Elegy on a Field of Battle
The cheerless Groves I quit, which sighing wave
Amidst November's blasts their naked arms,
All their red leaves fallen fluttering to their grave,
All sunk again, in Dust, May's vernal charms.
In moody thought, at dark'ning Eve, I seek
A field far famed for Battle's savage reign.
With looks, which superstitious weakness speak,
Its timid neighbours beck me to refrain!
" On yon dread field, they urge, full oft are heard
A thousand neighing coursers of the plain,
When not a flow'ret by the breeze is stirred,
Spirits of those in dread encounter slain!
Their clattering hoofs their hurried speed declare,
Woe to the Mortal who obtrudes his sight,
As, urged by Phantoms, o'er the earth they tear,
And round the Barrow they perform their Rite!
E'en though he live to tell the dreadful view,
Through Night they punish his presumptuous sin,
And whilst with dreadful torments they pursue,
The hoofs, the snorts, the arms, encrease their din.
Till through the bright'ning confines of the night,
As Phantoms fly, as Horses, Warriors, fade,
Come forth the glimering messengers of light,
And drive, from realms of air, each martial shade. "
Almost alarmed! I wander o'er the plain,
Whose verdure decks the mansions of the brave;
Where Heroes fell, insensible to pain,
And, cheer'd with Glory, sunk into their grave.
I pensive roam around the laurel'd field,
Whilst Fancy calls up Heroes from the Soil,
Makes bursting sods their pallid Inmates yield,
And o'er the waste repeat their martial toil.
Ah! wayward Fancy bids dread scenes revive,
Which Time's dark mists had veil'd from mortal ken,
Embattled squadrons rush as when alive,
And shadowy falchions gleam o'er shadowy men!
The Fiends who war and earthly battle love,
Rise from their lakes of fire midst endless night,
Seem joyous o'er the carnaged haunts to rove,
Pressed by infernal instinct to the fight!
Whilst Battle rages fiercely o'er the field,
Whose verdure's fed from many a Warrior's heart,
As Heroes bled who, never known to yield,
Sunk crowned with Glory, reckless of the smart.
Ah! who was that who swift with frantic air,
Flew fearless on to yonder bleeding youth,
Bound his deep gashes with her flowing hair,
And died beside him to attesTher truth?
" His Sister " ('tis inscribed.) " The Orphans grieved
For Parents long at rest within the grave.
They by their Guardian were of wealth bereaved,
The little all parental care could save!
Chill looked the world, and chill had seized their hearts,
For where shall Poverty expect a smile?
Gross lawless love essayed its ready arts,
And all beset was she by Fraud and Guile!
Her Henry sought the War, ill check'd the tear
Of love fraternal as he bade farewell!
But, fear for him absorbed each other fear,
She followed, Fate soon struck their mutual knell! "
Chaste Maiden rest! and purer spring the green
That decorates the Turf thy dust doth feed,
Ah! in the kindest mercy 'twas I ween,
To worth like thine a Brother's grave's decreed.
The shrieks of death seem all revived around,
The hollow winds prolong each lingering sigh!
Now bitter groans, now deeper groans resound,
Whilst Fathers, Brothers, Lovers, Husbands, die!
Yet, why from such sad thoughts avert the mind,
To Hamlets, Cities, peaceful regions turn?
For, glancing there, such varying Deaths we find,
The change from War-scenes scarcely we discern!
Why draw the mind from this contracted plain?
The sky that canopies the sons of breath
Sees the whole Earth one scene of mortal pain,
The vast the universal Bed of Death!
Where Husbands, Fathers, Brothers, dying moan,
Where Wives, where Mothers, Sisters, Orphans, weep,
Each way is heard the last expiring groan,
And the deep throttle of the deathful sleep!
If, as Philosophy does sometimes muse,
A State of War is Natural State to Man,
'Tis Battle's sickness bravery should chuse,
The noblest death in nature's varied plan.
Whilst vulgar Souls await the Fever's rage,
Or, slow, beneath pale Atrophy depart,
With fameless death inglorious Effort wage,
Ignoble Sorrow cankering the heart,
The Firm demand that Fate to them decree
To aid their Country — by a Death Sublime!
By languid pains their high souls scorn to free,
And, by the Sword's swift edge, escape from Time!
