AFTER THE CAPTURE OF FORT PULASKI, S. C.,
APRIL 12TH, '62.
He died-the noble volunteer-at morn,
By sickness faded-by sorrow worn;
A smile still plays on his pale lips,
But his eyes are darkened in death's eclipse;
His beautiful hair still shines like gold,
But the heart is still, and the form is cold; For an angel hand has softly borne
The soldier away to a brighter morn.
Alas! no kind sister's arm caressed,
His cheek no tender mother pressed;
No pitying friend was by his side,
As lonely, far from home he died;
Let your tears fall gently down!
His eyes have watched in vain,
For the loved one far away,
That he ne'er could see again.
Brave comrades he has shared the fight
Up many a well-fought field;
A braver and a nobler knight,
Never the sword did wield.
Sleep, soldier sleep! from sorrow free,
And sin and strife, 'tis well with thee;
It is well, though many a tear
Laments the fallen volunteer
Gather roses white and red
And scatter them softly on his breast→→
Now some barkspurs deeply blue
There the colors for his rest!
Days, months and years shall circle away,
The ocean of time to eternity roll,
Thou art lost to earth's loved ones, forever and aye, Soldier and brother, peace to thy soul.
FIRST BATTLE AT YORKTOWN, VA.,
APRIL 16TH, '62.
LOUD and long the battle thundered,
Clashing steel and muttering drum,
While the serried ranks, though sundered,
To the fear of death were dumb;
When our banners, dim and tattered,
Shone an emblem of our land,
And the foe were widely scattered,
Leaving us war's.Contraband:
In the hush of after battle,
Came a negro old and gray,
Years of toil had lent the rattle,
And obscured his reason's ray;
Bent and feeble, proud in freedom,
Emblamatic of his band,
From afar he said he "seed'em "
Battling for the Contraband.
And a woman, yes, a mother,
Wandered to our silent camp,
Shedding tears she could not smother,
Telling how she heard the tramp
Of our army drawing nearer,
Kissing oft our soldiers' hands,
For her children-woman's dearer
Blessings-too, were Contrabands.
Yet a maiden told her story,
And our hearts with grief were mute, The new empire of our glory
Did its pathos oft dispute,
And our souls were sick with seeing,
In the downcast of our land,
Virtue ravished-all for being
Color of the Contraband.
C. FRENCH RICHARDS.
AT THE FIRST BATTLE OF FREDERICKSBURG,
O'ER all the fields, o'er all the plain
In seried ranks they come :
With martial music's stirring strains,
With bugle blast and tap of drum.
And now in colums long and straight
And glittering in the sun,
A hundred thousand arms await,
The fearful charge- the watchword, "on."
At length resounding o'er the throng,
In peeling tones from post to post-
On the morning air 'tis borne along,
The signal to this gallant host.
The trumpet call-the hurrying feet-
The neighing steed-the clashing shield;
Then face to face in death they meet,
More proud to die, than basely yield.
One beardless cheek, one youthful form
With 'kerchief wipes a tear away—
He cares not for the battle's storm,
Nor fears to meet yon proud array,
But away beside the granite steep,
With tottering steps, by age bowed down, An anxious mother waits and weeps,
For him, her last-her only one.
Ah! who shall tell the mournful tale,
How sank he on that bloody plain,
How fought-how fell-amidst the wail
Of wounded, and of dying men.
In whispers lowly breathe his name,
Call up no more the battle's fray,
The last link of an honored name
Sleeps where ten thousand heroes lay.
HE HATH SOUNDED FORTH THE TRUMPET.
BATTLE OF CAMDEN, N. C.,
APRIL 19th, '62.
I HAVE read a fiery gospel,
Writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners,
So with you my grace shall deal;
Let the hero born of woman,
Crush the serpent with his heel."
He hath sounded forth the trumpet,
That shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men
Before His judgment seat;
Oh, be swift to give Him answer!
And be jubilant, my feet!
In the beauty of the lilies,
Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom,
That transfigures you and me :
As He died to make men holy,
Let us die to keep men free!
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