  The succeeding Poem, 'Waiting for News,' was written by a mother, who says. 'If there is any power in truth, this poem should express what is intended; for my own boy, but little more than fifteen, had been in the battle at Culpepper, and I knew not if he were living or dead! He was far too young to enter the army, but I could not resist his earnest pleadings—for he is tall and manly, and I well know, were I in his place, I too would shoulder my knapsack and go!' All honor to such mothers!—Ed. Waiting, O Father! a fond mother waiting, Waiting so anxious, the dark tide's abating! Waiting all breathless, in agonized anguish, Living by heart-throbs that spring up—then languish; Catching each sound that comes back from the battle, Dark shrieks and groans and the lonely death rattle, Imaging visions of feverish thirsting— Hearts in their utterest loneliness bursting! Thinking of him, late the babe of her bosom, Fair faced and blue eyed, love's tenderest blossom, Dashing along 'mid the carnage around him, Fearless as Mars 'mid the balls that surround him, Changed, as by magic, from home's tender brother, Lovingest son, both to father and mother— Changed to a man, to a stern, noble soldier— None in the field that is braver or bolder! Writing: 'I'm proud of the name, dearest mother! Craven is he who would hold any other While our loved standard of freedom 's in danger, May he forever be held as a stranger!' Such are the words in his last noble letter! What fifteen years that could write any better? Now I am waiting to know if he 's wounded— Waiting—to know how my fears must be bounded: Closed his eyes may be to sorrow or danger— Dead he may be in the land of the stranger! God of the desolate—Rachel's Consoler! Light of the universe—Nature's Controller! Pity me, pity me! Send consolation! Let not my heart feel this deep desolation! He is so young, and he loves me so truly— Scourge me not, Father! so deep—so unduly! Leave him! to lighten my life-load of sorrow! Leave him to brighten the clouds of my morrow! Leave him to love me when other loves fail me, Leave him to strengthen when rude storms assail me! Leave him—so kind, both as son and as brother; Leave him, a future of hope to his mother! Let us not look, as afar, at a vision! Send to our soldiers the true men to lead them: They have the courage—do Thou guide and speed them! Then shall our sisters, our wives, and our mothers Feel that our husbands, our sons, and our brothers, Though they may fall, are not led to the altar Heedless and reckless, like beasts by the halter! Then we may feel, though their dear blood is staining Freedom's fair banner, a COUNTRY we're gaining! Then we may look, though with eyes dim and burning, Some day or other, their blessed returning! Or we may see, though with eyes dim with weeping, Freedom's bird hover in love o'er their sleeping: Feeling, though sorrow may make our heads hoary, They are not victims of weakness, but glory! |
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