That soldier hath stood on the battle plain,
Where every step was over the slain;
But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by,
And he came to his native land to die.
‘T was hard to come to that native land
And not clasp one familiar hand!
'T was hard to be number'd amid the dead,
Or ere he could hear his welcome said!
But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own lov'd shore;
To think that the friends of his youth might weep
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep.
The bugles ceased their wailing sound
As the coffin was lower'd into the ground:
A volley was fired, a blessing said,
One moment's pause—and they left the dead!
—I saw a poor and an aged man,
His step was feeble, his lip was wan;
He knelt him down on the new rais'd mound,
His face was bow'd on the cold damp ground,
He rais'd his head, his tears were done,
The Father had pray'd o'er his only Son!
As a further specimen of Mrs. Maclean's descriptive power I present the following truly fine poem. Campbell would hardly have written better.
THE GRASP OF THE DEAD.
'T was in the battle-field, and the cold pale moon
Look'd down on the dead and dying;
And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail
Where the young and 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.
