God of the desolate-Rachael's Consoler!
Light of the universe-Nature's Controller!
Pity me, pity me! Send consolation!
Let not my heart feel this deep desolation!
He is so young and he loves me so truly-
Scourge me not, Father! so deep-so unduly!
Leave him! to lighten my life-load of sorrow!
Leave him to brighten the clouds of my morrow!
Leave him to love me when other loves fail me,
Leave him to strengthen when rude storms assail me!
Leave him-so kind, both as son and as brother;
Leave him, a future of hope to his mother!
God of all battles, speed, speed this decision!
Let us not look, as afar, at a vision!
Send to our soldiers the true men to lead them!
They have the courage, do Thou guide and speed them!
Then shall our sisters, our wives, and our mothers,
Feel that our husbands, our sons, and our brothers,
Though they may fall, are not led to the altar,
Heedless and reckless, like beasts by the halter!
Then we may feel, though their dear blood is staining
Freedom's fair banner, a country we're gaining!
Then we may look, though with eyes dim and burning,
Some day or other, their blessed returning!
Or we may see, though with eyes dim with weeping,
Freedom's bird hover in love o'er their sleeping:
Feeling, though sorrow may make our heads hoary,
They are not victims of weakness, but glory!
AT BLUE MILLS LANDING, MO.,
SEPTEMBER 17тH, '61.
THEY live to God, they live to God,
Though gone from human sight!
The good and brave, who left their homes.
To battle for the right.
To thee, O God, they still live on,
Though ceased their mortal strife;
And wait the triumph of the cause,
More dear to them than life,
In sight of men they seem to die,
And perish from the earth;
But Thou dost give them, even here,
immortal birth.
Though chastened for a little time,
Thou dost reward their pain;
To die, to suffer for the right,
Is, e'en on earth, a gain.
For to their Country still they live,
And, on her roll of fame,
Recorded shall forever stand
Each brave and honored name.
AFTER THE BATTLE OF MARIATOWN, MO.,
SEPTEMBER 17тн, '61.
By the moon's pale light, to a gazing throng
Let me tell one tale, let me sing one song;
'Tis a tale devoid of an aim or plan,
'Tis a simple song of a one-armed man.
Till this very hour I could ne'er believe
What a tell-tale thing is an empty sleeve,
What a weird, queer thing is an empty sleeve.
It tells in a silent tone, to all,
Of a country's need, and a country's call,
Of a kiss and a tear for a child and wife,
And a hurried march for a nation's life;
Till this very hour who could e'er believe
What a tell-tale thing is an empty sleeve,
What a weird, queer thing is an empty sleeve ?
It tells of a battle-field of gore
Of the sabre's clash-of the cannon's roar-
Of the deadly charge-of the bugle's note-
Of the gurgling sound in a foeman's throat-
Of the whizzing grape-of the fiery shell-
Of a scene that mimics the scenes of hell.
Till this very hour would you e'er believe
What a weird, queer thing is an empty sleeve?
Though it points to myriad wounds and scars,
Yet it tells that a flag, with the stripes and stars,
In God's own chosen time will take
Each place of the rag with the rattlesnake;
And it points to a time when that flag shall wave
O'er land where there breathes no cowering slave,
To the top of the skies let us all then heave
One proud huzza for the empty sleeve-
For the one-armed man with the empty sleeve!
SKIRMISH NEAR COLUMBUS, KY.,
SEPTEMBER 18TH, '61.
"THINK of me, dearest," the young soldier said,
As he clasped a fair maid to his resolute heart,
"It is but for a time, a very short time,
I'll come back again, never more to depart; And I'll think of you, darling, when far, far away, I march to the time of the drum and the fife, Your smiles like bright sunbeams will brighten my path Wherever I go, sweet pearl of my life.
"The war-cry is raised from the East to the West,
Our country's in danger and needs every arm,
Though terrors surround me, I'll still struggle on,
Your prayers my dear girl will shield me from harm.
Oh! how happy the dawning of that sunny morn,
That will welcome me back to friends and to thee,
With America's name still unblemished and pure,
The home of the brave and the land of the free.""
FRANCIS B. MURTHA.
MOTHER, I'VE COME HOME TO DIE.
AFTER THE CAPITULATION OF LEXINGTON, MO.,
SEPTEMBER 20тн, '61.
DEAR mother, I remember well
The parting kiss you gave to me,
When merry rang the village bell,
My heart was full of joy and glee;
1 did not dream that one short year
Would crush the hopes that soar'd so high!
Oh, mother dear, draw near to me,
Dear mother, I've come home to die.
Hark! mother, 'tis the village bell,
I can no longer with thee stay;
My country calls to arms, to arms,
The foe advance in fierce array!
The vision's past-I feel that now
For country I can only sigh;
Oh, mother dear, draw near to me,
Dear mother, I've come home to die.
Dear mother, sister, brother, all,
One parting kiss, to all good-bye;
Weep not, but clasp your hand in mine,
And let me like a soldier die!
I've met the foe upon the field
Where kindred fiercely did defy;
I fought for right. God bless the flag!
Dear mother, I've come home to die.
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