Of scenes like these, I say, who writes--whoe'er can write the story? Of
many a score--aye, thousands, north and south, of unwrit heroes, unknown
heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations--who tells?
No history ever--no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest men of
all--those deeds. No formal general's report, nor book in the library,
norcolumn in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or
west. Unnamed, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers.
Our manliest--our boys--our hardy darlings; no picture gives them.
Likely, the typic one of them (standing, no doubt, for hundreds,
thousands,) crawls aside to some bush-clump, or ferny tuft, on receiving
his death-shot--there sheltering a little while, soaking roots, grass
and soil, with red blood--the battle advances, retreats, flits from the
scene, sweeps by--and there, haply with pain and suffering (yet less,
far less, than is supposed,) the last lethargy winds like a serpent
round him--the eyes glaze in death----none recks--perhaps the
burial-squads, in truce, a week afterwards, search not the secluded
spot--and there, at last, the Bravest Soldier crumbles in mother earth,
unburied and unknown.