For it droops above the dead; Abram J. Ryan [1839-1888] DRIVING HOME THE COWS OUT of the clover and blue-eyed grass, Under the willows, and over the hill, Only a boy! and his father had said Under the feet of the trampling foe. But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the foot-path damp, Across the clover, and through the wheat, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, Thrice since then had the lanes been white, For news had come to the lonely farm The summer day grew cold and late. He went for the cows when the work was done; But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one,— Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,But who was it following close behind? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; Together they followed the cattle home. Kate Putnam Osgood [1841 BEFORE SEDAN [AUGUST 29-SEPTEMBER 1, 1870] "The dead hand clasped a letter "-Special Correspondence HERE in this leafy place, Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; 'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said. Carry his body hence, Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves: So this man's eye is dim;- What was the white you touched, There, at his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died; Message or wish, may be: Smooth out the folds and see. Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled! Only the tremulous Words of a child;— Prattle, that had for stops Look. She is sad to miss. His-her dead father's-kiss; Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet. Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain! Ah, if the hearts that bled If the grief died;-But no; Death will not have it so. Austin Dobson [1840 CUSTER'S LAST CHARGE [JUNE 25, 1876] DEAD! Is it possible? He, the bold rider, Far from our battle-king's ringlets of light! Dead, our young chieftain, and dead, all forsaken! Slain in the desert, and never to waken, Proud for his fame that last day that he met them! Hurrying scouts with the tidings to awe them, All the wide valley was full of their forces, followed Men who had fought ten to one ere that day? Out swept the squadrons, the fated three hundred, Then down the hillside exultingly thundered, Wild Ogalallah, Arapahoe, Cheyenne, Wild Horse's braves, and the rest of their crew, Shrank from that charge like a herd from a lion,— Then closed around, the grim horde of wild Sioux! Right to their centre he charged, and then facing— Red was the circle of fire around them; No hope of victory, no ray of light, Shot through that terrible black cloud without them, Brooding in death over Custer's last fight. Then did he blench? Did he die like a craven, Flinched like a coward or fled from the strife? Thicker and thicker the bullets came singing; War-painted warriors charging amain. Backward, again and again, they were driven, Ever the leader's voice, clarion clear, Rang out his words of encouragement glowing, "We can but die once, boys,—we'll sell our lives dear!" Dearly they sold them like Berserkers raging, Facing the death that encircled them round; Frederick Whittaker [1838 THE LAST REDOUBT [SEPTEMBER, 1877] KACELYEVO's slope still felt The cannons' bolts and the rifles' pelt; |