Classic Poem

Fresher and fresher comes the air. The blue
Of yonder high pavillion swims in dew.
The boundless hum that sunset waked in glee:
The dark wood's vesper-hymn to Liberty —
Hath died away. A deep outspreading hush
Is on the air. The heavy, watery rush
Of far off lake-tides, and the weighty roll
Of tumbling deeps, that fall upon the soul
Like the strong lulling of the ocean wave
In dying thunder o'er the sailor's grave:
And now and then a blueish flare is spread
Faint o'er the western heavens, as if 'twere shed
In dreadful omen to the coming dead.
As if — amid the skies, some warriour form
Revealed his armour thro' a robe of storm!

The shadows deepen. Now the leaden tramp
Of stationed sentry — far — and flat — and damp —
Sounds like the measured death-step, when it comes
With the deep minstrelsy of unstrung drums:
In heavy pomp — with pauses — o'er the grave
Where soldiers bury soldiers: where the wave
Of sable plumes — and darkened flags are seen —
And trailing steeds with funeral lights between:
And folded arms — and boding horns — and tread
Of martial feet descending to the bed,
Where Glory — Fame — Ambition lie in state,
To give the nuptial clasp, and wreath that Fate
Wove in the battle storm, their brows to decorate.

Listen! — there comes a distant, wandering shout,
A sound, as if a challenge passed about:
A gun is heard! O, can it be indeed
That on a night, like this, brave men may bleed!
Now comes, — all rushing — with a fiery start —
The struggling neigh of steeds, as if they part
Upon the mountain tops, where cloud-tides break,
And rear upon the winds! and plunge, and shake
Their voices proudly o'er a sleeping lake.
A heavy walk is heard. They come, indeed;
They come, the Star-troops! while the Eagle-breed
Flap loudly o'er each helm, and o'er each foaming steed.