University of Virginia Library

It is the field of battle, overspread
With hideous mangled remnants of the dead;
Tread warily, for look! the beaten sod
Is foul with dark coagulated blood;
Foxes, and dogs, and loathsome birds of prey,
Feasting with joy on poor mortality;
Sucking the blood, tearing the hero's breast,
Eating the patriot's heart. Ha! horrid feast—
Yet not an arm is tossed to fright away
The sated rovers from the gory prey;
And not a sound awakes the tainted air,
Though even the tongue the glutted vultures tear.

And can these be the remnants of the bands
By honour's voice impelled from distant lands,
Who yestermorning gloried in their might,
And stamped the earth, impatient for the fight?
Who vowed to win a laurel and a name,
Meet for the altar of immortal fame?
Yet there's no wreath upon the ghastly brow,
And who will name these festering relics now?
While all that Fame with brazen tongue can tell
Is, that they marched to battle, fought, and fell;
And Honour, if a garland she bestow,
Will bind it proudly round the general's brow;
While over these, an undistinguished heap,
Even their country will not pause to weep.

Is this the fame, the honour, and the meed,
For which the iron-hearted soldiers bleed?
Can this be man's unenviable lot,
To perish like a dog and be forgot?
Forgot? Oh, no! For though his country shed
No tears, no honours, on his lowly bed,
Still each has left in some dear distant home,
The tree of memory in its richest bloom,
Whose strong and tender tendrils are entwined
Round every fibre of some gentle mind;
Some woman's heart, that cherishes its bloom,
And feeds her spirit with its rich perfume.

Look here! This severed hand belongs to one
Who was a widowed mother's only son;
She now sits lonely in her cottage home,
And looks, and longs, to see her darling come.
By her, affliction, poverty, and scorn,
Have been with fortitude and meekness borne;
Her children faded in their infant bloom,
And one by one sunk smitten to the tomb;
Yet then a soothing light from Paradise,
Shone through the tears that filled her clouded eyes.
And when adversity, with iron hand,
Shook her, an exile from her native land,
She clung the closer with a woman's truth
To him on whom she hung the trust of youth.
But when with broken spirit he bent down,
'Neath fortune's blow and the world's scornful frown;
When all her tender soothing proved in vain,
And even her smile but added to his pain;
When on his cheek consumption's hectic bloom
Began to wreath the garland of the tomb;
Then with a fond and faithful Christian's care
She fled to God with agonizing prayer,
Lest doubt should hang her pall above his tomb,
And shroud her mourning spirit in its gloom.
But when the peace and happiness of heaven,
To his subdued and humble soul were given,
When love divine, with its triumphant ray,
Scattered the clouds of guilt and doubt away,
With joy she heard the parting spirit sing,
“Grave! where's thy victory? Death! where is thy sting?”
And in the bliss of his eternal gain,
Almost forgot her widowhood and pain.
Yet now her dwelling was an humble shed,
And her own hand procured her daily bread;
No wonder that her heart, so wrung and reft,
Clung fondly to her only treasure left;
The little boy, who, when his father died,
Kissed her pale cheek to soothe her while she cried—
No wonder that she watched him day and night,
And could not trust her treasure from her sight;
No wonder that her eye had learned to seek
Its hope's assurance on his ruddy cheek;
That her ear tingled, and her heart grew faint,
If from his lips escaped the least complaint;
That she abridged her wardrobe and her bread,
That he might be with classic treasures fed;
And that as age made brain and eye grow dim,
She leaned for light and comfort all on him.
How came he here? Alas! the youthful mind
To chivalry and daring deeds inclined;
With ardent heart he joined the patriot band
That loved the honour of their native land;
And though he thought upon his mother's tears,
And knew how age increases love's fond fears,
His young heart knew not—oh, it could not know—
The depth of that fond widowed mother's wo;
But thought with fame and honour to return,
And bid her heart with pride and rapture burn.
He left her on her knees, and, night and day,
Her whole employment was to weep and pray.
But He who would possess her heart alone
Has stricken her dear idol from its throne.
Now when the tidings pierce through her dull ears,
And her dim eyes pour forth their bitterest tears,
With broken heart descending to the tomb,
While no loved face illumes that path of gloom,
Her wounded heart will meekly turn to God,
And learn to bless his name, and kiss his rod.

Here lies a ghastly head, with here and there,
Amongst the thick dark curls, a silver hair,
Even through the shades of death, the eye can trace
Manhood's full ripen'd beauty in the face;
But the wide eyes are passionless and dim,
As if no feeling e'er had swayed with him.
Yet he has felt, as few are form'd to feel;
And loved—but few have ever loved so well;
And she, who was the centre of his bliss,
Was worthy of a love and truth like his.
And there were joys within his humble home,
Such as have seldom blest the lordly dome;
For love, with full confiding, nestled there,
And health and industry excluded care;
And they were happy in a conscious pride,
That all the other's bliss on each relied;
And oh, how dear was every blooming child,
That on that happy mother's bosom smiled.
Those who live only for domestic joys,
Unvex'd by pride, or fashion's empty toys;
Who pass long years in one sweet blessed home,
Where anguish and bereavement never come,
Where wild ambition never lights his fires,
Where avarice never comes with mean desires,
Where this one wish pervades each pious breast,
To see its loved ones all supremely blest;—
He only unto whom it has been given
To live the lord of such a perfect heaven,
Has felt the poignant pang of agony,
With which this slaughtered one came forth to die,
While on his bosom big bright tear-drops shone,
Wrung from a heart that worshipp'd him alone;
And a cold, trembling hand's long lingering press,
Was thrilling every nerve of tenderness.
“Oh God! to thy protection I confide
My widow and my fatherless,” he cried;
“Farewell! I shall return to you no more—
And now the bitterness of death is o'er.”

