THE BROTHER'S HAND.
39
There was a beautiful and dreadful charm
About that youthful captain, as he stood
Bare-headed, swordless, with his dead right arm
Loose at his side, his left, whose strength was good,
About his horse—forgetting his own wound,
Forgetting all the horrible things around—
Calling it all the tender names he could.
About that youthful captain, as he stood
Bare-headed, swordless, with his dead right arm
Loose at his side, his left, whose strength was good,
About his horse—forgetting his own wound,
Forgetting all the horrible things around—
Calling it all the tender names he could.
But when his horse was gone, he turned away
And stamped the fallen flag and cursed, and shook
The tall, slight soldier in whose blood it lay,
Till he half-raised himself with a dim look,
That made the other loose his hateful hold
And tremble for an instant and grow cold,
As if his thought some deadly trouble took.
And stamped the fallen flag and cursed, and shook
The tall, slight soldier in whose blood it lay,
Till he half-raised himself with a dim look,
That made the other loose his hateful hold
And tremble for an instant and grow cold,
As if his thought some deadly trouble took.
Then he crept closer to the wounded youth
And lifted, vaguely, his light lovely hair,
And that strange scar—the brother's hand, in truth
Against him—as in distant days was there.
But now that brother looked at his distress
With a remorse that changed to tenderness,
And tried to raise him with a timid care.
And lifted, vaguely, his light lovely hair,
And that strange scar—the brother's hand, in truth
Against him—as in distant days was there.
But now that brother looked at his distress
With a remorse that changed to tenderness,
And tried to raise him with a timid care.
