THE EVE BEFORE THE BATTLE.
’Twas the eve before the battle,
And the men had taken leave
Of their lovely wives and sweethearts
Who were left behind to grieve
And think upon the morrow,
What disasters might befall;
Hope flickered in each loving heart,
But fear prevailed with all,
Save one, a noble matron, who
The mournful silence broke,
And rising with heroic mien,
Thus to her sisters spoke:
“Seven brave sons I’ve borne with pain,
And nurtured at my breast;
I’ve loved them well—but better still
My country sore oppressed;
And when the sound of strife was heard
Preparing through the land,
To each of my brave boys I gave
A gun with mine own hand.
Oh joyful mother that I am,
They will not brook a slave!
For happy homes and altars free
They’re fighting with the brave;
They’re gone to join the patriot host
Encamped on yonder hill;
How proud I feel—the Pilgrims’ blood
Flows through my heroes still!
And, as we parted then as now,
My heart was free from pain;
“Come back free men to me,” I cried;
“Or never come again!”
Ye Mothers of America,
Come now, with me unite;
And should we find a recreant son
Returning from the fight,
Unbidden, without wound or scar,
Or wanting glory’s crown,
Let’s stone the craven wretch to death,
Or piecemeal hew him down.”
And, how the sires have stemmed the flood
That fills our land with grief and blood;
How well they bear the brunt of woe,
We learn from scenes like this below:
Not tales of fiction to appal,
But truths. Let one suffice for all!
There lives near Elgin, Illinois,
A man whose wealth, five noble boys,
Was all he had to cheer his age,
And soothe life’s closing pilgrimage;
The call was heard; and, one by one,
He sent them forth with sword and gun;
At Lexington his youngest fell,
And one at Shiloh by a shell:
A third at Pea Ridge lost his life,
With honor in that fearful strife;
At Fredericksburgh’s terrific fray,
A fourth was swept from light of day;
His wife, borne down by sorrow’s wave,
Found consolation—in the grave.
Of all his treasures one remained,
Which still the father’s hopes sustained:
Would Heaven this loved one soon restore,
To bless his aged eyes once more?
Alas! he too was doomed to sleep
In death, and leave his sire to weep.
At Murfreesboro he was shot;
His father mourned, for he was not!
But when the first rude pangs had passed,
And the cold grave received his last,
He thanked his Father in Heaven that he
Had thus been privileged to be
The sire of Martyrs for the Right,
Who fell in Freedom’s sacred fight.
His heavy loss he nobly bore,
And wished that God had given him more,
To offer at his country’s feet,
To make the sacrifice complete!
And hark that wild, yet glorious strain!
’Tis from the spirits of the slain;
Whose privilege it was to fall,
First victims, at their country’s call: