38 A MOTHER WAITING FOR THE NEWS. Disfigured, stained, his features marred Ye wise men who have made this war If he is gone, what have I left A mother's heart condemns your deeds, If I am wrong, O God! forgive Yet they, whose sons are safe at home, May take far different views, And cry aloud, "More blood! more blood!" O God! send me good news. HE SLEEPS WHERE HE FELL. 89 HE HE SLEEPS WHERE HE FELL. ANONYMOUS. E sleeps where he fell 'mid the battle's roar, And his noble form we shall see no more, It rests in a hero's grave: Where the rebel foe in his might came forth, With all his power and pride; And our gallant men from the rugged North He sleeps near the hill where bright flowers grow, In the wildest woodland shade; Where the valley stream, in the dell below, With an echo fills the glade; Where the boasting lines of the traitor-South Filed up, o'er the grassy banks, Till the bursting shells from our cannon's mouth Flung death in their broken ranks. He sleeps 'neath the sod where I prayerfully knelt, While the enemy round me stood, As I took from the corse his battle-belt, Still wet with his heart's warm blood; And the summer day closed its light on earth, 40 THE RED STAIN ON THE LEAVES. As they bore me away with oaths and mirth, He sleeps where the blest of our glorious dead Where the daring deeds, ere his spirit fled, He sleeps - yes, he sleeps, undisturbed by war, THE Deserted hangs, and heaped with leaves; Once filled with life and joy, but now Sad as a stricken heart that grieves. Amid the light of such a scene, Where silent vales and hills are clad In gayest hues of gold and green, Why should the human heart be sad? THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER. Yet sombre thoughts flit through the mind, As leaves, touched by the autumn wind, Fall from the twigs to which they clung. The veils of golden mist that rise I see the blood our armies shed, That our dear country may be free. THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER. 41 ANONYMOUS. IT is night; almost morning - the clock has struck three; 42 THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER. Who can tell where, this moment, my darling may be! On the window has gathered the moisture like dew; I can see where the moonbeams steal tremblingly through; It is cold, but not windy, - how dreary and damp It must be for our soldiers exposed in the camp! Though I know it is warmer and balmier there, Yet I shrink from the thought of the chilling night air; For he never was used to the hardships of men When at home, for I shielded and cherished him then; And to all that could tend to his comfort I saw, For he seemed like a child till he went to the War! He is twenty, I know; and boys younger than he, met, But I never have seen a young soldier, as yet, now! How he will have been changed when he comes from the South! |