.4 
 
 .D49 
 Copy 1 
 
Class 
 Book, 
 
 -£-£04- 
 
 
OUR '^^ 
 
 
 
 ROLL OF HONOR. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN FORRESTER DEVERBJ&X, 
 
 r 
 
OUR 
 
 ROLL OF HONOR. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN FORRESTER DEVEREUX. 
 
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 4<^ 
 
 
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 West. I-&8. Htet;. Bbc. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, 
 
 BY MRS. M. C. D. SILSBEE, 
 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
"Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona 
 Multi ; sed omnes illacrimabiles 
 Urgentur ignotique longa 
 
 Nocte, carent quia vate sacro. 
 
 " PAullum sepultae distat inertiae 
 Celata virtus. Non ego te meis 
 Chartis inornatum silebo 
 Totve tuos patiar labores 
 
 " Impune, , carpere lividas 
 
 Obliviones " 
 
 Horace, Lib. IV. Carm. ix. 
 
OUR ROLL OF HONOR. 
 
 EN live who fill the honored lives they pass 
 On earth with service of their fellow-men ; 
 Who gild Time's sands, outpouring from 
 his glass, 
 And freely proffer, asking naught again ; 
 Who gather wisdom that they may bestow 
 Such knowledge as no measuring hand may gauge, 
 And garner truths the onward path to show 
 To ardent youth, when they are chilled in age. 
 When such men die, the world will bow the head 
 And sigh that years must lead to sure decay. 
 And pay fit tribute to the ripely dead 
 Whose useful lives have passed in peace away, 
 While grateful millions sculptured marble raise 
 To those who toiled for man through the allotted days. 
 
 And men there are who dare to die for man 
 And give their own that others' lives may be ; 
 
Proud to exchange this mortal Hfe's short span, — 
 These present hours, for immortahty ; 
 Who seal their faith in what so many doubt 
 By meeting death which all too many dread, — 
 Whose strong right hand this glorious truth points out, 
 " The dead to earth are not the truly dead." 
 When such men die, the world will raise its eyes 
 In firmer faith to the high goal of Heaven, 
 And strong conviction, crowning glad surmise. 
 Proclaims that life beyond this world is given. 
 Although their names may grace no sculptured scroll. 
 Each grateful human heart shall hold the glorious roll. 
 
 FREDERICK W. LANDER, 
 
 Brigadier-General of Volunteers ; wounded at Ball's Bluff, Md., 
 October 22, 1861 ; died in consequence of his wounds. 
 
 Slowly and sadly floats upon the air 
 The sobbing music ending in a wail ; 
 Slowly and sadly, with grief-measured tread 
 And arms reversed, his comrades bring their dead ; 
 Slowly and sadly to the grave they bear 
 His senseless form so cold and still and pale. 
 Deep folds of heavy crape 
 
Their drooping colors drape, 
 Whose sombre weight defies the efforts of the gale. 
 
 In well-earned rest his laurelled sword is lying 
 Upon the pall that shrouds him from our sight ; 
 Slowly and sadly the long train moves on, — 
 Slowly and sadly dim eyes rest upon 
 The hat and plume, — and faithful soldiers sighing 
 Know them as his who always led the fight, — 
 
 Whose brown cheek never paled, 
 
 When others shrank and quailed. 
 
 Slowly and sadly roll the muflfled drums. 
 
 The Dead March loads the listening air with woe ; 
 
 Along the streets each bended head is bare, 
 And sorrowing hearts and pitying eyes are there, 
 Where through the crowd that long procession 
 
 comes, 
 And seeks the waiting grave with weary footsteps 
 slow ; 
 
 The tide of life gives way 
 
 Before his senseless clay. 
 Hushed to such silence as men rarely know. 
 
 The rattling volley fired above his grave 
 Is past, — its echoes die upon their ears ; 
 
8 
 
 His sorrowing comrades hearken to the prayer 
 In solemn accent lowly uttered there 
 Above the soldier who in life was brave, 
 Whose early death has filled their eyes with tears, 
 
 And sighing turn away 
 
 To the stern duties of the day, 
 To strive for deeds like his through the remaining 
 years. 
 
 WILLIAM ROSS, 
 
 Private Co. I, 8th Mass. Vol. Infantry, April 17 to August i, 1861 ; 
 1st Sergt. Co. — , 19th Mass. Vol. Infantry ; killed at Antietam, Va., 
 September 17, 1862. 
 
 White as the snow of the mountains 
 
 That tower above our land ; 
 Red as the blush of the dawning, 
 
 When the day god is at hand ; 
 Blue as the sky of a still night 
 
 When Nature her robe doth grace 
 With jewels that flash in the clear light 
 
 And gleam through her frostwork lace ; 
 Studded with stars of silver 
 
 As bright as those that wait 
 
On the moon as she climbs her steep way 
 
 From heaven's eastern gate, 
 Were their colors gently waving 
 
 On the cool, fresh autumn air. 
 That was laden with many a blessing, 
 
 Burdened with many a prayer. 
 
 He stood beneath those colors 
 
 By our Northern breeze caressed ; 
 
 He in those prayers was prayed for. 
 In those blessings he was blessed. 
 
 In the dust of their long, long marches 
 
 That white its whiteness lost, 
 Dim grew its deep red's brightness 
 
 In the breath of battle tossed ; 
 On their field of blue now faded 
 
 The tarnished stars still shine. 
 The boast, the pride, and the glory 
 
 Of that decimated line. 
 Where the fight had been the fiercest, 
 
 That war-worn flag had led ; — 
 Where the heaps of dead were highest. 
 
 Its guardians fought and bled ; 
 Its torn and bloodstained splendor 
 
 Told for them a noble story ; 
 
lO 
 
 In each tatter men might read 
 
 Somie record of their glory. 
 It was hoUer far, and dearer, 
 
 As a torn and smoke-stained rag. 
 To the eyes and hearts of the fond ones, 
 
 Who watched the Nineteenth's flag. 
 
 He proudly stood beneath it 
 
 As it rose in Southern air ; 
 He would gladly die to guard it 
 
 As it fluttered, shot-torn, there. 
 From the land of the Pilgrim fathers. 
 
 Where first its folds were spread. 
 To old Virginia's war-fields. 
 
 Whose soil with blood was red. 
 It had waved in the winds of heaven 
 
 That sighed o'er a war-cursed earth. 
 Where her angry sons were fighting 
 
 On the land which gave them birth. 
 It had waved to shouts of victory, 
 
 Drooped sadly in retreat, 
 But it never knew dishonor. 
 
 Or fell at a foeman's feet. 
 One after another its bearers 
 
 Had sunk in its shadow and died. 
 
II 
 
 But ere it had fallen above them 
 
 Fresh hands seized their peril and pride. 
 That flag had flaunted o'er them 
 
 Through sunshine and through storm, 
 When wintry winds were bitter, 
 
 When summer's suns were warm ; 
 Their comrades died beneath it 
 
 As die the true and brave, 
 It had fanned their fitful slumbers, 
 
 It had drooped above their grave. 
 His was one of the many 
 
 Low mounds beneath its shade, 
 He was one of the heroes 
 
 That love for the torn flag made. 
 
