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Letitia Elizabeth Landon - The Soldier`s Funeral
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The muffled drum rolled on the air,
Warriors, with stately step, were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turned to the ground;
Solemn, the sound of their measured tread,
As silent and slow, they followed the dead.

The riderless horse was led in the rear;
There were white plumes waving over the bier;
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For, it was a soldier`s funeral.

That soldier had stood on the battle plain,
Where every step was over the slain;
But the brand and the ball had passed him by,
And he came to his native land, to die.

`Twas hard to come to that native land,
And not clasp one familiar hand;
`Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead,
Before he could hear his welcome said.

But, `twas something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore;
To think, that the friends of his youth might weep,
O`er the green grass turf of the soldier`s sleep.

The bugles ceased their wailing sound,
As the coffin was lowered into the ground;
A volley was fired, a blessing said,
One moment`s pause, and they left the dead.

I saw a poor and aged man —
His step was feeble, his cheek was wan;
He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bowed on the cold damp ground;
He raised his head, his tears were done —
The father had prayed o`er his only son.
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