O'er the walls with slaughter wet,
O'er the ball-scarred parapet,
Daring man and missile,
Charge to meet his best or worst,
Where his shrieking bombshells burst
And his bullets whistle.
Roll in waves of living blue,
Pierce the columned centre through,
Fill the world with wonder;
Rush, as with a lion's will,
Where his lightnings flash to kill
And his cannon thunder.
Meet him with a tiger's spring,
Quicker than an eagle's wing,
Where the bayonet piercest.
When you feel the foeman's breath,
Soldier, strike for life or death,
Where the fight is fiercest.
Than a coward, proved and known,
Better be to atoms blown,
Where the doomed are dying.
Welcome death in wildest way,
But to mingle with that clay
Where the brave are lying.
Thus will Honor be our meed
For some doubly daring deed
When we end our story.
Then in graves with roses blown,
By the hands of patriots strown,
We will sleep in glory.
THE DYING SOLDIER TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
I plead with tears to thee,
Sweet warbler of the shade,
Breathe not such strains to me,
The sweetest ever made.
Who bade thee slight my woes?
Who taught to pierce my heart?
Leave me to death's repose,
Depart, sweet bird, depart.
Still come, with every strain,
Warm dreams of woeless days;
Still beam, on life's past plain,
Love's long lost golden rays,
That gleam on forms gone by,
On friends I called my own,
Who calmly rest, while I,
Wild wandering, weep alone.
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