Charade
(Campbell.)
(Thomas Campbell, the Poet.)
Come from my First, ay, come!
For the battle hour is nigh:
And the screaming trump and thundering drum
Are calling thee to die!
Fight, as thy father fought!
Fall, as thy father fell!
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;—
So—onward—and farewell.
Toll ye my Second, toll!
Fling wide the flambeau’s light,
And sing the hymn for a parted soul
Beneath the silent night.
With the wreath upon his head,
And the cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed;—
So—take him to his rest
Call ye my Whole,—ay, call
The lord of lute and lay!
And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day!
Ay, call him by his name!
Nor fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier’s fame
On the turf of a soldier’s grave.
Winthrop Mackworth Praed.