casual short leaves of absence, and once when wounded, I was constantly in the field at my post. I look back upon my military career with pride and thankfulness that I was permitted to serve my country in her hour of need, and to be of some use in maintaining the integrity of our glorious Union.
A Poem read by ANDREW H. SMITH, M.D., Brevet Major late U. S. A., at a
Meeting of the New State Commandery, May 12, 1885.
FROM the forests of New England,
West to the Golden Gate,
Rises the sun this morning
In all his 'customed state;
But men go forth to meet him
Not in accustomed ways,
There's a solemn air of quiet
Not felt on other days.
The rush and the crush and the tumult,
The toil and the anxious strife,
That compress a year of existence
Into a day of life,
Are stilled, and a pensive silence
Rests over valley and hill.
The hammer sleeps yet on the anvil,
And down at the garrulous mill
The waltz of the wheel with the water
To the tune of the spindle's hum
Has ceased, and the water complaining
Sighs through the rifts in the flume.
The sheen of the glittering mouldboard
Rests hid by the half-turned sod,
And surprised by the unwonted respite
The oxen lie chewing a cud.
The black flag flung out by the furnace,
Proclaiming the quarterless strife
Which mind ever wages with matter
In man's ceaseless battle for life,
Is furled, and the tall chimney wonders
Why silence should reign at its base,
Why the sun should ride high in the heavens,
With no smoke veil to cover his face.
Men's voices are hushed, and e'en nature
Seems reverently bowing the head;
Mute stand the mountains uncovered,
While a nation communes with its dead-
Its dead, that vast army of heroes,
Who sealed their devotion in blood,
And gave up their lives as an offering
To freedom and country and God.
Their gravestones are thick on the hill-sides,
The number the valleys increase,
From the soil where War's victims lie sleeping
Spring up these white standards of peace.
White locks lie beneath the green hillocks,
For the hour nerved the sinews of age,
And the cheeks that were wrinkled and ashen
Flushed red with youth's generous rage.
The sire led the son to the conflict,
And stood by his side in the strife,
And the hues of the even reflected
The glow of the morning of life.
I recall a scene after a battle
On a hillside paved thickly with lead, In aiding the wounded I wandered
Through rank upon rank of the dead;
The prowlers had stripped all the bodies
Save of one who lay clad as he fell,
For his white hairs forbade desecration,
And stayed the rude hand with a spell.
I had deemed him too feeble for service,
But kept him as hospital aid,
But the moment the battle was scented,
All the ardor of youth was displayed;
And yielding at last to entreaties
I bade him take place in the ranks,
And methought in his dead face yet lingered
His earnest expression of thanks-
Thanks for the privilege of offering
His life's meagre remnant at last,
For the death-shot that sealed its acceptance, Redeeming the years that were past.
Those mounds cover also the bravest
And best that the land could afford;
The vigor of manhood the harvest,
And the sickle that reaped was the sword.
When the arm was the strongest for smiting,
And the heart was the bravest to dare,
When the soul was the firmest of purpose,
And mocked at the thought of despair,
Death came in an instant upon them,
And palsied those muscles of steel,
And bade the strong current that circled Within those bold hearts to congeal; And the valor and strength and endurance, And energy fierce as the wind,
And the purpose that nothing could stagger, Left only a memory behind.
And fair young heads too are lying
Pillowed there where the shadows fall,
For mere striplings grew to heroes
At their suffering country's call;
And from many a stately mansion,
And from many a cottage hearth,
Went forth one who carried with him
All the light and joy of earth-
All the father's pride and promise,
All his stay for future years;
All his mother's life and gladness,
Leaving naught for her but tears.
Oh that ye fond young mothers
May never have to know
What the mothers had to suffer
Four and twenty years ago!
Death is natural to the aged,
Manhood's strength accords with strife,
But the sacrifice is pitiful
That claims a youthful life;
And the bullet that unwillingly
Speeds through a boyish breast,
Wounds a thousand hearts in sympathy,
Before it comes to rest;
And whitest gleams the marble,
And greenest grows the grass, And sweetest bloom the violets, Above his resting place.
On the shore of broad Potomac
Spread afar the tented plain,
And the wintry clouds were lowering,
And relentless fell the rain;
Cheerless was the sky above us,
Cheerless the earth beneath,
Cheerless the sick lad's pallet,
Sick, we knew, as unto death,
Lying on the straw beside him
Was his tent-mate, schoolmate, friend,
They had begun life together,
Together remained to the end.
"Johnny," the sick one whispered,
"Turn me over and talk about home;'
And we saw on his face the shadow
That told us the hour had come.
So Johnny turned him over,
But ere the talk was done,
His words were all unheeded
For the listener was gone,
With the patter of rain on the canvas,
And the sough of the wintry blast,
And the home words gently spoken,
His boyish soul had passed.
So we wrapped his blue coat round him,
Laid his cap on his beardless face,
And the rude pine coffin bore him
Back to his native place-
Back to his mother's cottage,
Which he left with so much pride,
And they buried her heart with him
There on the mountain side.
Stout hearts those lads had, often,
Fit for men of sterner years—
Hearts that courted scenes of danger
And despised the coward's fears.
At Cedar Mountain, I remember,
As the sun was sinking low,
Came the long expected order
To prepare to meet the foe.
"Stack your knapsacks!" and a drummer Scarcely half way through his teens, Whom I thought to spare in pity
From the coming bloody scenes,
Was detailed to watch beside them,
When an old man tottered by,
Spent by the heavy marching
And with faint and weary eye.
The lad's hand caught my bridle,
And he looked up in my face-
"O sir, let him guard the knapsacks,
And let me go in his place!"
He went, and a guardian angel
Turned the hissing balls aside,
And his young blood did not mingle
With that day's crimson tide.
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