12 
 
 HENRY MERRITT, 
 
 Lieutenant-Colonel 23d Mass. Vol. Infantry, October 24, 1861 ; 
 killed at Newbern, N. C, March 14, 1862. 
 
 Newbern ! full many a face will flush 
 At mention of thy fateful name ; 
 A thousand thronging memories rush, 
 And each a quicker heart-throb claim 
 In many a breast, and many an eye 
 Grow brighter as the heart beats high. 
 Newbern ! full many a face will pale 
 And many an eye fill fast with tears. 
 As memory lifts Time's softening veil 
 That thickens with the passing years. 
 Recalling still the blood and flame 
 That reddens and lights up thy name. 
 Newbern ! thy name will ever be 
 A spell to move the hearts of men. 
 Till time shall touch eternity 
 And all of earth shall fade, — till then 
 Thy name shall speak to mortal ears 
 Of pride, of triumph, and of tears. 
 
 Newbern ! the name with pride is fraught 
 To many a one who still recalls 
 
13 
 
 The scenes through which he toiled and fought 
 
 To reach and win thy earthwork walls, — 
 
 Scenes near to him while life shall last 
 
 And fancy picture forth the past ; 
 
 With pride for having known and shared 
 
 The toil and danger of the day, 
 
 When toward the town they won and spared 
 
 They sternly fought their deadly way, 
 
 Through swamp and forest struggling on, 
 
 Until the glorious deed was done. 
 
 O lost and won ! o'er many a hearth 
 
 A lengthened shadow fell from thee ; 
 
 A darkness gloomed on many a path 
 
 Till then from death's cold presence free. 
 
 Newbern ! to such thou must recall 
 
 Their life's stay fallen through thy fall ; 
 
 Yet love shall light the mournful eye, 
 
 Making a rainbow on the tears, — 
 
 The dead to them shall never die, 
 
 But consecrate the holy years, 
 
 While History graves the honored name 
 
 Of soldier on the roll of fame. 
 
14 
 
 CHARLES F. WILLIAMS, 
 
 Corporal Co. I, 8th Mass. Vol. Infantry, April 17 to August i, 1861 ; 
 Second Lieutenant 35th Mass. Vol. Infantry, August 12, 1862 ; 
 wounded at Antietam, Va., September 17, 1862; died September 22, 
 1862. 
 
 So quiet, so modest, so cheerful. 
 
 So patient, so faithful, so kind ; 
 For the sorrows of others so tearful. 
 
 To his own so manfully blind ; 
 He smiled as he went to his duty. 
 
 But sighed that his comrades must go, — 
 That smile with its pitiful beauty 
 
 Lit his face with its eloquent glow. 
 When the toils of the soldier were greatest 
 
 For danger, privation, unrest, 
 The sigh from his lips was the latest 
 
 And lowest and soonest represt ; 
 He would meet his own trials and labors. 
 
 And his eye be untroubled and clear, 
 But the weakness and wants of his neighbors 
 
 Could call to his eyelids a tear. 
 His touch was as gentle and tender 
 
 As woman's when earnest to soothe ; 
 He knew how such service to render. 
 
 The pathway of others to smooth. 
 
15 
 
 When his comrades were worn and weary, 
 
 Exhausted, discouraged, and sad. 
 His comforting words were as cheery 
 
 As the smile on his lips was glad. 
 
 Through the fields where the harvest was ready 
 
 And ripe for the reaper's hook. 
 Whose wind-born waves, unsteady, 
 
 Like a golden ocean look, 
 Over fair Maryland's hills, 
 
 Along Antietam's shore. 
 Fast troops on every hand 
 
 In lengthened column pour. 
 The sun has left the sky, 
 
 The stars shine clear and bright. 
 And troops still hurry by 
 
 To march into the night. 
 The dawn lights up the east, 
 
 Night's sable fades away. 
 But the march has hardly ceased 
 
 When the dawn has grown to day. 
 Clouds veil the morning's face 
 
 And sweep across the sky, 
 Pale mists down the hillsides race 
 
 Before the light wind's sigh ; 
 Blue and cold is the gleam 
 
 Of the steel of the hostile ranks 
 
i6 
 
 That drink of the rushing stream 
 
 And crowd its high, steep banks. 
 The flash of the skirmisher's fire 
 
 Far up on the bkie Une's right, 
 As the gray-clad ranks draw nigher 
 
 Has lightened the gloom of night. 
 And the tempest of war bursts forth 
 
 In a storm of shell and shot 
 That hurtles and screams o'er the trembling earth 
 
 Till the lips of the guns grow hot. 
 The single shriek of the dead, 
 
 The wounded's curse and groan, 
 Comes sharp through the smoke that curls o'erhead 
 
 Where the flash of the musketry shone. 
 
 When the day was nearly done. 
 
 And the sun was low in the west, — 
 When the bloody field was won 
 
 And the turmoil hushed to rest, — 
 Antietam's banks were bloody, 
 
 Antietam's stream was red. 
 Its once clear waters muddy, 
 
 And cumbered with the dead. 
 Far in the van of the battle, 
 
 Where the slain were thickly strowed. 
 Deaf to the river's prattle. 
 
 Whose dark waves near them flowed, 
 
17 
 
 Blind to the blaze of the sunset 
 
 That crimsoned the western sky, 
 He lay with those who had first met 
 
 Their fate, who were first to die ; 
 He lay where the bravest were lying. 
 
 Where the noblest lives were spent, 
 The smile on his lips when dying 
 
 Broadened to calm content. 
 
 JOHN SAUNDERS, 
 
 Captain ist Company of Sharpshooters, Mass. Vols., 1861 ; killed at 
 Antietam, Va., September 17, 1862. 
 
 Like the lightning that heralds the coming storm 
 
 And shows from afar the threatened path. 
 Where the gathering clouds in black ranks form, 
 
 Ere they rush on their errand of mercy and wrath,. 
 Was the flash of the guns whose aim was death 
 
 When they lit with the glare of a fitful flame 
 Stern War's grim front, ere the blasting breath 
 
 Of the tempest of wrath in its fury came. 
 As instant and fatal its power could reach 
 
 The victim it sought, as the lightning finds 
 Its fated mark when the thunder's speech 
 
 Is swift on the track of the flash that blinds. 
 
i8 
 
 The work they must do in the awful sweep 
 
 Of the billows of war across our land 
 Calls forth to life the powers that sleep 
 
 Through most men's Kfe in heart and hand. 
 The cheek must never be pale with fear, 
 
 The soul must be firm as the rocks of our shore, 
 Whose granite piles rise tall and sheer 
 
 Where the heaviest waves of the ocean roar. 
 The foremost roll of the coming tide 
 
 Knows check nor pause in the onward flow ; 
 The mass behind more deep and wide 
 
 Will bring with its flood fear's undertow. 
 
