Bedford inquirer. [volume] (Bedford, Pa.) 1857-1884, 1859-07-29
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NOT ON TEE BATTLEFIELD.
BY JOHN PIERPoNT.

BY JOHN PTERPoNT.
t.To fall on the battle field, fshtirg for my deal
country, that would not be hard, - Tie Naghbors
o, no, no-let me lie
Not on a field of battle, when die
Let not the iron tread
OF the mad war-horse crush my helmed head
Nor LET the reeking knife,
That have drawn against brothers. life,
Be in my hand when death
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath
His heavy squadron's heels,
Or CORY felloes of his cannons wheels.
From such a dying led,
Though DER it float the stripes Of white and red
And the bald eagle brings
The clustered stars upon his wide spread wings
To sparkle in my sight,
0, nerer let my spi rit take her fight
/ know that beauty's eye
Is all the brighter where the gay peanants fly,
And brazen helme is 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 o'er their bones
Have grateful hands piled monumental stones.
Some of those piles I've seen:
The one at Lexington upon tho green
- Where the first blood wa shed,
And to my country's independence led;
Add Others, on our shore,
The e.Battle Monument at Baltimore;
And that on Bunker's Hill.
Ay, and abroad, few moIe famous still;
Thy SsTomb,'' Themistocles,
That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
And which the waters kiss
That issue from the gulf OF Salamis.
And thine, too, have seen,
Thy monnd of earth, Patroclus, robed in green
That like natural knoll,
Sheep climb and nibbIe over as they stroll,
Watched by some turbaned boy
Upon the margin Of the plain of Troy.
Such honors grace the bed,
l know. whereon the warrior lays his head,
And hears, as life ebbs out,
The conquered flying and the conqueror's shout
But as his eye grows dim,
What is column mound to him9
What, TO the parting soul,
The mellow note of buglesi What the roll
OF drums2 No, let me die
Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly
And the soft fummer air,
As it goes by me, stirs my thin, white hair,
And from ny forehead dries,
The death damp as it gathers, and the skies
Seem waiting to receive
My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leay,
The world, when round my bed
Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered,
And the calm voice of prayer
And holy hymning shall my soul prepare,
To 90 and be at rest
With kindred spirits-spirits who have blessed
The 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 up,
Or from nay lips to turn aside the cup
That all must drink at last,
0, let me draw refreshnent from the past!
Then let my soul run back,
With peace aud JOY, along my earthly track,
And see that all the seeds
That have scattered there, in virtuous deeds,
Have sprung up, and have given,
Already, fruits Of which to taste in heaven
And though no grassy mound
Or granite pile says 'tis heroic ground
Where my remains respose,
Still win / hope-vain hope perhaps that thos
Whom 1 have striyen 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 they may die like him whose bones are monl
dering there