A Civil War verse

In honor of the upcoming anniversary of the Civil War, we’re sharing this poem, printed in the “Wooster Republican” newspaper, discovered in a young Mohican Township girl’s scrapbook, circa 1860s. The original newspaper clipping from the scrapbook may be seen below as well.

The Battle-Field

The battle’s o’er, the victory’s won,
A calm succeeds the storm,
Beneath a blazing southern sun,
Fell many a heroic form.

How many hopes have perished.
Since yonder sun arose!
How many brave young patriots
Now sleep in death’s repose!

The groans of the dying heroes
For help when none was near,
Would cause the hardest hearts to ache,
And wring from them a tear.

Here lays the youthful, brave and fair,
On the broad gory bed,
Who, full of life at dawn of morn,
Now mingle with the dead.

Here flows life’s current, rich and pure,
From many a manly breast,
The death dew on their foreheads
They soon will be at rest.

And here another gastly group
Lays scorching in the sun,
They’ve fought the battle nobly,
And now their task is done.

Here lays a slender boyish form
Be-spattered o’er with blood,
A tear steals down his pallid cheek,
He’s nearing death’s cold flood.

‘Tis no unmanly tear that falls,
Ah, no, but memory flies,
And bears him swiftly back again
Beneath the dear home skies.

He sees the vine wrethed cottage,
He nears the garden gate,
Where mother waits to welcome him
And dear, sweet sister Kate.

Great God, who’ll hear the message
To loving ones at home!
Who’ll tell them that their darling
Will never, never come!

And yet another scene appears,
Heart-rending as the rest.
A wounded brave young soldier
Leans on a comrade’s breast.

“Will you bear my wife a messge
When I have gone to rest.
And tell her I fought bravely,
That I always did my best.”

“You’ll tell her all I say, Charley,
Do not forget one word,
Give her this little circlet,
And to my boy my sword.”

“Tell her to keep my memory
Fresh in his youthful breast,
That her may love and cherish her,
When I am with the blest.”

“Tell her she must not greive for me,
That we shall meet above,
Where battle-fields are never seen
Where all is peace and love.”

“But I am almost home Charley,
Give me your faithful hand;
Farewell! God bless our gallant boys
And our dear native land.”

Farewell! brave hearts whose preious blood
Has stained the grassy sod,
Your lives a noble sacrifice
To break oppression’s rod.

Farewell! your names will ever be                    
A sacred trust to keep,
While we unite with those you’ve left
In sympathy to weep.

Wooster, July 9, 1863     JENNIE


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