 And nobly he led where to lead but seemed 
 
 To show the way to a waiting grave ; 
 :He led as he leads who never dreamed 
 
 Of a duty too stern for the cool and brave. 
 The fate for whose horrors he knew no fear 
 
 Was his ere many months had passed ; 
 It darkened his eye and closed his ear 
 
 To the sights and sounds of this world at last. 
 ;He laid on the altar at which he kneeled 
 
 A true, brave life as an oflering meet, 
 And the strength of his heart to the world revealed 
 
 The courage which measured its even beat. 
 
19 
 
 WILLIAM SWASEY, 
 
 Private Co. I, 8th Mass. Vol. Infantry, April 17 to August i, 1861 ; 
 afterwards an officer and killed in battle. 
 
 Our city sits by the sea, 
 
 Looks forth on the changeful tide 
 Of ocean gray with clouds of spray 
 
 When the gates of the storm are wide. 
 Our city sits by the sea 
 
 And watches the ships sail by, 
 And thinks of the fleet that at her feet 
 
 Once rode, with a long, low sigh. 
 
 Our city sits by the sea. 
 
 Veiled by a silvery haze. 
 While ocean mild, like a tired child, 
 
 Sleeps through the summer days. 
 Our city sits by the sea, 
 
 But her eyes are on the sand ; 
 She hears no roar as the roused waves pour 
 
 Their weight on the trembHng land. 
 
20 
 
 She thinks of the sound the wind, 
 
 As it came from the far South, bore — 
 On its viewless wing, in that long-past spring — 
 
 The cannon's echoing roar. 
 She hears again the cry 
 
 Of sorrow, of shame, of rage, 
 That rose on high to the bending sky 
 
 And welcomed their battle-gage. 
 
 She sees again her streets 
 
 Astir, as her sons prepare 
 For the awful field, as that stern cry pealed 
 
 From their lips on the chill spring air. 
 She hears again the drum 
 
 As it rolls, and the shrill-voiced fife, 
 She hears again the martial strain 
 
 That roused to the coming strife. 
 
 She looks in dim vision where 
 
 The nation's banners wave 
 While brave men swear, where swords are bare, 
 
 The nation's life to save. 
 She feels the human tide 
 
 That is stirred to its lowest deep 
 By a storm of war that is wilder far 
 
 Than such as the ocean sweep. 
 
21 
 
 She thinks, as the murmuring waves 
 
 Roll up on the shelving shore 
 In endless race, of many a face 
 
 That she shall greet no more. 
 She seems to hear again 
 
 The laugh of their boyish glee, 
 As they played with the tide of the ocean wide, 
 
 And sang their songs of the sea. 
 
 She thinks how her hopes had grown 
 
 As she watched those boys grow tall. 
 Till men were they, she had seen at play 
 
 Where the salt waves rise and fall. 
 She thinks how she joyed to know 
 
 Young hearts and arms were strong 
 To do and dare, to suffer and bear. 
 
 In all she had loved so long." 
 
 Our city sits by the sea, 
 
 And dreams of days bygone. 
 Recalls each face of manly grace. 
 
 And his, of those faces, is one. 
 But she lifts her eyes again, 
 
 And looks on sea and strand, 
 And hears the waves, and counts the graves 
 
 That ridge both sea and land. 
 
22 
 
 And one of those graves is his 
 
 For whose face she looks in vain ; 
 She gazed and knew that her dream was true, 
 
 With all its glory and pain. 
 And she turns once more to the sea, 
 
 While her eyes are dim with tears, 
 To dream again by the changeful main 
 
 Of all the vanished years. 
 
 SETH BUXTON, 
 
 Captain 14th Mass. Vol. Infantry, July 5, 1861 ; Major, December 
 31, 1862; died at Fort Albany, near Washington, D. C, January 
 15, 1863. 
 
 WouLDST know his story ? See that still white face 
 
 Wearing the pallor worn but by the dead, 
 Mark the cold stare that now usurps the place 
 
 In those glazed eyes whence the soul's light has 
 fled ; 
 Feel for the heart once throbbing with the tide 
 
 Of hot blood coursing through that manly form. 
 No firm beat now will thrust your hand aside. 
 
 The instant start to quicken and to warm. 
 Would you had seen that pale face when alive, 
 
23 
 
 With the expression borrowed from his heart ! 
 No traces now of those high thoughts survive, 
 Of which self-interest formed so small a part. 
 
 Your eyes are resting on the hat and plume 
 
 That with the sword are lying on the pall, 
 Among the flowers that brighten up the gloom 
 
 Of velvet folds that from the coffin fall. 
 Yes ! a brave soldier, dead beneath the weight 
 
 Of armor snatched to meet his country's call, 
 Dead in the struggle to avert the fate 
 
 That threatened long to overwhelm us all. 
 The heart which now is still beneath thy hand 
 
 Was quick to feel the impulse of the brave ; 
 Full of devotion to his native land, 
 
 To its stern needs his noble life he gave. 
 
 Nor was that all : his great warm heart was filled 
 
 With love for those who all his love returned ; 
 Until its beating by grim Death was stilled, 
 
 The flame of home-love in his bosom burned ; 
 The true respect of all the circle wide 
 
 That read his life, his life had earned for him ; 
 A deeper feeling on the day he died 
 
 Made those who knew him look through eyes 
 grown dim. 
 
24 
 
 Respect had grown to something warmer far, 
 
 And those who saw him gird his armor on 
 And join the ranks fast mustering for the war 
 
 Felt how his worth upon their hearts had won. 
 He left behind him all he hoped on earth, 
 
 To do a duty he would fain forego ; 
 No wild ambition in his soul gave birth 
 
 To hopes of glory won through human woe. 
 
 The simple story of a brave, true man, 
 
 A noble soldier faithful to his trust, 
 Whose will to do his failing strength outran, 
 
 And what he did returned him here, — to dust. 
 Fold back the shroud upon that pale, still face ; 
 
 Replace again the heavy velvet pall ! 
 He lies there dead, — dead for the human race, 
 
 Dead on the field of honor for us all. 
 
25 
 
 WILLIAM H. PRIME, 
 
 Private Co. F, 23d Mass. Vol. Infantry, September 28, 1861 ; Act- 
 ing Hospital Steward, May 8, 1862 ; received warrant as Hospital 
 Steward, U. S. Army, 1863. During the fearful ravages of the 
 yellow fever at Newbern, N. C, in 1864, he was zealously work- 
 ing at his post, but at last fell a victim to the disease, September 
 28, 1864. 
 
 A GORGEOUS robe of brilliant dyes 
 
 Conceals the skeleton of war, 
 And reason, captive through the eyes, 
 
 Forgetteth to abhor. 
 Nor looks beyond the outer show 
 
 To find the hideous shape below. 
 The flash of swords, the gleam of arms, 
 
 Where feathers toss and standards wave. 
 War's pomp and stir, are potent charms 
 
 To woo the living to the grave. 
 And cold is he whose heart is still 
 
 When sights like these his vision fill. 
 
 Where grinned the skeleton of war. 
 
 Stripped bare of all that charms the eyes, 
 
 With ghastly skull and fleshless jaw. 
 Denuded of all bright disguise, — 
 
 There, where no martial fame is won, 
 A patient, faithful work was done. 
 
26 
 
 There one with all a soldier's fire 
 
 And all a soldier's love of fame, 
 With courage such as might aspire 
 
 To compass all a soldier's aim, 
 Gave up what soldiers covet most. 
 
