by Ω.
Originally published in The Metropolitan (James Cochrane) vol.1 #2 (Jun 1831).
Tis night's unclouded noon,
And like an orb of blood,
Ascends the tranquil moon,
Out of the ocean-flood:
Stretch'd cold along the shore
Unwaking warriors lie,
Who shall be roused no more
To victory.
Where now ambition's ray,—
The illusion they pursued!
They see it not, while they
Sleep in red solitude,
The sleep that hath no dream,
The night that hath no morn,
Festering beneath the moonlight beam
In reason's scorn.
Where are they now, with all
For which so soon they died?
The old tree green and tall
Counts ages pass'd with pride;
Runs its allotted years
In timely due decay,
Among its hoary peers
All venerably.
As if life were a thing
So light and easy won,
That a mere dry leaf's rustling
Might price its summer sun;
They fling the gift away
They never can resume,
And with a mirage foolishly
Purchase a tomb.
Go, then, ambition's race!
Go, slaves of phantom-glory!
Myriads that have no place
Not ev'n in lying story:
Except in freedom's cause
I'll game not life away:
Content with nature's law,
I'll bide my day.
Lie there! forgotten men,
Until to-morrow's dawn;—
Lie there! ye ne'er again
Can put your lives in pawn
For despot knave's dull play,
Who gave your blood for air!—
In premature decay,
Lie there, lie there!