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Alas! he never had dreamed of death, But as borne on whistling bullets' breath,
'Mid muskets flashing- ; And where the war-dogs howling loud, Breathe with sulphur-smoke a battle cloud—
The shells with thunders crashing!
But a fevered cot is his battle-ground, And slowly, calmly in death he 's bound
To the "Far-off-Land." No gentle sister's spirit is there, E'en in stranger's form with tender care,
To bathe his dry burning hand.
The dark sod hides the form of the dead, Dew-drops kiss no more that pale forehead,
Nor gleam on his hair. Life's hope is gone ! Life's sorrowing o'er, His spirit is on the " echoless shore,"
Dwelling with angels up there.
Thus unwept, unmourned, he sank to rest, E'en by human sympathy unblest,
To an unknown grave! God, who notes e'en the sparrow's fall, Shall, in the dread resurrection, call To Heaven the soldier brave! |
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