Not on the Battle-Field

   “To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country,—that would not be hard.”—The Neighbors.       O NO, no,—let me lie Not on a field of battle when I die!       Let not the iron tread Of the mad war-horse crush my helmèd head;       Nor let the reeking knife, That I have drawn against a brother’s life,       Be in my hand when Death Thunders along, and tramples me beneath       His heavy squadron’s heels, Or gory felloes of his cannon’s wheels.       From such a dying bed, Though o’er it float the stripes of white and red,       And the bald eagle brings The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings       To sparkle in my sight, O, never let my spirit take her flight!       I know that beauty’s eye Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly,       And brazen helmets dance, And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance;       I know that bards have sung, And people shouted till the welkin rung,       In honor of the brave Who on the battle-field have found a grave;       I know that o’er their bones How grateful hands piled monumental stones.       Some of those piles I ’ve seen: The one at Lexington upon the green       Where the first blood was shed, And to my country’s independence led;       And others, on our shore, The “Battle Monument” at Baltimore,       And that on Bunker’s Hill. Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;       Thy “tomb,” Themistocles, That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,       And which the waters kiss That issue from the gulf of Salamis.       And thine, too, have I seen, Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,       That, like a natural knoll, Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,       Watched by some turbaned boy, Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.       Such honors grace the bed, I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,       And hears, as life ebbs out, The conquered flying, and the conqueror’s shout;       But as his eye grows dim, What is a column or a mound to him?       What, to the parting soul, The mellow note of bugles? What the roll       Of drums? No, let me die Where the blue heaven bends o’er me lovingly,       And the soft summer air, As it goes by me, stirs my thin white hair,       And from my forehead dries The death-damp as it gathers, and the skies       Seem waiting to receive My soul to their clear depths! Or let me leave       The world when round my bed Wife, children, weeping friends are gatherèd,       And the calm voice of prayer And holy hymning shall my soul prepare       To go and be at rest With kindred spirits,—spirits who have blessed       The human brotherhood By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.