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I SEE the broad, red, setting sun
Sink slowly down the sky;
His blood-red standard fly;
Looks from her place on high.
O setting sun, awhile delay !
Linger on sea and shore;
That shall not see thee more;
Whose race like thine is o'er !
O ghastly moon! thy pallid ray
On paler brows shall lie !
On many, a glazing eye;
For whom 'twere bliss to die !
The swallow leaves the ancient eaves,
As in the days agone;
Amid the tasseled corn.
The sun's rays light as warm and bright
On clover fields all red; The wild bird wakes his simple song As joyfully, the whole day long,
As if he were not dead !
The summer skies, with softest sighs,
Their rain and sunshine send;
The flocks he used to tend.
The woodbine grows-the jasmine blows
Beside the window-sill: Their soft sweet sigh is in the air, For the dead hands that placed them there
On the red field are still.
Around the wolds the summer folds
Her wealth of golden light; And, past the willows' silvery gleam, I catch the glimmering of the stream
And lilies, cool and white.
But oh! one shade has solemn made
The sunshine and the bloom; His voice, whose sweet and gentle words Were sweeter than the song of birds,
Is silent in the tomb.
How can the day, so bright and gay,
Glare round the farmhouse door ?
Shall know him nevermore !
The Last of Earth:
A PRISON SCENE. (x1.)
Last night a comrade sent in haste
For me to soothe his fearful pain ; He felt Death's power advancing fast,
He knew that hope was vain. God's promises I read again
Till Faith's sweet light shone from his eye; Sole gleam-for sorrow filled me then,
As shadows fill the sky.
A dreary place—that Hospital
Where dim lamps break the solemn gloom, And nurses move with slow footfall,
Like spectres, through the room. Above those cots all miseries blend,
On each some form in suffering lies; Some groan—some sleep-but here one friend
Puts on the angel's guise.
Scarcely I heard the bugle's call,
Scarce felt the night-wind's heavy breath,
I only saw the shadows fall
And the ghastly chill of death,
In which Life's star goes down.
I hear his piteous tones implore
And heed his hand's hot clinging grasp— Pale hands, alas-that nevermore
Shall feel Love's answering clasp. His frenzied spirit flies from pain,
He thinks himself once more at home: “Dear wife-dear child—I'm here again,
Close to me-closer come.
"I could not lag where country led
The voice of wrong could not beguile;
If honor ceased to smile.
But Freedom holds their memories dear,
For the crown she yet shall wear.