Class 
 Book, 
 
FLOWERS 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE BATTLE-FIELD, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 / 
 
 By M. T. C, 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 HENRY B. ASHMEAD, BOOK & JOB PRINTER, 
 
 Nos. 1102 and 1104 Sansom Street. 
 1864. 
 

 r*> 
 
 SSS 
 
 
Oft have ye seen a gnarly tree, 
 
 Twisted and writhing from the root, 
 With wintry breezes carelessly 
 Mid the gray branches wand'ring free ; 
 And, turning, ye may e'en have said, 
 "The luckless tree is surely dead, 
 And void of bloom and fruit." 
 
 Yet in the spring-time should ye pass 
 
 Again before that knotted tree, 
 The daisies wild would star the grass, 
 And, overhead, a swaying mass 
 Of tinted bloom, and leaflets green, 
 Would woo the robin to its screen, 
 And to its sweets, the bee. 
 
 So when we first saw war's grim form 
 Casting dark shadows o'er the plain, 
 And heard the whistling bullets' storm 
 Stopping the life-blood young and warm, 
 And bringing grief to every hearth, — 
 We said, "the sorest ills of earth 
 Come in the war-god's train." 
 
 Yet, bearing meeklier now our woes, 
 We see the light begin to break ; . 
 We find that good from sorrow flows ; 
 And that our nation, roused from sloth, 
 Can die like men; and, nothing loth, 
 We gather up the holy bloom 
 That springs from each brave hero's tomb, 
 Where flowers of faith and patience blend 
 With love of country, and commend 
 To all, the wreath they make. 
 
 M. T. C. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 THE UNION SOLDIER'S TROPHY. 
 
 Founded on an incident that occurred at the battle of 
 Pittsburg Landing. 
 
 He stood upon the battle-field, 
 
 Beside his heavy gun, 
 And watched with steady eye how well 
 
 Its fatal work was done ; 
 Around him were a gallant band, 
 
 Beneath — the noble dead ; 
 In front — a fierce onpressing foe, 
 
 Their bay'nets tinged with red. 
 
 Yet still the soldier brave and true, 
 
 Aimed well the deadly hail, 
 And saw the breaks in the rebel band 
 
 With an eye that did not quail ; 
 He knew they were Columbia's sons, 
 
 But sons whose passions' might, 
 Turned madly 'gainst the fostering flag, 
 
 Would quench its stars in night, 
 And he faced the foe with an earnest wish 
 
 To do his work aright. 
 
 Fiercer and hotter raged the fray, 
 
 And the soldier next him, fell : 
 He watched him die with a saddened heart 
 
 And a trust that naught could quell ; 
 But a prayer arose, that if God so willed, 
 
 He might leave the field with life, 
 To see once more in her tranquil home 
 
 His young and loving wife. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 5 
 
 As he downward glanced at the torn grass 
 
 'Neath his cannon's heavy wheel, 
 He saw a group of the innocence blue 
 
 Close to the burnished steel ; 
 They smiled in his face, from amid the dead, 
 
 With the grace they had, worn of old, 
 When he trod with his bride thro' the quiet wood, 
 
 Or plucked them for her on the wold. 
 
 A moment he bent, 'mid the battle smoke, 
 
 To snatch them away from their doom, 
 For the heavy wheel in its onward way 
 
 Would scatter their tender bloom ; 
 And he hid the blossoms above his heart, 
 
 To send as his trophy to one 
 Who would prize them more from that well-fought 
 field m & 
 
 Than anything under the sun. 
 
 They came with the news — "I am safe and well, 
 
 And our men have won the clay," 
 And the wife looks at them with loving thoughts 
 
 Of her soldier far away ; 
 Yes, far away; but safe and well ; 
 
 And, e'en on the* battle-field, 
 Thinking of her and of "Innocence;" — 
 
 May God be his guide and his shield. 
 
 1* 
 
6 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S FIRESIDE, AFTER 
 A BATTLE. 
 
 Suggested by a scene in a soldier's family, after the 
 battle of Chancellor sville. 
 
 They sat by the dying embers, 
 
 As the daylight fled away, 
 A sister, a wife, and a mother, 
 
 With hearts too heavy to pray. 
 
 Around the walls and the ceiling 
 
 The shadows clustered and clung, 
 Till the room seemed a chamber of mourning 
 
 With funeral drap'ry hung. 
 
 They had heard the news of the battle, 
 
 But not the names of the dead, 
 And in thought they were seeking their loved one 
 
 On a battle-field trampled and red. 
 
 The mother, in widow's garments, 
 
 Sat upright with face of stqne, 
 Striving bravely to bear both sorrows, 
 
 Her country's grief and her own. 
 
 Bent low was the wife's slight figure, 
 
 And her face, by her falling hair 
 And her clasped hands, was hidden, 
 
 In the depth of her despair. 
 