 To fill the soldier's hardest post. 
 
 Although no wreath may crown his head. 
 
 Whose leaves are bright with crimson stain, 
 He is as nobly, grandly dead 
 
 As he who counts his thousands slain ; 
 A martyr meeting martyr's doom 
 
 With love and faith to cheer the gloom. 
 Obtrusive thoughts of widowed wives. 
 
 Of homeless orphans, — such through him, - 
 Crowd not our minds, but rescued lives 
 
 With grateful tears the eye may dim, — 
 Such tears as surely wash away 
 
 The stains that tarnish mortal clay. 
 
 No battle-cloud obscured his gaze. 
 Hiding from consciousness his fate ; 
 
 Death came not with a sharp amaze, 
 'T was his to watch him and to wait. 
 
 Duty forbade his feet to fly 
 
 Although to stay was but to die. 
 
27 
 
 A soldier worthy of the name, 
 A hero welcoming his death, 
 
 Few ever earned a purer fame, 
 None ever wore a fairer wreath. 
 
 JOHN HODGES, JR., 
 
 Private 8th Mass. Vol. Infantry, Co. I, April 17 to August i, 1861 ; 
 First Lieutenant 19th Mass. Vols., August 27, 1861 ; Captain, 
 June 19, 1862 ; Major 50th Mass. Vols., November 8, 1862 ; Lieu- 
 tenant-Colonel 59th Mass. Vols., February 7, 1864; killed at 
 Petersburg, Va., July 30, 1864. 
 
 A BRIGHT young face beneath a soldier's crest 
 
 To you and me ; 
 A brave young heart in a young warrior's breast 
 
 To you and me ; 
 One drop of many in the steel-tipped tide, 
 Whose waves rolled southward, to the world beside. 
 
 A fearless stripling during war's wild storm 
 
 To you and me ; 
 A man's keen courage in his boyish form 
 
 To you and me ; 
 Merely a soldier to the world's cold eye. 
 Like countless others, only paid to die. 
 
28 
 
 Part of our hearts had gone with him afield 
 
 From you and me ; 
 Part of ourselves was covered by his shield 
 
 To you and me ; 
 The world that watched that fire-fringed line of blue 
 Felt not the dread our trembling friendship knew. 
 
 Our pride in him was wedded to our fears 
 
 By you and me ; 
 The smile of hope shone through a mist of tears 
 
 For you and me ; 
 We felt, the world but saw and never knew, 
 That he to us was all that line of blue. 
 
 When that blue wave broke on the rocks of gray, 
 
 For you and me 
 A solemn awe upon the soul did lay ; 
 
 To you and me 
 Each breath came thick with mingled hope and dread 
 To miss or find his name among the dead. 
 
 Hope conquered fear as many a list was read 
 
 By you and me ; 
 We breathed once more, the word of doom unsaid 
 
 To you and me ; 
 For many thousands of the world beside 
 Fears grew to facts, and love-born hopes had died. 
 
29 
 
 Their dear ones fallen brought no numbing grief 
 
 To you and me ; 
 They wept ; we joyed ; the record found relief 
 
 For you and me. 
 Alas ! we too seemed cold to many a heart 
 That mourned its dead, of that blue line a part. 
 
 There came at last an end to hopes and fears 
 
 To you and me, 
 Loud shouts of triumph seemed to mock the tears 
 
 To you and me ; 
 Death's ruthless dart had pierced our hero's shield, 
 And half ourselves lay dead with him afield. 
 
 Then spoke the lesson of this mortal life 
 
 To you and me ; 
 Death said, " Man's ills with mankind's good are rife," 
 
 To you and me ; 
 We bowed ourselves above the loved and dead, 
 And tried to feel as true what Death had said. 
 
30 
 
 CHARLES H. EMERSON, 
 
 Private 2d Mass. Vol. Infantry ; killed by a shot from a window 
 while his regiment was passing through Winchester, May, 1862. 
 
 Ride ! ride ! ride ! 
 
 Ye who are mounted, away ! 
 For the foe press hard on every side ; 
 Away ! and check the coming tide 
 
 As long as ye can or may. 
 Sweep back through Strasburg's street. 
 
 Ride fast as spur can urge. 
 Let swords be bare and steeds be fleet, 
 And hearts be stout, hands firm to meet 
 
 The war tide's backward surge. 
 
 The foe that fled amain 
 
 Has turned from his southward flight. 
 Front Royal's streets are his again. 
 Where gallant Kenly strove in vain, 
 
 But fought a glorious fight. 
 Let bugle-blast ring out ! 
 
 Press forward every gun ! 
 Their answering roar must drown the shout 
 Of foemen yelling o'er the rout 
 
 Of Kenly, ten to one. 
 
31 
 
 Fast, fast the squadrons ride, 
 
 Each battery flashes past ; 
 Their reins are loose, each horse's side 
 Is foam-flecked ; every spur is dyed 
 
 With blood, they prick so fast. 
 From front and flank and rear 
 
 The sounds of battle rise, 
 For Stonewall Jackson's men are here 
 To urge again a swift career 
 
 Of vengeance and reprise. 
 
 And Ewell's army swells 
 
 Their ranks with swart-faced troops, 
 Who from their mountains rush with yells 
 Like those whose high-pitched clamor tells 
 
 Where mountain eagle swoops. 
 Jackson had fought and fled 
 
 From the path of his following foe. 
 And the patient faith of the men he led 
 Had waited and watched till his lips had said, 
 
 " Up, men, and strike your blow." 
 
 Front Royal's streets were red, 
 
 And the Shenandoah's stream 
 Bore northward on its waves the dead, 
 While cheated ravens overhead, 
 
 In angry circles scream. 
 
32 
 
 Their blow was struck and the race 
 
 For Winchester began, 
 The valley's key and master place 
 Lying within the wide embrace 
 
 Of hills which southward ran. 
 
 On and on and on 
 
 The close-ranked columns pour, 
 In ceaseless march till the town was won 
 And the fearful battle-race was done 
 
 And the trial of speed was o'er. 
 The rearguard halt and stack 
 
 Their arms in the grateful glare 
 Of fires that mark the bivouac. 
 And make the darkness of night more black, 
 
 Where their wavering streamers flare. 
 
 The warmth and light of their blaze 
 
 Gave promise of safety and rest ; 
 The struggle and fight of the awful days 
 Had brought the anxious fear that weighs 
 
 On the bravest, truest breast. 
 But now that fear was past. 
 
 The weary race was o'er. 
 They had fought their way to the valley at last, 
 Outmarched the troops by Jackson massed 
 
 On the banks of the Shenandoah. 
 
33 
 
 Ere the dawn of day was come, 
 
 They are called to battle again 
 By bugle-blast and roll of drum, 
 And the fire of pickets lately dumb 
 
 Re-echoes o'er the plain. 
 In stern and slow retreat 
 
 They move from out the town. 
 And each dark, sullen face they meet 
 Their war-worn column seems to greet 
 
 With hostile sneer and frown. 
 
