The weekly Portage sentinel. [volume] (Ravenna, Ohio) 1854-1861, 1859-08-03
4odieal,
Not ON the Ba ttIe-Field.
By JOHN PIERPoNr.

''TO fAll on the battlefield, fighting for my dea,
oUntry, that would not be hard. ."-THE NrIoupoRs
o, NO, no-let me lie
Hot on neld Of battle, whom dieI
Let not the iron tread
OF the mad war-horse cru sh my helmed head;
Nor let the reekiDg knife,
That have drawn against brothers life,
Be In my hand when death
TAuhdeS along, and tramples me beneath
His heavy squadron's heels,
Or CORY felloes Of his lannon's wheels.
From such dying bed,
Though DER it float the stripes Of white and red,
And the bald eagle brings
Tho clustered stars upon his widespread wings,
To sparkle in my sight,
o never let my spirit take her flight
know that benuty's eye
ID ell the brighter where gay pennants 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 a grave;
know that DER their bones
Have grateful hands piled monumental stones.
Some Of those piles I've seen
The ono at Lexington upon the green
Where the first blood was shed,
And to my country's independence led;
And others, on our shore,
The "Battle Monument" at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.
AZ, and abroad, few more famous still;
Thy ''tomb," Themistocles,
That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
And which the waters kiss
That issue from the gulf of salams.
And thine, too, have l seer,
Thy mound of earth Patroclus, robed In green,
That, like a natural knoll,
Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,
Watched by some turbancd boy,
Upon the margin of tho plain of Troy.
Such hohors grace the bed,
know, whereon tho warrior lays his head,
And hears, as Kro ebbs out,
The conquered flying and the conoueror's shout
But as his eye grows dim,
What is 4 column or 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 o'er me lovingly,
And the soft summer air,
As 1t goos by me, stirS my thin, white hair,
And from my forehead dries
Tho death damp as it gathers, and the skies
Seem waiting to receive
Ny soul 10 their clear depthsl Or let me lesve
The world, when round my bed
Wife, cbildron, weeping friends ure gathered,
And the calm voice of prayer
And holy hymDing shall my soul prepare,
To go and be at rest
With kindred spirits-spirits who have blessed
Tho human brotherhood
BY labors, cares, and counsels for their good.
In my dying hour,
When riches, fame and honor have no power
To bear the spirit uD,
Or from my lips to turn aside tho cup
That all must drink at last,
o, let me draw refreshment from the past
Then let my soul run back,
With peace and Joy, along my earthly track,
And see that all the seeds
That I 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
Or granite pile says 'us heroic grouLd
Who're my renaius repose,
Still will hope-valn hope perhaps-that those
whom have striven to bless,
The wsnderer reclaimed, the fathsrless,
May stand around my grave,
villa tho poor pri.oner, and the poorest slave,
And breathe an humble prayer,
That they may die like him whose bones are
mouldering there.