Wounded ! my boy? No, it must be another, —
Left in his gore on that field of the South, —
Gone but ten days from the arms of his mother,
The breath of his kisses yet sweet on my mouth.

Wounded! — his head on the battle-field lying,
Lips gasping out in a feverish moan,
Wounded? — away! why not tell me he 's dying,
Dead ere I reach him, my darling, my son.

Blood gushing out where the sabre stroke clett him,
Blood clotted thick on his hair's sunny light;
Curse on the dastardly hand that has left him,
Calling my name in his anguish to-night!

I can remember his eager tones falling,
Kneeling before me, — his head on my breast,
" Let me go, mother; our country is calling;
Give me your blessing, — trust God for the rest. "

I can remember when drums loudly beating
Led from the city the troops to their place,
That over all tumult of parting and greeting,
I heard but one voice, and I saw but one face, —

Saw but one face shining calmly and proudly,
Keeping quick time with the tramp of the feet;
Heard but one voice shouting clearly and loudly,
" Good-by, my mother, — trust God till we meet. "

Now! — O my God! — let my trust be unshaken,
Lead me beyond the dark shadows to rest;
Wounded, they tell me, but O not forsaken;
Bring him once more to his place on my breast!