WE LEFT HIM ON THE FIELD.
By Miss Maria E. Jones, of Galveston, Tex.
| We left him on the crimson’d field, Where battle storms had swept, We know the soldier’s fate was seal’d— No wonder that we wept. Some have, perhaps, as nobly fought, And some as bravely fell, Where the red sword its work hath wrought, But none we lov’d so well. O deem us not a faithless band, Who left him to the foe; His latest accent of command, Was when he bade us go! Yet one still linger’d near his side, To watch his fleeting breath, To mark the ebbing of life’s tide And pale approach of death. But ere we left our Captain there, He gave us each a word, Some thought of kind, remembering care— “Here, Warren, take my sword— You’ll be their captain now, you know; But, friend, remember then,” Said he, “how well I loved them; Be faithful to my men! |
“He faintly smiled and waved his hand.”