WOUNDED.
Wounded! my boy? No, it must be another,—
Left in his gore on that field of the South,—
Gone but ten days from the arms of his mother,
The breath of his kisses yet sweet on my mouth.
Left in his gore on that field of the South,—
Gone but ten days from the arms of his mother,
The breath of his kisses yet sweet on my mouth.
Wounded!—his head on the battle-field lying,
Lips gasping out in a feverish moan,
Wounded?—away! why not tell me he's dying,
Dead ere I reach him, my darling, my son.
Lips gasping out in a feverish moan,
Wounded?—away! why not tell me he's dying,
Dead ere I reach him, my darling, my son.
Blood gushing out where the sabre stroke cleft him,
Blood clotted thick on his hair's sunny light;
Curse on the dastardly hand that has left him,
Calling my name in his anguish to-night!
Blood clotted thick on his hair's sunny light;
Curse on the dastardly hand that has left him,
Calling my name in his anguish to-night!
I can remember his eager tones falling,
Kneeling before me, his head on my breast,
Kneeling before me, his head on my breast,
