The Buchanan County guardian. (Independence, Buchanan County, Iowa) 1858-1864, 1859-05-12
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From Frank Leslie's' illustrated Newspaper.
THE SONG OF THE DYING.

This really remarkable poem, of which th'
authors name has hitherto been generally un
known, appeared a number of years ago in tn
st. Helena Gazette. Thence it was copied int,
the London Spectator, from which paper it pas
sed into the columns of the Boston Courier
We learn that the author was Captain Bowling
of the East India Companys Service. It j,
founded on an incident in the early history o
the British East Indian Army. During the las
century, it not unfrequently happened that hun
dreds of unacclimated troops were swept off by
cholera or fever, from single cantonment +; anC
it is related, that on one occasion, a regimen
being affected, and the officers and soldiers dy
ing with frightful rapidity, the remaining off
GERS shut themselves up in their messroom, de
termined to die as they had liyed-together.-
Like the doomed fraternity in the opera of Lu
crezia Borgia, they gave themselves up to
CHASTITY carousal, while the poison circulated
in their veins, and died, grasping each other:
hands, with half-drained goblets before them
Their awful merrimcnt while in the very grasl
of death is embodied with wonderful force il
this production of an obscure writer.
We meet meath the sounding rafter, o
And tile walls around are bare; I.f,#
AS they shout to our peals of laughter,
1t seems that the dead are therei
But stand to your glasses steady,
We drink to our comrades eyes
Quaff cup to the dead already,
And hulra for the next that dies I
Not here are the goblets glowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet!
But cold, rs our hearts are growing.
And dark, as the doom we meet
But stand to your glasses steady,
And soon shall our pulses rise
A cupto the dead already,
HufTa f,nr tha eytt that lina
Not Sigh for the lot that darkles, I
Not a tear for the friends that sink
Well fall midst the wine-cups sparkles,
As mute as the wine we drink
So stand to your glasses steady,
'Tis this that the respite buys;
One cup to the dead already,
Hurra fer the next that dies
Time was when we frowned at others,
We thought we Were wiser then
Ha ha let them think of their mothers
Who hope to behold them again
No! stand to your glasses steady,
The thoughtless are here, and the wise
A cup to the dead already,
@ Hurm for the next that dies
There's many a hand that's shaking.
There's many check that's sunk
Rut soon, though our hearts are breaking,
They II burn with the wine we've drunk
so stand to your glasses steady,
'Tis here the revival lies
A cup to the dead already,
Hurra for the next that dies
There's a mist on the glass eongealing
'Tis the hurricanes fiery breath
And thus does the warmth Of feeling
Turn ice in the grasp of death
20! stand to your glasses steady,
For moment the vapor flies
a cup to the dead already,
Uurm for the next that dies
Who breads to the dust returning?
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and the naughty yearning
OF the soul shall sting no more
No. stand to yoar glasses steady,
The world is world of lies
A cup to the dead already
Hurm for the next that dies |!
Cut off from the land that bore us,
Betrayed by the land we fnl,
When the bria ht2st have gone before us,
Aud tie dullt st remain behind.
Stand stand to yo'ir glasses steady,
'Tis all we have left 60 prize
A cup to the dead already,
And huria for the next that dies /,