  ’Twas night in Richmond’s hospital. The day As though its eyes were dimmed by bloody rain From the red cloud of war, had quenched its light, And in its stead some pale sepulchral lamps Shed their dim rays across the halls of pain, And flaunted mystic shadows on the walls. Ah! woe is me! No ringing cry of “Charge!” Stirs the hot, sulphurous air. The parting groan, The shuddering moan of bitter agony From white lips quivering as they strive in vain To smother mortal pain, appall the ear, And make the warm blood curdle in the heart. Nor flag, nor plume, nor bayonet, nor lance, Nor burnished gun, nor bugle-call, nor drum, Display the pomp of battle; but instead, The surgeon hard at work with lips compressed; The tourniquet, the scalpel, and the lance, The bandage and the splint are scattered round, Dumb symbols telling more than tongue can speak The awful presence of the fiend of war. Lo, there! What gentle form with cautious step Passes from cot to cot as noiselessly As the faint shadows flickering on the wall? She comes to one, a soldier from his youth, Grown gray in arms, pierced through with mortal wounds; Beside his cot she kneels and tells of Him Who wrought redemption on the bitter cross. The veteran hears with smile of gratitude, And, like a frozen fount when it is touched By the sun’s rays, he melts in gushing tears, And, fixing his last look on her and Heaven, Passes away in penitential prayer. She comes to one in sinewy manhood’s prime, Now prostrate like a lightning-shattered pine. Death fears he not. His busy thoughts have gone To his far cottage in the Southern wilds, Where his young bride and prattling little ones, Poor helpless lambs! chased by the wolves of war, Wait for the absent one, and sadly say, “How long he stays! Where can he be to-night?” The angel softly whispers in his ear, “A husband to the widow God will be, And guard her orphans. Let His will be done.” The dying man her consolation hears, And gives the dearest treasure of his soul In resignation to the will of Heaven. A fair, pale boy of fifteen summers turns His wasted form upon the couch of death; Ah! how unlike the downy nest prepared By mother’s love, when slept the tender child. He heard the fife and drum and rushed to arms Amid the rude companionship of war. The raging fever burns his brain; he moans And raves in agony; his laboring breath Is quick and hot as that of stricken fawn Stretched by the Indian’s arrow on the plain. “Mother! dear mother!” oft his faltering tongue Shrieks to the cold bare walls, which echo back His wailing in the mockery of despair. The angel comes, and fondly bending o’er The boy she cools his throbbing brow and prays That the Good Shepherd would take home the lamb, Far wandering from the dear maternal fold, To the green valleys of eternal rest. (Nurse lifts her hands in horror, and faints away. Others hasten to her relief. The dead boy is carried out.) Mary: O, my long-lost dear brother! What an awful moment was that when, by the dim lamp-light, I recognized in the wan, wasted face of the dying boy, the child with whom I had sported so often in the meadows and by the brook, gathering berries or wild flowers, and shouting in the fullness of mirth till the woods rang with the echoes. With me he grew up. We studied our tasks together till our aims and sympathies seemed to be one. The horrid war-bugle sounded; the dismal drum beat; the beardless boy then rushed from my arms to throw himself into the tumult of battle. Suddenly, while waiting on the wounded in the house of torture, I came upon the lost one, mangled and bleeding. He gasps and dies in my arms without recognition! Mother of Sorrows, whose loving heart was pierced with woe as with a sword under the cross of thy Son, give thy divine sympathy to this heart so bereaved, crushed, and desolate! Materna: An iron scepter and a brazen crown The war-god bears; stern, cold, and merciless, He smites his worshippers with bloody hand. Foreman: So walks the angel on from scene to scene: Sweet vision of my dreams! thy light shall shine Through this dark world, all cloudless, calm, serene. Pure as the sacred evening star of love, The brightest planet in the host above! [Telegram from Andrew Johnson, Military Governor of Tennessee, to S. C. Mercer, Editor of the “Nashville Daily Union.”] Image unavailable: [Telegram from Andrew Johnson, Military Governor of Tennessee, to S. C. Mercer, Editor of the “Nashville Daily Union.” Washington, April 28, 1863. To S. C. Mercer, Editor of the Nashville Daily Union: Private. Your labors are highly appreciated out of Tennessee. Go on as you have done unfaltering in the work you have commenced. The Union Club of Nashville is doing much good. Their proceedings are looked to with much interest. I hope their policy will be sound and their purposes decided. I have got things straightened out, I hope for the better. I will be in Nashville soon. Andrew Johnson. |
|
