 | War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. |  |
THE BURIAL OF LATANÉ.
Captain Latané, one of General J. E. B. Stuart's gallant officers,
was killed in a brilliant charge upon the enemy, who were
routed, after a hand-to-hand conflict. The following extract
from a private letter written at the time, will explain the
circumstances on which the poem is founded:
"Lieutenant Latané carried the body of his dead brother to
Mrs. Brockenbrough's plantation an hour or two after his death.
On this sad and lonely errand he met a party of Yankees, who
followed him to Mrs. Brockenbrough's gate, and stopping there,
told him that as soon as he had placed his brother's body in
friendly hands he must surrender himself prisoner. Mrs.
Brockenbrough sent for an Episcopal clergyman to perform the
funeral ceremonies, but the enemy would not permit him to pass.
Then, with a few other ladies, a fair-haired little girl, her apron
filled with white flowers, and a few faithful slaves, who stood
reverently near, a pious Virginia matron read the solemn and
beautiful burial-service over the cold, still form of one of the
noblest gentlemen and most intrepid officers in the Confederate
Army. She watched the sods heaped upon the coffin-lid, then
sinking on her knees, in sight and hearing of the foe, she
committed his soul's welfare, and the stricken hearts he had
left behind him, to the mercy of the All-Father."
And through the foes that compassed us around,
Our little band rode proudly on its way,
Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned,
Unburied on the field he died to gain,
Single of all the host amid the hostile slain.
Hope's halo like a helmet round his hair,
The next beheld him dabbled in his blood,
Prostrate in death, and yet in death how fair!
E'en thus he passed through the red gates of strife,
From earthly crowns and palms to an immortal life.
And gave it unto strangers' hands, that closed
The calm blue eyes, on earth forever sealed,
And tenderly the slender limbs composed;
Strangers, yet sisters, who with Mary's love,
Sat by the open tomb and, weeping, looked above.
Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul,
Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere,
That blossomed with good actions, brief but whole.
The aged matron and the faithful slave
Approached, with reverent feet, the hero's lowly grave.
Above the rebel—thus declared the foe,
That blanched before him in the deadly fight;
But woman's voice, in accents soft and low,
Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read
Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead.
Softly the promise floated on the air,
And the sweet breathings of the sunset hour
Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer;
Gently they laid him underneath the sod,
And left him with his fame, his country, and his God.
So young, so brave, so beautiful; he died
As he had wished to die—the past is sure,
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide
Those who still linger by the stormy shore,
Change cannot touch him now, or fortune harm him more,
"Victrix et Vidua," the conflict done—
Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear
That starts as she recalls each martyred son,
No prouder memory her breast shall sway
Than thine, our early lost, lamented Latane.
| War poets of the South and Confederate camp-fire songs. | |