Poems (Blake)/Wounded

by Mary Elizabeth Blake

For works with similar titles, see Wounded.

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.

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.

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!

I can remember his eager tones falling,
 Kneeling before me, his head on my breast,
"Let me go, mother; our country is calling;
 Give me your blessing,—trust God for the rest."

I can remember when drums loudly beating
 Led from the city the troops to their place,
That over all tumult of parting and greeting,
 I heard but one voice, and I saw but one face,—

Saw but one face shining calmly and proudly,
 Keeping quick time with the tramp of the feet;
Heard but one voice shouting clearly and loudly,
 "Good-by, my mother,—trust God till we meet."

Now!—O my God!let my trust be unshaken,
 Lead me beyond the dark shadows to rest;
Wounded, they tell me, but O not forsaken;
 Bring him once more to his place on my breast!