Morning After a Battle

Who thinks of battle now? The stirring sounds
Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds
On this sad, still, and melancholy morn,
As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn
Came dancing on the winds, and peal'd to heaven,
In gone-by hours, before the battle even?
The very horses move with halting pace;
No more they heave their manes with fiery grace,
With plunge, and reach, and step that leaves no trace;
No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling
Their light hoofs on the air. The bugles sing,
And yet the meteor mane and rolling eye
Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy;
No more their housings blaze, no more the gold
Or purple flashes from the opening fold;
No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride
Of changing hues; all, all, is crimson-dyed.
They move with slow, far step; they hear the tread
That measures out the tombing of the dead;
The cannon speaks, but now no longer rolls
In heavy thunders to the answering poles;
But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies,
At breathless intervals, along the skies,
As if some viewless sentinel were there
Whose challenge peals at midnight through the air
Each sullen steed goes on, nor heeds its roar,
Nor pauses when its voice is heard no more;
But snuffs the tainted breeze, and lifts his head,
And slowly wheeling, with a cautious tread,
Shuns, as in reverence, the mighty dead
Or, rearing suddenly, with flashing eye,
Where some young war-horse lies, he passes by;
Then, with unequal step, he smites the ground,
Utters a startling neigh, and gazes round,
And wonders that he hears no answering sound.
This, while his rider can go by the bier
Of slaughter'd men, and never drop a tear;
And only, when he meets a comrade there,
Stretch'd calmly out, with brow and bosom bare,
And stiffen'd hand uplifted in the air —
With lip still curl'd, and open, glassy eye,
Fix'd on the pageant that is passing by —
And only then — in decency will ride
Less stately in his strength, less lordly in his pride.