HERE, lonely, wounded and apart,
From out my casement's glimmering round,
I watch the wayward bluebirds dart
Across yon flowery ground;
How sweet the prospect! and how fair
The balmy peace of earth and air.
But, lowering over fields afar,
A red cloud breaks with sulphurous breath,
And well I know what gory star,
Is regnant in his house of death;
Yet faint the conflict's gathering roll,
To the fierce tempest in my soul.
I, who the foremost ranks had led,
To strike for cherished home and land,
Groan idly on this torturing bed,
With broken frame and palsied hand,
So nerveless, 'tis a task to scare,
The insects fluttering round my hair.
O God! for one brief hour again,
Of that grim joy my spirit knew,
When foemen's life-blood poured like rain,
And sabres flashed and trumpets blew:
One hour to smite, or smitten die
On the wild breast of victory!
It may not be; my pulses beat
Too feebly, and my heart is chill.
Death, like a thief with stealthy feet
Draws nigh to work his ruthless will;
Hope, Honor, Glory, pass me by,
But he stands near with mocking eye!
Ay, smooth the couch!--pour out the draught,
That, haply, for a season's space,
Hath power to charm his fatal shaft,
And warm the death-damps off my face,
A blest reprieve!--a wondrous boon,
Thank Heaven! this--all--ends with me soon.
