_On one of the Battle-fields of the Wilderness_
Silence and solitude may hint
(Whose home is in yon piney wood)
What I, though tableted, could never tell—
The din which here befell,
And striving of the multitude.
The iron cones and spheres of death
Set round me in their rust,
These, too, if just,
Shall speak with more than animated breath.
Thou who beholdest, if thy thought,
Not narrowed down to personal cheer,
Take in the import of the quiet here—
The after-quiet—the calm full fraught;
Thou too wilt silent stand—
Silent as I, and lonesome as the land.
ON THE GRAVE OF A YOUNG CAVALRY OFFICER KILLED IN THE VALLEY OF
VIRGINIA
Beauty and youth, with manners sweet, and friends—
Gold, yet a mind not unenriched had he
Whom here low violets veil from eyes.
But all these gifts transcended be:
His happier fortune in this mound you see.