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Page 138
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and the dying lay--
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day--
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave!
Wearing yet on his sweet, pale face--
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave--
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace!
Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mould--
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush his wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now--
Somebody's darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low--
One bright curl from its fair mates take--
They were somebody's pride you know.
Somebody's hand hath rested there;
Was it a mother's, soft and white?
Or have the lips of a sister fair--
Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best! He has somebody's love;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there--
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand!
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay--
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling child-like lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead--
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head--
"Somebody's darling slumbers here."
John Pegram,
Fell at the Head of His Division, Feb. 6th, 1865, �tat XXXIII.
By W. Gordon McCabe.
What shall we say, now, of our gentle knight,
Or how express the measure of our woe,
For him who rode the foremost in the fight,
Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe?
Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell?--
That good blade now lies fast within its sheath;
What can we do but point to where he fell,
And, like a soldier, met a soldier's death?
We sorrow not as those who have no hope;
For he was pure in heart as brave in deed--
God pardon us, if blindly we should grope,
And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed.
And yet--oh! foolish and of little faith!
We cannot choose but weep our useless tears;
We loved him so; we never dreamed that death
Would dare to touch him in his brave young years.
Ah! dear, browned face, so fearless and so bright!
As kind to friend as thou wast stern to foe--
No more we'll see thee radiant in the fight,
The eager eyes--the flush on cheek and brow!
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