The Sword

THE SWORD. Twas the battle field, and the cold, pale moon Looked down on the dead and dying, And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail, Where the young and the brave were lying. With his father's sword in his red, right hand, And the hostile dead around him. Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground, And the grave's icy sleep had bound him. A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Pass'd, a soldier, his plunder seeking; Careless he stopped where friend and foe Lay alike in their life-blood reeking. Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword. The soldier paused beside it; He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength, But the grasp of the dead defied it. He loosed his hold, and his English heart Took part with the dead before him. And he honor'd the brave who died sword in hand, As with soften'd brow he leaned o'er him. "A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it; Before I would take that sword from thine hand My own life's blood should dye it. "Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow. Or the wolf to batten o'er thee; Or the coward insult the gallant dead. Who in life had trembled before thee." Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth Where the warrior foe was sleeping; And he laid him there in honor and rest. With his sword in his own brave keeping. Miss Landon