"It is not yet near day. Come, go with me;
Under our tents I'll play the eaves-dropper."
THE night comes on, and o'er the field
The moon shines bright on helm and shield; But there are many on that plain
That shall not see her light again;
She looks serene on countless bands
Of mailed breasts and steel-bound hands,
And shows a thousand faces there
Of courage high, and dark despair.
All mingled as the legions lie,
Wrapt in their dreams of victory,
A lowering sound of doubt and fear
Breaks sudden on the startled ear,
And hands are clenched, and cheeks are pale,
And from bright blade and ringing mail
A thousand hands, with busy toil,
Clean off each ancient stain or soil;
Or spots of blood, where truth may
For every drop a guilty deed.
Survey the crowds who there await
In various mood the shock of fate,
Who burn to meet or strive to shun
The dangers of to-morrow's sun :
Look on the husband's anxious tears,
The hero's hopes, the coward's fears,
The vices that e'en here are found,
The follies that are hovering round,
And learn that (treat it as you will)
Our life must be a mockery still.
Alas! the same caprices reign
In courtly hall or tented plain ;
And the same follies are revealed
In ball-room and in battle-field.
Turn to yon open tent, and see
Where, drunk with youth and Burgundy,
Reclines, his midnight revel o'er,
The beau of battle, Theodore.
Before him on his desk he lays
The billet-doux of other days;
And while he reads, his fancy lingers
On those white hands and witching fingers
That traced the darling signatures,-
The "yours till death" and "truly yours;
And as by turns they meet his eye
He looks, and laughs, and throws them by,
Until perchance some magic name
Lights up a spark of former flame ;
And then he ponders in his trance
On Mary's love-inspiring glance,
On Chloe's eye of glittering fire,
And Laura's look of fond desire:
Poor Theodore! if valiant breast,
And open heart, and song, and jest,
And laughing lip, and auburn hair,
And vow sent up by lady fair,
Can save a youthful warrior's life,
Thou fall'st not in to-morrow's strife.
Look yonder; on the dewy sward
Tom Wittol lies, a brother bard;
He lies, and ponders on the stars,
On virtue, genius, and the wars;
On dark ravines and woody dells,
On mirth and muses, shot and shells ;
On black mustachios, and White Surrey,
On rhyme and sabres, death and Murray ;
Until at last his fancy glows
As if it felt to-morrow's blows;
Anticipation fires his brain
With fights unfought, unslaughtered slain,
And on the fray that is to be
Comes forth a dirge or elegy;
And if he meets no heavier harm
To-morrow from a foeman's arm
Than cracked cuirass or broken head,
He'll hasten from his fever's bed,
And, just broke loose from salve and lint,
Rush like a hero into print,
Heading his light and harmless prattle,-
"Lines-written on a Field of Battle."
Thou favoured bard, go boldly on!
The Muse shall guard her darling son;
And, when the musket's steady aim
Is levelled at the pet of fame,
The Muse shall check the impious crime,
And shield thee with a ream of rhyme ;
But if 'tis doomed, and fall thou must,
Since bards, like other men, are dust,
Upon the tomb where thou shalt sleep
Phoebus and Mars alike shall weep,
And he that loved, but could not save,
Shall write "Hic jacet" o'er thy grave.
What wight is that, whose distant nose
Gives token loud of deep repose?
What, honest Harry on the ground?
I' faith thy sleep is wondrous sound
For one who looks, upon his waking,
To "sleep the sleep that knows not breaking!"
But rest thee, rest, thou merriest soul
That ever loved the circling bowl!
I look upon his empty cup,
And sudden tears uncalled spring up ;
Perchance in this abode of pother
Kind Harry may not drain another;
But still our comrades at the Bell
Of Harry's prowess long shall tell,
And dignify with well-earned praise
The revelry of other days;
And then the merry tale will run
On many a wager lost and won,
On many a jest and many a song,
And many a peal of laughter long
That from our jovial circle broke
At Harry's toast or Harry's joke.
Again, at fancy's touch restored,
Our old sirloin shall grace the board ;
Again, at fancy's touch shall flow
The tap we drained an age ago :
And thou, the soul of fun, the life
Of noisy mirth and playful strife,
Mayst sleep in honour's worm-worn bed
The dreamless slumber of the dead;
But oft shall one sad heart at least
Think on the smile, that never ceased
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