ROLL-CALL.
By N. G. SHEPHERD.
“Cyrus Drew!”—then a silence fell: This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear-man had seen him fall: Killed or wounded—he could not tell.
There they stood in the failing light, These men of battle, with grave, dark looks, As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night.
The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood, And down in the corn where the poppies grew Were redder stains than the poppies knew; And crimson-dyed was the river’s flood.
For the foe had crossed from the other side That day, in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down in its terrible ire, And their life-blood went to color the tide.
“Herbert Kline!” At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line, Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.