 Between these two, on the carpet, 
 
 The sister had knelt down, 
 With the large tears slowly stealing 
 
 From beneath the lashes brown. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. I 
 
 But the baby of the household, 
 
 Who had missed her evening game, 
 
 Was fast asleep on the hearth-rug, 
 Unconscious of grief or shame ; 
 
 The rosy lips were parted, 
 
 As the breath came softly through, 
 
 And the golden curls fell backward 
 From the temples veined with blue ; 
 
 And she seemed a holy vision, 
 
 An angel with Hope's pure light, 
 Sent down to dispel the terror 
 
 That clouded their souls that night. 
 
 The very fire in the chimney 
 
 Seemed trying to cheer their gloom, 
 
 For a sudden blaze set dancing 
 All the shadows in the room. 
 
 The mother's brow grew softer, 
 
 The sister faintly smiled, 
 And the wife lost half her anguish, 
 
 As she gazed upon the child. 
 
 Each thought of the loving Father 
 
 Who makes the brave soldier His care, 
 
 And their doubt and despair were routed 
 Bv the holy power of prayer ; 
 
 And the morning proved that the baby 
 
 Had brought them a vision true, 
 For they had good news from their loved one, 
 
 And hope for their country too. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 TE DEUM LAUDAMUS. 
 
 " I will sing unto the Lord, because He hath dealt bounti- 
 fully with me." Ps. xviii. 6. 
 
 [In commemoration of our deliverance from invasion by 
 the victory of the Union arms at Gettysburg.] 
 
 What shall we render to the Lord for all His 
 power and love, 
 
 In turning back the tide of war, with mercy from 
 above ? 
 
 He heareth prayer, He loveth praise, and we, the 
 rescued ones, 
 
 Would pour its incense to the God of fair Colum- 
 bia's sons. 
 
 The foeman was wary, his chargers were swift, 
 They came as the lightning had lent them its 
 
 speed ; 
 The war-cloud was dark'ning with scarcely a rift, 
 And the land was afaint in its peril and need: 
 There were those who were flying, pursued by a 
 
 fear, 
 There were those who were crying "Lo: haste, 
 
 they are near \" 
 And the city and hamlet, the great and the low, 
 Were alike in their terror, their dread of the foe. 
 
 Then they thought of the God whom they knew 
 long before, 
 When as children they knelt at their young 
 
 mothers' feet, « 
 
 And they prayed in their danger that He would 
 restore 
 To the nation His smile, and the traitors defeat ; j ■ 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 9 
 
 And He heard them, He heard them, He closed 
 
 not His ear, 
 Nor disdained the prayer wrung from despair 
 
 and from fear, 
 But He heard them in mercy, He answered in 
 
 love, 
 And turned back the war-tide with power from 
 
 above. 
 
 Now the soil is delivered from traitorous bands, 
 The flying ones fearlessly turn to their home ; 
 And the workman, with innocent, toil-darkened 
 
 hands, 
 Goes cheerily forth 'neath the clear heaven's 
 
 dome ; 
 The mothers are hushing the babes on their breast, 
 With no fear that the war-cry will shorten their 
 
 rest; 
 And no longer the swift, screaming flight of the 
 
 shell 
 Keeps the bird from its singing in forest and dell. 
 
 The harvest is gathered, not red with the slain, 
 The freighted stalks bent to the brown reapers' 
 tread, 
 And the meadows, heaped high with the golden- 
 hued grain, 
 Offer life to the living, not graves to the dead ; 
 And the green blade, untrampled by war's fiery 
 steed, 
 Is growing in beauty on upland and slope, 
 By the cool night-dews fed, not by hearts glad to 
 bleed 
 That their country and freedom may be the 
 world's hope. 
 
10 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 There are sad faces thro' the land, and many- 
 darkened rooms, 
 And weary hearts are breaking at the thought of 
 
 distant tombs ; 
 But He who saved our threatened homes by those 
 
 now fallen asleep, 
 Will bless and heal the sorrowful, and comfort 
 
 all who weep. 
 There are long wards where ev'ry couch holds 
 
 one whose feeble breath 
 Goes up each hour in one faint sigh — "Oh! grant 
 
 us ease or death V 
 And this while we, whom they have saved from 
 
 danger and from flight, 
 Are happy in our homes all day and dream away 
 
 the night. 
 
 But we will not forget their worth ; our time, our 
 
 wealth are theirs, 
 And grateful thousands daily plead their cause 
 
 with tearful prayers. 
 "We cannot thank Thee as we would for our de- 
 liverance, Lord, 
 But Thou canst see the wordless hymns within 
 
 our spirits stored, 
 And Thou canst tune our wayward hearts so well 
 
 to love and praise, 
 That all our daily life to Thee may holy anthems 
 
 raise. 
 Oh! Father, bless our native land, and send it 
 
 speedy peace, 
 That man no more may strive with man ; that 
 
 grief and pain may cease. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 11 
 
 FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 
 
 From an incident related by Mr. Gough in his lecture 
 on "Peculiar People," Supposed to be the narration of 
 an old nurse in one of the hospitals. 
 
 He was brought in with the wounded, six bullets 
 
 in his frame : 
 We knew we could not save him, but we tried to, 
 
 all the same ; 
 And when we'd washed and fed him, I sat down 
 
 by his side 
 To tell him of the Saviour, and be with him when 
 
 he died. 
 
