[Footnote 80: A native of Kentucky; a favorite Western poet; at one time
prominent as a politician.]
* * * * *
=_337._= THE BATTLE-FIELD OF RAISIN.
The battle's o'er; the din is past;
Night's mantle on the field is cast;
The Indian yell is heard no more;
The silence broods o'er Erie's shore.
At this lone hour I go to tread
The field where valor vainly bled;
To raise the wounded warrior's crest,
Or warm with tears his icy breast;
To treasure up his last command,
And bear it to his native land.
It may one pulse of joy impart
To a fond mother's bleeding heart,
Or, for a moment, it may dry
The tear-drop in the widow's eye.
Vain hopes, away! The widow ne'er
Her warrior's dying wish shall hear.
The passing zephyr bears no sigh;
No wounded warrior meets the eye;
Death is his sleep by Erie's wave;
Of Raisin's snow we heap his grave.
How many hopes lie buried here--
The mother's joy, the father's pride,
The country's boast, the foeman's fear,
In 'wildered havoc, side by side!
Lend me, thou silent queen of night,
Lend me a while thy waning light,
That I may see each well-loved form
That sank beneath the morning storm.
* * * * *
=_William Cullen Bryant, 1794-.
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