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On that lightning-chord the South breeze sighed a sad Aeolian moan,
And my heart grew sick, on looking up, to see the dove had flown.
Neighbors say there's been a battle, and that we have lost again;
Was that dove my poor boy's spirit? Is his name among the slain?

New York, Oct. 26, 1861.

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October 26th, 1861 AD (1)
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