The past came slowly forth with all its train
Of blissful scenes that ne'er might be again,
Of mournful partings and convulsive sighs,
Of pallid faces and of tearful eyes,
Of aching hearts that heaved with sorrow's swell,
And broken tones that sadly breathed, "Farewell!"
And in the silence of that lonely hour,
Which bade the sternest own its wondrous power,
A small, still voice whispered in every soul,
Although each sought to burst from its control:
"To-morrow night the moon, as fair as now,
May shed her beams upon your death-sealed brow!
To-morrow night the stars may gild the wave
While you, perchance, may fill a soldier's grave!
To-morrow night your spirit may explore
The boundless regions of an unknown shore!
To-morrow night may find you with the slain,
And weeping love watch your return in vain!"
And yet not long such gloomy thoughts might rest
Within the soldier's brave and gallant breast;
Not long the warrior, panting for the field
And for the battle's horrid din, might yield
His fearless spirit unto sorrow's sway,
Or dread the issue of the coming day.
The momentary sadness now was o'er,
As with new hopes they neared the frowning shore,
Landed in silence, and in stern array
Pressed firmly forward on their dangerous way,
Mounted the rugged rocks with footsteps slow,
And left the murmuring river far below.
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