It was reported that Lieutenant Mayne Reid had died of his wounds. This
intelligence reached his family in Ireland, who mourned him as dead
until the joyful contradiction arrived. It may be interesting as
evidence of his reputation at this time to give an extract from a
contemporary notice in the _Newport News_.
"The lamented Lieutenant Reid.
"Lieutenant Reid has been in this country some five or six years, and
during that time has been mostly connected with the press, either as an
associate editor or correspondent; in this last capacity, he passed the
summer of 1846 in Newport, R.I., engaged in writing letters to the _New
York Herald_, under the signature of `Ecolier.' It was at this time
that we became acquainted with him, and there are many others in the
community who will join us in bearing testimony to his worth as a man,
all of whom will be grieved at the announcement of his death. He
returned to New York about the first of September, and shortly after
sailed for Mexico with his regiment. He was at the battle of Monterey,
and distinguished himself in that bloody affair. We published a little
poem from his pen, entitled `Monterey,' about three months ago, which
will undoubtedly be remembered by our readers; towards the close of the
poem, was this stanza:
"`We were not many--we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest,
Than not have been at Monterey?'
"Alas! for human glory! The departed, probably, little thought at the
time he penned the above lines that he should so soon be sharing `their
warrior rest.' At the storming of Chapultepec he was severely wounded,
and died soon after from his wounds. He was a man of singular talents,
and gave much promise as a writer. His temperament was exceedingly
nervous, and his fancy brilliant. His best productions may be found in
`Godey's Book,' about three or four years ago, under the signature of
`Poor Scholar.' It is mournful that talents like his should be so early
sacrificed, and that his career should be so soon closed, far--very
far--from the land of his birth and the bosom of his home, as well as
the land of his adoption. But thus it is! When the day arrives for our
army to return, if it ever does, it will present a sad spectacle. The
ranks will be thinned, and hearts made sorrowful at their coming that
hoped to rejoice in the fullest fruition of gladness. Many a gallant
spirit has fallen to rise no more; and the wild note of the bugle cannot
awake them to duty, or the sweeter call of friendship and home. The
triumphs may be as splendid as ever crowned a human effort, but they
have been purchased at the price of noble lives, and too dearly not to
mingle the tear of sorrow with the shout of joy."
The verses by Captain Mayne Reid referred to are:
Monterey.
We were not many--we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day--
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if he but could
Have been with us at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot it hailed
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
Yet not a single soldier quailed,
When wounded comrades round them wailed
Their dying shouts at Monterey.
And on--still on our columns kept,
Through walls of flame, its withering way;
Where fell the dead, the living stept,
Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets of Monterey.
The foe himself recoiled aghast,
When, striking where he strongest lay,
We swooped his flanking batteries past,
And braving full their murderous blast,
Stormed home the towers of Monterey.
Our banners on those turrets wave,
And there our evening bugles play;
Where orange boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.
We were not many--we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest,
Than not have been at Monterey?
At a public dinner held in the city of Columbus, Ohio, to celebrate the
capture of Mexico, Mayne Reid's memory was toasted, and the following
lines, by a young poetess of Ohio, were recited with great effect:
Dirge.
Gone--gone--gone,
Gone to his dreamless sleep;
And spirits of the brave,
Watching o'er his lone grave,
Weep--weep--weep.
*****
Mourn--mourn--mourn,
Mother, to sorrow long wed!
Far o'er the mighty deep,
Where the brave coldly sleep,
Thy warrior son lies dead.
Lone--lone--lone,
In thine own far island home,
Ere thy life's task is done,
Oft with the setting sun,
O'er the sea thy thoughts will roam.
*****
Sound--sound--sound,
The trumpet, while thousands die!
Madly forcing his way,
Through the blood-dashing spray
He beareth our banner on high!
Woe--woe--woe!
Like a thought he hath sunk to rest.
Slow they bear him away,
In stern martial array,
The flag and the sword on his breast.
High--high--high,
High in the temple of fame,
The poet's fadeless wreath,
And the soldier's sheath,
Are engraven above his name.
Long--long--long,
As time to the earth shall belong,
The sad wind o'er, the surge
Shall chant its low dirge
To this peerless child of song.
Gone--gone--gone!
Gone to his dreamless sleep;
And spirits of the brave,
Watching o'er his lone grave,
Weep--weep--weep.
The muse of the poetess perhaps required chastening, but the verses are
not without power and at least show the love and admiration felt for the
hero.