Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

THEIR BANNERS FRESH TORN.

AT THE BATTLE OF CROSS KEYS, VA.,
JUNE 7TH, '62.

THE battle is over, and grim is the field,
Where cannonry thundered and musketry peal'd,
The bellicose legions in haste have withdrawn,
Their infantry scattered, their banners fresh torn
Victorious and strong are the National host,
Rebellion is weakened, its prestige all lost.
Bright freedom still reigns amid war's dread array,
And patriots rejoicingly hail its proud sway.

Oh, dark is the spot where the conflict did rage,
O'er-blended with horrors that sorrows prestage,
Wide-strewn with mortality murdered and pale,
While oft and anon rises agony's wail.
As gory and feeble the wounded doth lie
"Till rescued, or mahap to groaningly die,
No flash of artillery lights up the plain,
But the sun sheds its glory o'er heaps of the slain.

Foes slumber enchained in the chill clutch of death,
Foes mingle their cries with life's fast-fainting breath,
Smoke clouds the sad view as crimson streams flow,
And warrior-hearts die or writhe in their woe.
The thickets' green vesture is sullied with blood,
Down the hill-side ravine fall the bright life-flood,
'Mid the quietude lies the ravage of war,

The keen sword usurps, and calm peace flies before!

Dear Honor enshrines every patriot's grave,

And gloom wraps the mound of Treason's base slave; The Nation's loved standard triumphant yet stands, And courts Heaven's breezes-the joy of all lands! Exultant I gaze at each full-flowing fold,

Its colors of beauty-of heavenly mould

And pray that while earth in rotation doth turn,
The flres of our liberties ever shall burn.

WILLIAM J. M'CLURE.

THE BAYONET BEFORE RICHMOND.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF WHITE HOUSE, VA.,
JUNE 13TH, ’62.

MARSHALED there for home and altar,
Grimly stand the stalwart free,
Vast and solid as Gibraltar-

Sinews strong and bended knee.
"Forward!" See the Northmen's onset!
Robed in flame and girt with steel!
Warrior-breasts by shell are riven―
Crushed beneath his comrades heel!
"Onward! Scorn the feeble Southron !"
Then their ranks in terror broke,
When we pierced their vaunted phalanx
As the lightning rends the oak!
Bay'nets backed by brawny Northmen,
Are the bulwarks of the Free,

And have shone o'er waves of crimson,
Talismans of Victory!

CLARENCE F. BUHLER.

HEAVEN DEFEND THE RIGHT.

BATTLE ON JAMES ISLAND, S. C.,
JUNE 14TH '62.

WHERE is my soldier to-night?

Oh, stars in the heavens, do you know
Is he staining his hands in the bloody fight?
Is he dealing death to the traitorous foe?
Out of the South O! fair winds blow!
Where is my soldier to-night?

Is he ill or dying now?
Pitying angels what is the worst?

Is he pleading for love's cool touch on his brow?
Is he calling for water to quench his thirst?
By what strange hand is my hero nursed?
Would I were with him now!

What if he sleeps with the dead? God! how my brain reels with the thought! And the bitter waters mine eyes have shed Roll back on my heart. Friends, if he be shot For the value of my poor life, dare not Tell me that he is dead!

Peace! I am growing wild;

I must not think of ills that may be
Franky, my darling-our child-his child
Dreams with his bright head upon my knee:
Cherub, smile in your sleep on me,

Let not my thoughts run wild!

A. L. MUZZEY.

A WOUNDED SOLDIER'S SOLILOQUY.

AT THE BATTLE OF FAIR OAKS, VA.,
JUNE 17TH, '62.

TWO DAYS and nights, upon the field I've laid;
A hundred times at least, to God I ve prayed
That to some surgeon I might be conveyed,
That he might ease my pain.

I cannot wait much longer, and I fear

That I will have to draw my last breath here;
My wife, my family and my home so dear,
To see no more again.

To leave us thus to suffer, is indeed unkind;
They ne'er should leave the wounded men behind.
But try at least, some shady place to find,

Where we might wait for aid.

If help don't come to this poor soldier soon,
He'll shortly fall into his long last swoon:
If he's not helped, he'll surely die by noon;
He'll die but partly by the blade.

Perhaps our comrades do now all they can;
These are but the ravings of a dying man;
Not a soul to talk with, and no one to fan

The heat from off my brow.

The way we fought the battle, Time can ne'er erase, And now we're wounded, death stares us in the face. I feel I'm falling into death's embrace,

I know I'm dying now.

E. C. BRETON.

THE LAST LETTER.

BEFORE THE BATTLE CUMBERLAND GAP, TENN,

JUNE 18TH, 1862.

DEAR Rose, to you I send this present writing,
To let you know how this world goes with me;
Our glorious boys have done some glorious fighting,
A left arm lost, alas! has done for me.
We've great successes in our track advancing,
The cruel grape has shaken our poor homes;
We've sacked whole cities, but a spent ball glancing,
Pays me my share of booty in my bones.

From an old hospital this word I'm sending,

To leave it soon at death's call for the grave;
I send an eagle by him who does my mending,
For them I've sold the body he can't save.
I send the pieces, for I'm just now thinking

That if to-night must see me in the earth,
I can't do less for one whom love's been linking
So close to me than give her all I'm worth.

My poor old mother when I left her crying,
Was nearly gone and looking close to death;
I've writ a line to tell her I'm dying,

But I do hope she's taken her last breath.

For if the dear old women is still living,

Her heart's so soft that if she hears I'm gone,
She cannot stay, and I shall death be giving
To her who gave me life, now left alone.

« AnteriorContinuar »