Bravely he stood upon this battle-field,
His country's honour and her rights to shield;
He fell, and with him died the heavenly bloom
Of happiness within his darken'd home.
If the bright orb of light and warmth were riven
From his high centre, in the glowing heaven,
The planets that now dance around his throne,
Receiving light and life from him alone,
In cold chaotic death and darkness left,
Would shadow forth the home whence he was reft.

Pause here a moment—here lies one who died
In the full bloom of manhood's morning pride,
How calm, how still, how placid, seems his sleep;
Come, look upon this marble brow, and weep.
Here lies the blood all clotted on his breast,
And here's the ball-hole in the broider'd vest.
His hand is thrust within,—let's view the wound;—
Oh look! see what a treasure I have found!
See what a brilliant miniature is pressed,
By these stiff fingers to the cold white breast.
Was this the idol of his latest thought,
Pressed to a heart with early passions fraught?
Or did he, as his lifestrings, one by one,
Relaxed their shivering hold, or lost their tone,
As the last fervent pray'r arose to heav'n,
Winged with the consciousness of sin forgiven,
Entreat rich consolation from above,
For the wrung spirit of his gentle love?
Or, as in agony his languid head
Sunk down upon his cold wet dying bed,
Perhaps he felt it sad to die alone,
And grasp'd the shadow of that lovely one,
As if its bright and loving smile had power
To soothe the bitterness of such an hour.
Or were she present! The fair girl who lies
With anxious heart, and weary waking eyes,
Unmindful of the splendour round her thrown,
Musing upon her distant love alone;
'Twould well become that generous heart to break,
Which could relinquish all for his dear sake.
She is a rich man's daughter, yet her soul
Has never own'd the enervate control
Of wealth or fashion; guileless is her heart,
And her whole character untouch'd by art.
And as the rich and native incense flows
From the deep bosom of the open rose,
So from the spirit comes each word and tone,
That form the language of this gentle one;
While feelings that her tongue is loath to speak,
Look from the clear blue eye and changing cheek,
Which vary, to the heart's emotions true,
From the cold marble to the carmine hue.
Oh, it has been the joy of these closed eyes
To watch the bright'ning beams, and varying dyes,
Which answer'd still to his impassion'd words,
Like faithful echoes from affection's chords.
While her heart felt as if her girlhood's joys,
And rich home's treasures, were but childish toys,
Which it could freely, cheerfully resign
For the full heart he offered at her shrine.—
But that is past, and she must suffer now
The pangs that only woman's heart can know;
The utter desolation and despair
Which only woman's heart is formed to bear.

Here lies a calm-faced corpse, with silver hair,
And hands close clasped as if in fervent pray'r;
He was a Christian, and his latest breath
Was joyful triumph o'er the conqueror, Death.
His eldest son fell nobly at his side;
He felt death's anguish when the brave boy died;
And now his house is of all stay bereft,
For girls and stripling boys alone are left.
Yet, e'en for these, his soul on God relied,
And full of peace, and hope, and joy, he died.
His wife and children, in their peaceful home,
Even now expect the war-worn one to come;
And each has something treasured up to prove
The fond remembrance of assiduous love.
The girls, with industry and nicest care,
Have manufactured garments for his wear,
And each glad boy preserved from field and grove,
The choicest fruits as offerings of love.
While she who loved him more than all the rest,
Has tender treasures hoarded in her breast;
Each touching incident of household joy,
And filial breathing of his fair young boy;
Whate'er has given a bliss to her staid heart,
And every incident that caused a smart,
Are written in the sanctuary there,
Half felt, till he returns, the thrill to share.
Yet long and vainly shall they watch for him,
Till all hearts faint and every eye grows dim;
Anguish shall canker each fair daughter's bloom,
While moths her offering of love consume.
Each young boy's face shall beam with saddened ray,
While all untasted his rich fruits decay,
And in the widow's heart the unshared store
Must lie a canker at its inmost core.

They do not murmur at their God's decree,
They bend them down in meek humility;
But they have met the blight of mental pain,
And the seared heart will never bloom again.
So I have seen the lovely fragile flower
Bend meekly down, beneath the driving shower,
And when the winds were hushed, the clouds gone by,
Raise up tow'rd heaven again its humid eye.
But though its wonted hue the flow'ret wore,
And shed its incense richly as before,
Its bloom was touched, and premature decay
In the bruised stem and shivered leaflets lay.

Full many a human flow'r of richest bloom,
Have war's fierce storms crushed early to the tomb,
While thousands fall upon the field of blood,
And pour life out at once in sanguine flood,
Thousands are slain, who linger on for years,
And waste life, drop by drop, in bitter tears.
Those who lie low on this polluted plain,
By war's dire implements of butchery slain,
Are happier far than those whose spirits feel
The wound that none can bear, that naught can heal,
Which knows no solace, and can find no calm,
Except in meek Religion's soothing balm.