Edward Ludlow composed himself to listen to every word. The shock of surprise, with its tempest of tears, had past. As he stood with uncovered brow, the bright locks clustering around his noble forehead, it was seen how strongly he resembled his fallen brother, ere care and sorrow had clouded his manly beauty. For a moment, his eyes were raised upward, and his lips moved. Pious hearts felt that he was asking strength from above, to rule his emotions, and to attain that submission, which as a teacher of religion he enforced on others.
Turning meekly towards the commanding officer, he asked for the body of the dead, that it might be borne once more to the desolate home of his birth, and buried by the side of his father and his mother. The request was granted with sympathy.
He addressed himself to the services connected with the removal of the body, as one who bows himself down to bear the will of the Almighty. And as he raised the bleeding corpse of his beloved brother in his arms, he said, "O war! war! whose tender mercies are cruel, what enmity is so fearful to the soul, as friendship with thee."
Victory.
Waft not to me the blast of fame,
That swells the trump of victory,
For to my ear it gives the name
Of slaughter, and of misery.
Boast not so much of honour's sword,
Wave not so high the victor's plume,
They point me to the bosom gor'd,
They point me to the blood-stained tomb.
The boastful shout, the revel loud,
That strive to drown the voice of pain,
What are they but the fickle crowd
Rejoicing o'er their brethren slain?
And, ah! through glory's fading blaze,
I see the cottage taper, pale,
Which sheds its faint and feeble rays,
Where unprotected orphans wail:
Where the sad widow weeping stands,
As if her day of hope was done;
Where the wild mother clasps her hands
And asks the victor for her son:
Where the lone maid in secret sighs
O'er the lost solace of her heart,
As prostrate in despair she lies,
And feels her tortur'd life depart:
Where midst that desolated land,
The sire, lamenting o'er his son,
Extends his pale and powerless hand,
And finds its only prop is gone.
See, how the bands of war and woe
Have rifled sweet domestic bliss;
And tell me if your laurels grow
And flourish in a soil like this?