O NO, no,—let me lie | |
| Not on a field of battle when I die! | |
| Let not the iron tread | |
| Of the mad war-horse crush my helmèd head; | |
| Nor let the reeking knife, | 5 |
| That I have drawn against a brother’s life, | |
| Be in my hand when Death | |
| Thunders along, and tramples me beneath | |
| His heavy squadron’s heels, | |
| Or gory felloes of his cannon’s wheels. | 10 |
| |
| From such a dying bed, | |
| Though o’er it float the stripes of white and red, | |
| And the bald eagle brings | |
| The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings | |
| To sparkle in my sight, | 15 |
| O, never let my spirit take her flight! | |
| |
| I know that beauty’s eye | |
| Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, | |
| And brazen helmets dance, | |
| And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance; | 20 |
| I know that bards have sung, | |
| And people shouted till the welkin rung, | |
| In honor of the brave | |
| Who on the battle-field have found a grave; | |
| I know that o’er their bones | 25 |
| How grateful hands piled monumental stones. | |
| Some of those piles I ’ve seen: | |
| The one at Lexington upon the green | |
| Where the first blood was shed, | |
| And to my country’s independence led; | 30 |
| And others, on our shore, | |
| The “Battle Monument” at Baltimore, | |
| And that on Bunker’s Hill. | |
| Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still; | |
| Thy “tomb,” Themistocles, | 35 |
| That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, | |
| And which the waters kiss | |
| That issue from the gulf of Salamis. | |
| And thine, too, have I seen, | |
| Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green, | 40 |
| That, like a natural knoll, | |
| Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, | |
| Watched by some turbaned boy, | |
| Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. | |
| Such honors grace the bed, | 45 |
| I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, | |
| And hears, as life ebbs out, | |
| The conquered flying, and the conqueror’s shout; | |
| But as his eye grows dim, | |
| What is a column or a mound to him? | 50 |
| What, to the parting soul, | |
| The mellow note of bugles? What the roll | |
| Of drums? No, let me die | |
| Where the blue heaven bends o’er me lovingly, | |
| And the soft summer air, | 55 |
| As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair, | |
| And from my forehead dries | |
| The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies | |
| Seem waiting to receive | |
| My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave | 60 |
| The world when round my bed | |
| Wife, children, weeping friends are gatherèd, | |
| And the calm voice of prayer | |
| And holy hymning shall my soul prepare | |
| To go and be at rest | 65 |
| With kindred spirits,—spirits who have blessed | |
| The human brotherhood | |
| By labors, cares, and counsels for their good. | |
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