Poems (Ford)/Death
For works with similar titles, see Death.
DEATH.
He is marching over our mourning land,—
The withering touch of his icy hand
Leaves blight and ruin, none may withstand
The glare of his ghastly eye.
The withering touch of his icy hand
Leaves blight and ruin, none may withstand
The glare of his ghastly eye.
He tears the robes from the moaning trees,
His breath is felt in each wailing breeze,
With raven pinions he sweeps. the seas,
Where the tempest's arrows fly.
His breath is felt in each wailing breeze,
With raven pinions he sweeps. the seas,
Where the tempest's arrows fly.
He casts a gloom o'er the autumn days;
His skeleton fingers weave a haze
To dim the light of the golden rays
That gleam o'er the earth's cold breast.
His skeleton fingers weave a haze
To dim the light of the golden rays
That gleam o'er the earth's cold breast.
He is seen where war's red lightnings flash,
Where roll its thunders with fearful crash,
Where steeds rear madly, and sabres clash,
Where brave hearts sink to rest.
Where roll its thunders with fearful crash,
Where steeds rear madly, and sabres clash,
Where brave hearts sink to rest.
He clogs the sentinel's weary feet,
While pitiless storms around him beat,
As he shivering walks through snow and sleet
On the mountains drear and lone.
While pitiless storms around him beat,
As he shivering walks through snow and sleet
On the mountains drear and lone.
He sits by the camp-fire's fitful light,
Where strong men sink 'neath the fever-blight,
And sick hearts yearn for the welcome sight
Of far-off friends and home.
Where strong men sink 'neath the fever-blight,
And sick hearts yearn for the welcome sight
Of far-off friends and home.
O'er marsh and mountain and hill and stream
His eyes on the moving columns gleam,
With a glance as cold as the moon's pale beam
On a heap of drifted snow.
His eyes on the moving columns gleam,
With a glance as cold as the moon's pale beam
On a heap of drifted snow.
Some halt by the way at his fearful call,
And the fading leaves are their funeral pall,
As they drop with a sound like the damp mold's fall
On a coffin dark and low.
And the fading leaves are their funeral pall,
As they drop with a sound like the damp mold's fall
On a coffin dark and low.
But not unmourned is their dreamless sleep;
A grateful Nation shall o'er them weep,
And ever fresh in her memory keep
The deeds of her heroes brave.
A grateful Nation shall o'er them weep,
And ever fresh in her memory keep
The deeds of her heroes brave.
Where'er they perish, on sea or shore,
By pale disease, or where cannons roar,
As sacred altars forevermore
She'll honor her soldiers' graves.
By pale disease, or where cannons roar,
As sacred altars forevermore
She'll honor her soldiers' graves.
1861.