ROLL-CALL.
The battle was over—the foemen were flying,
But the plain was strewn with the dead and the dying,
For the dark angel rode on its sulphurous blast,
And had reaped a rich harvest of death, as he passed;
For, as grass he mowed down the blue and the gray,
With the mean and the mighty that stood in his way,
While the blood of our bravest ran there as water,
And his nostrils were filled with the incense of slaughter.
The black guns were silent—hushed the loud ringing cheers,
And the pale dead were buried, in silence and tears;
And the wounded brought in on stretchers so gory,
Broken and mangled but covered with glory,
Whilst the surgeons were clipping with expertness and vim,
From the agonised trunk each bullet-torn limb,
And the patient, if living, was carefully sent
To the cool open wards of the hospital tent.
Within one of those wards a brave Highlander lay,
With the chill dews of death on his forehead of clay,
For a shell had struck him in the heat of the fray,
And his right arm and shoulder were carried away;
No word had he spoken—not a sound had he made,
Yet a shiver, at times, had his anguish betrayed,
And so calmly he lay without murmur or moan,
The gentle-voiced sister thought his spirit had flown.
The lamps burning dimly an uncertain light shed,
While the groans of the wounded, the stare of the dead,
Made an age of a night to the gentle and true,
That had waited and watched half its long hours through;
When the surgeon came in with a whisper of cheer,
And a nod and a glance at the cot that stood near,
When—"Here!" like a bugle blast, the dying man cried,
"It is roll-call in Heaven!" He answered and died.
Anon.
* * * * *
THE DEAD DOLL.
You needn't be trying to comfort me—I tell you my dolly is dead!
There's no use in saying she isn't—with a crack like that in her head.
It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out that day;
And then when the man most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.
And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with
glue!
As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you?
You might make her look all mended—but what do I care for looks?
Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!