212
POEMS.
He heeds not a sigh the maiden heaves,
He careth naught for her tear;
But when the autumn winds sere the leaves,
He lays her on his bier.
He careth naught for her tear;
But when the autumn winds sere the leaves,
He lays her on his bier.
The stately oak, with its branches brown,
Like his own bow he bends;
And the hale young tree, with its verdant crown,
By a single stroke he rends.
Like his own bow he bends;
And the hale young tree, with its verdant crown,
By a single stroke he rends.
He plucks the wreath from the victor now,
A gasp, and then a groan;
And one who never had learned to bow,
He has taught his will to own.
A gasp, and then a groan;
And one who never had learned to bow,
He has taught his will to own.
The warrior brave his armor binds,
Death sees its weakest part;
And through the burnished shield he finds
His way to the soldier's heart.
Death sees its weakest part;
And through the burnished shield he finds
His way to the soldier's heart.
He lays the saint, whose well-spent days
Have made him ripe for heaven,
By the side of one whose sinful ways,
Perchance, are unforgiven.
Have made him ripe for heaven,
By the side of one whose sinful ways,
Perchance, are unforgiven.
In times of peace, 'mid scenes of war,
His arrows are flying still;
And on he drives his conquering car,
While his watchword is—to kill!
His arrows are flying still;
And on he drives his conquering car,
While his watchword is—to kill!