 Ah, War ! you cherish and feed 
 
 Man's passions when wildest and worst, 
 And sanction many a fearful deed 
 That else had earned foul murder's meed. 
 
 By God and man accursed. 
 A coward hate inspired 
 
 And nerved the unseen foe, 
 Whose dastard shot from window fired 
 Was aimed by one whose heart aspired 
 
 To bravo's fame and blow. 
 He who had fought so well 
 
 On the banks of the Shenandoah, 
 Of whose soldier worth his comrades tell. 
 By that assassin's foul shot fell, 
 
 To fight for his flag no more. 
 
34 
 
 Although he lived a life to fame unknown, 
 
 A man of patient toil and modest worth, 
 He filled his day with virtue that alone 
 
 Needs not the varnish of high rank or birth ; 
 But if the quiet tenor of his life 
 
 Kept on its even way so free from pride, — 
 When war's hoarse summons waked our land to strife, 
 
 Man's courage challenged and man's true worth 
 tried. 
 He claimed his share of honor, and to earn it died. 
 
35 
 
 NATHANIEL SALTONSTALL BARSTOW, 
 
 Second Lieutenant 24th Mass. Vol. Infantry, September 2, 1861 • 
 First Lieutenant, December 28, 1862; died at Nevvbern, N. C ' 
 May 22, 1864. 
 
 The needs of war demand 
 The quick of brain and eye, 
 
 The firm of heart and hand, 
 Who will not fear to die. 
 Alas ! the best of such 
 
 As make a nation great 
 Must fill the greedy clutch 
 
 Of a war for a nation's fate. 
 The best and bravest must go, 
 
 The bravest and best must die, 
 The brightest blood of the State must flow 
 
 As the fateful storm sweeps by ; 
 Or fell disease awaits 
 
 On care, privation, and toil, 
 The terrible scourge that war creates 
 Comes from the blood-stained soil. 
 Alas ! that such as he 
 
 Must feed the flames of war. 
 That have ravaged the land so fearfully 
 And left such a lasting scar. 
 
36 
 
 Why waves that red flag from the fort 
 
 Across the sluggish river ? 
 What means that sudden, loud report, 
 
 To which its dark waves shiver ? 
 What rends the canvas of the tents. 
 
 What hisses through the air ? 
 What splinters casements and indents 
 
 All that it cannot tear ? 
 Read from the flag that moves so fast 
 
 In the strong young hands that hold it 
 The stirring story of our past 
 
 As its " speaking silence " told it. 
 
 " Surprised, we cannot hold the fort. 
 
 The fire sweeps all before it " : 
 Such was that waving flag's report 
 
 As the hissing bullets tore it. 
 Still waves the flag, still braves the storm 
 
 Of missiles, he who held it 
 Until its message can inform 
 
 The eyes of those who spelled it. 
 " The fort is lost," that red flag said 
 
 Through all the roar and rattle ; 
 " Except you give us instant aid 
 
 The foe must win the battle." 
 
37 
 
 The slight form held a dauntless heart, 
 
 While the bursting shells were screaming, 
 And the shot still tore the folds apart 
 
 Of the bright flag round him streaming. 
 And till from Newbern answering flags 
 
 Told that stout help was coming, 
 The brave hand waved the crimson rags, 
 
 Heedless of bullets humming. 
 
 The fever demon crept 
 
 From his hot and slimy bed, 
 Where the deadly mist of the swamp-rose slept. 
 
 Where the gray moss hung o'erhead ; 
 And swooped on the cities of men 
 
 That had grown near his foul retreat, 
 And raged with the strength of a giant when 
 
 He had gained the crowded street. 
 
 Jd' 
 
 Among the first to meet 
 
 The demon on his path. 
 Life withered away before the heat 
 
 Of the monster's fever wrath ; 
 And he sleeps the soldier's sleep 
 
 On the banks of the sluggish Neuse, 
 That drain the swamps where foul things creep 
 
 And the long gray moss hangs loose. 
 
38 
 
 GEORGE W. BATCHELDER, 
 
 Sergeant Co. I, 8tli Mass. Vol. Infantry, April i8 to August i, 1861 ; 
 First Lieutenant, 19th Mass. Vols., August 22, 1861 ; Captain, 
 March 21, 1862 ; killed at Antietam, Va., September 17, 1862. 
 
 Antietam ! as thy waters gleam 
 
 Beneath thy steep banks crowned with willows, 
 And prattle past the rocks thy stream 
 
 Now chafes, now crowns with mimic billows, 
 What sing they as they laugh along 
 
 Where golden sunlight peeps to gild them .'* 
 What chant they in their sadder song 
 
 When from the sun thy high banks shield them ? 
 Laugh they to see the tasselled corn 
 
 Toss in the breeze that sings with thee, 
 And loads thy wave with red leaves torn 
 
 From branches of fruit-laden tree ? 
 And change they to a graver tone 
 
 Where shadows make their blue seem gray, 
 As they recall the shout and groan 
 
 That drowned their voice one awful day } 
 Is it to tell the bended trees 
 
 Of what thy startled stream has known, 
 That they those long, lithe fingers seize 
 
 And whisper to them thus and moan ^ 
 
39 
 
 Do they whisper a tale of a fair-haired boy, 
 
 A leader so young of bearded men, 
 Whose shoulders were broad for a man's employ. 
 
 Though his years were scarce twice ten ? 
 Do they tell of the flickering camp-fire's gleam 
 
 In an autumn years ago, 
 That lit the waves of thy restless stream 
 
 With its uncertain glow ? 
 Do they whisper that, as the strong men slept 
 
 When the darkness of night had come. 
 The fair-haired captain vigil kept 
 
 'Mid thoughts of his far-off home. 
 And prayed to his God for strength to do 
 
 The duty that waited him there, 
 And mingled the names of those that he knew 
 
 Were praying for him, in his prayer? 
 Are they hoarse as they speak of the hideous din 
 
 That woke with the morrow's light, 
 Of yells and shrieks that seemed akin 
 
 To voices of demons in fight ? 
 Do they sigh as they speak of the still white face 
 
 That lay on the trampled corn, 
 Among others as white in that bloody place, 
 
 Of a harvest so forlorn ? 
 Do they moan as they ask of the willow-tree 
 
 Why such as he should die. 
 
40 
 
 And impatiently fling its fingers free 
 When a moan is the sole reply ? 
 
 Thy waves, Antietam, hurrying past 
 
 To an absorbing sea, 
 Ask what all human hearts have asked 
 
 And asked as uselessly. 
 They find their life's end in a tide 
 
 Which swallows every river ; 
 Man too God's own good time must bide, 
 
 And question on forever. 
 
 CHARLES BATCHELDER, 
 
 Private Co. I, 8th Mass. Vol. Infantry, April 17 to August i, 1861 ; 
 First Lieutenant Mass. Unattached Cavalry ; died at New Or- 
 leans, La,, of yellow fever. 
 
 Where the yellow Mississippi pours 
 
 Its vast flood toward the sea, 
 And threatens with its tide the shores 
 
 Where mourns the cypress-tree ; 
 Where sits the city of the South 
 And watches at the river's mouth 
 
 The waters rolling ceaselessly, — 
 There by that river broad and deep 
 
41 
 
 He closed his eyes in dreamless sleep, 
 To waken in eternity. 
 
