1. PART I.
[Place—A Federal Prison—A Confederate
chained, and a Visitor, his Friend.]
“How say'st thou? die to-morrow? Oh! my friend!
The bitter, bitter doom!
What hast thou done to tempt this ghastly end—
This death of shame and gloom?”
“What done? Do tyrants wait for guilty deeds,
To find or prove a crime—
They, who have cherished hatred's fiery seeds:
Hot for the harvest-time?
“A sneer! a smile! vague trifles light as air—
Some foolish, false surmise—
Lead to the harrowing drama of despair
Wherein—the victim dies!
“And I shall perish! Comrade, heed me not!
For thus my tears must start—
Not for the misery of my blasted lot,
But hers who holds my heart!
“And theirs, the flowers that wreathe my humble hearth
With roseate blush and bloom.
To-morrow eve, they stand alone on earth,
Beside their father's tomb!
“There's Blanche, my serious beauty, lithe and tall,
With pensive eyes and brow—
There's Kate, the tenderest darling of them all,
Whose kisses thrill me now!
“There's little Rose, the sunshine of our days—
A tricky, gladsome sprite—
How vividly come back her winsome ways,
Her laughters, and delight!
“And my brave boy—my Arthur! Did his arm
Second his will and brain,
I should not groan beneath this iron charm,
Clasping my chains in vain!
“Oh, Christ! and hath it come to this? Will none
Ward off the ghastly end?
And yet methinks I heard the voice of one
Who called the old man—Friend!
“May all the curses caught from deepest hell
Light on the blood-stained knave
Who laughs to hear the patriot's funeral knell,
Blaspheming o'er his grave!
“Away! Such dreams are madness! My pale lips
Had best besiege Heaven's ear,
But in the turmoil of my mind's eclipse,
No thought, no wish is clear.
“Dear friend, forgive me! Sorrow, frenzy, ire—
My bosom's raging guests—
By turn have whelmed me in their floods of fire,
Fierce passions, swift unrests.
“And now, farewell! The sentry's warning hand,
Taps at my prison bars.
We part, but not forever! There's a land,
Comrade, beyond the stars!”
“Yea!” said the youth, and o'er his kindling face
A saint-like glory came,
As if some prescient Angel, breathing grace,
Had touched it into flame.
