Poems (Linn)/The Old Bugle
THE OLD BUGLE.
THIS bugle summoned men to die; Deep are the dents and scars it bears,And glory seems to breathe about The faded silken cord it wears.
Its voice, that once stirred hearts to fire, Awakes no glow. Across the lake,From hill to hill and glen to glen, The silvery notes faint echoes wake.
No bayonets gleam, no guns resound; The crimson oriole gaily sings,And like a sudden flash of light Flies from the bough on whirring wings.
No gleaming phalanx sallies forth. "The color-call," the bugler said;—Gay are the notes, and in the breeze The lilac bows its crested head;
The wild rose blushes at the sound And waves its banners fresh and gay;The airy, graceful columbines Swing on their stems in bright array.
My country! Peace is in your heart. The bugle finds no answer, saveEchoes, fair blooms, the wild bird's song, And music of the lapping wave.