 Life's stream for him was full and wide, 
 
 And sweeping on with even flow ; 
 The morning sun shone o'er its tide 
 
 And tinged the future with its glow ; 
 Its rays in ripples o'er the stream 
 Made the banks golden with the gleam 
 
 Reflected from below ; 
 His fair young bark was swaying light 
 Upon the waters sparkling bright, 
 
 And dancing to and fro. 
 
 That bark was freighted with the hopes 
 
 That wait upon the young and brave. 
 And knew the buoyant strength that copes 
 
 With every threatening wave. 
 It swept along the broadening tide 
 On which so many vessels glide. 
 
 To the same end, — the grave ; 
 The sails were purple in the light 
 That blessed in affluence our sight. 
 
 Rejoicing as it gave. 
 
42 
 
 When from the cloud the Hghtning burst, 
 
 And ties which made a nation's Ufe 
 Were shrivelled in the blast, the worst 
 
 Of human passions woke to strife ; 
 The stream which seemed so fair before 
 Now madly surged from shore to shore 
 
 With wildest terrors rife ; 
 Faint-hearted voyagers fled the gale, 
 Which bent the mast and strained the sail, 
 
 In craven fear for life. 
 
 For those he loved he braved the blast. 
 
 For home and those who gathered there ; 
 His country's colors graced the mast, 
 
 And floated on the war-vexed air ; 
 And a fair city of the North, 
 From which the gallant bark set forth 
 
 Upon that threatening tide, 
 Traced anxiously that onward course, 
 Where all around the breakers hoarse 
 
 To thundering wave replied. 
 
 • ••••* 
 
 The city by the rock-bound shore. 
 Where the straight pine grows tall. 
 
 That listens to the ocean's roar 
 And hears the sea-bird's call. 
 
43 
 
 Looked toward the city of the South 
 That watches by the river's mouth 
 
 The waters rolHng ceaselessly, 
 And saw his noble life's bark sink 
 There by the yellow river's brink, 
 
 Where mourns the cypress-tree. 
 
 PICKERING DODGE ALLEN, 
 
 Mustered into service as Second Lieutenant Cavalry, December 27, 
 1861 ; commissioned as Second Lieutenant Captain Read's Co., 
 Mass. Unattached Cavalry, August 18, 1862 ; First Lieutenant, 
 January i, 1862; First Lieutenant and Aide-de-Camp, General 
 Weitzel's Staff, September, 1862 ; wounded and taken prisoner, 
 March 28, 1863; died of fever brought on by too early return to 
 duty, at Brashear City, La., June 2, 1863. 
 
 Mute are those lips of mortal mould, 
 
 Stilled by the icy touch of death, 
 And frozen, till they seem to hold 
 
 In marble prison undrawn breath. 
 His eye shall flash no glance of fire 
 
 To rally fainting men again, 
 His tongue no faltering hearts inspire 
 
 With power that knows not coward stain ; 
 The youthful form has passed away, 
 Returned to dust in God's own day. 
 
44 
 
 Those silent lips so pure and white 
 
 Speak yet, though sound is banished thence, 
 And touch the inmost soul in spite 
 
 Of death's all-dread omnipotence. 
 The pause that conquering hand has made 
 
 Is far more eloquent than speech, 
 And deeper far the thought conveyed 
 
 Than any living tongue can reach. 
 That silence to our earthly sense 
 Death fills with deathless eloquence. 
 
 The earnest sense of modest worth, 
 
 Where courage treads on duty's heel, 
 Forbade those lips in life give birth 
 
 To that which they must now reveal, — 
 That he had learned from other lives 
 
 The Christian value of his own. 
 Imbibed the faith in God which hives 
 
 The truest lore which man has known. 
 Which high above the world's applause 
 Brought him to die for noblest cause. 
 
 The lips of others were set wide 
 
 To boast of deeds which they had done ; 
 
 His, firmly closed in honest pride, 
 Asked only scope for nobler one. 
 
45 
 
 His glowing past would not suffice 
 To purchase for him future ease, 
 
 The sphere of duty in his eyes 
 Widened with the emergencies. 
 
 The world is wiser since he died 
 
 By all his proffered life implied. 
 
 He laid aside the gift of wealth, 
 
 The boon received with honored name ; 
 The deeds achieved almost " by stealth," 
 
 He did not live to " find them fame." 
 But we who have the record kept. 
 
 Of all he did and all he meant, 
 Would have the world with joy accept 
 
 Each action and each high intent. 
 And keep his memory with the flowers, 
 That bloom o'er him who still is ours. 
 
46 
 
 CHARLES A. DEARBORN, JR., 
 
 Private Co. I, 8th Mass. Vol. Infantry, April 17 to August i, 1861 ; 
 First Lieutenant 32d Mass. Vol. Infantry, November 14, 1861 ; 
 Captain, August 14, 1862 ; killed at Fredericksburg, Va., Decem- 
 ber 13, 1862. 
 
 Ye anxious ones who bend your knees in prayer. 
 
 And ask with quivering lips the God above 
 To guard his pathway with a father's care, 
 
 And spare for you the Hfe of him you love, — 
 Fond, troubled hearts ! wouldst follow with your eyes 
 
 The path in which your darling treads to-day, 
 And know if nobly lives or bravely dies 
 
 Your gallant boy whom duty called away ? 
 Then look ! but close your throbbing hearts to fear 
 
 Lest your pale cheeks should grow more deathly 
 pale, 
 For sights and sounds will rise on eye and ear 
 To fright your souls as Distance drops her veil. 
 
 Those beetling banks are steep and high. 
 And far below wide spreads the stream, 
 
 Whose waves, uncurbed by bridges, fly 
 Past tottering pier and fire-charred beam, 
 
 Where once high arches spanned its flood. 
 
 And shadowing its blue waters stood. 
 
47 
 
 Huge, black, and wide-mouthed, on the verge 
 Of that high bank, grim cannon frown, 
 
 And roar across the waves that surge 
 Against the farther shore and town, — 
 
 The town whose shattered houses tell 
 
 Of ruin wrought by shot and shell. 
 
 Look ! past the town, upon the plain, 
 Blue masses of our troops are lying. 
 
 And listening to the shrieks of pain 
 
 That reach their ears from comrades dying, — 
 
 The pains no pitying hand may ease, 
 
 The worst of war's wild honors these. 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 They lie just where the plain has swelled 
 
 To hills whose crests entrenchments crown, - 
 
 Those steep and bristling heights are held 
 By Southern soldiers swart and brown, 
 
 Who shower a fiery vengeance down 
 
 On those who dared to storm their town. 
 
 When next those war-thinned ranks shall move 
 To struggle up the blood-stained hills. 
 
 Death's harvest will the larger prove. 
 For rage that every fierce heart fills. 
 
 That scathing flame, hate's murderous fire, 
 
 Shall pile the heaps of slain still higher. 
 
