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From hidden fence and from ambuscade;
A moment more--(they say this is fame)--
A thousand dead men on the grass were laid.
Fifteen thousand in wounded and killed,
At least, is “our loss,” the newspapers say.
This loss to our army must surely be filled
Against another great battle-day.
“Our loss!” Whose loss? Let demagogues say
That the Cabinet, President, all are in wrong.
What do the orphans and widows pray?
What is the burden of their sad song?
'Tis their loss! But the tears in their weeping eyes
Hide Cabinet, President, Generals--all;
And they only can see a cold form that lies
On the hillside slope, by that fatal wall.
They cannot discriminate men or means--
They only demand that this blundering cease.
In their frenzied grief they would end such scenes,
Though that end be — even with traitors — peace.
Is thy face from thy people turned, O God?
Is thy arm for the Nation no longer strong?
We cry from our homes — the dead cry from the sod--
How long, O our righteous God! how long?
New-York, December 17, 1862.
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