Two warriors met by a murmuring rill,
Now tinged with a crimson hue,
Sol's last rays show but the garb of foe,
And their words are stern and few.
"Draw and defend!" and the flashing light
Springs bright from the ringing steel.
Rise not, O moon! for thy light too soon
Will a fearful scene reveal.
The stars looked down, and a boyish form,
With his brown hair dim with blood,
'Neath their brightness lay, while fast away
Life ebbed with the crimson flood.
"Mother"-the tone, with the dying moan, From his pale lips floated low
But a fount was stirred, by that voice and word, That surged to the victor's brow.
It brought the dream of his childhood back,
The dream of youth's happy day,
Of a flowery dell, where the shadows fell
On the streamlet's flashing play.
He thought of one who each sport had shared,
That boy with his mother's brow,
Whose steps had strayed from the roof tree's shade,
Where, where is that wanderer now?
Sweet thoughts of home, with its softening love,
Came swift in the twilight's hush,
And he bent him low o'er the fallen foe,
To stay the life blood's gush.
But Death was there, and the pallid lips
The smile of childhood bore;
With Crime and Pain, on the battle plain.
The brothers meet once more.
He sleepeth well, in the silent dell,
By the Cumberland's blue wave,
But the brother in vain, 'mid the fiery rain,
Hath sought for a warrior's grave!
SKIRMISH AT SHEPARDSTOWN, VA.,
SEPTEMBER 14тн, '61.
"O WOULD I were a soldier,"
Cried little Bertie Lee;
"If I were only older,
How very brave I'd be :
I'd fear not any danger,
I'd flee not from the foe,
But where the strife was fiercest
There I'd be sure to go.
"I'd be the boldest picket,
Nor fear the darkest night,
Could I but see a rebel,
How bravely I would fight.
I'd nobly do my duty,
And soon promoted be-
O, would I were a soldier,"
Sighed little Bertie Lee.
"But when I'm grown to manhood,
This war will all be o'er;
I cannot join the struggle
Our dear flag to restore.
I may not bleed for Freedom,
That glory's not for me,
My name will not be written
The hero, Herbert Lee."
Then answered Bertie's mother,
In tender, loving tone,
"My darling little Bertie,
You need not thus bemoan.
A noble strife awaits you,
'Tis even now begun,
And you may gain the victory,
If brave and true, my son.
"You are a little soldier,
A picket guard, my boy,
To ward off every evil,
That may your soul annoy.
No earthly foe need vex you;
No midnight sounds alarm-
With Jesus for your leader,
What could my darling harm?
"The noblest of all soldiers
My little son may be,
His name in heaven recorded,
The hero, Herbert Lee.
That were far higher glory
Than any earthly fame;
God grant the list 'promoted'
May bear my Bertie's name."
DYING ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.
AT BARNESTown, Md.,
SEPTEMBER, 15тп, '61.
MOTHER, mother-not another
Can thy holy place supply;
I am pining for the twining
Of thy arms, once ere I die.
Never my sorrow knew a morrow
When thy love shone on thy boy;
Tear-drops vanished-pain was banished-
Patience by thy side was joy.
Mother, mother-haste, sweet mother!
Bend beside my cot the knee;
Lift entreaty Heaven will pity;
Help me in this agony.
In the rattle of the battle
Fought I well the trait'rous foe;
O, my gleaming blade was streaming—
Loyalty sent home each blow.
Come, then, mother! there's no other
Touch like thine for my poor brow!
Lowly sighing, I am dying—
Lay thy dear hand on me now.
Mem'ry's bringing soft thy singing,
As on childhood's ear it fell;
Love most gracious-now so precious-
Hark! " HE doeth all things well."
CAPTURE OF CAMP TALBOT, MO.,
SEPTEMBER 16TH, '61.
WAITING, O Father! a fond mother waiting,
Waiting so anxious, the dark tide's abating!
Waiting all breathless, in agonized anguish,
Living by heart-throbs that spring up-then languish ;
Catching each sound that comes back from the battle,
Dark shrieks and groans and the lonely death rattle,
Imagining visions of feverish thirsting—
Hearts in their utterest lonliness bursting!
Thinking of him late the babe of her bosom,
Fair-faced and blue-eyed, love's tenderest blossom,
Dashing along 'mid the carnage around him,
Fearless as Mars 'mid the balls that surround him,
Changed as by magic, from home's tender brother,
Lovingest son both to father and mother-
Changed to a man, to a stern, noble soldier-
None in the field that is braver or bolder!
Writing: "I'm proud of the name, dearest mother!
Craven is he who would hold any other
While our loved standard of freedom's in danger,
May he forever be held as a stranger!"
Such are the words in his last noble letter!
What fifteen years that could write any better?
Now I am waiting to know if he's wounded—
Waiting to know-how my fears must be bounded:
Closed his eyes may be to sorrow and danger-
Dead he may be in the land of the stranger!
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