_(For the Mirror.)_
'Tis evening! the red rayless sun
Glares fiercely on the battle plain;--
_Morn_ saw the deadly fray begun,
Morn heard _thy_ bugle wake a strain,
Poor soldier! and its warning breath
Call'd _thee_, and myriads to death!
_Thou_ wert thy mother's darling, thou,
Light to thy father's failing eyes;
Thou wert thy sisters' _dearest!_ now
What _art_ thou? something to despise
Yet tremble at; to hide, and be
_Forgot,_ but by _their_ misery!
Thou _wert_ the beautiful! the brave!
Thou wert all joy, and love, and light;
But oh! thy grace was for the _grave,_
Thy dawning day, for mornless night!
And thou, so loving, so carest
Hast sunk--unpitied--unblest!
Yes, warrior! and the life-stream flows
_Yet_ from thee, in thy foe-man's land,
Welling before the gate of those
Who _should_ stretch forth a kindly hand
To save th' unhonour'd, _friendless_ dead
From rushing legion's scouring tread.
_Friendless_ poor soldier?--nay thy steed
Stands gazing on thee, with an eye
_Too_ piteous: he _felt_ thee bleed,--
He _saw_ thee, dropping from him,--_die!_
And in thine helpless, lorn estate,
_He_ cannot leave thee, desolate.
Nor thy poor _dog_, whose anxious gaze,
On helm and bugle's lowly place,
Speaks his deep sorrow and amaze!
_He_, watching yet, thine icy face
Licks thy pale forehead with a moan
To tell thee--_Thou art not alone!_