New-York daily tribune. [volume] (New-York [N.Y.]) 1842-1866, 1845-03-14

not icoxid NOT be AcTd- me SaE@0o7s'
o no, no-let me lie
Not on a field Of battle, when | die
Lei not the iron tread
Of the mad war horse crush my helmed mead:
Nor let the reeking knife,
That have drawn agains. brothers life,
Be in my hand when death
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath
His heavy squadron's heels,
Orgory felloes of his canaons wheels.
From such dying bed,
Though DER it float the stripes of white and red
And the bald eagle brings
The clustered stars upon his widespread wings,
To sparkle IN my sight.
o, never let my spirit take her flight.
know that beauty's eye
Is all the brighter where gay pennant5 fly,
And brazen helmets dance,
And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance:
know that bards have sung,
And people shouted till the welkin rung
In honor Of the brave
Who on the battlefield have found grave.
know that DER thcr bones
Have 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,
That TO nv counry's Independence led;
And others, On our shore,
The Battle Monument at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker ; Hill .u
Ay. and abroad, a few more famous still;
Thy "tomb." Themls'ocles'
That looks out yet upon Tie Oreciah se"''
And which the waters KISS
That issue from the gull oil Salamis.
And thine, TOO, have seen, o
Tbv ,nonnd of Earth. Psroclus, robed IN green,
That ike natural knoll, IN.
Sheep climb and nibble over, ae .iJy sn''''
Watched by some turoaneo BOY,
a.. .ar,;n nj the glaln oil Troy.
Such honors grace the bed,
ssI L,oyy yhereon the warrior lays his mead,
e. And hears, as lli- GIBBS out,
Til. conquered f1ying, and the conqueror's shout.
But, as his eye grows dlm.
What is a column or a mound TO him
What, to the parting soul,
The mellow note of bugles? What the roll
OF drums No let me die
Where the blue heaven bends DER me lovingly,
And the soft summer air,
AS it goes by me, s,irs my thin white hair,
And from my forehead drles
The death. damp as 1t gathers, and the Skies
Seem waiting TO receive
NV soul to their clear depths Or let me leave
The world, when round my bed
Wife, children. weeping friends are gathered,3
And the calm voice OF prayer
And holy hymnng shall my soul prepare
To go and be at rest
With kindred splrits-spirlts who have blessed
lhe human proiiernOOu
Bysabors, cares and counsels for their good
And in my dying hour,
When riches, fame and honor have no power
To bear the spin, up,
Or from my lips to turn aside the cup
That all must drink at last,
o, let me draw relreshment from the past
Then let my soul run back,
With peace and JOY, along my earthly track,
And see that all the seeds
That have scattered there in vlrtuous deeds,
Have sprung up, and have given,
Already, fruits Of which to taste IN heaven
And though no grassy mound
And granite pile say tits heroic ground
Where my remains repose,
Still will hop--vain hope, perhaps! that those
Whom have sriven TO bless,
The wanderer reclaimed the fatherless,
May stand around my grave,
With the poor prisoner, and the poorest slave,
And breathe an humble prayer,
That tkey may die like him whose bones are
Wondering there.