 He lay there still and peaceful and listened to 
 
 the Book ; 
 It seemed an old friend to him by his happy, 
 
 trusting look ; 
 And then we prayed beside him, for we are not 
 
 heathen here, 
 But try to help our brothers when the hour of 
 
 death draws near. 
 
 His breath came short and painful, and his words 
 
 were faint and low ; 
 As he left his farewell messages I bent to hear 
 
 them, — so: 
 "My love and thanks to Mother, I have tried to 
 
 do my best, 
 I've read her dear old Bible, she will find it in 
 
 my chest, 
 It has been a comfort to me, but the balls have 
 
 found her boy, 
 And I shall go before her to realms of endless 
 
 joy." 
 
12 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 There was a pause, a falter; I asked him, " No- 
 thing more?" 
 
 And, with a sigh, he quickly drew off a ring he 
 wore ; 
 
 " Send this to Mother, Madam, and tell her I was 
 true 
 
 To the one who gave it ; Mother then will know 
 what's best to do;" 
 
 And then his color faded and a deadly paleness 
 came, 
 
 And I knew his heart was longing for the one he 
 could not name. 
 
 Just then along the passage between the rows of 
 
 beds, 
 Came on a group of ladies with gay hats upon 
 
 their heads, 
 With colors bright and flaunting all mingled in 
 
 their dress, 
 And they talked and laughed out gayly, in the 
 
 midst of such distress ! 
 
 I frowned upon them grimly, and tried to stop 
 
 their noise ; 
 (If there's one thing makes me angry, 'tis un- 
 
 kindness to the boys ;) 
 But their hearts were hard and selfish, and they 
 
 would not heed my frown, 
 But came on near the pillow where I watched 
 
 Death settling down. 
 
 They stopped there, and a tall one, the hand- 
 somest of all, 
 
 Spoke out in tones as flippant as tho' at dance or 
 ball,— 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 13 
 
 Spoke to the man just dying, with freedom far 
 
 amiss, 
 "My friend, pray tell me truly, is the country 
 
 worth all this ?" 
 
 Life came back for a moment, and he rose up in 
 
 his bed, 
 Unmindful of his sufferings as with earnest voice 
 
 he said 
 "Ay, Madam! the dear country is worth it, 
 
 worth it all ! 
 I pray our God to save it, tho' a million men 
 
 should fall." 
 
 His latest word for Freedom, he tottered back 
 
 and died: 
 The ladies turned away their heads; I do believe 
 
 they cried ; 
 I closed his eyelids sobbing; I have looked on 
 
 many a death, 
 But never yet saw soldier give more nobly life 
 
 and breath. 
 
 They laid him down to slumber in the crowded 
 
 Army lot, 
 And in a leisure moment I set flowers upon the 
 
 spot, 
 But whenever I go near it, I think — he is not 
 
 there, 
 He's where the "faithful unto death" a crown 
 
 of glory wear. 
 
14 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 COL. DAHLGREN'S REQUIEM. 
 
 Shot by rebels in ambush, near Richmond, March 4ith, 
 1864. 
 
 A requiem for the one that could not falter, 
 When on before him dauntless valor trod, 
 
 But poured his noble life-blood on the altar 
 By freemen reared to Freedom and to God. 
 
 A requiem for a soldier brave and truthful, 
 Lion in fight, but gentle in his home ; 
 
 The hope of many ; mourning now the youthful, 
 Before them taken to the far blue dome ! 
 
 Such mournful measure sings our present sorrow 
 O'er the young Dahlgren, swept from earth away 
 
 Ere his true heart had seen the brilliant morrow 
 We know will follow on the dark to-day. 
 
 Yet is our strain not one of hopeless grieving, 
 For in a holy cause 'tis good to die, 
 
 And that which is to us a sad bereaving, 
 Is but a martyr's transit to the sky. 
 
 And brave hearts are the glory of a nation, 
 They are the brightest jewels in her crown, 
 
 Their death for Truth, she views with exultation, 
 And o'er their graves throws laurels, fadeless, 
 down. 
 
 In the dark swamp the hidden foe was lying ; 
 
 The rebel bullet found the hero's heart, 
 And left him dead : but worse to him than dying 
 
 Was, that his work was only done in part. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 15 
 
 But now since Dahlgren died for prisoned brothers, 
 Striving to fling their dungeon doors full wide, 
 
 Since that young life was freely giv'n for others, 
 Men ! shall it be in vain that he has died? 
 
 Shall not his blood arouse a mighty nation 
 To crush the wrong that rends our noble land, 
 
 And, nerved as with new wine, by that oblation 
 Free fair Columbia from the traitor band ? 
 
 And since beyond the James, in some lone valley, 
 Our hero sleeps, un honored yet serene, 
 
 Let thousands round the flag he died for, rally 
 And by like courage "keep his memory green ;" 
 
 Till from the Lakes to where the Gulf is laving 
 The Southern sands, with billows blue and 
 bright, ■ 
 
 The starry banner once again is waving 
 
 And Peace and Union rise on War's dark night. 
 
 WORKING FOR THE SOLDIERS. 
 
