My Mother! God help her! Her grief will be wild
When she hears the mad Rebels murdered her child;
But tell her 'twill be one sweet chime in my knell,
That the flag of the North now waves where I fell!
it is well, it is well, thus to die in my youth,
A martyr to freedom, and Justice, and Truth!
Farewell to earth's hopes, precious dreams of my heart,
My life's going out; but my love shall depart,
On the wings that my soul has unfurled,
Going up, soft and sweet to that beautiful world.
OH! sad is the dirge of a nation's dismay,
And bitter the tears, and dark is the day;
The Eagle hath flown from her rock-crested nest,
For her foemen have reach'd to the place of her rest.
Hark! her scream on the air raises up in affright
The tigers of war who quailed in the fight,
While an echo prolongs to each valley and dell
The key-note of sorrow-a dismal farewell.
Farewell to the hopes that cluster'd so gay,
The pennons that flaunted the breeze of that day;
Our prestige of honor-oh! who shall regain-
That lies on the fleld of the three hundred slain!
Oh, mother, look not out of thy window above-
There cometh no footstep thy welcome to prove;
Oh! wife, linger not the postman to hear-
He comes, but his news hath the mark of the bier.
Oh, daughter-oh, sister-oh, brother-oh friend-
Ye never on earth your greetings may blend;
The warm tear of love is dried on the cheek
By a thrill of the sorrow that faileth to speak.
Oh! hearts that are wrung with the tidings of woe,
How lately ye sang in the morning's fresh glow;
'Tis evening now-sad, lonely and dark-
With the howl of the wolf and the eye of the shark.
And dismal the waves that dash on the shore
With the deep groaning sound of the battle's last roar.
Who-who shall achieve one solace-one ray
To flash thro' the gloom a hope for the day?
Nay-nay, let me twine my lay with the wreath-
With asphodel brought from the regions of death;
Let me hide in the dust the Flag of my pride.
And wail to the tempests that mock and deride.
Then muffle the drum to the slow, measured tread-
To the march of the heroes who follow the dead;
Let the bugle that charged for the battle's array
Wail sad as the wind of the Winter's dark day.
Yet the dirge of the corses that sleep in their gore
Shall come as a tempest the storm to outpour—
Shall nourish to life the hopes that were fled,
And Freedom shall rise from the three hundred dead.
RALPH HOYT.
A BROTHER'S SAD FAREWELL.
AFTER THE SECOND BATTLE OF CENTREVILLE, VA., AUGUST 30TH, '62.
DARK was the night, with not a star
To guide the sentry's feet,
As backward, forward, to and fro,
He trod his weary beat.
His heart was sad-scarce yet a score
Of years had touched his brow,
And he had been a father's pride-
A mother's care 'till now.
He was the youngest of the flock,
Which once had numbered three,
But now, alas! not one was left
Beneath the old roof tree.
The violets were smiling now,
Amid the moss, that o'er
His sister's grave he planted, but
A few short months before.
And the first-born of that fair group,
Two years had been away,
A reckless wanderer, only God
Knew where his feet did stray;
And he, that beardless boy, had felt
His heart beat high and warm,
When on the Ship of State had burst
The tempest and the storm.
"She must not sink," he cried, " or if
We're powerless to save,
I'll sink with her, when she goes down
Beneath the treacherous wave!"
And he had left his home, with tears
And blessings on his brow-
That youthful sentinel, who kept
His starless vigils now.
"I'll sing," he said, "'twill help to pass
These long dark hours away, And I must keep this weary beat
Until the break of day.”
And so, with low, sweet voice, he sung
A song, which years before,
His mother taught her little band.
Before the cottage door.
And olden memories filled his heart,
And his firm cheek was wet;
He seemed to see his mother's faee-
To hear her voice, and yet-
"Halt! give the countersign," he cried,
As softly on his ear.
Fell a low footstep, and his heart
Beat high, but not with fear.
He strained his eyes through the thick gloom,
The intruder's form to see.
"I do not know the countersign,
But I am Henry Lee."
"My brother!" and he wildly clasped
The stranger's form ere long,
"I knew you Charley, when I heard
You sing our mother's song."
Words are inadequate to tell
Of that long, close embrace,
Or of the tears that fell from each
Upon the others face;
Or of the story told, when tears
Had wept their fountains dry,
And those young hearts together watched
The starless hours go by.
For they who sung the same sweet songs
Before the cottage door,
Led by a gentle mother's voice,
In happy years before,
Had met again; each pledged to what
He thought to be the right-
The pickets of contending foes,
That lonely, lonely night.
It mattered not, the angels bend,
Methinks, and lingered long,
To look upon that holy scene,
Wrought by a mother's song;
And when the shadows of the morn
Acrost the valley fell,
With sorrowing hearts, the brothers said
A tender, sad farewell.
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