48 
 
 God knows the hosts already dead 
 
 Are awful sacrifice to war ; 
 But the vengeful foe an oath has said, 
 
 It shall be costlier by far ; 
 He swears the tide of blood shall sweep 
 Broad as his river and as deep. 
 
 One of the swords that flash and shine 
 Amid that war-cloud's sulphurous reek, 
 
 And point the way for wavering line, 
 Is grasped by him you vainly seek. 
 
 Your gaze must fail to pierce the smoke 
 
 That o'er the battle's front has broke. 
 
 Your eyes are filling and your cheeks grow pale. 
 
 Your spirits quail as still you gaze and fear, 
 Your trembling hands would draw again the veil 
 
 And hide the horrors that are all too near. 
 With heavier hearts ye bow yourselves to pray 
 
 That death may spare your battle-perilled son. 
 And school your lips, that falter so, to say, 
 
 " Not ours, O Father, but thy will be done ! " 
 
49 
 
 CALVIN H. CLEAVES, 
 
 Enlisted at the age of fifteen years. One of the few privates who re- 
 ceived a medal for distinguished bravery and faithful service ; was 
 highly complimented in a letter from his commanding general. 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 
 Thy green grave is blooming 
 With the flowers that affection has strewed on thy 
 breast ; 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 
 Our sad hearts resuming 
 The burden of life, leave you here to your rest. 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 
 Why should we weep 
 That thou wilt not know the cold shadows that creep 
 Over mortals who toil toward life's faith-brightened 
 
 west, 
 Whence open the gates to the realms of the blest ? 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 Thy life service ended. 
 By your firm foot no longer earth's toil-ways are trod. 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 The grasses, wind-bended, 
 4 
 
so 
 
 Are whispering softly above the green sod, 
 
 " Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 
 Why do ye. weep 
 Who have brought us your young hero's body to 
 
 keep ? 
 'T is but dust of the earth where we rustle and nod ; 
 The soul of your hero is resting with God." 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 
 There lies on your breast 
 A nation's avowal of deeds nobly done. 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 
 Thy broad scars attest 
 That the nation but gave what thy gallantry won. 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 
 Tear-drops will creep 
 Adown the pale cheeks of the mourners who weep 
 Where the tall grasses whisper and wave in the sun, 
 Bidding Faith see in Death but a new life begun. 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 From the threshold of life 
 Thou hast stepped to the bourne whither ail life is 
 tending ; 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 The wearisome strife 
 
51 
 
 For the needs of this world thou art spared in life's 
 ending. 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 Well may we weep 
 For ourselves, not for thee, whose duty-spurred leap 
 Spanned the grave where the wind-shaken grasses 
 
 are bending, 
 To find a new life, thy bright earth-youth transcend- 
 ing. 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 
 Thy life-service ended, 
 Young, honored, and loved, thou hast gone to thy 
 rest. 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 
 The grasses, wind-bended, 
 Are wet with our tears that will not be represt. 
 
 Sleep, soldier, sleep ; 
 
 We say as we weep, 
 " We have brought you our young hero's body to 
 
 keep ; 
 'T is but dust of the earth where you rustle and nod. 
 The soul, our young hero, is living with God." 
 
52 
 
 WILDER DWIGHT, 
 
 Major 2d Mass. Vol. Infantry, May 24, 1S61 ; Lieutenant-Colonel, 
 June 13, 1862; died September 19, 1862, of wounds received at 
 Antietam, Va., September 17, 1862. 
 
 Along thy banks, upon thy plain, 
 
 The ghastly faces of the dead. 
 Yet ghastlier from the dark red stain 
 Of blood that their own veins have shed, 
 Stare, wide-eyed, waiting for a grave, 
 Antietam, by thy murmuring wave. 
 Along thy banks, upon thy plain. 
 
 In earnest search, with cautious tread, 
 And listening for the groan of pain 
 
 To guide them through the white-faced dead. 
 The victors by thy murmuring wave 
 Each wounded soldier seek and save. 
 Along thy bank, upon thy plain, 
 The cheer for victory has died, 
 And gentle hands lay down the slain, 
 Victor and vanquished, side by side. 
 And sadly shape for both a grave, 
 Antietam, by thy murmuring wave. 
 Along thy banks, upon thy plain. 
 
 The conquerors o'er the conquered bend. 
 
53 
 
 And seek alike to soothe the pain 
 
 And bind the wounds of foe and friend, 
 And triumph twice beside thy wave, 
 Antietam, as they stoop to save. 
 
 In that great harvest reaped by Death 
 
 Along thy banks, upon thy plain, 
 Among the tares there ripeneth 
 
 Full many a shock of golden grain, — 
 Seed garnered on that bloody field, 
 A priceless future good to yield. 
 Where solemn duty draws the blade 
 
 That must protect the common weal, 
 Honor and conscience both obeyed. 
 
 The Christian grasps the proffered steel ; 
 The Christian soldier prays for peace, 
 The soldier Christian strikes in war 
 His stoutest blows that war may cease 
 The sooner ; for the constant law 
 Of human strife demands that he 
 Must conquer peace, ere peace can be. 
 
 Along thy banks, upon thy plain. 
 
 Another army camps to-day, 
 And marshals the slow-moving train 
 
 That brings the wounded from the fray. 
 
54 
 
 Though born of war, it bears the shield 
 Of love and mercy on the field ; 
 And war, with all its weight of woe, 
 Has softened hearts unapt to feel. 
 And bid a tide of mercy flow 
 
 To bind the wounds its sword must deal, 
 Enlarged a nation's gentler sense 
 By giving suffering eloquence. 
 
 Thy waves have heard the whispered tones 
 
 Of Christian soldier dying fast, 
 Low but distinct, and free from moans 
 For loss of life, so nearly past. 
 
 And almost deemed him to rejoice 
 In death, when listening to his voice : 
 " I would not have my doom unsaid, 
 
 I grudge not Death the life he takes ; 
 But ere I 'm numbered with the dead. 
 My parents, for their own dear sakes, 
 My mother, she who loved me so, 
 I fain would see before I go. 
 Bend lower, chaplain, hear me say, 
 
 I trust the God I 've tried to serve, 
 To whom she taught me how to pray, 
 From whom I 've struggled to deserve 
 
55 
 
 Thus much at least , — to be forgiven 
 My sins on earth ; and that is heaven. 
 And tell my comrades, thus to die 
 
 Brings to my soul but one regret, 
 That they may further serve, but I — 
 My day is past, my sun is set. 
 My stricken lips can hardly tell 
 What I would say ; bid them farewell." 
 
 Along thy banks, upon thy plain, 
 
 Our noblest and our best have died. 
 And let thy waves in endless strain 
 Tell the sad story as they glide. 
 But teach them also to confess 
 Man conquered there man's selfishness. 
 Antietam, bid them see how love 
 
 And faith have won the victory here ; 
 How faith claims heritage above. 
 And perfect love has cast out fear. 
 Even heaven itself has had its war, 
 When angels fought with Lucifer. 
 
56 
 
 HOWARD DWIGHT, 
 
 First Lieutenant 24th Mass, Vols., September i, 1861 ; First Lieu- 
 tenant 4th Missouri Cavalry, October 4, 1861 ; Captain, September 
 4, 1862 ; Captain and A. A. G. (U. S. Vols.), November 10, 1862 ; 
 killed by guerillas, Bayou Boeuf, La., May 4, 1863. 
 