 Across the deep green meadows, 
 In the morning fresh and cool, 
 
 Flock the children to the woodland, 
 Ere the hour for village school. 
 
 The little bare feet hasten 
 
 Thro' the diamond-threaded grass, 
 
 Unconscious of the jewels 
 
 They are scattering as they pass ; 
 
16 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 And the rosy, dimpled faces 
 Meet the spider's lacy veil, 
 
 (With tiny dew-pearls broidered,) 
 As it floats across the dale. 
 
 Ere long they reach the thickets 
 Where the ripest berries are, 
 
 And with eager haste they pluck them 
 For the soldiers in the war ; 
 
 Then home across the meadows, 
 Where the kine are feeding now, 
 
 To the farm-house 'neath the willows, 
 With the roses round its brow ; 
 
 There the gentle mother meets them 
 With a loving, tearful smile, 
 
 For she thinks of the absent brother, 
 Her soldier-boy, the while. 
 
 Then thro' the long, bright morning 
 
 Her figure flits about, 
 And a lovely maiden follows 
 
 Like her shadow, in and out. 
 
 The woodland wealth is garnered 
 For the winter's hour of need, 
 
 To soothe the noble soldiers 
 
 In their country's cause that bleed : 
 
 And the garden yields its increase, 
 The orchard adds its store, 
 
 For the busy hands to treasure 
 Within the farm-house door. 
 
 Unceasing works the mother 
 As she thinks upon her son, 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 17 
 
 And the maiden speaks of "Brother," 
 Thinks of — another one. 
 
 The loving hearts feel lighter, 
 
 As they rest at close of day 
 And view the many comforts 
 
 For the soldiers stowed away ; 
 
 They will not whisper even, — 
 
 "These may be for our own!" 
 But silent prayers for safety 
 
 Have all day upward flown. 
 
 Ah ! there are many households, 
 
 Where the mother for her sod, 
 And the maiden for her lover, 
 
 Work on till day is done ; 
 
 And there are many soldiers 
 
 In sickness and in grief 
 Who bless those woman-workers 
 
 Who send them kind relief. 
 
 THE WARRIOR AND THE MAIDEN. 
 
 A Romance of War time. 
 
 The warrior to battle goes, 
 
 His brave heart 'gainst his armor beating, 
 With hopes of vict'ry o'er his foes, 
 
 And Treason put to rout and fleeting. 
 
 The maiden in her drap'ried room, 
 Is dreaming o'er some ancient story, 
 2* 
 
18 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 But thro' it waves her hero's plume, 
 The foremost in the ranks of glory. 
 
 The bugle sounds the war alarm, 
 
 The myriad bands are onward moving ; 
 
 And strongly strikes the warrior's arm 
 For Truth and all that's worth the loving. 
 
 And in her calm and peaceful home, 
 The gentle maid is lowly kneeling, 
 
 Praying for all who distant roam, 
 
 Her blue eyes dim with earnest feeling. 
 
 The Right has conquered! holy Peace 
 
 Descends to staunch the land's sore bleeding, 
 
 And as the cannon-thunders cease, 
 The soldier to his love is speeding. 
 
 The maiden's curls are wreathed with flowers, 
 And snowy robes are round her flowing ; 
 
 While onward haste the rosy hours, 
 Her hand upon the brave bestowing. 
 
 Now let the bells ring merrily, 
 
 And sunshine pave the way they're treading, 
 Thy peaceful wings, Prosperity, 
 
 Ever o'er love and valor spreading. 
 
 ROSES IN JUNE. 
 
 June is here all wreathed with roses, 
 Garlands on her golden hair, 
 
 Lavishly the rosebuds dropping, 
 In her pathway thro' the air. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 19 
 
 She has floated o'er the meadow, 
 Flinging it sweet buds and frail ; 
 
 And the graceful, scented brier 
 She has hung with blossoms pale. 
 
 But within the quiet gardens, 
 Nestling far from toil and strife, 
 
 She has poured her choicest treasures, 
 All of sweetest incense rife. 
 
 Portals there are arched with roses ; 
 
 Roses climb the lattice frame. 
 White ones, blushing at their beauty, 
 
 Crimson ones with hearts of flame. 
 
 And we call to mind the legend 
 
 Of the martyr maid of old, 
 Led by foes unto the fagots 
 
 Whence the threatening smoke uprolled ;— 
 
 And the gentle maid, all meekly, 
 As they bound her to the stake, 
 
 For her bitter foes stood praying — 
 "Pardon, for the Saviour's sake;" 
 
 Praying ever through the shouting, 
 
 Praying as the flames crept on, 
 Like a band of hissing serpents 
 
 Closing 'round a timid fawn. 
 
 Until, lo! a sudden stillness, 
 
 As of awe, fell on the throng, 
 And the maiden's patient praying 
 
 Rose into a rapturous song ; 
 
 For the burning brands were wreathing 
 Into roses glowing red, 
 
20 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 And the brands unburnt were bearing 
 Rosebuds white ; the flames were dead. 
 
 First of roses these, and fairest, 
 Born of holy love and prayer ; 
 
 Is it wonder that their children 
 Than all other flowers are fair ? 
 
