  LÉon went to the wars, True soul without a stain; First at the trumpet-call, Thy son, Lorraine! Never a mighty host Thrilled so with one desire; Never a past Crusade Lit nobler fire. And he, among the rest, Smote foemen in the van,— No braver blood than his Since time began. And mild and fond was he, Just Heaven! that he was this, Is half my grief! We followed where the last Detachment led away, At Metz, an evil-starred And bitter day. Some of us had been hurt In the first hot assault, Yet wills were slackened not, Nor feet at fault. We hurried on to the front; Our banners were soiled and rent; Grim riflemen, gallants all, Our captain sent. A Prussian lay by a tree Rigid as ice, and pale, And sheltered out of the reach His cheek was hollow and white, Parched was his purpled lip; Tho’ bullets had fastened on Their leaden grip, Tho’ ever he gasped and called, Called faintly from the rear, What of it? And all in scorn I closed mine ear. The very colors he wore, They burnt and bruised my sight; The greater his anguish, so Was my delight. We laughed a savage laugh, Who loved our land too well, Giving its enemies hate Unspeakable: But LÉon, kind heart, poor heart, “He faints for water!” he said, “It were no harm To soothe a wounded man Already on death’s rack.” He seized his brimming gourd, And hurried back. The foeman grasped it quick With wild eyes, ’neath whose lid A coiled and viper-like look Glittered and hid. He raised his shattered frame Up from the grassy ground, And drank with the loud, mad haste Of a thirsty hound. LÉon knelt by his side, One hand beneath his head; Not kinder the water than He rose and left him so, Stretched on the grassy plot, The viper-like flame in his eyes Alas! forgot. LÉon with easy gait Strode on; he bared his hair, Swinging his army cap, Humming an air. Just as he neared the troops, Over there by the stream— Good God! a sudden snap And a lurid gleam. I wrenched my bandaged arm With the horror of the start: LÉon was low at my feet, Shot thro’ the heart. Do you think an angel told To the Prussian we dashed back, Mute, every one. Do you think we stopped to curse, Or wailing feebly, stood? Do you think we spared who shed A friend’s sweet blood? Ha! vengeance on the fiend: We smote him as if hired; I most of them, and more When they had tired. I saw the deep eye lose Its dastard, steely blue: I saw the trait’rous breast Pierced thro’ and thro’. His musket, smoking yet, Unhanded, lay beside; Three times three thousand deaths And he, my brother, LÉon, Lies, too, upon the plain: O teach no more Christ’s mercy, Thy sons, Lorraine! [This incident actually befell a private in a Massachusetts volunteer regiment, belonging to the Fifth Corps, at the battle of Malvern Hill.] |
|