 The black, still waters of the dark Bayou 
 Slept in the quiet of its sunless gloom ; 
 
 Along its marge the moss-draped cypress threw 
 Its ghastly arms, bare of all leaf or bloom. 
 
 Above the waters dense with slime and ooze. 
 Deadly miasma gray and wavering crept, 
 
 And steeped the vines that from the trees hung loose. 
 While o'er the sweltering earth the light breeze 
 swept. 
 
 The boding cry of raven met the ear, 
 
 And noise of reptiles wallowing in the flood ; 
 
 The startled serpent's hiss of angry fear 
 Told of its track across the unctuous mud. 
 
 The swamp-fox, frightened by the clash of arms. 
 Has fled in terror to its darksome den ; 
 
 A moving army's various noise alarms 
 
 The Bayou's depths with tramp of marching men. 
 
57 
 
 Along the road that vibrates to their wheels, 
 War's heavier engines rumble on their way ; 
 
 The light reflected from the arms reveals 
 The moving mass of infantry array. 
 
 Like a gray arras, trembling to the breeze, 
 The drooping moss conceals the watchful foe, 
 
 Who skulk and wait in sullen hate to seize 
 
 Fit chance to deal their vengeance-prompted blow. 
 
 The rapid footfall of a hurrying steed 
 
 Falls on each ear attentive to the sound ; 
 
 The fierce eyes glare ; for in a stern dark creed 
 A noble object for their hate is found. 
 
 A gallant horseman finds a devious way 
 
 Through crowded columns that move slowly on, 
 
 Making such progress as bold rider may 
 'Mid serried files, till a free path is won. 
 
 A sudden challenge stops his eager course, 
 A cry to halt ; he reins his panting steed ; 
 
 His calm, cool answer to the summons hoarse 
 Makes fearless martyr to a coward deed. 
 
»* 
 
 58 
 
 One short hour since in opening manhood strong, 
 Well tried in service, active, wise, and brave, 
 
 Tireless in duty, honored, trusted, young, 
 Now basely murdered, waiting for a grave. 
 
 The advancing column makes but halting way. 
 The wild guerillas through the swamp have fled. 
 
 And the brave victim, neath the moss-pall gray 
 Stays for his comrades' coming, still and dead. 
 
 Rough soldiers stoop to raise with gentle touch 
 The hfeless body from its bed of reeds, 
 
 Dismayed to find it his they loved so much, 
 
 The well-proved leader, known for daring deeds. 
 . . • • • • • 
 
 O dusky mourners of the Southern land. 
 
 Who watched the North in mingled hope and fear, 
 
 'T was your fond task to strew with grateful hand 
 Fresh leaves and flowers o'er the young hero's bier. 
 
 O stricken hearts, wailing so far away, 
 
 Ye felt sweet comfort through the weary hours 
 
 In knowing how the well-beloved lay 
 'Mid holy consecration of those flowers. 
 
59 
 
 FRANCIS W. CROWNINSHIELD, 
 
 October i8, Second Lieutenant 2d Regiment Mass. Vol. Infantry ; 
 February, 1862, wounded at Winchester ; First Lieutenant, wound- 
 ed at Antietam ; Captain, March 3, 1863 ; wounded at Gettysburg ; 
 rejoins his regiment ; wounded by guerillas ; with Sherman in his 
 march to the sea ; died at Albano, Italy, May, 1866. 
 
 Through Luray's valley, battle lighted 
 
 His sword was flashing in the van ; 
 No paladin by monarch knighted, 
 To duty's sternest dangers plighted. 
 Was braver, since the world began. 
 
 That slender, nervous, blue-eyed boy 
 
 Led full-grown men whose nerves were steel ; 
 
 Drinking his glance they felt strange joy ; 
 
 His young heart knew no base alloy ; 
 The glow he felt they learned to feel. 
 
 He smiled as on the field he fell, 
 
 His eyes with zeal were all aflame ; 
 He would not let his firm lips tell 
 Of the fierce pain they knew so well, 
 True to his honor and his name. 
 
6o 
 
 His fair face wore no shade of fear 
 In answer to their pitying eyes ; 
 His words were fall of dauntless cheer, 
 And the clear ringing voice they hear 
 Fills them with proud and deep surprise. 
 
 Two golden bars his shoulders grace 
 When next he leads his veterans on, 
 
 Rejoiced to see his bright young face 
 
 Smiling upon them in the place 
 His glorious bravery had won. 
 
 Again he shares their risk and toil, 
 Again fights foremost of them all ; 
 
 Across Virginia's sacred soil. 
 
 He leads them through war's wild turmoil. 
 On Antietam's red field to fall. 
 
 Once more they find him brave to bear 
 
 All that the chance of war may bring ; 
 Once more they see him welcome there, 
 With pale lips that a proud smile wear. 
 The shadow of Azrael's wing. 
 
 Fresh gleam of gold was shining then 
 Upon the first so fairly earned ; 
 
6i 
 
 In higher place he greets his men, 
 Whose faith in him is boundless when 
 He proves his glorious task well learned. 
 
 When first his sword was given him, 
 
 Like knight of old he made his vow 
 To serve the cause with life and limb. 
 Till in cold death his eyes grew dim 
 Or victory should crown his. brow. 
 
 Across the hills of Maryland, 
 
 All smiling in the summer light, 
 The troops were marching to withstand 
 The fiercest efforts ever planned 
 By victor of full many a fight. 
 
 Again at Gettysburg he led 
 
 His sun-browned soldiers, veterans all ; 
 Among the dying and the dead 
 With whose warm blood the earth was red, 
 
 He led them, — once again to fall. 
 
 Their captain was with them once more, 
 The same brave, patient, dauntless soul, 
 
62 
 
 When gallant Sherman backward bore 
 His beaten foemen to the shore, 
 
 Where the Atlantic's billows roll, — 
 
 Their captain, whom with trusting pride 
 They loved as soldiers love the brave, 
 A boy in years, a man as tried 
 And true as those who fearless died 
 Around him, who too risked a grave. 
 
 Beneath Albano's cloudless sky 
 
 He faded, — bravely meeting death 
 As when he taught with soul-lit eye 
 His men how a brave man could die, 
 A soldier win a soldier's wreath. 
 
63 
 
 " lis sont morts sur le champ d'honneur." 
 
 Such men there are, and such will ever be 
 
 While love of country rules the human heart ; 
 Such men as these while this our land is free 
 
 Will for its needs from every hamlet start. 
 I might not speak of every glorious name 
 
 That claims a proud position on our roll, 
 Nor dwell at length on each immortal claim 
 
 To sweet remembrance by each generous soul, 
 For what is said of part, might, should be of the whole. 
 My task is done ; the jarring chords unstrung 
 
 Cease to respond to my unpractised touch ; 
 If o'er their notes some kindly heart has hung, 
 
 Stirred e'er so little, that to me were much. 
 
1_1DI\MIX1 VI •^^•■' 
 
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