BATTLE OF PEACH ORCHARD, VA.,
JUNE 29TH, '62.
OH! home of my sires,
Of the brave and the free,
My prayers are ascending
To Heaven for thee,
That thy armies now marshalled
In battle array
Shall be, by God's power,
Thy strength and thy stay.
Then up with thy banner,
The rifle and sword,
On the Rebels come down
In the might of the Lord.
God save thee, my country,
From traitors and knaves !
May their lives all be blasted,
Dishonored their graves.
They talk not of pity,
The mercies they feel
Are as cruel and fierce
As the death-doing steel;
But thy strength, oh, my country!
Is in God and the right,
And thy stars, all undimmed,
Shall emerge from the fight.
Oh! never, my country,
Shall we leave thee forlorn,
To be crushed by the traitors,
A mock and a scorn;
Let them come with their legions,
And banner of "bars,”
We'll on to the contest
'Neath the stripes and the stars;
Even now they are trembling,
The hand-writing they see-
They have failed, oh! my country,
To disunite thee.
BATTLE OF SAVAGE STATION, VA.,
JUNE 29TH, '62.
When statesmen fail to guide the public mind,
And lengthen'd speeches cannot lead the blind,
Let poets boldly to the world proclaim
The laws of Justice and the traitor's shame;
Nor spare the vices of disreputive men,
But draw their portraits with impartial pen.
Ye master minds, inspired from on high,
Strike now the strings of love and unity;
The clouds are looming, and the thunder's roar
May yet shake our country from shore to shore;
Pollution reigns and fills the atmosphere,
The wheels of government are out of gear.
May yet some noble mind adjustment make,
Not for himself, but for his country's sake,
'TIS MIDNIGHT O'ER THE BATTLE FIELD.
AFTER THE BATTLE OF MALVERN HILLS, VA.,
JULY 1ST, '62.
'Tis midnight; o'er the battle-fleld
The chilly wind is sighing;
And moonlight steals thro' deep'ning mist
Upon the dead and dying.
No longer bursts upon the air
The rifle's vivid flashing-
All silent is the place where rung
The sabre's rapid clashing.
Amid the bodies stiff in death
One man, with life, is lying;
Though fast upon his weary heart
His bosom's blood is drying;
But faster down his pallid face
The tears are hotly streaming,
For far away his sad thoughts roam,
To loved ones sweetly dreaming!
As vividly, with magic skill,
The past fond mem'ry traces,
He sees again his happy home,
Dear forms and smiling faces!
His little children clasp his neck-
He smoothes their sunny tresses;
And warm upon his lips and brow
He feels their soft caresses.
Again he hears his wife's low voice
Her hand his own is pressing;
And fondly, sadly, to his ear
Still floats her parting blessing!
And now the din of war steals in
Upon the field of battle-
He fights, though wounded, till he faints
Amid its deaf'ning rattle.
Now colder to his ghastly brow
The misty air is creeping;
And from his weakly-throbbing breast
The blood is faster leaping.
He faintly mourns, "My home, farewell!
God soothe my poor wife's anguish !
I'd rather die here, on the field,
Than as a captive languish."
He speaks no more! As if in sleep
His weary eyes are closing;
And soon the moon shines o'er his form,
In peaceful death reposing.
The morning dawns, and sunlight falls
O'er bodies cold and gory;
But he beholds a brighter dawn
The dawn of Heaven's glory!
AFTER THE BATTLE OF PLEASANT HILLS, MISS.,
JULY 11TH, '62.
WOUNDED and sorrowful, far from my home,
Sick among strangers, uncared for, unknown,
Even the birds, that used sweetly to sing,
Are silent, and swiftly have taken the wing
No one but mother can cheer me to-day-
No one for me could so fervently pray;
None to console me, no kind friend is near-
Mother would comfort me if she were here.
If she were with me I soon would forget
My pain and my sorrow, no more would I fret,
One kiss from her lips, or one look from her eye,
Would make me contented and willing to die!
Gently her hand o'er my forehead she'd press,
Trying to free me from pain and distress;
Kindly she'd say to me, "Be of good cheer,
Mother will comfort you, mother is here.”
Cheerfully, faithfully, mother would stay,
Always beside me by night and by day-
If I should murmur or wish to complain,
Her gentle voice would calm me again.
Sweetly a mother's love shines like a star,
Brightest in darkness when daylight's afar,
In clouds or in sunshine, pleasures or pain,
Mother's affection is ever the same.
CHARLES CARROLL SAWYER.
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