This page needs to be proofread.
OF THE WAR.
283
The pennon drops that led the sacred band
Along the crimson field;
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand,
Over the spotless shield.
We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face,
While round the lips and eyes,
Couched in the marble slumber, flashed the grace
Of a divine surprise.
O, Mother of a blessed soul on high!
Thy tears may soon be shed-
Think of thy boy will princes of the sky,
Among the Southern dead.
How must he smile on this dull world beneath,
Fevered will, swift renown-
He—with the martyr'a amaranthine wreath,
Twining the victor's crown!
Kelley's Ford, March 17, 1863.
