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Page 177
For their serried ranks are strong: thousands upon thousands throng--
All is gone,
And the handful, true and brave, spent, like yonder dying wave,
Fall back slowly from that grave.
Low our banner drooped--and fell. Back he spurs, mid shot and shell--
All _was_ gone,
But he waves it high--and then, on--we sweep them from the glen--
But he ne'er rode back again.
Ah, I smiled to see him go. How my cheek with pride did glow!
All is gone--
All, of pride or hope, for me--but that evening, hopefully
Stood I at the gate with thee,
Sister, when at twilight gray marched our soldiers back this way--
All is gone--
In the woods rang many a cheer--how we smiled! I did not fear
Till--at last was borne a bier.
Sweetest sister, dost thou weep? Hush! he only fell asleep--
All is gone--
And'twere better he had died--free, whatever us betide--
Our galling chains untried.
We were leaning on the gate. Dost remember, it grew late--
All is gone--
Yet I see the stars so pale--see the shadows down the vale--
Hear the whip-poor-will's far wail,
As if all were in a dream. Through yon pines the moon did gleam--
All is gone--
On that banner-pall of death--on that red sword without sheath--
And--I knew who lay beneath.
Did I speak? I thought I said, let me look upon your dead--
All is gone---
Was I cold? I did not weep. Tears are spray from founts not deep--
My heart lies in frozen sleep.
Sister, pray for me. Thine eyes gleam like God's own midnight skies--
All is gone--
Tuneless are my spirit's chords. I but look up, like the birds,
And trust Christ to say the words.
Bowing Her Head.
Her head is bowed downwards; so pensive her air,
As she looks on the ground with her pale, solemn face,
It were hard to decide whether faith or despair,
Whether anguish or trust, in her heart holds a place.
Her hair was all gold in the sun's joyous light,
Her brow was as smooth as the soft, placid sea:
But the furrows of care came with shadows of night,
And the gold silvered pale when the light left the lea.
Her lips slightly parted, deep thought in her eye,
While sorrow cuts seams in her forehead so fair;
Her bosom heaves gently, she stifles a sigh,
And just moistens her lid with the dews of a tear.
Why droops she thus earthward--why bends she? Oh, see!
There are gyves on her limbs! see her manacled hand!
She is loaded with chains; but her spirit is free--
Free to love and to mourn for her desolate land.
Her jailer, though cunning, lacks wit to devise
How to fetter her thoughts, as her limbs he has done;
The eagle that's snatched from his flight to the skies,
From the bars of his cage may still gaze at the sun.
No sound does she utter; all voiceless her pains;
The wounds of her spirit with pride she conceals;
She is dumb to her shearers; the clank of her chains
And the throbs of her heart only tell what she feels.
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