 THE SEA FAIRIES' MUSIC, 
 
 From a German legend of a boy who, hidden on the 
 beach, listened all night to the wonderful music of the 
 water-fairies , and afterwards wandered through, the 
 world delighting all who heard him, with the melody. 
 
 Rose and gold were gleaming westward, 
 
 Blue and golden smiled the east, 
 And the sea between them rolling 
 
 Shone as garnished for a feast ; 
 Forth the maiden moon came slowly, 
 
 With a timid train of stars, 
 Peeping thro' the cloud-bands glitt'ring, 
 
 Like a nun thro' lattice bars. 
 
 All the birds were hasting nestward, 
 
 Fain to fold the weary wing ; 
 And the cheerful, busy cricket 
 
 Found, with evening, time to sing. 
 And, with slow advancing footsteps 
 
 Measured by the tinkling bell, 
 Peacefully the flock went homeward, 
 
 To the fold within the dell. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 21 
 
 Blithely trod the little shepherd 
 
 Close beside his fleecy care, 
 With a watchful look and tender, 
 
 For each little lambkin there ; 
 Nor till safely folded, did he 
 
 Leave his charge and turn away, 
 Hasting on o'er root and rock-work 
 
 Till the sea before him lay. 
 
 Then, the blue eyes bright with rapture, 
 
 Bare his brow to feel the breeze, 
 Stretched he arms of eager longing 
 
 To the glory of the seas ; — 
 And with rosy lips just parted, 
 
 As to drink the wave-breath in, 
 Long he stood in silent wonder, 
 
 List'ning to the water's din. 
 
 Down at last upon the beach-grass, 
 
 All his weary length he lay, 
 Still with eyes enchanted watching, 
 
 Tho' the night had fallen, gray ; 
 Faded were the flames of sunset, 
 
 Only dim the embers burned, 
 But the moon her throne had taken, 
 
 And the sea to silver turned. 
 
 Hark! he listens; lifts his forehead 
 
 From its pillow damp and green, — 
 Was it music? was it singing? 
 
 "From a boat at sea, I ween!" 
 And he looked across the waters, 
 
 As the strain came soft and clear, 
 But no boat, no sail of shallop, 
 
 Saw he far or saw he near. 
 
22 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 Still the mellow music sounded, 
 
 Mingled note of voice and lute ; 
 Now beside him, now removing, 
 
 Till his very breath grew mute, 
 Mute with fear lest it had vanished ; — 
 
 Yet again, with gayer strain, 
 Back it floated, nearer, nearer, 
 
 O'er the rippling moonlit main. 
 
 Such a measure only pleasure, 
 
 Knowing naught of pain, could play, 
 Sounds of dancing, still advancing, 
 
 Mingled with the happy lay ; 
 Softly ever, roughly never, 
 
 Low and sweet its cadence fell, 
 And the singing, clearly ringing, 
 
 Matched the merry music well. 
 
 Eagerly the shepherd listened, 
 
 Crouching on his lowly bed, 
 With his breath so gently flowing, 
 
 Scarce the grass stirred round his head ; 
 Not a quaver fell unheeded, 
 
 Wide with joy the blue eyes kept, 
 And, when ceased the mirth with morning, 
 
 Tears of joy and grief he wept. 
 
 Back he went to dell and fold-yard, 
 
 Led the flock that slowly strayed, 
 Watched them thro' the day, while ever 
 
 In his heart that music played ; 
 All his songs with it were mingled, 
 
 And the sheep forgot to graze, 
 And the birds were silent, listening 
 
 To the shepherd's wondrous lays. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 28 
 
 And when older grown and taller, 
 
 Forth he wandered o'er the earth, 
 Singing, to his mellow cithern, 
 
 Echoes of the Fairies' mirth. 
 Every heart forgot its burden, 
 
 Every brow forgot its frown, 
 And they thronged to hear the singer 
 
 From the hamlet, court, and town. 
 
 Thus he wandered, all entrancing 
 
 With the song the Fairies taught, 
 Seeming, in its changing measures, 
 
 With the sound of billows fraught. 
 But old sailors, when they heard it, 
 
 Said, "it was the mermaid's song/' 
 Said, " she brooked not mortal chanting 
 
 What had been her own so long ;" — 
 Hence one morning, those who sought him, 
 
 Found his lute upon the shore, 
 But the shepherd, whelmed in waters, 
 
 Sang the Fairy lay no more. 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF 
 MARLBOROUGH'S REVENGE. 
 
 Suggested by an incident related in the life of Sarah, 
 Duchess of Marlborough. 
 
 The stately lady of Blenheim 
 
 Sat in her stately hall, 
 At that sweet hour of early eve 
 
 When memories thickest fall, 
 And round her played a merry group 
 
 Of children fair and small. 
 
24 FLOWEBS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 Her thoughts are with the busy past, 
 
 Of courts and courtly wiles ; 
 Sometimes a shade steals o'er her face, 
 
 Sometimes it gleams with smiles ; 
 And the present floateth far away, 
 
 While silently the children play. 
 
