The Dead Trumpeter

The Dead Trumpeter

Wake, soldier! - wake! - thy war-horse waits,
To bear thee so to the battle back; -
Thou slumbered at a forman's gates; -
Thy dog would break thy bivouac; -
Thy plume is trailing in the dust,
And thy red faulchion gathering rust!

Sleep, soldier! - thy warfare o'er, -
Not thine own bugle's loudest strain
Shall ever break thy slumbers more,
With summons to the battle plain;
A trumpet note more loud and deep
Must rouse thee from that leaden sleep!

Thou need'st not helm nor cuirass now,
- Beyond the Grecian hero's boast, -
Thou will not quail thy naked brow,
Nor shrink before a myriad host, -
For head and heel alike are sound,
A thousand arrows cannot wound!

Thy mother is not in thy dreams,
With that wild widow'd look she wore
The day, - how long to her it seems! -
She kissed thee at the cottage door,
And sicken'd at the sound of joy
That bore away her only boy!

Sleep, soldier! - let thy mother wait,
To hear thy bugle on the blast;
Thy dog, perhaps, may find the gate,
And bid her home to thee at last; -
He cannot tell a sadder tale
Than did thy clairon, on the gale,
When last - and far away - she heard its lingering
echoes fail!

Unattributed

1:7, p. 28

1827.04.27