The Field Of The Grounded Arms
by Fitz-Greene Halleck�(1790�1867) |
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STRANGERS! your eyes are on that valley fixed
Intently, as we gaze on vacancy,
When the mind's wings
overspread
The spirit-world of dreams.
True, 'tis
a scene of loveliness�the bright
Green dwelling of the
summer's first-born Hours,
Whose wakened leaf and bud
Are welcoming the morn.
And morn returns the welcome,
sun and cloud
Smile on the green earth from their home in
heaven,
Even as a mother smiles
Above her cradled boy,
And wreath their light and shade o'er plain and
mountain,
O'er sleepless seas of grass whose waves are
flowers,
The rivers' golden shores,
The forests of
dark pines.
The song of the wild bird is on the wind,
The hum of the wild bee, the music wild
Of waves upon the
bank,
Of leaves upon the bough.
But all is song
and beauty in the land,
Beneath her skies of June; then
journey on,
A thousand scenes like this
Will greet you
ere the eve.
Ye linger yet�ye see not, hear not now
The sunny smile, the music of to-day,
Your thoughts are
wandering up
Far up the stream of time;
And
boyhood's lore and fireside listened tales
Are rushing on
your memories, as ye breathe
That valley's storied name,
FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS.
Strangers no more, a
kindred 'pride of place,'
Pride in the gift of country
and of name
Speaks in your eye and step�
Ye tread your
native land.
And your high thoughts are on her
glory's day,
The solemn Sabbath of the week of battle,
Whose tempests bowed to earth
Her foeman's banner here.
The forest leaves lay scattered cold and dead,
Upon
the withered grass that autumn morn,
When, with as
withered hearts
And hopes as dead and cold,
A
gallant army formed their last array
Upon that field, in
silence and deep gloom,
And at their conqueror's feet
Laid their war-weapons down.
Sullen and stern,
disarmed but not dishonoured;
Brave men, but brave in
vain, they yielded there:
The soldier's trial task
Is
not alone 'to die.'
Honour to chivalry! the
conqueror's breath
Stains not the ermine of his foeman's
fame,
Nor mocks his captive's doom�
The bitterest cup
of war.
But be that bitterest cup the doom of all
Whose swords are lightning flashes in the cloud
Of the
Invader's wrath,
Threatening a gallant land.
His
armies' trumpet-tones wake not alone
Her slumbering
echoes; from a thousand hills
Her answering voices shout,
And her bells ring to arms!
Then danger hovers oer
the Invader's March,
On raven wings, hushing the song of
fame,
And glory's hues of beauty
Fade from the check
of death.
A foe is heard in every rustling leaf,
A
fortress seen, in every rock and tree,
The eagle eye of
art
Is dim and power-less then,
And war becomes a
people's joy, the drum
Man's merriest music, and the
field of death
His couch of happy dreams,
After life's
harvest home.
He battles heart and arm, his own blue
sky
Above him, and his own green land around,
Land of
his father's grave,
His blessing and his prayers,
Land where he learnt to lisp a mother's name,
The first
beloved in life, the last forgot,
Land of his frolic
youth,
Land of his bridal eve,
Land of his
children,�vain your columned strength
Invaders! vain your
battles' steel and fire!
Choose ye the morrow's doom,�
A prison or a grave.
And such were Saratoga's
victors�such
The Yeomen-Brave, whose deeds and death have
given
A glory to her skies,
A music to her name.
In honourable life her fields they trod,
In
honourable death they sleep below;
Their sons' proud
feelings here
Their noblest monuments. |
By Fitz-Greene Halleck�(1790�1867)
Listed March 28, 2015 |
About the British Army
surrender to American forces, who "grounded" their
arms,
ending the Battle of Saratoga on October 17, 1777 during the
American
Revolutionary War. |
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