CHARLEY OF MALVERN HILL
A war-worn soldier, bronzed and seamed By weary march and battle stroke; ’Twas thus, while leaning on his crutch, The wounded veteran spoke,—
“The blue-eyed boy of Malvern Hill! A hero every inch was he, Though scarcely larger than the child You hold, sir, on your knee.
Some mother’s darling! On that field He seemed so strangely out of place, With his pure brow, his shining hair, His sweet, unconscious grace.
But not a bearded warrior there Watched with a more undaunted eye The blackness of the battle-cloud, As the fierce storm rose high.
That morn—ah! what a morn was that!— We thought to send him to the rear; We loved the lad—and love, you know, Is near akin to fear.
We knew that many a gallant soul Must pass away in one long sigh, Ere nightfall. On that bloody field, ’Twas not for boys to die.
But he—could you have seen him then, As, with his blue eyes full of fire, He poured forth tears and pleadings, half Of shame and half of ire!
‘Oh! do not bid me go!’ he cried; ‘I love yon flag as well as you! I did not join your ranks to run When there is work to do!
I did not come to beat my drum Only upon some gala day.’ The colonel shook his head, but said, ‘Well, Charley, you may stay.’
Ah! then his tears were quickly dried, A few glad words he strove to say; But there was little time to talk, And hardly time to pray.
For bitter, bitter was the strife That raged that day on Malvern Hill; Blue coats and gray in great heaps lay, Ere that wild storm grew still.
At length we charged. My very heart Sank down within me, cold and dumb, When to the front, and far ahead, Rushed Charley with his drum!
Above the cannon’s thundering boom, The din and shriek of shot and shell, We heard its clear peal rolling out Right gallantly and well.
A moment’s awful waiting! Then There came a sullen, angry roar,— O God! An empty void remained Where Charley stood before.
What did we then? With souls on fire We swept upon the advancing foe, And bade good angels guard the dust O‘er which no tears might flow!”
SUPPLICAMUS
1864
O laggard Sun! make haste to wake From her long trance the slumbering earth; Make haste this icy spell to break, That she may give new glories birth!
O April rain! so soft, so warm, Bounteous in blessing, rich in gifts, Drop tenderly upon her form, And bathe the forehead she uplifts.
O springing grass! make haste to run With swift feet o’er the meadows bare; O’er hill and dale, through forest dun, And where the wandering brooklets are!
O sweet wild flowers! the darksome mould Hasten with subtle strength to rift; Serene in beauty, meek yet bold, Your fair brows to the sunlight lift!
O haste ye all! for far away In lonely beds our heroes sleep, O’er which no wife may ever pray, Nor child nor mother ever weep.
No quaintly carved memorial stone May tell us that their ashes lie Where southern pines make solemn moan, And wailing winds give sad reply.
But deep in dreary, lonesome shades, On many a barren, sandy plain, By rocky pass, in tangled glades, And by the rolling, restless main;
By rushing stream, by silent lake, Uncoffined in their lowly graves, Until the earth’s last morn shall break, Must sleep our unforgotten braves!
O sun! O rain! O gentle dew! O fresh young grass, and opening flowers! With yearning hearts we leave to you The holy task that should be ours!
Light up the darkling forest’s gloom; Cover the bare, unsightly clay With tenderest verdure, with the bloom, The beauty and perfume of May!
O sweet blue violets! softly creep Beside the slumbering warrior’s bed; O roses! let your red hearts leap For joy your rarest sweets to shed;
O humble mosses! such as make New England’s woods and pastures fair, Over each mound, for Love’s sweet sake, Spread your soft folds with tender care.
Dear Nature, to your loving breast Clasp our dead heroes! In your arms Sweet be their sleep, serene their rest, Unmoved by Battle’s loud alarms!