Alnwick Castle, with other poem / Fitz-Greene Halleck [electronic text]

THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS,
SARATOGA.

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.