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14. “it grows very dark, mother — very dark.”

by Z. R.
Our boys died game. One was ordered to fall in rank. He answered quietly, “I will if I can.” His arm hung shattered by his side, and he was bleeding to death. His last words brought tears to the eyes of all around. He murmured, “It grows very dark, mother — very dark.” Poor fellow, his thoughts were far away at his peaceful home in Ohio.--Cincinnati Gazette.

The crimson tide was ebbing, and the pulse grew weak and faint,
But the lips of that brave soldier scorned e'en now to make complaint;
“Fall in rank!” a voice called to him — calm and low was his reply:
“Yes, if I can, I'll do it — I will do it though I die.” [11]
And he murmured, when the life-light had died out to just a spark,
“It is growing very dark, mother — growing very dark.”

There were tears in manly eyes, then, and manly heads were bowed,
Though the balls flew thick around them, and the cannons thundered loud;
They gathered round the spot where the dying soldier lay,
To catch the broken accents he was struggling then to say;
And a change came o'er the features where death had set his mark--
“It is growing very dark, mother — very dark.”

Far away his mind had wandered, to Ohio's hills and vales,
Where the loved ones watched and waited with that love that never fails;
He was with them as in childhood, seated in the cottage door,
Where he watched the evening shadows slowly creeping on the floor;
Bend down closely, comrades, closely, he is speaking now, and hark!--
“It is growing very dark, mother — very, very dark.”
He was dreaming of his mother, that her loving hand was pressed
On his brow for one short moment, ere he sank away to rest;

That her lips were now imprinting a kiss upon his cheek,
And a voice he well remembered spoke so soft, and low, and meek.
Her gentle form was near him, her footstep he could mark,
“But 'tis growing very dark, mother — mother — very dark.”

And the eye that once had kindled, flashing forth with patriot light,
Slowly gazing, vainly strove to pierce the gathering gloom of night,
Ah! poor soldier — oh! fond mother, you are severed now for aye,
Cold and pulseless, there he lies now, where he breathed his life away.
Through this heavy cloud of sorrow shines there not one heavenly spark?
Ah! it has grown dark, mother — very, very dark.

Gather round him, soldiers, gather, fold his hands and close his eyes,
Near another one is dying, “Rally round our flag!” he cries;
“Heaven protect it — fight on, comrades, speedily avenge our death!”
Then his voice grew low and faltering, slowly came each painful breath.
Two brave forms lay side by side there; Death had loved a shining mark,
And two sad mothers say, “It has grown dark, ah! very dark.”

Salem, Ind., July 3, 1861.

--Cincinnati Gazette.

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