Poems (Ford)/Death

For works with similar titles, see Death.

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DEATH.
He is marching over our mourning land,— The withering touch of his icy hand Leaves blight and ruin, none may withstand   The glare of his ghastly eye.
He tears the robes from the moaning trees, His breath is felt in each wailing breeze, With raven pinions he sweeps. the seas,   Where the tempest's arrows fly.
He casts a gloom o'er the autumn days; His skeleton fingers weave a haze ​To dim the light of the golden rays   That gleam o'er the earth's cold breast.
He is seen where war's red lightnings flash, Where roll its thunders with fearful crash, Where steeds rear madly, and sabres clash,   Where brave hearts sink to rest.
He clogs the sentinel's weary feet, While pitiless storms around him beat, As he shivering walks through snow and sleet   On the mountains drear and lone.
He sits by the camp-fire's fitful light, Where strong men sink 'neath the fever-blight, And sick hearts yearn for the welcome sight   Of far-off friends and home.
O'er marsh and mountain and hill and stream His eyes on the moving columns gleam, With a glance as cold as the moon's pale beam   On a heap of drifted snow.
Some halt by the way at his fearful call, And the fading leaves are their funeral pall, As they drop with a sound like the damp mold's fall   On a coffin dark and low.
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But not unmourned is their dreamless sleep; A grateful Nation shall o'er them weep, And ever fresh in her memory keep  The deeds of her heroes brave.
Where'er they perish, on sea or shore, By pale disease, or where cannons roar, As sacred altars forevermore  She'll honor her soldiers' graves.
1861.

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