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THE TIRED SOLDIER.
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THE tired soldier, bold and brave,
Now rests his wearied feet,
And to the shelter of the grave
Has made a safe retreat.
To him the trumpet's piercing breath,
"To arms" shall call in vain;
Ned's quarter'd in the arms of Death,
He'll never march again.
A boy he left his father's home,
The chance of war to try,
O'er regions yet untrod to roam,
No friend or brother nigh';
Yet still he march'd contented on,
Meets danger, death, and pain;
But now he halts-his toil is done,
He'll never march again:
The sweets of Spring, by beauty's hand,
Lie scatter'd o'er his bier;
His comrades, as they silent stand,
