The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems Part 38

Our columns are broken, defeated, and fled; We are gathered, a few from the flying and dead, Where the green flag is up and our wounded remain Imploring for water and groaning in pain.

Lo the blood-spattered bosom, the shot-shattered limb, The hand-clutch of fear as the vision grows dim, The half-uttered prayer and the blood-fettered breath, The cold marble brow and the calm face of death.

O proud were these forms at the dawning of morn, When they sprang to the call of the shrill bugle-horn: There are mothers and wives that await them afar; G.o.d help them!--Is this then the glory of war?

But hark!--hear the cries from the field of despair; "The Black-Horse" are charging the fugitives there; They gallop the field o'er the dying and dead, And their blades with the blood of their victims are red.

The cries of the fallen and flying are vain; They saber the wounded and trample the slain; And the plumes of the riders wave red in the sun, As they stoop for the stroke and the murder goes on.

They halt for a moment--they form and they stand; Then with sabers aloft they ride down on our band Like the samiel that sweeps o'er Arabia's sand.

"Halt!--down with your sabers!--the dying are here!

Let the foeman respect while the friend sheds a tear."

Nay; the merciless butchers were thirsting for blood, And mad for the murder still onward they rode.

"_Stand firm and be ready_!"--Our brave, gallant few Have faced to the foe, and our rifles are true; Fire!--a score of grim riders go down in a breath At the flash of our guns--in the tempest of death!

They wheel, and they clutch in despair at the mane!

They reel in their saddles and fall to the plain!

The riderless steeds, wild with wounds and with fear, Dash away o'er the field in unbridled career; Their stirrups swing loose and their manes are all gore From the mad cavaliers that shall ride them no more.

Of the hundred so bold that rode down on us there But few rode away with the tale of despair; Their proud, plumed comrades so reckless, alas, Slept their long, dreamless sleep on the blood-spattered gra.s.s.

ONLY A PRIVATE KILLED

[The soldier was Louis Mitch.e.l.l, of Co. 1, 1st Minn. Vols., killed in a skirmish, near Ball's Bluff, October 22, 1861.]

"We've had a brush," the Captain said, "And Rebel blood we've spilled; We came off victors with the loss Of only a _private_ killed."

"Ah," said the orderly--"it was hot,"-- Then he breathed a heavy breath-- "Poor fellow!--he was badly shot, Then bayoneted to death."

And now was hushed the martial din; The saucy foe had fled; They brought the private's body in; I went to see the dead; For I could not think our Rebel foes-- So valiant in the van-- So boastful of their chivalry-- Could kill a wounded man.

A musket ball had pierced his thigh-- A frightful, crus.h.i.+ng wound-- And then with savage bayonets They pinned him to the ground.

One deadly thrust drove through the heart, Another through the head; Three times they stabbed his pulseless breast When he lay cold and dead.

His hair was matted with his gore, His hands were clinched with might, As if he still his musket bore So firmly in the fight.

He had grasped the foemen's bayonets Their murderous thrusts to fend: They raised the coat-cape from his face, And lo--it was my friend!

Think what a shudder chilled my heart!

'Twas but the day before We laughed together merrily, As we talked of days of yore.

"How happy we shall be," he said, "When the war is o'er, and when With victory's song and victory's tread We all march home again."

Ah little he dreamed--that soldier brave So near his journey's goal-- How soon a heavenly messenger Would claim his Christian soul.

But he fell like a hero--fighting, And hearts with grief are filled; And honor is his,--tho' the Captain says "Only a _private_ killed."

I knew him well,--he was my friend; He loved our land and laws, And he fell a blessed martyr To our Country's holy cause; And I know a cottage in the West Where eyes with tears are filled As they read the careless telegram-- "Only a _private_ killed."

Comrades, bury him under the oak, Wrapped in his army-blue; He is done with the battle's din and smoke, With drill and the proud review.

And the time will come ere long, perchance, When our blood will thus be spilled, And what care we if the Captain say-- "Only a _private_ killed."

