AFTER THE BATTLE AT RICH MOUNTAIN, VA., JULY 11TH, '61. THE pale moon looked down where the hero lay dying, Thro' the thin, shady clouds that were ling'ring by, She alone save the wind o'er the dreary plain sighing, Could hear the last prayer, could see the brave die; The conflict was past, and the vict'ry was ended, And his fond dreams of glory had vanish'd away, His brow was all pale and with gore his locks blended, On the battle-field where his wounded form lay! He thought of his home, of the scenes of his childhood, Far down in the vale where the bright waters flowOf blissful hours spent in the deep tangled wildwood, Ere his young heart was fired with ambition's glow; He thought of a voice—of a soft, flowing cadence, And "Mother," the name from his quivering lips fell, As in fancy he gazed on her tear-drops at parting, Or felt her last kiss as she breathed a farewell. He tho't of a bower, with the green woodbine clinging, A type of the love which his proud heart had won, And dark woodland path with cheerful strains ringing And soft voice combin'd with the lute's melting tone. But vain the delusion-those fairy-like fingers Will playfully twine his dark ringlets no more, Nor that voice shall he hear, tho' its music still lingers, And greets his lone ear on a far distant shore. The vict'ry was won, but his life's blood was ebbingA crimson stream flowed o'er the once flow'ry plain; His spirit once more the bright haunts seem'd treading The homestead his dim eyes could see ne'er again, His country was free-but life's taper was waning, And Death's turbid waters beat loud on his ear, Night's shadows were gone, the clear rosy morning LOUISE SMITH. AFTER THE BATTLE. THE VICTORY OF BEVERLY, VA., JULY 12TH, '61. HIGH up from the plain curled the wreathing smoke; The glimmering rays of the stars shone forth, The jackal's loud howl, and the wolf's long bay, As the orient beams of the sun stream down, A mother is wailing a dear son's doom, "O, help us, our Father, to suffer this blow! ANONYMOUS. THE MINIATURE. AT THE BATTLE OF ST. GEORGE, VA., THE moon through the rack of the driving clouds, As if nerved with despair from crag to crag And the pale stars peered through the murky gloom While some in their terror dropped through the void, And stern Mars shone forth with his bloodshot eye, And the wind with its trembling fingers smote While it struck the strings of its viewless harp But there were sights and sounds more drear by far For through that field of life, from dawn till dusk, The grim reaper Death had passed! His arm might be stiff and his sickle dull, From his crop of human grain, For the streams ran red and the meadow groaned With its weight of ghastly slain ! The rifle, mortar, and parrot gun Had belched like the fires of hell, And the sickle of Death mowed its living swath With grape and the bursting shell; And the charging squadrons thundering dashed And heaven in pity veiled her fair face, Thus from gray-eyed dawn till the dusky eve Till night, o'er the scene of carnage and woe, When the serried hosts of friend and of foe Leaving at eve ten thousand mangled dead The while thousands of wounded groaning lay And the wounded coursers plunged 'mid the dead, My blood is scorching like fire, Give me to drink from my own father's well- "Alone! alone! on the red field of fame, Dear maid, I perish afar, But still as in life, thou ever hast been, In death thou art my lone star! Dear Ella, this picture you gave ere we marched, "Tis dyed with life's crimson gore, Ella, I kiss thee, 'mid darkness of death He ceased-the brave was no more. " W. A. DEVON. |