Isaac Murphy
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HARPER'S WEEKLY. [APRIL 2, 1864. 210 BY THE CAMP-FIRE.THE night was dark, and the fire-fly's spark Glowed red in the reeds by the river, And the fitful breeze in the weird pine-trees Made their dusky branches shiver. By the ruddy light of our camp-fires bright, Which blazed in the trench before us, We sat and sang till the wild woods rang With the echo of our chorus. Beyond the stream we could see the gleam Of the fires that the foe had lighted, And here and there in the flickering glare Their forms we dimly sighted. The night wind sighed as our chorus died, And we thought of the coming morrow, When the morn should wake, and the gray dawn break, With its awful weight of sorrow. I sit to-night by the camp-fire's light, While the dismal rain is falling, And in my breast beats a heart oppressed By a sense of gloom appalling. The river flows, and the firelight glows On our sad and pallid faces, And over the ground, with a weary sound, The sentinel slowly paces. The earth is red with the blood of the dead, Which to-day flowed free as water, Till the night came down with a sullen frown And put an end to the slaughter. By the turnpike wide, on the steep hill-side, In field and wood they are lying; And the air is sown with the feeble moan Of the wounded and the dying. And seated here on this night so drear, As I gaze on the embers burning, To that other night by the camp-fire's light My thoughts are forever turning. I think of one, now the fight is done, Whom death from my side has parted, I know that for him sweet eyes will be dim, And a maiden broken-hearted.
PAST HELP.LET her lie upon your breast while she faints, Where she slept such a short time ago. O! she's young to be crowned with the saints: Hold her fast, mother; do not let her go! The roses are not dead on her cheeks— There is but a passing chill on their bloom; It will go when she smiles—when she speaks— Hush! was not that her voice in the room? She is looking like a babe, as she lies With her ringlets swept aside and apart; Ah, mother, keep the tears in your eyes— If they fall upon her face she may start. Did some one break her heart with a word, Having grasped it at first as a prize? Did she flutter from his hand like a bird, Which goes a little way and then dies? He remembers the joy of her face, The love in her smile and the light, When, shrinking, she met his embrace— Bring him here; let him look at her to-night! O! first came the wonder and the doubt, And the pale hope fading day by day; So wistfully she wandered about, Like a lost child asking its way. And then came the silence and despair, And the sighing after wings like a dove, And the proud heart bleeding into prayer, But hiding all its wounds from our love. It is over, and the tale is all told, And the white lamb lies dead in the frost: We may cover up its limbs from the cold, But we can not find a life that is lost. Yet we thought that she moved; but her cheek Was but stirred by the breast where it lay Heaving a little, while we speak, With the mute sobs forcing their way. Let them come, poor mother! let them come; You must turn, when your tears are all done, To a blank in the sweet talk at home, And a name on a little gray stone. HARPER'S WEEKLY.
SATURDAY, APRIL 2, 1864.
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