Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell

The bloody fight had been fought out,
The French the day had won,
Had put the Austrian to rout
At point of sword and gun;
As victors in the dreadful strife,
They scoured the battle-plain,
Hoping to save some wounded life,
Hid in the trampled grain.

An Austrian lad lay on the ground,
A gunshot in his side;
The blood was welling from the wound,
A warm and crimson tide.
They would have borne him to the tent,
But, with pale lips compressed,
He faintly said he was content,
Prayed to be left at rest.

219

And—“Others need your aid,” he said,
“For me,—it matters not,—
This place—shall be—my dying bed;
Pass on,—I'd be forgot;
'Tis idle,—idle,—all too late.
By all you hold most dear,
Leave me,—oh, leave me to my fate,
And let my grave be here!”

But up there rose before his eyes
A vision sweet and fair
Of home, of kindred, and the ties
To guard which brought him there,
The father and the mother dear,
The loved ones far away,
And then there fell the natural tear,
He tried, but could not stay.

Sadly and slow they passed him by,
And left him 'mongst the slain,
But loth to let the brave boy die,
They sought him soon again.
He smiled, and said,—“You cannot save,”—
—He spake with failing breath,—
“O foes,—be friends,—dig here my grave,”—
And then fell back in death.

They raised his body from the ground,
And there they saw beneath,

220

The Austrian flag about him wound,
Yielded to none but Death.
The regiment's colours he had sworn
No foe should take from him;
So when they led the hope forlorn,
He wrapp'd them round each limb.

Better to die than break his word,
Betray his solemn trust,—
Far better perish by the sword,
And dying bite the dust,
Than let his country's flag be ta'en
And flaunted by the foe;
That were upon his faith a stain,
A great,—a supreme woe.

Life was not worth the priceless cost
Of honour or of fame;
Nay, what were life with honour lost
But one great blank of shame?
They dug him there a soldier's grave,
They laid him where he fell,
—Gave honour due unto the brave,—
Was it not right and well?

Could he have worn a better shroud
Than the flag for which he died,
Stained with the crimson stream that flowed
From out his shattered side?

221

He had been faithful unto death,
True to the oath he swore,
Had guarded to his latest breath
The colours that he bore.

University of Virginia Library

AN INCIDENT IN THE AUSTRIAN CAMP.