Fell at the Head of His Division, Feb. 6th, 1865, Ætat XXXIII.
By W. Gordon McCabe.
What shall we say, now, of our gentle knight,
Or how express the measure of our woe,
For him who rode the foremost in the fight,
Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe?
Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell?--
That good blade now lies fast within its sheath;
What can we do but point to where he fell,
And, like a soldier, met a soldier's death?
We sorrow not as those who have no hope;
For he was pure in heart as brave in deed--
God pardon us, if blindly we should grope,
And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed.
And yet--oh! foolish and of little faith!
We cannot choose but weep our useless tears;
We loved him so; we never dreamed that death
Would dare to touch him in his brave young years.
Ah! dear, browned face, so fearless and so bright!
As kind to friend as thou wast stern to foe--
No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight,
The eager eyes--the flush on cheek and brow!
No more we'll greet the lithe, familiar form,
Amid the surging smoke, with deaf'ning cheer;
No more shall soar above the iron storm,
Thy ringing voice in accents sweet and clear.
Aye! he has fought the fight and passed away--
Our grand young leader smitten in the strife!
So swift to seize the chances of the fray,
And careless only of his noble life.
He is not dead, but sleepeth! well we know
The form that lies to-day beneath the sod,
Shall rise that time the golden bugles blow,
And pour their music through the courts of God.
And there amid our great heroic dead--
The war-worn sons of God, whose work is done--
His face shall shine, as they with stately tread,
In grand review, sweep past the jasper throne.
Let not our hearts be troubled! Few and brief
His days were here, yet rich in love and faith:
Lord, we believe, help thou our unbelief,
And grant thy servants such a life and death!
Captives Going Home.
No flaunting banners o'er them wave,
No arms flash back the sun's bright ray,
No shouting crowds around them throng,
No music cheers them on their way:
They're going home. By adverse fate
Compelled their trusty swords to sheathe;
True soldiers they, even though disarmed--
Heroes, though robbed of victory's wreath.
Brave Southrons! 'Tis with sorrowing hearts
We gaze upon them through our tears,
And sadly feel how vain were all
Their heroic deeds through weary years;
Yet 'mid their enemies they move
With firm, bold step and dauntless mien:
Oh, Liberty! in every age,
Such have thy chosen heroes been.
Going home! Alas, to them the words
Bring visions fraught with gloom and woe:
Since last they saw those cherished homes
The legions of the invading foe
Have swept them, simoon-like, along,
Spreading destruction with the wind!
"They found a garden, but they left
A howling wilderness behind."
Ah! in those desolated homes
To which the "fate of war has come,"
Sad is the welcome--poor the feast--
That waits the soldier's coming home;
Yet loving ones will round him throng,
With smiles more tender, if less gay,
And joy will brighten pallid cheeks
At sight of the dear boys in gray.
Aye, give them welcome home, fair South,
For you they've made a deathless name;
Bright through all after-time will glow
The glorious record of their fame.
They made a nation. What, though soon
Its radiant sun has seemed to set;
The past has shown what they can do,
The future holds bright promise yet.
The Heights of Mission Ridge.
By J. Augustine Signaigo.
When the foes, in conflict heated,
Battled over road and bridge,
While Bragg sullenly retreated
From the heights of Mission Ridge--
There, amid the pines and wildwood,
Two opposing colonels fell,
Who had schoolmates been in childhood,
And had loved each other well.
There, amid the roar and rattle,
Facing Havoc's fiery breath,
Met the wounded two in battle,
In the agonies of death.
But they saw each other reeling
On the dead and dying men,
And the old time, full of feeling,
Came upon them once again.
When that night the moon came creeping,
With its gold streaks, o'er the slain,
She beheld two soldiers, sleeping,
Free from every earthly pain.
Close beside the mountain heather,
Where the rocks obscure the sand,
They had died, it seems, together,
As they clasped each other's hand.
"Our Left at Manassas."
From dawn to dark they stood,
That long midsummer's day!
While fierce and fast
The battle-blast
Swept rank on rank away!
From dawn to dark, they fought
With legions swept and cleft,
While black and wide,
The battle-tide
Poured ever on our "Left!"
They closed each ghastly gap!
They dressed each shattered rank
They knew, how well!
That Freedom fell
With that exhausted flank!
"Oh! for a thousand men,
Like these that melt away!"
And down they came,
With steel and flame,
Four thousand to the fray!
They left the laggard train;
The panting steam might stay;
And down they came,
With steel and flame,
Head-foremost to the fray!
Right through the blackest cloud
Their lightning-path they cleft!
Freedom and Fame
With triumph came
To our immortal Left.
Ye! of your living, sure!
Ye! of your dead, bereft!
Honor the brave
Who died to save
Your all, upon our Left.