Outrivall'd the silver-veil'd prophets of old;
Which, when from her brow by reality wrested,
Expos'd a dire visage, all horrors untold.
Alma.
Yes! the battle was real—the tumult and terror—
The roaring of cannon—the shrieks of despair—
The frenzy and slaughter, and soul-chilling horror—
Too sadly bore witness that warfare was there.
The roaring of cannon—the shrieks of despair—
The frenzy and slaughter, and soul-chilling horror—
Too sadly bore witness that warfare was there.
But where was the tinsel, the tissue of glory,
The pen of romance o'er the battle-field spread?-
It shone not where thousands lay gasping and gory,
And the vulture's wing shadow'd the brows of the dead.
It cheer'd not a soldier who, bleeding and jaded,
Sank helpless and faint on the red sward to die.
With battle-won fame's bright delusions all faded—
Death's ice at his heart, and its film on his eye.
The pen of romance o'er the battle-field spread?-
It shone not where thousands lay gasping and gory,
And the vulture's wing shadow'd the brows of the dead.
It cheer'd not a soldier who, bleeding and jaded,
Sank helpless and faint on the red sward to die.
With battle-won fame's bright delusions all faded—
Death's ice at his heart, and its film on his eye.
Far distant flew thought to his dear native valley,
Where the soldier's proud trappings first met his glad sight,
When gay martial music rang through the green alley,
Awaking wild visions, as baseless as bright;
No laggard heart beat in the breast of the dying,
Still foremost where hottest the contest was held;
But truth touch'd the chaplet for which men were trying,
And its halo, and all but the blood-stains dispell'd.
The veil in which war had her features invested,Where the soldier's proud trappings first met his glad sight,
When gay martial music rang through the green alley,
Awaking wild visions, as baseless as bright;
No laggard heart beat in the breast of the dying,
Still foremost where hottest the contest was held;
But truth touch'd the chaplet for which men were trying,
And its halo, and all but the blood-stains dispell'd.
Outrivall'd the silver-veil'd prophets of old;
Which, when from her brow by reality wrested,
Expos'd a dire visage, all horrors untold.
How mournfully radiant rose home recollections,
Contrasting with all that lone dark hour displayed!
How dear, now, the distant! how prized their affections
From whom he had wandered to follow a shade!
How sad, in the hush of his heart's desolation,
His mother's wail rang when the death tidings fell!
A tear wet his cheek, as that heart's last pulsation
Sent voiceless o'er seas, its last fervent farewell.
Contrasting with all that lone dark hour displayed!
How dear, now, the distant! how prized their affections
From whom he had wandered to follow a shade!
How sad, in the hush of his heart's desolation,
His mother's wail rang when the death tidings fell!
A tear wet his cheek, as that heart's last pulsation
Sent voiceless o'er seas, its last fervent farewell.
Ah, what to the mourners for those in death's slumber,
The tidings that Alma was gloriously gain'd—
That the foes of the Pasha fell countless in number,
When its slopes with their own lost ones' life-blood are stained?
There the soldier lies heedless of battle and danger,
With thousands who hopefully crossed the wild wave.
Peace, peace to their dust, in the land of the stranger,
And solace to those who weep far from their grave!
The tidings that Alma was gloriously gain'd—
That the foes of the Pasha fell countless in number,
When its slopes with their own lost ones' life-blood are stained?
There the soldier lies heedless of battle and danger,
With thousands who hopefully crossed the wild wave.
Peace, peace to their dust, in the land of the stranger,
And solace to those who weep far from their grave!