Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.

IV. Peace

Not on the Battle-Field

John Pierpont (1785–1866)

“To fall on the battle-field fighting for my dear country,—that would not be hard.”—The Neighbors.

O NO, no,—let me lie

Not on a field of battle when I die!

Let not the iron tread

Of the mad war-horse crush my helmèd head;

Nor let the reeking knife,

That I have drawn against a brother’s life,

Be in my hand when Death

Thunders along, and tramples me beneath

His heavy squadron’s heels,

Or gory felloes of his cannon’s wheels.

From such a dying bed,

Though o’er it float the stripes of white and red,

And the bald eagle brings

The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings

To sparkle in my sight,

O, never let my spirit take her flight!

I know that beauty’s eye

Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly,

And brazen helmets dance,

And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance;

I know that bards have sung,

And people shouted till the welkin rung,

In honor of the brave

Who on the battle-field have found a grave;

I know that o’er their bones

How grateful hands piled monumental stones.

Some of those piles I ’ve seen:

The one at Lexington upon the green

Where the first blood was shed,

And to my country’s independence led;

And others, on our shore,

The “Battle Monument” at Baltimore,

And that on Bunker’s Hill.

Ay, and abroad, a few more famous still;

Thy “tomb,” Themistocles,

That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,

And which the waters kiss

That issue from the gulf of Salamis.

And thine, too, have I seen,

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,

That, like a natural knoll,

Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,

Watched by some turbaned boy,

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,

And hears, as life ebbs out,

The conquered flying, and the conqueror’s shout;

But as his eye grows dim,

What is a column or a 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 o’er me lovingly,

And the soft summer air,

As it 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 depths! Or let me leave

The world when round my bed

Wife, children, weeping friends are gatherèd,

And the calm voice of prayer

And holy hymning 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.