The Kentucky Gazette

SACRED TO THE MUSES.

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.

THE sun was just retir'd, the dews of eve
Their glow-worm lustre scatter'd o'er the vale
The lonely nightingale began to grieve,
Telling, with many a pause her tender'st tale.
No clamor loud disturb'd the pensive hour,
And the young moon yet fearful of the night,
Rear'd her pale crescent o'er the burnish'd tow'r.
That caught the parting orb's still lingering light.

Twas then where peasant footsteps mark the way
A wounded soldier feebly mov'd along,
Nor aught regarded he the softening ray
Nor the melodious bird's expressive song.
On crutches borne, his mangled limbs he drew,
Unsightly remnant of the battle's rage :
While pity in his youthful form might view,
A helpless prematurity of age.

Then as with strange contortions, labouring slow,
He gain'd the summit of his native hill,
And saw the well-known prospect spread below,
The farm, the cot, the hamlet and the mill.
In spite of fortitude, one struggling sigh,
Shook the firm texture of his tortur'd heart:
And from his hollow and dejected eye
One trembling tear stood ready to depart.

How chang'd, he cry'd, is this fair scene to me,
Since last across the narrow path I went,
The soaring lark felt not superior glee,
Nor any human breast more true content.
When the fresh hay was o'er the meadow thrown,
Amidst the busy throng I still appear'd;-
My prowess too at harvest time was shewn,
While Lucy's carrol ev'ry labor cheer'd.

The burning rays I scarcely seem'd to feel,
If the dear maiden near me chanc'd to rove;
Or if she deign'd to share my frugal meal,
It was a rich repast-a feast of love.
And when at ev'ning, with a rustic's pride,
I dar'd the sturdiest wrestlers on the green,
What joy was mine! to hear her at my side,
Extol my vigor and my manly mein.

Ah! now no more the prightly lass shall run,
To bid me welcome from the sultry plain;
But her averted eye my sight shall shun,
And all our cherish'd fondest hopes be vain.
Alas! my parents, must ye too endure,
That I should ever gloom your honest mirth,
Exist upon the pittance ye procure,
And make ye curse the hour that gave me birth?

O! hapless day, when at a neigh'bring wake,
The gaudy sergeant caught my wond'ring eye,
And as his tongue of war and honor spake,
I felt a wish-to conquer or to die.
Then, while he bound the ribbands on my brow,
He talk'd of captains kind, and gen'rals good,
Said a whole nation would my fame avow,
And bounty call'd the purchase of my blood.

Yet I refus'd the bounty--I disdain'd
To sell my service in a righteous cause—
And such to my dull sense was then explain'd,
The cause of monarchs, justice and the laws.
The rattling drums beat loud, the fifes began,
My native country seem'd to ask my aid;
Thro' every vein my thrilling ardor ran,
I left my humble cot-my village maid.

O hapless day! torn from my Lucy's charms,
I thence was hurry'd to a scene of strife,
To painful marches and the din of arms,
The wreck of reason and the waste of life.
In loathsome vessels now with crowds confin'd,
Now led with haste to slaughter in the field,
Now backward driv'n, like leaves before the wind
Too weak to stand, and yet asham'd to yield.

Till oft' repeated victories inspir'd
with tenfold fury the indignant foe:
Who ruthless still advanc'd as we retir'd,
And laid our boasted proudest honors low.
Thro' frozen deserts then compell'd to fly,
Our bravest legions moulder fast away,
Thousands of wounds and sickness left to die,
While hov'ring ravens mark'em for their prey.

Unequal contest--at fair freedom's call
The lowliest hind glows with celestial fire--
She rules, directs, pervades, and conquers all
And armies at her sacred glance expire.
Then be this warfare of the world accurs'd—
The son now weeps not on the father's bier,
But grey-hair'd age (for nature is revers'd)
Drops o'er his childrens' grave an icy tear.

Thus having spoke-by varying passions tost,
He reach'd the threshold of his parent's shed.
who knew not of his death, yet mourn'd him lost,
Amidst the number of the un-nam'd dead.
Soon as they heard his well remember'd voice.
A ray of rapture chas'd habitual care :
"Our Henry lives, we may again rejoice!"
And Lucy sweetly blush'd, for she was there.

But when he enter'd in such horrid guise,
His mother shriek'd and dropp'd upon the floor;
His father look'd to heav'n with streaming eyes,
And Lucy sunk-alas! to rise no more.
O may this tale, which agony must close,
Give deep contrition to the self call'd great;
And shew the poor how hard the lot of those,
Who shed their blood for miseries so great.

What's the perspective that our nature gives?
A dreary wild of misery and death :