Page:Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War.djvu/232



The Hospital Steward—even he—

Who on the sleeper kept his glance,

Was changed; late bright-black beard and eye

Looked now hearse-black; his heavy heart,

Like his fagged mare, no more could dance;

His grape was now a raisin dry:

'Tis Mosby's homily—Man must die.

The amber sunset flushed the camp

As on the hill their eyes they fed;

The pickets dumb looks at the wagon dart;

A handkerchief waves from the bannered tent—

As white, alas! the face of the dead:

Who shall the withering news impart?

The bullet of Mosby goes through heart to heart!

They buried him where the lone ones lie

(Lone sentries shot on midnight post)—

A green-wood grave-yard hid from ken,

Where sweet-fern flings an odor nigh—

Yet held in fear for the gleaming ghost!

Though the bride should see threescore and ten,

She will dream of Mosby and his men.