A MOTHER WAITING FOR THE NEWS. 37

And on our hearts will e'er remain

The memory of the gallant slain.

A nation's tears will greet the dead,
Whose blood for Freedom's cause was shed;
Her blessings greet the brave, who passed
Safe from the fury of the blast.

A MOTHER WAITING FOR THE NEWS.

BY DAVID M. MENAMIN.

HOW wearily the hours pass

Since, through the ambient air,

The lightnings flashed the startling fact,
A battle has been there, -
There, where my noble, honest boy
The path of fame pursues;

But, ah! my aching heart will burst,
While waiting for the news.

Wounded upon that gory field,
Forsaken he may die;

Nor mother there to wet his lips,

Nor raise his hopes on high;

38

A MOTHER WAITING FOR THE NEWS.

Disfigured, stained, his features marred
By many a scar and bruise;

Ah! who can tell what mothers feel
While waiting for the news.

Ye wise men who have made this war
To make all mankind free,
Oh! know you not this boy of mine
Was all the world to me?

If he is gone, what have I left
What comfort can I choose?

A mother's heart condemns your deeds,
While waiting for the news!

If I am wrong, O God! forgive
This throbbing heart and brain,
But who can justify their aims
If my poor boy is slain?

Yet they, whose sons are safe at home,

May take far different views,

And cry aloud, "More blood! more blood!"

O God! send me good news.

HE SLEEPS WHERE HE FELL.

39

HE SLEEPS WHERE HE FELL.

ANONYMOUS.

HE sleeps where he fell 'mid the battle's roar,

With his comrades true and brave;

And his noble form we shall see no more,

It rests in a hero's grave:

Where the rebel foe in his might came forth,
With all his power and pride;

And our gallant men from the rugged North
Like patriots fought and died.

He sleeps near the hill where bright flowers grow, In the wildest woodland shade;

Where the valley stream, in the dell below,

With an echo fills the glade;

Where the boasting lines of the traitor-South

Filed up, o'er the grassy banks,

Till the bursting shells from our cannon's mouth Flung death in their broken ranks.

He sleeps 'neath the sod where I prayerfully knelt, While the enemy round me stood,

As I took from the corse his battle-belt,

Still wet with his heart's warm blood;

And the summer day closed its light on earth,

And my soul grew sad with pain,

40 THE RED STAIN ON THE LEAVES.

As they bore me away with oaths and mirth,
O'er piles of the bleeding slain.

He sleeps where the blest of our glorious dead
Were left on the sacred land;

Where the daring deeds, ere his spirit fled,
He led with a bold command!

He sleeps

yes, he sleeps, undisturbed by war,

Though tyrants tramp o'er his breast; For, with those who slumber in glory afar, He takes an immortal rest.

Fort Delaware.

THE RED STAIN ON THE LEAVES.

BY G. W. BUNGAY.

THE wood-bird's nest upon the bough
Deserted hangs, and heaped with leaves;
Once filled with life and joy, but now
Sad as a stricken heart that grieves.
Amid the light of such a scene,

Where silent vales and hills are clad
In gayest hues of gold and green,
Why should the human heart be sad?

THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER.

Yet sombre thoughts flit through the mind,
And pass unspoken and unsung,

As leaves, touched by the autumn wind,

Fall from the twigs to which they clung. Here, like the patriarch in his dream,

We see the ladder angels trod ; The mountains to our vision seem A footstool at the throne of God.

The veils of golden mist that rise
Over the woodlands to the sea,
Drop where the gallant soldier lies,
Whose furlough is eternity.
Upon the leaves now sear and red,
That once were flakes of fire to me,

I see the blood our armies shed,

That our dear country may be free.

THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER.

ANONYMOUS.

41

IT

T is night; almost morning - the clock has struck three;