George W. Patten

“THE MORNING sun is shining bright upon the battle plain,

And still thou sleep’st!—wake! warrior, wake—and take thy steed again,

The gore he ’s shaken from his mane, and now ’t is floating fast,

Upon the breeze as it was wont amid the battle blast,

Thrice hath the war-peal thunder’d past since thou hast sunk to sleep,

Hath not it changed thy dreary dream, nor broke thy slumber deep?

Thrice hath the foemen’s banner red in triumph floated by;

Did not the gleaming of its stars arrest thy closing eye?

Thy charger hot hath raised his voice as if thy rest to break;

He listens for his rider’s call—wake! slumbering warrior—wake!”

“Hush! gentle stranger, hush that strain,” a weeping mother sung,

And sadly on the sighing winds the mournful music rung,

“Hush, gentle stranger, hush that strain—my heart is lone and drear,

Thou canst not wake my warrior boy, who sleeps in silence here.

I ’ve comb’d his flowing flaxen hair, and from it wiped the dew,

Come, gaze upon the features pale, which oft I ’ve loved to view,

And if thy bosom e’er hath throbb’d a warrior’s joys to know,

Oh! read them on that sunken cheek—and in a mother’s wo.

—They said, my boy, that Fame would twine a laurel green for thee,

Alas! alas! that it should leave the cypress sad to me.’”