You A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans Waver at yonder wall." Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, By just his horse's mane, a boy! (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through), You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The marshal's in the market place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief 's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed; but presently A film the mother eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes: "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead. -Robert Browning. Soldier, Rest! Thy Warfare O'er. [From "The Lady of the Lake."] OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. These rocks may have life, Lay me down in this hollow, By heavens! the foeman may track me in blood, No! no surgeon for me; he can give me no aid; Well! well! I am rough; 'tis a very rough school, But wasn't it grand When, as turning to fly, Our men sprang upon them, determined to die? O, wasn't it grand! God help the poor wretches that fell in that fight; Huzza! Great heavens! this bullet hole gapes like a grave; A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave! Is there never a one of ye knows how to pray, Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away? Pray! Pray! Our Father! Our Father! . . . why don't ye proceed? Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I bleed! Ebbing away! Ebbing away! The light of the day Is turning to gray. Pray! Pray! Our Father in Heaven-boys, tell me the rest, breast. There's something about the forgiveness of sin— Put that in! put that in !—and then I'll follow your words, and say an amen. Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand; And Wilson, my comrade-O, wasn't it grand When they came down the hill like a thunder-charged cloud! [head; Where's Wilson, my comrade?-Here, stoop down your Can't you say a short prayer for the dying and dead? "Christ God, who died for sinners all, Hear thou this suppliant wanderer's cry; Let not e'en this poor sparrow fall Unheeded by thy gracious eye. "Throw wide thy gates to let him in, And take him, pleading, to thine arms; Forgive, O Lord! his life-long sin, And quiet all his fierce alarms." God bless you, my comrade, for saying that hymn; H Searching for the Slain. OLD the lantern aside, and shudder not so; There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow; There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there, And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair. You're his wife; you love him-yon think so; and I You will go! then no faintings! Give me the light, More! more! Ah! I thought I could never more know Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below, Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright, Dost Thou from Thy heavens o'er such visions lean, And still call this cursed world a footstool of Thine? What wild hopes flash He's not here-and not here. Was it you, girl, that shrieked? Ah! what face doth lie Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white? O God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream. My old sight Is dimmed with these horrors. My son! oh, my son ! Would I had died for thee, my own, only one! There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast He was yours, too; he loved you Yes, yes, you're right. Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night. Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your years May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of tears. How quiet you are! Has she fainted ?-her cheek I'll sit by my children until the men come Why, the slain are all dancing! Dearest, don't move. P from the South at break of day, Sheridan's Ride. U Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, And wider still those billows of war But there is a road from Winchester town A good, broad highway leading down; And there through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night, He stretched away with his utmost speed; Still sprung from those hoofs, thundering south, The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master [Many of the women of the South, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They have strewn flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.] These in the robings of glory, Those in the gloom of defeat, All with the battle-blood gory, In the dusk of eternity meet : Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours, Alike for the friend and the foe: So, with an equal splendor, On the blossom blooming for all : Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; In the storm of the years that are fading, No braver battle was won : Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray. Waiting the judgment day; Tears and love for the Gray. |