Within this cabin, on a summer’s eve,
Upon a couch a wounded soldier lay;
Propped up beside a window to relieve
His aching brow, he watched the dying day.
Anon his eyes would follow far away
The burnished dove disport on gilded wing,
Then nearer the gay oriole swoop at play;
And heard the while the merry mock-bird sing,
Till Slumber o’er his brow her leaden chain would fling.
III.
Then in fond dreams his Fancy oft would trace
His Northern home beside the winding stream,
A mother’s fervent kiss and long embrace,
A sister’s streaming tears, or the mild beam
Of fairer eyes, where love-lit thoughts would seem
To melt in tears. Oh, pictured vision bright!
Too soon to fade,—gone with the fleeting dream,
Like shooting stars that fade away in night,
And leave no trace behind to mark their sudden flight.
IV.
Oft would he start in wild delirium,
And grasp with frenzied hand the fancied blade,
As if he heard the regimental drum
Sounding to arms; for dire Fever preyed
Upon his young life’s blood, and oft betrayed
That Death with dragon mouth stood yawning nigh,
Eager to seize his prey, nor would be stayed
By Art’s firm hand or Pity’s tear-dewed eye,
From his dread course, fell Demon of eternity.
V.
And as the fitful dream of parting life
Thus came and went, there watched beside
The dying soldier’s couch of pain and strife
A gentle maid. In eager haste she tried,
As oft would rise and ebb life’s surging tide,
To check the pulse, to soothe the heart’s distress,
To minister the potion that would hide
Anguish and pain in deep forgetfulness;—
Irene performed the while such task of tenderness.