44. the soldier's last word.
by Park Benjamin.
He lay upon the battle-field,Where late the clash of arms was heard,
And from his pallid lips there came,
In broken accents, one fond word.
“Mother!” was all the soldier said,
As, freshly from his wounded side,
The hot blood flowed and bore away
His life upon its crimson tide.
Bravest among the brave he rushed,
Without a throb or thought of fear,
And loudest 'mid the tumult pealed,
In clarion tones, his charging cheer:
On to the battle! comrades, on!
Strike for the Union! strike for fame!
Who lives will win his country's praise,
Who dies will leave a glorious name.
Alas! what courage can advance
Against a storm of iron hail?
What hearts repel a fiery sleet,
Though clad, like ancient knights, in mail?
He sunk beneath the waves of strife,
Among an undistinguished train,
Foremost upon the battle-field,
And first among the early slain.
Dying, he turned him from the flag,
Whose Stars and Stripes still onward waved;
Dying, he thought no more of fame,
Of victory won or country saved.
No! for his home and her he loved
His sad departing spirit sighed;
“Mother!” the soldier fondly said,
And, looking towards the North, he died.
