"And have my body carried back to where The brothers, in the holy mystic ties, Will gather in the Lodge with solemn prayer, Before 'tis laid beneath the open skies. 'Twill do me good to know I'm sleeping there; Ah, see! grim darkness comes! the hour how flies! Some other things there are, I wish'd to say, But too late now! night--home--Mary--'tis day!
"I promis'd all--then gently laid his head, First on a knapsack, then upon my arm; Once more he op'd his eyes, and smiling, said, 'Thanks, Lew--I'll soon be far from war's alarm.' Once more he press'd my hand, and then was dead! I laid him down--no fear of coming harm, For none could pain that cold and lifeless form; Now all was past--let battles rage and storm.
"Of more than this, I've scarcely time to speak; You'll find reports when papers come with news; E'en yet, I seem to hear the cannon's shriek, As horrid forth their belching thunder spews, In vengeance dire and most terrific wreak, And covers friend and foe with death-damp dews! How sinks and quails the heart at the dread sight, When war turns fairest day to blackest night.
"The fun'ral pageantry--the solemn toll, The cortege, like a serpent, winding through, The muffled drum's long-sounding gloomy roll, The death corrode that o'er the senses grew, Or sick'ning chill which o'er one's spirit stole, The dead march tap--they all seem still in view-- 'Twas thus they bore him to the silent bourne, From whence, in old earth form, he'll ne'er return.
"All these and more--the measur'd tread Of good, brave men, who slowly wound along With his remains, to their last resting place-- I scarce can realize that he is gone, And that his form lies mold'ring with the dead; That we're no more to hear his joyous song-- I say, all these are trooping through my mind, Like ghostly phantoms of some awful kind.
"I'd ask, before this missive I do close, Which now has grown to an unusual size, Tho' half is still unwritten, heaven knows-- That you will comfort Mary, when her eyes Are blinded with sore weeping o'er the woes, That will wring out her soul in deep well-cries, And rend in sorrowing weariness her breast, Which now scarce anything can soothe to rest.
"Yet be a comfort and a friendly stay, And bid her grapple with her fate--not grieve, Please try to soothe the blinding tears away, Though little now can sorrow much relieve, Or shed of joy or bliss a single ray. Ah! tell her how my soul is _double_ brave, Since't feels the spirit touch of Charley's soul; But thoughts are quite beyond my word control.