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,
In the ranks going by, every day we can see;
And those stronger and prouder, by far I have
met,

But I never have seen a young soldier, as yet,
With so gallant a mien, or so lofty a brow,

How the sun and the wind must have darkened it

now!

How he will have been changed when he comes

from the South !—

THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER.

43

With his beard shutting out the sweet smiles of his mouth;

And the tremulous beauty, the womanly grace, Will be bronzed from the delicate lines of his face, Where, of late, only childhood's soft beauty I saw, For he seemed like a child till he went to the War!

He was always so gentle, and ready to yield;
And so frank, there was nothing kept back or con-
cealed;

He was always so sparkling with laughter and joy,
I had thought he never could cease being a boy ;
But when sounded the cannon for battle, and when
Rose the rallying cry of our Nation for men,
From the dream-loving mood of his boyhood he

passed;

A

From his path the light fetters of pleasure he cast;
And rose, ready to stand in the perilous van,
Not the tremulous boy, but the resolute man ;
And I gazed on him sadly, with trembling and
awe,

He was only a child till he went to the War!

There are homes that are humbler and sadder than

ours;

There are ways that are barer of beauty and flowers;

44

THE DEAD DRUMMER-BOY.

There are those that must suffer for fire and bread,
Living only to sorrow and wish they were dead;
I must try and be patient- I must not repine
But what heart is more lonely, more anxious than
mine!

Or what hearth can be darker than mine seems

to be,

Now the glow of the firelight is all I can see,
Where my darling, in beauty, so lately I saw,
He was only a child, till he went to the War!

THE DEAD DRUMMER-BOY.

'MIDST tangled roots that lined the wild ravine Where the fierce fight raged hottest through

the day,

And where the dead in scattered heaps were seen, Amid the darkling forest's shade and sheen, Speechless in death he lay.

The setting sun, which glanced athwart the place
In slanting lines, like amber-tinted rain,
Fell sidewise on the drummer's upturned face,
Where death had left his gory finger's trace
In one bright crimson stain.

THE DEAD DRUMMER-BOY.

The silken fringes of his once bright eye
Lay like a shadow on his cheek so fair;
His lips were parted by a long-drawn sigh,
That with his soul had mounted to the sky
On some wild martial air.

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No more his hand the fierce tattoo shall beat,
The shrill reveille, or the long roll's call,
Or sound the charge, when in the smoke and heat
Of fiery onset, foe with foe shall meet,

And gallant men shall fall.

Yet may be in some happy home, that one,
A mother, reading from the list of dead,
Shall chance to view the name of her dear son,
"God's will be done!

And move her lips to say,

And bow in grief her head.

"

But more than this what tongue shall tell his story ?
Perhaps his boyish longings were for fame;

He lived, he died; and so, memento mori, -
Enough if on the page of War and Glory
Some hand has writ his name.

46

G

A NATIONAL HYMN.

A NATIONAL HYMN.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

REAT God! to whom our nation's woes,
Our dire distress, our angry foes,

In all their awful gloom are known,
We bow to Thee and Thee alone.

We pray Thee mitigate this strife,
Attended by such waste of life,

Such wounds and anguish, groans and tears,
That fill our inmost hearts with fears.

Oh, darkly now the tempest rolls,
Wide o'er our desolated souls ;
Yet, beaten downward to the dust,
In Thy forgiveness still we trust.

We trust to Thy protecting power
In this, our country's saddest hour,
And pray that Thou wilt spread Thy shield
Above us in the camp and field.

O, God of battles! let Thy might
Protect our armies in the fight
"Till they shall win the victory,
And set the hapless bondmen free.