AFTER THE REBEL ATTACK AT DENT CO., MO.,
SEPTEMBER 1st, '61.
He died before he had reached the field,
When the battle cry was sounding,
His dear young life he must sadly yield,
With his comrades in camp surrounding;
'Oh! had he lived" is the mournful cry
Of the weeping mother that bore him,
"Had he lived on some stricken field to die,
Less sad would our grief be o'er him.”
Not what is done but the wish and the will,
Not the power but the heart of daring,
These make our pride when the dead lie still,
And our heaviest grief we're bearing;
He gave to his country the hopes of youth,
And he sleeps all darkly and lonely,
But our lov'd soldier boy has died for the truth,
And his patriot grave is holy.
When the strife is o'er in some future year,
And our nation's light is breaking,
Our soldier boys will be doubly dear,
Those who died when the land was waking; Let sweet roses bloom o'er his fair young head, And his tomb be honor'd in story,
For not one of the patriot army is dead,
But has part in the nation's glory.
AT THE FIGHT AT BOONE COURT HOUSE, VA.,
SEPTEMBER 1st, '61.
THE earliest ray of morn had brought
The din of arms to many an ear,
And many a life was quickly bought
And fitted for the narrow bier.
For hours the flash of muskets gleamed
Along our ranks, from line to line-
For hours our shining bayonets beamed
Like shifting spray upon the brine.
The day that flushed the summer sky
At length had faded into night,
And many a star had risen high
And dropp'd on earth its rays of light;
The pale moon rose above the hills,
And coldly smiled upon the plain-
Its rays were riding on each rill,
And resting on each battle-slain.
But one whose brow was young with years, Lies where the moonbeams kiss his brow! Oh! ye who never shed warm tears,
Come gaze-and shed them now.
See where the bullet pierced him through,
And laid him in the pool of gore!
Upon his brow the pearly dew
Of life will settle there no more.
This lad, he left his vine-clad hills
To seek the treacherous battle-plain,
Where flows the blood like mountain rills
From many a stalwart hero slain!
He was the first within the 'fray,
The dash, the charge, or fight,
But now his brow of marble clay
In death is ashy, cold and white.
Alas! that cruel death should take
The life that filled his noble breast.
And sad that such a heart should break
To take its last and only rest.
When parents watch for his return,
His vine-clad hills among,
O! how their hearts will beat and burn
To learn that he will ne'er come home.
Alas! I wonder if that heart will break
Within his aged mother's breast,
When she shall learn her son's sad fate,
And where he takes his lonely rest?
Alas! for her, the gentle maid,
Who lonely waits his fond return!
She soon shall know that 'neath the shade,
The pine tree is her lover's urn.
THE FIRST APPEAL FOR A NATIONAL LOAN.
AMERICA dear Native Land,
I love thee tenderly and true;
My heart clings to thy verdant strand,
And pines without thy sky of blue ;
Thy hills and vales, and woods and brakes,
Thy falls and rivers, springs and lakes,
Within my heart pure rapture wakes,
And life with new-born joys endue!
Thou art the work of God's own hand,
Sweet home of peace and rest,
I love thee, oh, my Native Land,
Of all the world the best !
America! dear Native Clime,
My very soul exalts in thee,
When I peruse the Book of Time,
And trace therein thy history;
The deeds of sire and of son,
The battles fought, the triumphs won,
The power gained, ere thou had'st run
That round of time-one century!
Which is the work of God's own hand,
Sweet home of peace and rest;
I love thee, oh, my Native Land,
Of all the world the best!
America! dear Natal Place,
Thy glory is my greatest pride;
Thy arm enwraps the human race,
And o'er its destinies preside;
Where e'er man's vent'rous foot may wend,
There thine influence doth extend,
And with the foes of Right contend,
And Despots galling chain divide!
Such is the work of God's own hand,
Sweet home of peace and rest,
I love thee, oh! my Native Land,
Of all the world the best!
America! dear Place of Birth,
I turn from all the world to thee,
There is no other spot on earth,
Where feels my soul that it is free;
Thy beauty is my heart's delight,
Thy power is my manhood's might,
Thy glory is the whole world's light,
A Nation's hallow'd Trinity!
All is the work of God's own hand,
Sweet home of peace and rest;
I love thee, oh, my Native Land,
Of all the world the best.
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