Thompson, Priscilla Jane
|GLEANINGS OF QUIET HOURS.|
LIST to the sad wind, drearily moaning;
Moaning the fate of the choicest and best;
Seest those red leaves descending in torrents?
'Tis blood drops of warriors sinking to
Many a volley they've turned in their glory,
Now, lack-a-day! They perish, all gory.
Ever they conquered and victory boasted,
O'er storm and o'er drought and vollies
Showing more strength when battle was over,
And bearing off laurels again and again.
Flushed with success, did they go forth rejoicing.
Now their ill-fate, the sad wind is voicing.
Fiercely the frost-king urged on his subjects,
Spreading destruction o'er hillside and fen!
Yet bravely they fought, not one e'er despairing,
Till gushing with life-blood, they fell down
Now the pathos of death the last scene is lending,
Who'd have believe such a fate was impending.