All day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept;
All night long the stars in heaven o’er the slain sad vigils kept.
Oh, the ghastly, upturned faces, gleaming whitely through the night!
Oh, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim, sepulchral light!
One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke;
But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke.
Slowly passed the golden hours of the long bright summer day,
And upon the field of carnage still the dead unburied lay;
Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing
prayer,
For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air.
Once again the night dropped round them—night so holy and so calm
That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or
psalm.
On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest,
Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast.
Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep;
Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber, calm and deep.
For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face,
And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace
To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose,
Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes.
And the broken drum beside him all his life’s short story told;
How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o’er him rolled.
Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars,
While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars.
Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low—
Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet’s murmuring
flow?
Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round
As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground,
Came two little maidens—sisters—with a light and hasty tread,
And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread.
And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they
stood
Where the Drummer-Boy was lying in that partial solitude.
They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe’s scanty
store,
And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore.
Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears,
For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears.
And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame
Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame.
For their saintly hearts yearned o’er it in that hour of sorest
need,
And they felt that Death was holy and it sanctified the deed.
But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, strange task
was o’er,
And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore.
Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out,
And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about.
But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done,
And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun.
And then those little maidens—they were children of our foes—
Laid the body of our Drummer-Boy to undisturbed repose.
1865
O darkest Year! O brightest Year!
O changeful Year of joy and woe,
To-day we stand beside thy bier,
Still loth to let thee go!
We look upon thy brow, and say,
“How old he is,—how old and worn!”
Has but a twelvemonth passed away
Since thou wert newly born?
So long it seems since on the air
The joy-bells rang to hail thy birth—
And pale lips strove to call thee fair,
And sing the songs of mirth!
For dark the heavens that o’er thee hung;
By stormy winds thy couch was rocked;
Thy cradle-hymn the Furies sung,
While sneering Demons mocked!
We held our very breath for dread;
Shadowed by clouds, that, like a pall,
Darkened the blue sky overhead,
And night hung over all.
But thou wert better than our fears,
And bade our land’s long anguish cease;
And gave us, O thou Year of years,
The costly pearl of Peace!
So dearly bought! By precious blood
Of patriot heroes—sire and son—
And that of him, the pure and good,
Our wearied, martyred One;
Who bore for us the heavy load—
The cross our hands upon him laid;
Who trod for us the toilsome road
Meekly, yet undismayed!
And for that gift—although thy graves
Lie thick beneath December’s snow,
Though every hamlet mourns its braves,
And bears its weight of woe—
We bless thee! Yet, O bounteous year,
For more than Peace we thank thee now,
As bending o’er thine honored bier,
We crown thy pallid brow!
We bless thee, though we scarcely dare
Give to our new-born joy a tongue;
O mighty Year, upon the air
Thy voice triumphant rung,
Even in death! and at the sound,
From myriad limbs the fetters fell
Into the dim and vast profound,
While tolled thy passing bell!
Farewell, farewell, thou storied Year!
Thou wondrous Year of joy and gloom!
With grateful hearts we crown thee, ere
We lay thee in thy tomb!