Civil War Poem

VOL. VIII.-No. 374.]

NEW YORK. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1864.

 $1,00 FOR FOUR MONTHS.

 $3.00 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE.

Entered according to Act of Congress in the Year 1864, by Harper & Brothers in the Clerks Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York.

I WALKED adown the garden-walk To bid my love good-by,

And as I passed the roses' stalk
What should my eyes espy

Bnt, nestled like a brooding dove In some sequestered spot,

The very thing I told my love—
A dear "FORGET-ME-NOT !"

I stooped and plucked the little flower.

He said, "What do you seek?" I answered,   In the twilight hour

Let this, love, for me speak!" I twined it softly in his vest,

His arms were round me furled - And   as I leaned upon his breast, He Said I was "his world!"

His sword was girt upon his thigh,

His plume waved in the breeze ; And all the twilight seemed to sigh

Among the garden trees !

I looked into his eyes and felt As happy maidens feel,

When first two loving spirits melt In one for woe or weal.

He drew me closer to his heart, My hand was on his breast;

He said, "My love ! though now we part, This heart can never rest

Until I bring you back your flower,
   And claim, where we now stand,

In some sweet, future twilight hour,

This darling little hand!

These were the words I heard 1dm say

The last I ever heard !
I saw him slowly ride away

While not a step I stirred.

I could not move—I saw him turn

And kiss his hand to me.

Ah! how my spirit then did yearn

For what would never be.

This little casket that I wear

The rest can better tell -

A withered flower, a lock of hair,

A bloodstained word, "Farewell !" They buried him upon the field,

Upon the battle-plain;

And life to me can never yield A comfort to my pain

I often, at the twilight hour,

Steal down the garden-walk,

Where once I plucked the little flower

Beneath the roses' stalk;

And when I reach the wicker-gate,

And no one else is nigh,

I almost think I see him wait, As then, to say "Good-by."

And sometimes, when the shadows creep Along the, garden-wall,

I hear a voice which makes me weep Out of the darkness call.

It seems to say—as still I stand

Upon the same old spot - "I'm waiting for that little hand - My dear, Forget-Me-Not!"