 She is both fair and graceful still, 
 
 And 'tis a goodly sight 
 To see her beauty unimpaired, 
 
 And her hair untouched by white, 
 Tho' her children's children round her play, 
 
 In the sunset's fading light. 
 
 The youngest pet is aweary now, 
 
 And creeps to the lady's side, 
 With a pleading face, and her sunny hair 
 
 Tossed back, from the blue eyes wide, 
 And she plucks at the satin gown, with a grace 
 
 Of willfulness ne'er denied. 
 
 The Duchess starts from her busy thoughts, 
 
 And turns to the rosy elf, 
 Whose beauty rare is the miniature 
 
 Of her young and lovely self; 
 And she asks "What would my darling have?" 
 
 And listens with loving mien, 
 As the child repeats her arch request 
 
 For a "story about the Queen." 
 
 "Nay child not of her shall I speak to-night ; 
 
 I've been thinking of former days, 
 And remember a tale of those by-gone times, 
 
 To tell by this evening blaze." 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 25 
 
 Then quietness fell on the little group 
 
 As they gathered around the tire, 
 For a tale from the lady's varied life 
 
 Was ever their hearts' desire. 
 
 " I was beautiful in my youthful days, 
 
 More lovely than Anne, or Di, 
 And my glossy curls, thick rings of gold. 
 
 Were dear to my husband's eye ; 
 
 " Yet once I was angered by some stern word, 
 
 A check on some foolish whim, 
 (For nothing but folly could ever win 
 
 A word unkind from him ;) 
 
 " I answered him madly; he sadly smiled, 
 
 And gravely he left me alone, 
 Yet my haughty spirit vowed he should 
 
 For his hasty word atone. 
 
 " 'Twas in my closet; the loosened hair 
 
 Fell rippling down to my knee, 
 With the sunshine tangled amid its threads, 
 
 A sight full fair to see, 
 And in a moment, my wished revenge 
 
 Came flashing all over me. 
 
 "I seized the shining scissors; caught 
 
 The locks of lustrous gold, 
 Tress after tress, and curl on curl, 
 
 In my anger down I rolled, 
 Till the floor was thick with the gleaming rings, 
 
 Far more than my hands could hold. 
 
 "Then I gathered them up with a sullen pride, 
 
 And laid them, in solemn state, 
 In an ante-room where the Duke would pass, 
 3 
 
26 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 And then I sat down to wait ; 
 And I thought of his grief o'er my severed locks, 
 Till my heart was all elate. 
 
 " Yet never a word, or of praise or blame, 
 
 That noble Duke outspake, 
 But his look of sad and tender love 
 
 Made my haughty heart to ache. 
 
 " Many a year has past and gone 
 
 Since that wild and willful hour, 
 And the Duke, my lord, lies still and stark 
 
 Beneath King Death's stern power ; 
 
 " But to-day in his cabinet with the gifts 
 
 He treasured most, I found 
 A massive coil of golden hair, 
 
 With a faded ribbon bound ;" — 
 Here the speaker paused, and thro' evening's dusk 
 
 Came a muffled sob's low sound. 
 
 Through a low, arched doorway the lady passed, 
 
 To weep in the twilight gray, 
 O'er the storied marble that marked the spot 
 
 Where the noble hero lay ; 
 And the children, finding the story done, 
 
 Went on with their merry play. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 27 
 
 "APRIL SHOWERS BRING MAY 
 FLOWERS." 
 
 Downward from the dreary sky 
 
 Falls sad April's weeping, 
 Tears fast dropping from her eye, 
 To see her season passing by, 
 
 While all the flowers are sleeping ; 
 Scarce a blossom decks the wold, 
 And Earth but offers welcome cold. 
 
 Gentle April tried to smile, 
 
 With her sunniest gleaming, 
 But no blossom sprang the while, 
 Her heart of sadness to beguile, 
 
 With answering love outbeaming ; 
 And gloom came sadly o'er her brow, 
 And tears are falling even now. 
 
 Tears will win where smiles are vain ; 
 
 These will melt, where those but harden ; 
 And earth is moved by April's rain 
 To pity all her patient pain, 
 
 And humbly seek her pardon. 
 She sends the rain-drops to the dell, 
 Where now'rets dream in sunless cell. 
 
 The violet hears their tiny tread 
 
 Come softly round it falling, 
 And waking, lifts its drowsy head 
 And listens, leaning on its bed, 
 
 To hear the robin calling ; 
 Then, certain that the Spring has come, 
 Hastens to leave its winter home. 
 
28 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 Deep in the valley, wrapt in green, 
 
 The lily bells are sleeping; 
 Sunk in a slumber so serene, 
 That not a pearly bud is seen 
 
 From out its cover creeping ; 
 But let them hear the rain-drop's knell, 
 And soon will chime each fairy bell. 
 
 And cowslip-stars beneath the grass, 
 And kingcups in the meadow, 
 
 And daisies where the rain-drops pass, 
 In mingled sun and shadow, 
 
 Are waking from their long night's sleep, 
 
 And hastening into bloom to leap. 
 
