[Poems by English in] The Southern Amaranth A carefully selected collection of poems growing out of and in reference to the late war |
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The Letter to the Dead.
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 | [Poems by English in] The Southern Amaranth |  |
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The Letter to the Dead.
“We remember at the Wilderness a gallant Mississippian had fallen, and at night, just before burying him, there came a letter from her he loved best. One of the group around his body—a minister—whose tenderness was womanly, broke the silent tearfulness with which he saw the dead letter; he took it and laid it upon
563
Comes the letter from a mother?
Are a sister's longings there?
Or the fondness of another,
Loved and loving, young and fair?
Seek not now to know the writer,
Seek not whence or why it came;
As he died, his dimmed eyes saw her;
As he died he breathed her name.
It has come o'er hills and valleys,
Crossed o'er rivers, passed o'er lakes:
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
Bury the dead with the letter unread,
There to remain,
Till the soldier awakes from his slumber,
To join in the battle again.
Are a sister's longings there?
Or the fondness of another,
Loved and loving, young and fair?
Seek not now to know the writer,
Seek not whence or why it came;
As he died, his dimmed eyes saw her;
As he died he breathed her name.
It has come o'er hills and valleys,
Crossed o'er rivers, passed o'er lakes:
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
Bury the dead with the letter unread,
There to remain,
Till the soldier awakes from his slumber,
To join in the battle again.
Ah! but never more to battle
He will march by beat of drum;
Nevermore when fight is over
Sigh for gentle peace to come;
Nevermore to roll-call answer,
Nevermore will pace his round,
Keeping watch o'er sleeping comrades
Strewn upon the chilly ground;
Nevermore the light words utter
While his heart with sadness aches;
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
Bury it deep with the soldier to sleep:
There let it lie,
While the green grass grows o'er the sleeper,
And the world goes hurrying by.
He will march by beat of drum;
Nevermore when fight is over
Sigh for gentle peace to come;
Nevermore to roll-call answer,
Nevermore will pace his round,
Keeping watch o'er sleeping comrades
Strewn upon the chilly ground;
Nevermore the light words utter
While his heart with sadness aches;
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
564
There let it lie,
While the green grass grows o'er the sleeper,
And the world goes hurrying by.
She who lingered as she wrote it
O'er each tender word she penned,
She perchance will find her sorrow
With some later lover end.
But for him those words of loving
May survive when time is o'er,
And, though she forget her fondness?
Greet him on the further shore,
Cross his arms and close his eyelids,
'Tis his slumber that he takes;
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
Lay him to rest with the scroll on his breast,
There, in the tomb,
Till the startled dead shall awaken
At the terrible day of doom.
O'er each tender word she penned,
She perchance will find her sorrow
With some later lover end.
But for him those words of loving
May survive when time is o'er,
And, though she forget her fondness?
Greet him on the further shore,
Cross his arms and close his eyelids,
'Tis his slumber that he takes;
“Bury it upon his bosom,
He will see it when he wakes.”
Lay him to rest with the scroll on his breast,
There, in the tomb,
Till the startled dead shall awaken
At the terrible day of doom.
| [Poems by English in] The Southern Amaranth | |