SEA SPRAY &> SMOKE DRIFT 



Are the dews of battle, shed on the field, 



By a nation's wrath or a despot's pride ; 

 But few who have heard their death-knell roll. 

 From the cannon's lips where they faced 

 the foe, 

 Have fallen as stout and steady of soul. 

 As that dead man gone where we all 

 must go. 



Traverse yon spacious burial-ground. 



Many are sleeping soundly there, 

 Who pass'd with mourners standing around, 



Kindred, and friends, and children fair ; 

 Did he envy such ending ? 'twere hard to say ; 



Had he cause to envy such ending ? no ; 

 Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay. 



When it once has gone where we all 

 must go ? 



What matters the sand or the whitening chalk, 

 The blighted herbage, the black'ning log, 



The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk. 



Or the hot, red tongue of the native dog ? 



That couch was rugged, those sextons rude, 

 Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know 



lO 



