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The victims of disease, writhing with pain; And low faint groans, and breathings short and deep, Each gasp a heartfelt agony, were all That broke the stillness.—There was one, whose brow Dark with hot climates, and gashed o'er with scars, Told of the toiling march, the battle-rush, Where sabres flashed, the red shots flew, and not One ball or blow but did destruction's work: But then his heart was high, and his pulse beat Proudly and fearlessly:—now he was worn With many a long day's suffering,—and death's A fearful thing when we must count its steps! And this was, then, the end of those sweet dreams Of home, of happiness, of quiet years Spent in the little valley which had been So long his land of promise? Farewell all