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Harper's Weekly 11/05/1864
IN THE WILDERNESS.
All day long the battle raged, With clang of guns and bugle's breath, In the tangled swamps of the Wilderness, Through dusky thickets dim with death, All day the fierce tide surged and swung, With crash and shriek and cannon's tone. While far along the glimmering lines Proudly our golden eagles shone.
The rifle-pits swarmed black with men, And like the sheeted August rain, A stinging storm of iron hail Beat on our steadfast line in vain. And up the mid-May's blinding blue, That spans life's infinite, poor desire With the great calm of God, the shells Made trailing, long-drawn arcs of fire.
Our batteries crowned the slanting ridge— Too dense the woods for gunner's aim— Save here and there a random shot, From brazen lips no answer came. And grim with smoke and powder-stain The strong-limbed, dusty cannoniers Leaned, eager, on their idle guns, And heard their distant comrades' cheers.
Far to the rear the sandy road Ran northward to the distant town; No battle-clamor stirred the air, And the land wore its spring-time crown Of beauty, song, and blossom's flush, While young leaves made a tender gloom Where robins sang and roadside banks Were whitened with the clover's bloom.
Under a brown-stemmed chestnut-tree, That made a green tent overhead, A young boy, on the cool, soft grass, Stretched shattered limbs that ached and bled; Full young to wear a soldier's blue, And share a patriot's toils and fears, Yet strong in that large growth of soul That comes not with the added years.
And as he lay in helpless pain, His marching days forever done, He reached a feeble hand and plucked The violets dreaming in the sun, Meekly, in blue-eyed families, And at their fragrance in his heart A mist of memories rose, that made Quick tears to manly eyelids start.
The low swell of New England hills— The old home-farm—the orchard, fair With wreaths of tinted apple-blooms, And just beyond, the meadow where He found the first spring violets In happy, boyish days long-gone, But unforgot, ere through the land War's fiery trumpet had been blown.
His gray-haired mother, on her knees Praying the dear God night and day For him, her bright-eyed, latest born— God bless and keep him safe alway! A thought of home and mother-love, And through the mid-May's shining calm A great peace folded softly down, Like the low music of a psalm,
On his tired heart in infinite rest; And centred in the calm divine Of happy Nature's sweet, blind trust, He saw Faith's golden promise shine, That He who made those simple flowers To blossom in the Wilderness Would look upon His helpless child With eyes of pitying tenderness.
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