Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader · Chapter 259=337.= the Battle-Field of Raisin
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The battle's o'er; the din is past; Night's mantle on the field is cast; The Indian yell is heard no more; The silence broods o'er Erie's shore. At this lone hour I go to tread The field where valor vainly bled; To raise the wounded warrior's crest, Or warm with tears his icy breast; To treasure up his last command, And bear it to his native land. It may one pulse of joy impart To a fond mother's bleeding heart, Or, for a moment, it may dry The tear-drop in the widow's eye. Vain hopes, away! The widow ne'er Her warrior's dying wish shall hear. The passing zephyr bears no sigh; No wounded warrior meets the eye; Death is his sleep by Erie's wave; Of Raisin's snow we heap his grave. How many hopes lie buried here— The mother's joy, the father's pride, The country's boast, the foeman's fear, In 'wildered havoc, side by side! Lend me, thou silent queen of night, Lend me a while thy waning light, That I may see each well-loved form That sank beneath the morning storm.
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=William Cullen Bryant, 1794-.= (Manual, pp. 487, 524.)
From his "Poems."