THE ATTACK ON FREDERICKTOWN, MO.,
August 16th, '61.
How often we read in the news of the day
Accounts of a fight, or a skirmish, at most,
Where a few of our soldiers held thousands at bay,
Or scattered like chaff a whole rebel host.
And as onward we read the paragraph through,
Our hearts with deep fear and anxiety filled,
Though hotly contested an hour or two,
We find there were only a few soldiers killed.
Yes, "only a few "-yet how little we think
Of the desolate homes, bereft of their light-
Of the hearts that in sorrow and in misery sink,
Being robbed of their hope, their pride and delight.
How lonely and dreary those few homes now are,
Though gratitude honors the glorious dead.
Dimly indeed glory's bright star-
Their noble and high aspirations hath fled.
A few months ago filled with ardent desires,
They shouldered the musket, and bade a good bye;
That glory for which every soldier aspires
Nerved them to conquer or gloriously die.
But, oh! who can console those poor mothers now,
Those sisters, those wives, or those children so dear?
Though a bright laurel crown encircles each brow,
Their fame and their glory is dimmed with a tear.
FIRST BATTLE AT CHARLESTOWN, MO.,
AUGUST 18TH, '61.
As war's dread tones sound fierce and loud
On high plateau or river shore,
The grey and fitful rising cloud
Of battle forms a ghastly shroud
Over dark rivulets of gore.
Where are the loyal slain?—those men
Who, with patriotic aim,
Marshaled in Freedom's column, when
Black Treason rose, and from his den
Spread terror, guilt, and crimson shame.
Upon the turf, by shot and steel
Spirit-robbed, lie these loyal dead;
As each dear heart is stilled, let's feel
A stronger love for Freedom and its weal,
And cling to Hope, but not to dread.
Yes, fondly search, and mark each grave
Of these revered and gallant forms;
And from Oblivion's precincts save
The names of all the noble brave,
As patriot recollection warms.
With prouder flaunt and grander sheen,
On tower and hill, and o'er the graves
Of our loved warrior-dead, serene,
'Neath heavenly blue, above earth's green,
Our beauteous star-gemmed ensign waves!
SKIRMISH AT LADY'S FORD, Va.,
AUGUST 18TH, '61.
"A VICTORY!-a victory!"
Is flashed across the wires;
Speed, speed the news from State to State,
Light up the signal fires!
Let all the bells from all the towers
A joyous peal ring out!
We've gained a glorious victory,
And put the foe to rout!
A mother heard the chiming bells;
Her joy was mixed with pain.
"Pray God," she said, "my gallant boy
Be not among the slain."
Alas! for her! that yery hour
Outstretched in death he lay;
The color from his fair young face
Had hardly passed away.
His nerveless hand still grasped the sword
He never more might wield,
His eyes were sealed in dreamless sleep
Upon the bloody field.
The chestnut curls his mother oft
Had stroked in fondest pride, Neglected hung in clotted locks, With deepest crimson dyed.
Ah! many a mother's heart shall ache,
And bleed with anguish sore,
When tidings come of him who marched
So blithely forth to war.
Oh! sad for them-the stricken down
In manhood's early dawn-
And sadder yet for loving hearts-
God comfort them that mourn.
Yes, victory has a fearful price
Our hearts may shrink to pay,
And tears WILL mingle with the joy
That greets a glorious day.
But he who dies in Freedom's cause,
We cannot count him lost;
A battle won for truth and right
Is worth the blood it cost!
Oh! mothers! count it something gained,
That they for whom you mourn,
Bequeath fair Freedom's heritage
To millions yet unborn;
And better than a thousand years
Of base, ignoble breath,
A patriot's fragrant memory,
A hero's early death.
THE SOLDIER TO HIS BETROTHED.
BEFORE THE FIGHT AT HAWK'S NEST, Va., AUGUST 20TH, '61.
THE joys of home are dear to me,
And dearer still thou art;
But 1, my country's son must be,
She calls and we must part.
The stars upon her banner fair,
That brightly beam above,
My Mary, pure and constant there,
Are emblems of my love.
No captive in his dungeon's gloom,
E'er long'd for Freedom's light,
As I shall wish-whate'er my doom-
For my lov'd Mary's sight.
But better far that she should weep,
My absence or my fall,
Than here to sleep the coward's sleep,
Nor heed my country's call.
When in the deadly battle-field,
The Union's foes we meet;
If dying there my faith is seal'd,
My death hour will be sweet.
The soldier for his country dies,
For her his blood he gives;
But if that fate his star denies,
For thee, and love he lives.
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