Thinks the mother, weeping, wailing,
And expectant all the day-
When his regiment was summoned,
How her soldier went away;
With his bayonet a-gleaming,
With his knapsack on his back,
With his blanket strapped and folded-
And his home-filled haversack.
Thinking of the courage swelling,
In his eye and in his heart,
Though a manly tear was rolling,
When he kissed her to depart;
Thinking of his precious letters
Written by the Camp-fires glow,
Rich in love of home and country,
And for her who made him go.
Counting now the lagging moments
For the knocking at the door;
For the shuffling and the tramping
Feet of strangers on the floor;
Bringing in their precious burden,
Leaving her to grief and tears;
To the sorrow and the mourning,
Darkening all the coming years.
GOD of Heaven, kind and mighty,
Thou who gave us Liberty;
Still watch o'er us as thy People,
And sustain us ever free;
Oh, preserve the Constitution,
And intact the Union keep,
Sacred as the soil where lieth
Washington in tranquil sleep!
Lord of Hosts, whose grace endureth,
Thro' all time, forever more,
Let Thy wisdom guide our nation
Safely thro' the gloom of war;
Let Thy glory be our glory,
And thy might our power be,
To preserve our hope-the Union,
And our Birthright-Liberty!
FIGHT AT LUCAS' BEND, KY.,
SEPTEMBER 26TH, '61.
"How hot the night! Its stifling breath
Seems charged with pestilential death;
The drowsy night winds scarcely stir
The plumy tassels of the fir.
Scarce flaps the curtains of my tent,
Thro' whose loop'd folds the firmament
With all its soft, celestial light
Shines on my feverish sense to-night.
Here in my tent I lie at last,
While life's dull surge is ebbing fast,
This is the ending of the dream
That lured me with its pageant gleam;
Touch'd my young spirit with the flame
Of glory and immortal fame.
Yet I repine not. It was sweet
That onward march thro' square and street; The rolling of the war-like drum;
The shout of multitudes--the hum
Of crowds-the flaunt of banners gay,
While votive garlands strew'd the way;
All this was glorious-yet I mourn
I ne'er as victor may return."
""Tis well nigh o'er! The damps I feel
Of death upon my senses steal;
Scarce can my fading, glazing eye
The tent, the flag, the heavens descry,
And yet o'er fancy's mystic glass
Old scenes in long procession pass;
Friends, father, mother, kindred bend
Above me, drawing to my end!
Was it the whisper of the breeze.
That sobb'd and shivered o'er the trees,
That stirr'd the flapping tent but now,
And seem'd to breathe upon my brow?
Or rather was it not the sigh
Of home, that whispered, fluttering by?
O! mother, give one last caress,
Bend o'er these pallid lips to press;
I know the fervor of thy love,
Come, then, like angel from above;
Yield one embrace, one parting prayer,
To waft my spirit thro' the air.
A vain delusion! Far away
In Northern lands my brethren play ;
Full many a long mile lies between
My kindred and this final scene;
I know that never more may fall
My footsteps in my father's hall !"
He died-then Carolina's grave
Closed o'er the ashes of the brave.
His comrades bore him to his rest,
While battle-flags drooped o'er his breast,
The muffled drum its requiem paid,
"Dust unto dust," the Chaplain said,
The volleying shot above him rose,
And the dead slumber'd in repose.
BATTLE AT FALLS CHURCH, VA.,
SEPTEMBER 29TH, '61.
The day is passed with its march or drill,"
And the soldiers, tired of their lot in life,
Have gathered together, rare castles to build
Of the times, when peace shall finish the strife;
Their sunburnt and bearded faces glow
Hard and unmoved by the camp-fires bright; They seem to be proof against hardships and woe, And their hearts to be callous to love and light.
But, hark! they hear some familiar sound,
And quickly they hush the loud laugh and jest; And yonder group drop their cards to the ground. And their pipes from their mouths to turn and list, The mail has come! and quick to his feet
The strong man springs like an eager child; Is there naught for me? yes, here it is; sweet And cheering almost, as an old friend's smile.
But his smiles soon turn to groans, alas!
As he reads that his loved one is ending her life, And vainly calling for him to the last,
And he murmurs, "O God! help the soldier's wife.” Near by stands one, reading, his face all aglow,
Loving words from his own brave, true little wife; There a boy, scarce twenty, whose unbidden tears flow, At his mother's warm prayers, for his welfare and life.
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