THE BATTLE-FIELD. BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Ah! never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of her brave— Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouth'd gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry ; O! be it never heard again. Soon rested those who fought; but thou Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot. The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown-yet faint thou not, 106 THE DEPARTED. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, Truth crush'd to earth, shall rise again: Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, Another hand thy sword shall wield, 1 Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is peal'd The blast of triumph o'er thy grave, And they glide above our memories But where the cheerful lights of home The departed, the departed Can never more return! The good, the brave, the beautiful, How dreamless is their sleep, Where rolls the dirge-like music Of the ever-tossing deep! THE DEPARTED. Or where the hurrying night-winds In the cities of the dead! I look around and feel the awe Among the wrecks of former days, I start to hear the stirring sounds That solemn voice! it mingles with The thrilling notes of birds, Can never be so dear to me As their remember'd words. I sometimes dream their pleasant smiles I know that they are happy, 107 Now the birds of Autumn shiver, Where the wither'd beech-leaves quiver, O'er the dark and lazy river, In the rocky dell. Now the mist is on the mountains, Reddening in the rising sun; Now the flowers around the fountains Perish one by one: Not a spire of grass is growing, But the leaves that late were glowing, Now the torrent brook is stealing Faintly down the furrow'd glade— Not as when in winter pealing, Such a din is made, That the sound of cataracts falling Gave no echo so appalling, As its hoarse and heavy brawling Darkly blue the mist is hovering Round the chifted rock's bare heightAll the bordering mountains covering With a dim, uncertain light : INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD. Now, a fresher wind prevailing, Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding 109 INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF GOD. BY ELIZABETH TOWNSEND. WHERE art thou? Thou! Source and Support of all That is or seen or felt; Thyself unseen, Unfelt, unknown-alas! unknowable ! I look abroad among thy works: the sky, (If such, perchance, were mine), did they behold Thee? |