WAITING FOR OUR SOLDIERS.
AFTER THE CAPTURE OF FORT MACON, N. C., APRIL 25TH, '62.
IN the city, in the village,
In the hamlet far away,
Sit the mothers, watching, waiting,
For their soldier-boys to-day.
They are coming-daily coming,
One by one, and score by score,
In their leaden casings folded,
Underneath the flag they bore.
Thinks the mother, weeping, waiting,
And expectant all the day,-
When his regiment was summoned
How her soldier went away;
With his bayonet a-gleaming,
With his knapsack on his back,
With his blanket strapped and folded,-
And his home-filled haversack.
Thinking of the courage swelling
In his eye and in his heart,
Though a manly tear was welling,
When he kissed her to depart.
Thinking of the precious letters
Written by the camp-fire's glow,
Rich in love of home and country,
And of her who bade him go.
Counting now the lagging moments
For the knocking at the door,
For the shuffling and the tramping
Feet of strangers on the floor;
Bringing in their precious burden,
Leaving her to grief and tears,
To the sorrow and the mourning
Darkening all the coming years.
SECOND BATTLE AT YORKTOWN, VA.,
APRIL 26TH, '61.
ALAS! the weary hours pass slow,
The night is very dark and still,
And in the marshes far below,
I hear the bearded whip-poor-will;
I scarce can see a yard ahead,
My ears are strained to catch each sound
I hear the leaves about me shed,
And the springs bubbling through the grour.
Along the beaten path I pace,
Where white rags mark my sentry's track,
In formless shrubs I seem to trace
The foeman's form, with bending back;
I think I see him crouching low-
I stop and list-I stoop and peer,
Until the neighboring hillocks grow
of soldiers far and near.
With ready piece I wait and watch,
Until my eyes familiar grown,
Detect each harmless earthen notch,
And turn guerrillas into stone:
And then amid the lonely gloom,
Beneath the tall old chestnut trees,
My silent marches I resume,
And think of other times than these.
"Halt! Who goes there?" My challenge cry,
It rings along the watchful line;
"Relief!" I hear a voice reply—
67 Advance, and give the countersign !"
With bayonet at the charge I wait—
The corporal the word doth tell,
With arms aport I charge my mate,
Then onward pass, and all is well.
But in the tent that night, awake,
I ask, if in the fray I fall,
Can I the mystic answer make
When the angelic sentries call?
And pray that Heaven may so ordain,
Where'er I go, what fate be mine,
Whether in pleasure or in pain,
I still may have my countersign.
FOUND ON THE FIELD.
AFTER THE CAPTURE OF NEW ORLEANS LA.,
APRIL 28TH., 1862.
WE shall meet, but we shall miss him,
There will be one vacant chair;
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our evening prayer.
When a year ago we gathered,
Joy was in his bright blue eye,
But a golden cord is severed,
And our hopes in ruin lie.
At our fire-side, sad and lonely,
Often will the bosom swell
At remembrance of the story,
How our noble Willie fell;
How he strove to bear our banner
Through the thickest of the fight,
And upheld our country's honor
In the strength of mankind's might.
True, they tell us wreaths of glory
Evermore will deck his brow,
But this soothes the anguish only
Weeping o'er our heart strings now.
Sleep, to-day, O early fallen,
In thy green and narrow bed,
Dirges from the pine and cypress
Mingle with the tears we shed.
BEFORE THE BATTLE OF MONTEREY, TENN.,
MAY 3D, '62.
THE parting adieus were spoken,
And he slowly arose to go;
And yet he wistfully lingered,
And I wondered what troubled him so;
For his eyes shot forth fiery glances,
And the cause of it I didn't know.
We slowly walked down to the gate,
And yet he seemed loth to depart,
He gazed on the moon and on me,
And his glance pierced mine like a dart;
And, 'tis strange, but I cannot tell why,
I felt a great flutter at my heart.
We lingered, but said not a word,
And gazed on the silvery moon,
'Till slowly it awoke in the West,
Behind the hill-tops all too soon,
And we thought and dreamed of the future,
And gazed where we had last seen the moon.
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