They lay in the dew: “Ah! hurt much, Mink?
And—yes—the Colonel!” Dead! but so calm
That death seemed nothing—even death,
The thing we deem every thing heart can think;
Amid wilding roses that shed their balm,
Careless of Mosby he lay—in a charm!
The Major took him by the Hand—
Into the friendly clasp it bled
(A ball through heart and hand he rued):
“Good-by” and gazed with humid glance;