 And when the lovely queen of May 
 
 Walks forth 'mid May-day pleasures, 
 The flowers shall carpet all her way, 
 And buds bend on their dewy spray, 
 
 To give her of their treasures ; 
 And she will bless the April showers 
 That brought to her the sweet May flowers. 
 
 A POET'S DEPARTURE. 
 
 Mrs. Browning died at Florence, June 29th, 1S61; her 
 last words were, "It is beautiful !" 
 
 Morning upon her rosy car 
 
 Returned from regions of the east, 
 Led by one silver-shining star ; 
 Before her path Night fled apace, 
 Veiling in clouds his dusky face, 
 And shedding tears o'er bush and spray ; 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 29 
 
 But Morning smiled with sunny ray, 
 And bending, kissed the tears away ; 
 And as she rode in beauty calm 
 O'er olive groves, and isles of palm, 
 The birds broke forth in matin psalm, 
 And Night's dominion ceased. 
 
 As Night's tears ended, ours began : 
 One harp was wanting in the choir 
 
 Of heavenly song, and swiftly ran 
 
 The mandate to the singer's soul, 
 
 "Come up, and make our music whole !" 
 
 Well pleased she heard, and stretched the wings 
 
 Long tremulous for holy things ; 
 
 And as the rosy morning came, 
 
 Gilding her windows with its flame, 
 
 She saw the glorious land above ; 
 
 Leaving to clinging human love 
 Only the casket of the lyre. 
 
 But to those poet-souls so blent 
 
 In perfect love, and perfect song, 
 
 A goodly gift sweet Mercy sent ; 
 
 For ere within the shining door 
 
 She entered, (going on before,) 
 
 There fell of peace a golden gleam, 
 
 Bridging Death's darkly-flowing stream, 
 With radiance clear and strong. 
 
 As one who climbs a mountain peak, 
 
 With feeble feet, but hopeful heart, 
 Reaches the top with glowing cheek, 
 And stands a moment resting, where, 
 With breezes fanning brow and hair, 
 He sees the city -planted plain, 
 The sunshine crowning spire and fane, 
 3* 
 
30 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 The silver stream, the dusky wood, — 
 Here, stir of life; there, solitude: 
 Yet but a moment gazing, turns 
 Back to the path of rock and ferns, 
 And to a comrade toiling there 
 Cries, "Haste thee! it is passing fair!" — 
 So did her soul depart. 
 
 She stood at Heaven's pearly gate, 
 
 For her pure spirit opened wide ; 
 A moment saw, with eyes dilate, 
 The fadeless flowers, the living flood, 
 The light that veils the Light of God ; 
 (No tyrant saw she, heard no cries 
 Rising from crushed hearts' sacrifice ;) 
 But she heard the golden harpstrings filling 
 Each pause of praise with music thrilling :— 
 Yet, drawn by love and pity, turned 
 To him o'er whom her spirit yearned, 
 And, "Love! 'tis beautiful!" she cried; 
 Then, entering, joined the glorified. 
 
 THE BEACON LIGHT. 
 
 We stood upon a granite wall 
 
 Far looking o'er a peaceful bay ; 
 Naught hearing save the sea-bird's call. 
 Or laugh of waves whose playful fall 
 Dashed all the reef with spray. 
 
 The western sky was tinged with gold, 
 Faint gleamings of the sunset blaze ; 
 The purple clouds hung, fold o'er fold, 
 While upward from the distant wold 
 Stole dreamy wreaths of haze. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. . 31 
 
 The water caught the mingled hue 
 
 Of sky, and cloud, and hazy wreath, 
 And blent them with its pearly blue, 
 While o'er it white-winged sail-boats flew, 
 With shadow boats beneath. 
 
 As long we gazed with earnest sight, 
 The moon stole forth on pinions fleet, 
 
 To rule her empire of the night ; 
 
 And straight a silvery cone of light 
 Fell quiv'ring at our feet. 
 
 Seaward, a deep-red beacon glowed 
 And cast its glare across the wave, 
 
 To warn the sailor, as he rode, 
 
 Of tempting syrens' wild abode 
 Within the ocean cave. 
 
 Who wandered from its glowing track, 
 
 Unmindful of the dangers near, 
 Made of his life and hope a wrack, 
 And ne'er returned from waters black, 
 
 To home and loved ones dear. 
 
 But he who chose the guiding ray 
 That shone upon the rippling stream, 
 
 Sailed safely thro' the breaking spray, 
 
 To a fair isle across the bay, 
 Fit for a lover's dream. 
 
 Dear friend, who with me stood that night, 
 And drank the beauty of that hour, 
 
 This, my poor record, judge aright; 
 
 And let us choose the beacon-light 
 That shines with heavenly power. 
 
32 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-EIELD. 
 
 HEARTSEASE IN WINTER. 
 
 Walking within my garden ground, 
 When earth in winter's grasp was bound, 
 Unsought, a flow'ret there I found. 
 
 Tall trees were whispering overhead, 
 Sighing thro' all their branches dead 
 Vain wishes for their foliage fled. 
 
