Mirabeau B. Lamar’s Poetry, 1


Beautiful in death
The soldier’s corse appears,
Embalmed by fond affection’s breath
And bathed in his country’s tears.

Lo, the battle forms
Its terrible array,
Like clashing clouds in mountain storms
That thunder on their way.

The rushing armies meet,
And while they pour their breath,
The strong earth trembles at their feet,
And day grows dim with death.

Now launch upon the foe
The lightnings of your rage!
Strike the assailing tyrants low,
The monsters of the age!

They yield! They break! They fly!
The victory is won!
Pursue! They faint, they fall, they die!
O stay! The work is done.

Mourn the death of those
Who for their country die,
Sink on her bosom for repose,
And triumph where they lie.

Laurels for those who bled,
The living hero’s due.
But holier wreaths will crown the dead
A grateful nation’s love!

–Mirabeau B. Lamar

One thought on “Mirabeau B. Lamar’s Poetry, 1”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s