For the glorious Old Flag beckons.

We have pledged her heart and hand, And we'll brave even death to rescue Our dear old Fatherland.

We ask not praise--nor honors, Then--as each grave is filled-- What care we if the Captain say-- "Only a _private_ killed."

DO THEY THINK OF US?

[October, 1861, after the Battle of Ball's Bluff.]

Do they think of us, say--in the far distant West-- On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest?

On the long dusty march when the suntide is hot, O say, are their sons and their brothers forgot?

Are our names on their lips, is our comfort their care When they kneel to the G.o.d of our fathers in prayer?

When at night on their warm, downy pillows they lie, Wrapped in comfort and ease, do they think of us, say?

When the rain patters down on the roof overhead, Do they think of the camps without shelter or bed?

Ah many a night on the cold ground we've lain-- Chilled, chilled to the heart by the merciless rain, And yet there stole o'er us the peace of the blest, For our spirits went back to our homes in the West.

O we think of them, and it sharpens our steel, When the battle-smoke rolls and the grim cannon peal, When forward we rush at the shrill bugle's call To the hail-storm of conflict where many must fall.

When night settles down on the slaughter-piled plain, And the dead are at rest and the wounded in pain, Do they think of us, say, in the far distant West-- On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest?

Aye, comrades, we know that our darlings are there With their hearts full of hope and their souls full of prayer, And it steadies our rifles--it steels every breast-- The thought of our loved ones at home in the West-- On the Prairies of Peace, in the Valleys of Rest.

CHARGE OF FREMONT'S BODY-GUARD

On they ride--on they ride-- Only three hundred,-- Ride the brave Body-Guard, From the "Prairie Scouts" sundered: Two thousand riflemen, Ambushed on either side, The signal of slaughter bide: Ho! has the farmer-guide Led them astray and lied?

How can they pa.s.s the wood?

On they ride--on they ride-- Fearlessly, readily, Silently, steadily Ride the brave Body-Guard Led by Zagonyi.

Up leap the Southrons there; Loud breaks the battle-blare; Now swings his hat in air; Flashes his saber bare: "_Draw sabers;--follow me_!"

Shouts the brave Captain: "_Union and Liberty_!"

Thunders the Captain.

Three hundred sabers flash; Three hundred Guardsmen dash On to the fierce attack; Into the _cul-de-sac_ Plunge the Three Hundred.

Yell the mad ambushed pack-- Two thousand rifles crack At the Three Hundred.

Dire is the death they deal, Gleams the steel--volleys peal-- Horses plunge--riders reel; Sabers and bayonets clash; Guns in their faces flash; Blue coats are spattered red-- Fifty brave Guards are dead-- Zagonyi is still ahead, Swinging his hat in air, Flas.h.i.+ng his saber: "Steady men;--steady there; Forward--Battalion!"

On they plunge--on they dash Thro' the dread gantlet; Death gurgles in the gash Of furious-dealt saber-slash; Over them the volleys crash Thro' the trees like a whirlwind.

They pa.s.s through the fire of death; Pant riders and steeds for breath; "_Halt!_" cried the Captain Then he looked up the hill; There on the summit still The "Third Company" paltered.

Right through the fire of h.e.l.l, Where fifty brave Guardsmen fell, Zagonyi had ridden well; Foley had faltered.

Flashed like a flame of fire-- Flashed with a menace dire-- Flashed with a yell of ire The sword of the Captain.

Kennedy saw the flash, And ordered the "Third" to dash Gallantly forward: "Come on, Boys, for Liberty!

Forward, and follow me!

Remember Kentucky!"

Into the h.e.l.l they broke-- Into the fire and smoke-- Dealing swift saber-stroke-- The gallant Kentuckians.

Horses plunge, Riders lunge Heavily forward; Over the fallen they ride Down to Zagonyi's side, Mowing a swath of death Either side,--right and left Piling the slaughtered!