 Withered were all the lily-stems, 
 Gone were the rose-tree's diadems, 
 Dead leaves and thorns their only gems ; 
 
 Yet nestling closely at their feet, 
 
 A flower looked up with smilings sweet, 
 
 The transient wintry sun to greet. 
 
 It was a Heartsease, cheerful flower, 
 Which bloomed within that faded bower, 
 And decked it with a spring-like power. 
 
 With eager haste I bent to seek 
 Its golden eye and velvet cheek, 
 And mark its beauty, calm and meek ; 
 
 I would have borne it to my room, 
 To light it with its summer bloom, 
 Unmindful of its speedy doom ; — 
 
 To drink the sunshine for a day, 
 
 To revel in its golden ray, 
 
 And when night came to fade away ; — 
 
FLOWERS FROM -THE BATTLE-FIELD. 33 
 
 But while the fleeting sunbeams burned, 
 It seemed so happy, that I turned 
 And left the life so hardly earned. 
 
 Thinking, as slowly on I went, 
 How happy were a life well spent, 
 With Heaven's smile alone content ; 
 
 Pondering the truth, that smile has power 
 To make the cheerful Heartsease flower, 
 Even in this world's wintriest hour. 
 
 WALKING BY FAITH. 
 
 I walked beside a child to-day, 
 And held in mine his little hand, 
 
 Watching the sunset's golden ray 
 
 Across the autumn foliage play, 
 
 Until, beneath its magic spell, 
 Our way along the wooded dell 
 Was all like Fairy -land. 
 
 For in that land have poets dreamed 
 
 The leaves are made of shining gems : — 
 And here, the oak with rubies gleamed, 
 Like topaz, willow-pennons streamed, 
 Whilst em 'raids flashed their living green 
 In sheltered nooks the rocks between ; 
 For autumn with its kindness stern 
 Had crowned the trees in brake and burn 
 With glittering diadems. 
 
 L.ofC. 
 
34 FLOWERS PROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 Softly the river's silver thread 
 
 Wound on, the stately trees among ; 
 
 A mirror was its limpid bed 
 
 For the rare beauty overhead ; 
 
 Where all the glowing, glancing hues, 
 
 Each into each, could melt and fuse, 
 
 Making a rich, mosaic pave, 
 
 For woodland temple's aisle and nave, 
 With scarlet vine-wreath hung. 
 
 What wonder that the child's blue eyes 
 
 Gazed long upon a sight so fair ? 
 Gazed with a new and pleased surprise, 
 For he was not too old and wise, 
 Careless to pass the glories by 
 Blazing beneath that sunset sky ; 
 What wonder that I held him fast, 
 As o'er the rugged stones we passed, 
 With watchful loving care ? 
 
 And as we roamed o'er rock and brake, 
 
 He looking up, I leading him, 
 I thought, tho' not a word I spake, 
 'Twere well if all could pattern take 
 From such a guileless trusting child, 
 And thro' life's path, oft rough and wild, 
 Be guided by a Heavenly Friend 
 Still looking onward to the end, 
 With faith not dead nor dim. 
 
 But oft we strive to walk alone, 
 
 And Heaven win, as we deem best ; 
 Till, stumbling o'er some hidden stone, 
 We find our plans and hopes o'erthrown, 
 And with our spirits bowed and crushed, 
 Our faces low in sorrow's dust, 
 We lose our dream of rest. 
 
FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 35 
 
 Tis then we feel our Father's hand 
 
 Extended to us thro' the gloom ; 
 His mercy makes us upright stand, 
 And guides us thro' the thorny land, 
 Showing us visions all the way 
 Of Heaven's bright and fadeless ray, 
 
 And rest beyond the tomb. 
 
 THE CLOUDY CHARIOT. 
 
 He maketh the clouds His Chariot. Ps. civ. 3. 
 
 Forth as a conqueror rides the Lord 
 
 Upon His chariot of cloud ; 
 The winds obey His guiding word 
 
 And bear Him on with anthems loud ; 
 Dark is His car, and from within 
 
 His wrath outleaps with naming dart, 
 And thunders roll their angry din, 
 
 As they would rend a world apart. 
 So shall He, in the day of doom, 
 
 Appear for judgment robed in gloom. 
 
 Gently the winds of summer float 
 
 O'er earth and sea, in sunshine drest, 
 And upward bear the bird's glad note 
 
 And breath of flowers, within their breast ; 
 Fit incense for the One who rides 
 
 On pearly cloud-banks mid the blue, 
 While smoothly on His chariot glides, 
 
 Until it leaves our longing view ; 
 So shall He come arrayed in light 
 
 To bless His loving children's sight. 
 
36 FLOWERS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 When day is done and weary care 
 
 Has dropped asleep on evening's breast, 
 A glory fills the tranquil air, 
 
 From glitt'ring cloud-cars in the west ; 
 Stayed are the swiftly -rolling wheels, 
 
 The mighty steeds unmoving, stand, 
 A solemn, peaceful calm reveals 
 
 God's presence in the land. 
 So came He once, at eve, to man, 
 
 Before the reign of sin began ; 
 So shall He come, our King and Friend, 
 
 When sin and death shall have an end. 
 
 
FEB 26 I902 J