Lost and Found
I
L OST.
To Major C * * *, U.S. Infantry, reported " dead on the field of honour " at Gaines's Mill, June 27th, 1862.
A LEGEND of the guillotine,
Or of the gibbet's vengeful cord,
Or of two foes at sunrise seen
To grasp the pistol or the sword, —
May for a beat our pulses stop,
While fancy sees the axe descend,
The pinioned felon hopeless drop,
The slayer o'er his victim bend.
When one, of old a comrade, dies,
His life-march flits before our ken,
Dim passing shadows that arise
Upon a wall, to fall again;
But being told some dearer brow
Lies cold 'neath Azrael's marble seal,
As to a cannon shot we bow,
And nearer to the graveyard feel
But fancy's self-adjusted glass
May not include the vaster woe
Of crews that storm-fiends, as they pass,
In ocean's barren furrows sow:
Or of gay legions, which with pride
Of crested ranks clothed hill and dale,
Swept down by battle's furious tide,
Like stately grain by summer's hail.
'Twas thus on me this strife had gleamed
But as an airy pageant's show
Of war's bold game, which well beseemed
Its varying chances' ebb and flow;
Until it like a mirage waned
And bared thy mortal wound — O friend,
With whom the parting toast I drained
Was, " May the conflict quickly end! "
The Old Year sank within our bowl,
And when the New in splendour rose,
I should have wept — heroic soul! —
To think thou wouldst not see its close;
To dream that Atropos then held,
E'en then, the scissors near thy thread,
And that our goblet-chimes but knelled
Thy fate, to DEATH AND GLORY wed.
When I recall thy pensive face,
The smile that smoothed its furrows deep,
The sternness veiled by tender grace,
As lilies screen a lion's sleep;
I feel that we who weep thee are
Poor trimmers, who — as sailors guide
Their vessels — waste our souls in care
To follow, not to breast the tide.
A teacher of the art heroic,
Who precept with example twines,
Nor counterfeits a virtue stoic
Against whose rule his soul repines,
Is he who drills a nation's youth
The call of duty to obey,
To fight the fight of right and truth,
To point — and more, to lead the way.
Such wert thou, Friend, whose loss I mourn
As martial seed! Thy fertile yield
Might, like the future's garnered corn,
Have bearded many a battle-field
Thy country was thy only wife,
Thy troop thy only family;
For her thou hast laid down thy life,
Whose sons had gladly died for thee!
II
F OUND.
To Major C* * *, U.S. Infantry, dangerously wounded and made a prisoner at Gaines's Mill, June 27th, 1862.
M Y tears fell on an empty grave,
Yet let them not be shed in vain,
But dedicated to the brave
Whom thousands mourn amongst the slain.
My dirge, in feeble numbers wrought
With pious heart, shall consecrate
Their memory whose death has brought
Such grief as thy imagined fate.
Could tears wake them to life again,
Their forms heroic would arise,
Like trampled grass from quickening rain,
Beneath a nation's weeping eyes.
Could plaint or song their ears but thrill
As thine awoke to hear my strain,
No pen were dry, no voice were still,
From where they lie to distant Maine.
Yet deem not that my heart retracts
The praise ne'er meant to dim the eye
Of one whose future words and acts
Shall verify that eulogy.
I greet thee as some vessel fair
Her owner hath deplored as lost,
When on his gaze, through summer-air,
Her white sails glisten off the coast;
And up the cliffs glad neighbours rush,
With kindred joy, and grasp his hand
Whose moistened cheek the breezes flush
That waft his lost bark to the land.
L OST.
To Major C * * *, U.S. Infantry, reported " dead on the field of honour " at Gaines's Mill, June 27th, 1862.
A LEGEND of the guillotine,
Or of the gibbet's vengeful cord,
Or of two foes at sunrise seen
To grasp the pistol or the sword, —
May for a beat our pulses stop,
While fancy sees the axe descend,
The pinioned felon hopeless drop,
The slayer o'er his victim bend.
When one, of old a comrade, dies,
His life-march flits before our ken,
Dim passing shadows that arise
Upon a wall, to fall again;
But being told some dearer brow
Lies cold 'neath Azrael's marble seal,
As to a cannon shot we bow,
And nearer to the graveyard feel
But fancy's self-adjusted glass
May not include the vaster woe
Of crews that storm-fiends, as they pass,
In ocean's barren furrows sow:
Or of gay legions, which with pride
Of crested ranks clothed hill and dale,
Swept down by battle's furious tide,
Like stately grain by summer's hail.
'Twas thus on me this strife had gleamed
But as an airy pageant's show
Of war's bold game, which well beseemed
Its varying chances' ebb and flow;
Until it like a mirage waned
And bared thy mortal wound — O friend,
With whom the parting toast I drained
Was, " May the conflict quickly end! "
The Old Year sank within our bowl,
And when the New in splendour rose,
I should have wept — heroic soul! —
To think thou wouldst not see its close;
To dream that Atropos then held,
E'en then, the scissors near thy thread,
And that our goblet-chimes but knelled
Thy fate, to DEATH AND GLORY wed.
When I recall thy pensive face,
The smile that smoothed its furrows deep,
The sternness veiled by tender grace,
As lilies screen a lion's sleep;
I feel that we who weep thee are
Poor trimmers, who — as sailors guide
Their vessels — waste our souls in care
To follow, not to breast the tide.
A teacher of the art heroic,
Who precept with example twines,
Nor counterfeits a virtue stoic
Against whose rule his soul repines,
Is he who drills a nation's youth
The call of duty to obey,
To fight the fight of right and truth,
To point — and more, to lead the way.
Such wert thou, Friend, whose loss I mourn
As martial seed! Thy fertile yield
Might, like the future's garnered corn,
Have bearded many a battle-field
Thy country was thy only wife,
Thy troop thy only family;
For her thou hast laid down thy life,
Whose sons had gladly died for thee!
II
F OUND.
To Major C* * *, U.S. Infantry, dangerously wounded and made a prisoner at Gaines's Mill, June 27th, 1862.
M Y tears fell on an empty grave,
Yet let them not be shed in vain,
But dedicated to the brave
Whom thousands mourn amongst the slain.
My dirge, in feeble numbers wrought
With pious heart, shall consecrate
Their memory whose death has brought
Such grief as thy imagined fate.
Could tears wake them to life again,
Their forms heroic would arise,
Like trampled grass from quickening rain,
Beneath a nation's weeping eyes.
Could plaint or song their ears but thrill
As thine awoke to hear my strain,
No pen were dry, no voice were still,
From where they lie to distant Maine.
Yet deem not that my heart retracts
The praise ne'er meant to dim the eye
Of one whose future words and acts
Shall verify that eulogy.
I greet thee as some vessel fair
Her owner hath deplored as lost,
When on his gaze, through summer-air,
Her white sails glisten off the coast;
And up the cliffs glad neighbours rush,
With kindred joy, and grasp his hand
Whose moistened cheek the breezes flush
That waft his lost bark to the land.
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