The Soldier Poem by Robert Anderson

........Under an aged thorn,
Whose wither'd branches Time had stripp'd of leaves,
Save just enough to shew it yet had life,
And vied with him in years, he shiv'ring stood,
Half shelter'd from the cold and beating rain;
But from keen want and all its wretchedness,
The taunt of Pride and Poverty's rude storms,
He seem'd, alas! no shelter to expect.

A crutch supported the remaining part
Of a spare body, cover'd half with weeds,
Of coarsest texture mix'd. His shoulders bore
The patched remnant which himself had worn
Full oft on blood--stain'd fields. One piece was left,
That told the passing stranger how he stood
At the dread hour, when Carnage loud was heard,
And all around him bleeding victims lay.

As I approach'd, he bow'd; and, with a look
That seem'd to say, `I am indeed sincere,'
A story then began, half mix'd with sighs,
That might have pierc'd a ``heart flint to the core''--
For his, alas! it felt too much to feign.

When suffering Virtue craves our friendly aid,
'Tis in a tone of supplication meek,
That, in the pensive wand'rer's woe--fraught breast,
Still finds a friend, and makes the beating heart
At once dictator to the bounteous hand.

Thus in my course arrested by the tale
That's oft--times told, and told full oft in vain,
Attentive long, with silent awe, I heard,
How, in his youthful days, he vainly strove,
In filial tenderness, to heal the woes
That laid an aged parent in the dust.
Here did his sorrows seem to bleed afresh--
'Twas Nature bade his tear--swoln eyes to weep.
Then, feebly pointing to the distant hill,
He mark'd the spot where once his cottage stood,
Where he had spent life's spring, and, with the lark,
Oft hail'd the day, as forth he led his team,
With Poverty hard struggling. From the hour
Which gave him birth, he knew not Fortune's smiles,
Nor Pleasure's giddy round--the pomp of courts,
Where wild Ambition dwells; nor did he dream
That busy Care oft haunts the monarch's breast,
And Guilt attends the haughty son of pride.
Yet, tho' his flocks were few, and few his fields,
Tho' waving Plenty ne'er had crown'd his toil,
He might, with rural Innocence and Peace,
Such joys have tasted in his humble state,
As Grandeur seldom knows, had not the maid,
Whose fancied charms first fir'd his artless breast,
Whom love had call'd his own, now prov'd as false
As youthful Fancy once had thought her fair.
Despairingly he left his native meads,
The rural scene of many a youthful sport,
The seat of Industry and blooming Health,
Where his forefathers dwelt, to Pride unknown,
Won by the hero's name, discordant sounds,
And all the false appendages of war.
Now he began to tell of storming towns,
Of peaceful villages laid desolate;
How many a merry comrade bravely fell;
And would again have fought each battle o'er,
Calling each wound to witness what he said.
All this the poor sustainer might have sav'd,
With many a painful sigh; for, to my ear,
Nought half so grating as the horrid tales
Of battles, sieges, and fair towns destroy'd,
With thousands falling at a tyrant's nod,
Who heeds no widow's sigh, no orphan's moan,
But glides thro' life 'twixt Luxury and Guilt.

Grown weary with his plain--told woes and sighs,
I left this houseless wand'rer; whilst a tear,
That started at the sight of his grey hairs,
And face grief--worn, that Time had furrow'd o'er,
With half--bent body, sloping to the grave,
Told me, as on I mus'd, this son of Want
Was brother to Ambition's splendid train,
For whom he fought and bled: then did I wish,
For once, that Fortune had to me been kind;
Then did I envy scornful Pride his wealth;
For, to the feeling heart, what joy so great,
As when it shares a woe--worn brother's cares,
And, sympathizing, softens his distress!

O ye, who feel not Poverty's keen gripe,
But loll with Luxury on beds of down;
While the poor warrior, on the sun--burnt heath,
Or frozen plain, in sleepless anguish lies;
Think, think of him, the victim of your ease;
And when he 'scapes the gore--stain'd field, where Death,
So oft a friend, the hero frees from pain,
Attentive hear the wounded wand'rer's tale,
Nor mock with scorn his honourable scars,
But let Compassion pour soft Pity's balm
Into the wounds, which only Death can cure.