The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

A mighty city of tented streets,
And never a house of brick or stone,
And the pulse of the city throbs and beats
As if in a fever burning on;
Nothing but tents in all the plain,
Nothing but bronzed and bearded men,
With clashing sabre and jingling spur,
Plume of feather, or crest of fur.

Here are banners, and there are flags;
All of their bravery now is stained;
As the wind flutters their tattered rags,
Lo! where the powder and blood are grained:
And the heavy air has a fœtid breath:
Is it of blood? or is it of death?
How the wild dogs and the birds are fat,
Gorged where they lazily perch or squat!

Now, at a tent-door steeds are champing,
Now they are galloping forth with speed;
Down the long streets there are companies tramping,
Grimly silent, on some fell deed;
Some in the wine-shop are drinking hard,
Some are gaming with dice and card;
Many a jolly stave trowls from those,
But these are coming to oaths and blows.

Hark! to the call of the bugle horn,
Or the quick rattle of mustering drum!
Swift to the summons, at even or morn,
Bronzed and bearded, the gallants come.
Balls from the rifle-pits ping about,
Great guns boom from the big Redoubt,
And the angry hiss of the burning shell
Screams through the fire and smoke of hell.

Far on the outskirts stands a tent,
And over the tent a great red Cross;
Balls lie round, but their force was spent
Long ere they rolled o'er the silent moss;
A cross is over the silent gate,
A cross on the arm of them that wait,
Emblem of pity and healing and peace,
Bidding the wrath of war here to cease.

One comes out of it, grave and sad;
Just a whisper, and then returns;
What are the tidings now? good or bad?
Still she lives, but the fever burns.
Then again silence reigns all about,
And the twilight pales, and a star comes out,
But yet the air seems to pulse and to throb,
Now and again, with a stifled sob.

Sudden, the sob is turned to a wail;
What is it? where is it? Hush! the door
Opens again now, and all hearts fail;—
He too is weeping, for all is o'er.
It is not night, and it is not day;
Calm in the twilight she passed away,
Just as the star, where the cloud was riven,
Pointed her way through the opening heaven.

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Near the tent-door was a sickly group,
And oh the tears ran down their cheeks like rain;
One said, “There is not a man in our troop
But would have died just to save her a pain:
I would have died for her; so would a score of us;
Broken and maimed, she was worth many more of us;
God help the poor fellows, now she is gone;
She was like my mother when last I was down.”

When it was told at the drinking bar,
The flagon untasted was dashed on the board;
Hushed was the chorus of glory and war—
Others were trusted, but she was adored.
No one shuffled the cards again,
Rattled the dice now, or called a main.
“Who's for the trenches? we must have it out;
Now is the time, lads, to try the Redoubt.”

Belted with hell-fire, and shrouded with smoke,
Girdled with rifle-balls as with a wall,
Yet with a yell from the trenches they broke,
Plunging through rifle-balls, hell-fire, and all.
'Twas not for glory they stormed the Redoubt;
'Twas that the grief of their wild hearts must out.
That was her monument; and they cried,
“God and Saint Bridget!” as each man died.