"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, 15TH, '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!
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 17TH, ’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,
A new, 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.
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