Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream,--
Come from the world,--the crowd is not for thee;
Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam
Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity;--
Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem
That such as they are, thou couldst ever be!
Come, for my soul adores thee with a love
As burning as the seraphs feel above.
These lines are inscribed to the memory of John Q. Carlin, killed
at Buena Vista.
Warrior of the youthful brow,
Eager heart and eagle eye!
Pants thy soul for battle now?
Burns thy glance with victory?
Dost thou dream of conflicts done,
Perils past and trophies won?
And a nation's grateful praise
Given to thine after days?
Bloodless is thy cheek, and cold
As the clay upon it prest;
And in many a slimy fold,
Winds the grave-worm round thy breast.
Thou wilt join the fight no more,--
Glory's dream with thee is o'er,--
And alike are now to thee
Greatness and obscurity.
But an ever sunny sky,
O'er thy place of rest is bending;
And above thy grave, and nigh,
Flowers ever bright are blending.
O'er thy dreamless, calm repose,
Balmily the south wind blows,--
With the green turf on thy breast,
Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!
When the alarum first was sounded,
Marshalling in arms the brave,
Forth thy fearless spirit bounded,
To obtain thee--what? A grave!
Fame had whispered in thine ear,
Words the high-souled love to hear,--
But the ruthless hand of death
From thee snatched the hero's wreath.
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