  By MARIA LA CONTE. I Into a ward of the whitewashed halls Where the dead and the dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody’s darling was borne one day— Somebody’s darling, so young and brave; Wearing yet on his sweet pale face— Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave— The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.Matted and damp are the curls of gold Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mould— Somebody’s darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow Brush his wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now— Somebody’s darling is still and cold. Kiss him once for somebody’s sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take— They were somebody’s pride, you know. Somebody’s hand hath rested here— Was it a mother’s, soft and white? Or have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light? God knows best. He has somebody’s love, Somebody’s heart enshrined him there, Somebody wafts his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody’s watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead— Pausing to drop on his grave a tear. Carve on the wooden slab o’er his head: “Somebody’s darling slumbers here.” [Southern.] Banner
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