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Found you in death so cold, dear comrade-found your body, son of responding kisses (never again on earth responding ;)

Bared your face in the starlight-curious the scene— cool blew the moderate night-wind.

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading;

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet, there in the fragrant silent night.

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh-Long, long I gazed;

Then on the earth partially reclining, sat by your side, leaning my chin in my hands;

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you, dearest comrade-Not a tear, not a word; Vigil of silence, love, and death-vigil for you, my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones, upward stole ;

Vigil final for you, brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living-I think we shall surely meet again ;)

Til at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appeared,

My comrade I wrapped in his blanket, enveloped well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head, and carefully under feet;

And there and then, and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave, I deposited; Ending my vigil strange with that-vigil of night and battle-field dim;

Vigil for boy of responding kisses (never again on earth responding ;)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain-vigil I never forget,— how as day brightened,

I rose from the chill ground, and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.

A MARCH IN THE RANKS.

A MARCH in the ranks hard-pressed, and the road unknown;

A route through a heavy wood, with muffled steps in the darkness;

Our army foiled with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating;

Till, after midnight, glimmer upon us the lights of a dim-lighted building.

We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted building;

'Tis a large old church at the crossing roads-'tis now an impromptu hospital.

-Entering but for a minute, I see a sight beyond all the pictures and poems ever made:

Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving candles and lamps,

And by one great pitchy torch, stationary, with wild red flame, and clouds of smoke.

By these, crowds, groups of forms, vaguely I see, on the floor, some in the pews laid down;

At my feet more distinctly, a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of bleeding to death (he is shot in the abdomen ;)

I staunch the blood temporarily (the youngster's face is white as a lily).

Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the scene, fain to absorb it all;

Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity, some of them dead;

Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether, the odour of blood;

The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms of soldiers -the yard outside also filled;

Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the death-spasm sweating;

An occasional scream or cry, the doctor's shouted orders or calls;

The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the torches ;

These I resume as I chant-I see again the forms, I smell the odour;

Then hear outside the orders given, "Fall in, my men, Fall in."

But first I bend to the dying lad-his eyes open-a half-smile gives he me;

Then the eyes close, calmly close; and I speed forth to the darkness,

Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks,

The unknown road still marching.

A SIGHT IN CAMP.

A SIGHT in camp in the daybreak grey and dim.
As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near by
the hospital tent,

Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there, untended lying,

Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket,

Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.

Curious, I halt, and silent stand;

Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first, just lift the blanket:

Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with wellgreyed hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes? Who are you, my dear comrade?

Then to the second I step-And who are you, my child and darling?

Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming? Then to the third-a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory;

Young man, I think I know you-I think this face of yours is the face of the Christ himself; Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again he

lies,

MANHATTAN FACES.

I.

GIVE me the splendid silent sun, with all his beams fulldazzling;

Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard;

Give me a field where the unmowed grass grows;

Give me an arbour, give me the trellised grape; Give me fresh corn and wheat-give me serene-moving animals, teaching content;

Give me nights perfectly quiet, as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars; Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers, where I can walk undisturbed;

Give me for marriage a sweet-breathed woman, of whom I should never tire;

Give me a perfect child—give me, away, aside from the noise of the world, a rural domestic life;

Give me to warble spontaneous songs, relieved, recluse by myself, for my own ears only;

Give me solitude-give me Nature-give me again, O Nature, your primal sanities!

-These, demanding to have them (tired with ceaseless excitement, and racked by the war-strife), These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart,

While yet incessantly asking, still I adhere to my city; Day upon day, and year upon year, O city, walking your

streets,

Where you hold me unchained a certain time, refusing to give me up;

Yet giving to make me glutted, enriched of soul—you give me for ever faces;

(O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries;

I see my own soul trampling down what it asked for.)

2.

Keep your splendid, silent sun

Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by

the woods;

Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your cornfields and orchards;

Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields, where the Ninthmonth bees hum.

Give me faces and streets! give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs!

Give me interminable eyes! give me women! give me comrades and lovers by the thousand!

Let me see new ones every day! let me hold new ones by the hand every day!

Give me such shows! give me the streets of Manhattan!

Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching-give me the sound of the trumpets and drums! (The soldiers in companies or regiments-some, starting away, flushed and reckless;

Some, their time up, returning, with thinned ranksyoung, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;)

-Give me the shores and the wharves heavy-fringed with the black ships!

O such for me! O an intense life! O full to repletion, and varied

The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me! The saloon of the steamer' the crowded excursion for me! the torch-light procession!

The dense brigade, bound for the war, with high-piled military waggons following;

People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants;

Manhattan streets, with their powerful throbs, with the beating drums, as now;.

The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, even the sight of the wounded;

Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus -with varied chorus, and light of the sparkling

eyes;

Manhattan faces and eyes for ever for me.

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