Midnight On The Battle Field.The wind's low moan is chill, Our army's on the march again, After the battle of Chancellorsville; The drum's slow beat And weary feet Tell of courage tried; Brave souls, of honor born, Their manly leader's pride. The moonbeam's silvery gleam Gilds with beauty that marl of death; Hushed and silent now, Is the angry foeman's breath; All peaceful, still, They slumber on the hill, While the sentinel stars above Look down in sorrow, From seraph lands of love. The prowling eat and hungry wolf Have gathered on the mead, They tear anew, in heaven's view, Wounds of death that bleed; Their famished jaws And angry claws Tear with a sensation sore Flesh from the fairest form A mother ever bore. The sinless angels of the sky Shudder such sights to see, While some soldier's soul Goes speeding away to the realms of eternity; Alone in the darkness there, Grown frantic with despair, Some slowly-dying soul Struggles the burial clods From his bosom to roll. Thus the cheerless night went by, And the misty morning gray Broke up in the dull sky, Where the dead and dying lay; While all along the line Some shattered pine, Or strong oaken hold, Grim tales of war Their story told. __John Preston Canpell. |
Poetical Works
John Preston Canpell
(Topeka: Geo. W. Crane & Company. 1885)
Pages 222-224
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