29 9oetrp. 0

Not on the Battle Field,

BY JOHN PIERPoNT.
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sTo fall on the battle field fighting for my , dear country--that would not be hard

 The .Neightors. o NO, no,-lct me lie : Not on the field of battle, when dle! Let not the iron tread Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head : Nor let the reeking knife, That have drawn against brothers life, Be in my hand when Death sThunders along, and tramples me beneath & His heavy squadrons' heels, Or gory felloes of his cannons' wheels. From such dying bed Tho OCT it float the stripes ofwhlte and red' And the bald Eagle brings The clustered stars upon her widespread

 wings, : To sparkle in my sight. o, never let my spisit take her flight

 know that Bcauty's eye Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly. And brazen helme Is dance, And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance

 know that bards have sung, And people shouted till the welkln run5'

 In honor of the brave Who on the battlefield have found grave; know that OCT their bones Have grateful hands piled monumenta! stones Some of these piles I've seen; The one at Lexington, upon the green

 Where the first blood was shed That to my counlry's independence led;

 And others, on our shore, The Battle Monument" at Baltimore,

 And that on Buakers Hill. Av. and abroad, a few more ia nous sill

 Thy Tomb" Themistoeles' That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,

 And which the waters kiss That issue from the gulfof Salams.

 And thine, too, have seen, Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green, That, like natural knoll. Sheep climb and nimbe over. as they stroll, Watched by some tutband boy, Upon the margin oi the plain of Troy.

 Such honors grace the bed, know, whereon the warrior lays his head And here as life ebbs out. The conquered flying, and the eonqneror's

 shout.

 But, as his eyes grow dim, What IS column or mound to him:

 What to the parting soul. The mellow note of bugles? What the roll

 Of drums? No let me die Where the blue heaven bends OCT me lovingly And the soft summer air, As i, goes by me, stirs my thin white hair'

 And from my forehead dries The death damp as it gathers, and the skies

 Seem waiting to receive My soul to their clear depth! Or let me leave The world, when round my bed Wife, children, weeping friends are gathered And the calm voice of prayer And holy hymnng shall my soul prepare

 To go and be at rest. With kindred spirits spirits who have blessed The human brotherhood By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

 And in my dying hour, When riches, fame, and honor have no power To bear the spirit up, Or from my lips to turn aside the cup

 That all must drink at last, o, let inc draw refrsshment from the past

 Then let my soul run back With peace and joy, along my earthly track, And see that all the seeds, That have scattered there, in vrtuous deeds Have sprung up, and have given, Already, fruits of which to taste is heaven!

 And though no grassy mound Orgraphc pile say 'tis heroic ground

 Where my remains repose. Still will I hope-vain hope, perhaps! tha Whom have striven to bless, - The wandsrer reclaimed, the fatherless,

 May stand around my grave, With the poor prisoner, and the poorer slave,

 And breath an humble prayer, That they may die like f.im whose bones are

 mouldsring there. %A fellow remarked to friend on' day that he should certainly go 10 heaven.