Was there ever message sweeter
Than that one from Malvern Hill,
From a grim old fellow,—you remember?
Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill.
With his rough face turned a little,
On a heap of scarlet sand,
They found him, just within the thicket,
With a picture in his hand,—
With a stained and crumpled picture
Of a woman's aged face;
Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty,
Young and living—tender—from the face
When they flashed a lantern on it,
Gilding all the purple shade,
And stooped to raise him softly,—
"That's my mother, sir," he said.
"Tell her"—but he wandered, slipping
Into tangled words and cries,—
Something about Mac and Hooker,
Something dropping through the cries
About the kitten by the fire,
And mother's cranberry-pies; and there
The words fell, and an utter
Silence brooded in the air.
Just as he was drifting from them,
Out into the dark, alone
(Poor old mother, waiting for your message,
Waiting with the kitten, all alone!),
Through the hush his voice broke,—"Tell her—
Thank you, Doctor—when you can,—
Tell her that I kissed her picture,
And wished I'd been a better man."
Ah, I wonder if the red feet
Of departed battle-hours
May not leave for us their searching
Message from those distant hours.
Sisters, daughters, mothers, think you,
Would your heroes now or then,
Dying, kiss your pictured faces,
Wishing they'd been better men?
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
So ended McClellan's attempt to capture Richmond. He had lost seventy-five thousand men and had accomplished nothing. President Lincoln made a personal visit to inspect the army, then issued a call for three hundred thousand more troops.
THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE
[July 2, 1862]
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more,
From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore;
We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,
With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;
We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before:
We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!