The verses by Captain Mayne Reid referred to are:
Monterey.
We were not many - we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day—
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if he but could
Have been with us at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot it hailed
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
Yet not a single soldier quailed,
When wounded comrades round them wailed
Their dying shouts at Monterey.
And on - still on our columns kept,
Through walls of flame, its withering way;
Where fell the dead, the living stept,
Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets of Monterey.
The foe himself recoiled aghast,
When, striking where he strongest lay,
We swooped his flanking batteries past,
And braving full their murderous blast,
Stormed home the towers of Monterey.
Our banners on those turrets wave,
And there our evening bugles play;
Where orange boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.
We were not many - we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He’d rather share their warrior rest,
Than not have been at Monterey?
At a public dinner held in the city of Columbus, Ohio, to celebrate the capture of Mexico, Mayne Reid’s memory was toasted, and the following lines, by a young poetess of Ohio, were recited with great effect:
Dirge.
Gone - gone - gone,
Gone to his dreamless sleep;
And spirits of the brave,
Watching o’er his lone grave,
Weep - weep - weep.
*****
Mourn - mourn - mourn,
Mother, to sorrow long wed!
Far o’er the mighty deep,
Where the brave coldly sleep,
Thy warrior son lies dead.
Lone - lone - lone,
In thine own far island home,
Ere thy life’s task is done,
Oft with the setting sun,
O’er the sea thy thoughts will roam.
*****
Sound - sound - sound,
The trumpet, while thousands die!
Madly forcing his way,
Through the blood-dashing spray
He beareth our banner on high!
Woe - woe - woe!
Like a thought he hath sunk to rest.
Slow they bear him away,
In stern martial array,
The flag and the sword on his breast.
High - high - high,
High in the temple of fame,
The poet’s fadeless wreath,
And the soldier’s sheath,
Are engraven above his name.
Long - long - long,
As time to the earth shall belong,
The sad wind o’er, the surge
Shall chant its low dirge
To this peerless child of song.
Gone - gone - gone!
Gone to his dreamless sleep;
And spirits of the brave,
Watching o’er his lone grave,
Weep - weep - weep.
The muse of the poetess perhaps required chastening, but the verses are not without power and at least show the love and admiration felt for the hero.
Chapter Six.
Mayne Reid Remains in Mexico. Contemporary Notices in the United States.
Mayne Reid was laid up in the city of Mexico for some time. It was at first supposed that amputation of the leg would be necessary; but on the doctors consulting, they came to the conclusion that this would be certain death, as the bullet had only just escaped severing the femoral artery. At last, under skilful care, he made a good recovery, and by the following December we find him on the eve of fighting a duel, but the challenged one “backed out,” his friend sending the following letter: