, 1862-11-08
A Grand Prose Poem.

n GIduu fIOSe EOeIn.
The following magnificent prose poem appear
ed in the Museum some forty years ago, and de-
serves to be treasured with the noblest poetical
productions in our language:
THE SUNSET OF BATTLE.
The shadows Of evening are thickening
Twilight closes and the msts are rising in the
valley. The last charging squadron yet thunders
in the distance; but it presses only upon the
foed and scattered foe for this day the fight is
over.
And those who rode foremost in its field in
the morning-where are they now On the
bank of yon little stream there lies knght-hs
life blood is ebbing faster than its tide his shield
is rent and his lance is broken. Soldier, why
faintest thou? The blood that wells from deep
wounds shall answer.
1t was this morning, that the sun rose bright
upon his hopes it sets upon his grave. This day
he led the foremost rank of spears, that, in their
long row leveled-when they had crossed the
foes dark line-death shouted in the onset 1t
was the last blow that reached him. He has con-
quered, though he shall not triumph in the vic
tory.
His breastplate is dinted his helmet has the
trace of we'll dealt blows. The scarf on his
breast-she would shrink but to touch it now,
who placed it there Soldier, what will thy mis-
tress say2 She will say that her knight died
worthily.
Ay, rouse thee, for the fight yet chafes in the
distance Thy friends are shouting-thy pennon
floats on high Look on yon crimson fields that
seems to mock the purple clonds above it pros
trate they lie, drenched in their dark pool-thy
friends and enemies-the dead and the dying; the
veteran with the stripping of day and foes
linked in their long embrace-ther first and last
the gripe of death
Far DER the field they lie, a gorgeous prey to
ruin With plume and steel moron-sabre and
ataghan-crescent and cross-rich vest and bright
corselet; we came to the fight as we had come to
feasting glorious and glittering even in death,
each shining warrior lies
His last glance still seeks that Christian banner
The cry that shall never be repeated cheers on
its last charge. Oh but for strength to reach
the field once more-to die in the foes front =
Peace, Dreamer Thou hast done we'll. Thy
place in the close rank is flled-and yet another
waits for his who holds it.
Knight hast thou yet thought-bind it on
Heaven The past is gone; the future lies before
thee. Gaze on the gorgeous sky-thy home!
should lie beyond
Life-home-love-the pass to Him that
gave them Pride-that came on like oceans
billows-see, round thee how it lies mute and
passive. The wealthy hear are poor; the high
born have no precedence the strong are power
less the mean content; the fair and lovely have
no followers.
Soldier she who sped the on thy course to-day
her blue eyes shall seek thee in the conquerng
ranks tomorrow but they shall seek thee in vain
Well thus it is, thou shoudst have died with
all to live for. Wouldst thou be base to have thy
death blessing? Proud necks shall mourn for
thee. Bright eyes shall weep for thee. They
that live envy thee. Death glory takes out thy
sting.
The shades of night are drawing on-Soder,
thine eyes are darkening. A last rim of the sun
lies yet upon the distant hill-even as he sinks,
thy soul shall follow him!
See how thy steed leads beside thee. His dark
eye falls mildly on his master, and he pauses.-
Poor wretch thine instinct sees some wrong, yet
knows it not Browse en- and Heayen-whch
guards its meanest creatures-send thee kind
protector
Warrior ay-the stream of that rill flows
cool but thy lips no more shall taste it. The
moonlight that svers its white shall glitter on
thy corselet, when thine eye is clored and dim.
Lol now the night is coming the mist is gath
ering on the hill the fox steals forth to seek his
Quarry and the gray owl sweeps whirling by, re-
ioicing in the stiffness. o soldier-how sweetly
now sounds the lady's lute-how fragrant are the
dew-sprinkled bowers that twine around the case
ment fom which she leans. That lutte shall en-
chant thee-those flowers shall delight thee-no
more!
One other charge Soldier, it may not be. To
thy saint and thy lady commend thee Hark to
the low trumpet that sounds the recall Hark
to its long note-sweet is that sound to the ear
the spent and routed foe!
The victor hears it not. When the breath rose
that blew that note, he lived-its peal has rung,
and his spirit has departed.
Heath thou shouldst be soldiers pillow
Moon let thy cold light this night fall upon him.
But, morning thy soft dews shall tempt him
not-rhe soldier wakes no more He sleeps in
the sleep of honor. His cause was his country's
freedom and her faith. He is dead The cross
of the cross of the Christian knight is on his
breast; his lips are pressed to his lady's token
Soldier, farwell
The past civil wars Of the world sink into insg-
nfcance in comparison with the tremendous in