THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.
AT THE SURRENDER OF MARYLAND HEIGHTS, MD.,
He lay upon his dying bed,
His eyes were growing dim,
When with a feeble voice he called
His weeping son to him:
Weep not, my boy, the veteren said,
I bow to Heaven's high will,
But quickly from yon antlers bring
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
The sword was brought, the soldier's eye
Lit with a sudden flame;
And as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren's name;
Then said:-My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is richer still:
I leave you, mark me, mark me, now,
The Sword of Bunker Hill.
Ob! keep the Sword—his accents broke-
A smile, and he was dead-
But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade,
Upon that dying bed.
The son remains, the sword remains,
Its glory growing still,
And twenty millions bless the sire
And sword of Bunker Hill.
"OH! TAKE ME HOME TO DIE."
AFTER THE BATTLE OF ANTIETAM, MD.,
THE night was clear, the moon shone bright,
High in the heavens vaulted hall,
While silently a ship of war,
Lay 'neath the frowning fortress wall;
The peace of heaven smiled around,
"All's well," resounded far and near,
While on that vessel's moon-lit deck,
Reclined a wounded volunteer.
He slowly moved his pallid lips,
In dreams, mayhap, of early life,
Perchance he heard again the crash
And discord fierce of mortal strife! "Lie still, brave one, the morning dawns," A kind nurse said, who stood beside; "The sun will soon shine bright again, And naught of ill shall thee betide."
"Where are we now ?" he falt'ring asked; "Has not our ship yet left the shore?
Will I soon see my native State
Receive my mother's kiss once more?
Oh! tell me nurse-alas! I see
That my fond wish is all in vain;
We have not sailed-your look imparts
What your kind heart seeks to retain."
"Well, be it so-I will not grieve,
Though my desire is thus pass'd by;
I'd suffer willingly each pain,
If they'd but take me home to die.
My country ask'd of me my life,
And that I'd give my land to save,
For better far 'tis thus to die,
Than in its ruins find a grave.
"This to my mother-father-all-
Relate, when of my death you tell;
Say that for them I braved the strife,
And for my country, fighting, fell!
Would that I could but see them all
Before mine eyes in death grow dim;
That cannot be-I feel it now:
Nurse, sing once more your ev'ning hymn."
With tearful eyes, and trembling voice,
The nurse with tenderness obeyed;
And as the hymn she softly sang,
The soldier closed his eyes and prayed.
He slept the nurse still lingered nigh,
All watchful of his ev'ry need;
And as she gazed, her tear-drops told
How her kind heart did for him bleed.
A smile of pleasure lit his face,
As waking from a dream of bliss; "Ah! nurse," said he, "I have been home: Yes-and received my mother's kiss;
My family and friends have been
Around me here while thus I slept; They tried to ease my throbbing wound, And o'er me kindly bow'd and wept.
Kind nurse, farewell!—and take this cap-'Twas with me in our last great fightThat to my mother give and say
I left for her my last 'good night.' I ask no more-I am content,
And leave for all a fond good byeHow dark it is-oh, God! I wish
That they would take me home to die.
The nurse received the sacred charge
And laid it on his heaving breast;
While with sad heart and falling tear,
'She watched him slowly sink to rest—
To that sweet rest which naught shall break,
Until the last great trump shall sound,
When Loyalty shall bliss receive,
And Treason's groan through hell resound.
When morning dawned upon the scene,
The ship was ready to unmoor,
But ere that dawn his brave young soul
Had left for e'er life's troubled shore
They laid him in a Southern grave,
Where patriot hearts in future years
Will pay a tribute to his worth,
And consecrate it with their tears!
J. HENRY HAYWARD.
BATTLE OF I-U-KA, MISS.,
SEPTEMBER 20тH, '62.
My country, my country, though humbled and sore,
Though now thou art bleeding at every pore,
There is joy for thee yet-for thy brow is a crown,
And nations shall envy thy future renown.
My country, my country, thou pride of my soul,
Tho' storm-winds have raged, with no hand to control,
Have rocked thee as rock they the ship on the main,
Thy travail in sorrow shall not prove in vain.
Behind darkest clouds shine the brightest of suns-
And deep shadows fall on the streamlet that runs
In the greenest, the loveliest, sunniest dell,
Where summer birds warble, and mortal men dwell.
But the clouds disappear, the earth smiles again,
More fragrant and fresh from the torrents of rain,
And shadows that darkened the streamlet are gone,
And birds' songs are sweet as their matins at dawn.
My country, my country, oh, One reigneth still,
"Whom He loveth He chasten," as He doth will;
And thou, from the furnace, like gold that is tried,
Shall brighter beam forth, from thy dross purified.
Freedom's fires shall again burn in, hall and cot,
As erst they were wont, in thy happier lot,
The people were sovereigns-when by no despot hand
A sceptre had swayed o'er our Heaven-blest land.
|