Amidst November's blasts their naked arms,
All their red leaves fallen fluttering to their grave,
All sunk again, in Dust, May's vernal charms.
In moody thought, at dark'ning Eve, I seek
A field far famed for Battle's savage reign.
With looks, which superstitious weakness speak,
Its timid neighbours beck me to refrain!
" On yon dread field, they urge, full oft are heard
A thousand neighing coursers of the plain,
When not a flow'ret by the breeze is stirred,
Spirits of those in dread encounter slain!
Their clattering hoofs their hurried speed declare,
Woe to the Mortal who obtrudes his sight,
As, urged by Phantoms, o'er the earth they tear,
And round the Barrow they perform their Rite!
E'en though he live to tell the dreadful view,
Through Night they punish his presumptuous sin,
And whilst with dreadful torments they pursue,
The hoofs, the snorts, the arms, encrease their din.
Till through the bright'ning confines of the night,
As Phantoms fly, as Horses, Warriors, fade,
Come forth the glimering messengers of light,
And drive, from realms of air, each martial shade. "
Almost alarmed! I wander o'er the plain,
Whose verdure decks the mansions of the brave;
Where Heroes fell, insensible to pain,
And, cheer'd with Glory, sunk into their grave.
I pensive roam around the laurel'd field,
Whilst Fancy calls up Heroes from the Soil,
Makes bursting sods their pallid Inmates yield,
And o'er the waste repeat their martial toil.
Ah! wayward Fancy bids dread scenes revive,
Which Time's dark mists had veil'd from mortal ken,
Embattled squadrons rush as when alive,
And shadowy falchions gleam o'er shadowy men!
The Fiends who war and earthly battle love,
Rise from their lakes of fire midst endless night,
Seem joyous o'er the carnaged haunts to rove,
Pressed by infernal instinct to the fight!
Whilst Battle rages fiercely o'er the field,
Whose verdure's fed from many a Warrior's heart,
As Heroes bled who, never known to yield,
Sunk crowned with Glory, reckless of the smart.
Ah! who was that who swift with frantic air,
Flew fearless on to yonder bleeding youth,
Bound his deep gashes with her flowing hair,
And died beside him to attesTher truth?
" His Sister " ('tis inscribed.) " The Orphans grieved
For Parents long at rest within the grave.
They by their Guardian were of wealth bereaved,
The little all parental care could save!
Chill looked the world, and chill had seized their hearts,
For where shall Poverty expect a smile?
Gross lawless love essayed its ready arts,
And all beset was she by Fraud and Guile!
Her Henry sought the War, ill check'd the tear
Of love fraternal as he bade farewell!
But, fear for him absorbed each other fear,
She followed, Fate soon struck their mutual knell! "
Chaste Maiden rest! and purer spring the green
That decorates the Turf thy dust doth feed,
Ah! in the kindest mercy 'twas I ween,
To worth like thine a Brother's grave's decreed.
The shrieks of death seem all revived around,
The hollow winds prolong each lingering sigh!
Now bitter groans, now deeper groans resound,
Whilst Fathers, Brothers, Lovers, Husbands, die!
Yet, why from such sad thoughts avert the mind,
To Hamlets, Cities, peaceful regions turn?
For, glancing there, such varying Deaths we find,
The change from War-scenes scarcely we discern!
Why draw the mind from this contracted plain?
The sky that canopies the sons of breath
Sees the whole Earth one scene of mortal pain,
The vast the universal Bed of Death!
Where Husbands, Fathers, Brothers, dying moan,
Where Wives, where Mothers, Sisters, Orphans, weep,
Each way is heard the last expiring groan,
And the deep throttle of the deathful sleep!
If, as Philosophy does sometimes muse,
A State of War is Natural State to Man,
'Tis Battle's sickness bravery should chuse,
The noblest death in nature's varied plan.
Whilst vulgar Souls await the Fever's rage,
Or, slow, beneath pale Atrophy depart,
With fameless death inglorious Effort wage,
Ignoble Sorrow cankering the heart,
The Firm demand that Fate to them decree
To aid their Country — by a Death Sublime!
By languid pains their high souls scorn to free,
And, by the Sword's swift edge, escape from Time!
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