C. Brainard._
* * * * *
WOUNDED.
Let me lie down,
Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,
Here low on the trampled grass, where I may see,
The surge of the combat, and where I may hear,
The glad cry of Victory, cheer upon cheer,
Let me lie down.
Oh! it was grand!
Like the tempest we charged in the triumph to share,
The tempest, its fury and thunder were there,
On! on! o'er entrenchments, o'er living, o'er dead,
With the foe under our feet, and our flag overhead,
Oh! it was grand!
Weary and faint,
Prone on the soldier's couch, ah! how can I rest,
With this shot-shattered head, and sabre-pierced breast?
Comrades, at roll-call, when I shall be sought,
Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,--
Wounded and faint.
Dying at last!
My Mother, dear Mother, with meek tearful eye.
Farewell! and God bless you, forever and aye!
Oh, that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest:
Dying at last!
I am no saint!
But, boys, say a prayer.
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