AT THE FIRST BATTLE OF FREDERICKSBURG,
O'ER all the fields, o'er all the plain
In serried ranks they come :
With martial music's stirring strains,
With bugle blast and tap of drum.
And now in columns long and straight
And glittering in the sun,
A hundred thousand arms await,
The fearful charge- the watchword, "on."
At length resounding o'er the throng,
In peeling tones from post to post-
On the morning air 'tis borne along,
The signal to this gallant host.
The trumpet call-the hurrying feet-
The neighing steed-the clashing shield;
Then face to face in death they meet,
More proud to die, than basely yield.
One beardless cheek, one youthful form
With 'kerchief wipes a tear away—
He cares not for the battle's storm,
Nor fears to meet yon proud array,
But away beside the granite steep,
With tottering steps, by age bowed down,
An anxious mother waits and weeps,
For him, her last-her only one.
Ah! who shall tell the mournful tale,
How sank he on that bloody plain,
How fought-how fell-amidst the wail
Of wounded, and of dying men.
In whispers lowly breathe his name,
Call up no more the battle's fray,
The last link of an honored name
Sleeps where ten thousand heroes lay.
HE HATH SOUNDED FORTH THE TRUMPET.
BATTLE OF CAMDEN, N. C.,
APRIL 19TH, '62.
I HAVE read a fiery gospel,
Writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners,
So with you my grace shall deal;
Let the hero born of woman,
Crush the serpent with his heel."
He hath sounded forth the trumpet,
That shall never call, retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men
Before His judgment seat;
Oh, be swift to give Him answer!
And be jubilant, my feet!
In the beauty of the lilies,
Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom,
That transfigures you and me :
As He died to make men holy,
Let us die to keep men free!
HE WOULD NOT SAY GOOD-BYE.
BEFORE THE BATTLE OF PARATTA, N. M.,
APRIL 23D, '62.
I'm looking at the misty wreaths,
As they gather all around,
And touch with fairy finger
Every bramble on the ground;
Shedding halos light and airy,
Round the dancing, dewy leaves,
And bringing objects nearer,
By the mystic web it weaves,
And I'm thinking, softly thinking,
And not without a sigh,
Of the time he said "Good morning,
I will not say good-bye."
I am looking at the mist-wreaths,
And they seem to thicker grow,
And circle round the tree-tops,
With a motion sad and slow,
As if some spirit bade them press
The earth still closer in,
And cover with their sweetness
Every trace of mortal sin;
And I'm thinking, softly thinking
Of the happy days gone by,
Of the time he said, Good morning,
I will not say good-bye."
Still I'm looking at the mist-wreaths,
Bright spirits of the air!
In their gossamer apparel,
How they flutter everywhere,
And I'm thinking should his country
Take the sacrifice he gave,
I should like the mist to wreath like this
Above his lonely grave,
And bring whispers from his spirit,
From out the starry sky,
To the one who said "good morning,"
But would not say "good-bye.”
CAPTURE OF FORTS JACKSON AND ST. PHILIP, FLA.,
APRIL 24TH, '62.
I DID not dream, when last I said farewell to thee,
I should not look upon thy face again;
That thou so soon would'st lay thine armor by,
And slumber 'neath a Western sky,
On that dark and bloody plain.
I gazed upon thy proud and manly form,
And joyed to think thy heart was true;
Though born beneath a Southern sky,
I knew that sooner thou would'st die
Than tarnish thy fair name.
And I who loved thee, oh, far more than life!
And naught beside to which my heart could cling, Sent thee, with blessings forth, to deadly strife, Ere scarce thy lips had whispered—wife,
They breathed a sad farewell.
Could I have sat by thee and bathed thy noble brow,
When the dark angel came for thee;
Have pillowed thy dear head upon my breast,
And fondly thy dear lips have pressed,
I could have borne it well.
And yet I'd rather be thy widowed bride,
Than aught earth now could give to me.
Honored in life, and thy dear name
Is numbered with the gallant slain,
That nobly fought and died.
My heart is heavy with its great and bitter grief,
Since I no more can welcome thee.
Alone life's dreary round I now must tread,
Unknowing where thy cherished head
Rests in its lowly grave!
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