades, brothers, friends, was lost! | 30 |
| What tears bedewed the bodies of the brave, | |
| As sanguine hands consigned them to the grave; | |
| What sobs burst forth as voices joined in prayer, | |
| Which but an hour before had joined the battle there; | |
| What manly bosoms heaved with sorrow’s sigh, | 35 |
| Which but an hour before throbbed high in victory! | |
| Alas! among the most deplored of those | |
| Who, wrapped in shrouds of glory, here repose, | |
| Here, on this field, their valor nobly won, | |
| Lies low in earth the gallant Barrington! | 40 |
| O that my feeble hand could justly trace | |
| His manly virtues and his youthful grace;— | |
| O that my feeble pen could trace his eye, | |
| Where sat enshrined the soul of bravery; | |
| Or shew his sword uplifted in the fight, | 45 |
| Dashing through foremost ranks with meteor light.— | |
| Enough,—surrounded by a heap of slain, | |
| He sunk triumphant on the gory plain; | |
| Sudden the silver cord of life was riven, | |
| And the freed spirit sprang at once to Heaven! | 50 |
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