Poems (David)/The Standard Bearer's Letter

by Edith Mary David

THE STANDARD BEARER'S LETTER.

 

AN INCIDENT AT THE BATTLE OF SEDAN,

 

September 1st, 1870.

"While going over the Field," writes the Correspondent of an English paper, "I noticed the body of a French Officer lying a little apart from a heap of dead by the road-side. In one hand he tightly grasped the Standard of France, torn and stained, across which he had fallen; in the other he still held a letter, which on examination proved to be from his wife; and at the bottom was written in a child's hand, a message, promising obedience and kindness to her mother until her father returned home."

WHEN the Sun set on that fearful battle field,
 In all his glorious bright array;
Brave men, that never to foe would yield,
 Were cold and stark that day!

Thy dying, and dead, on that twilight plain
 In ghastly heaps lay scattered round:—
One, near his stead whose silky mane
 Trailed down, trod o'er the gory ground.

Where grass is trampled, and crushed the flower,
 There long hath raged the fray;
The winding road, that marked for hours
 The last hope of that fatal day!

There he laid alone, by that sad road side,
 With upturned face to the evening skies,
And so deeply stained by life's crimson tide;
 The letter within his cold hand lies!

He holds it firm in his chill cold grasp,
 Not even in death to part;—
Thoughts of home must have nerved that clasp
 Ere pulseless lay that loving heart

Oh! it speaks of her whose fair young face,
 By many a bitter tear is marred;—
His child, whose tiny hand hath traced
 The message which is dearer far!

Oh! Father, "I'll be both good and kind,
 Till you return to us again:"—
Alas! poor child, a heavenly Hand Divine
 Hath thy loved wishes made in vain!

Ne'er again shall the arms of the fond wife
 Clasp him she loved once more;—
For he has given that precious soul and life
 To preserve the flag he bore!

How little she thought those tear bedew'd lines
 Would cheer her husband's dying hour:—
How little she dreamt the Great Hand Divine
 Would blight her heart's most cherish'd flower!

'Tis the dying soldier, and his God alone,
 On the rivers ever dark'ning shore,
Who can only know the bitter thoughts of home,
 In the last fleeting hours he bore.

For wife and child ere he turns to die,
 A parting prayer the soldier yields;
He alone could hear that wild yearning cry,
 On dark Sedan's blood-stained, fatal field!

He has died, as warrior brave should fall,
 With a dauntless breast to the foe;
For prince and country he gave his all,
 In simple faith for weal or woe!

Oh! lay him down in his nameless grave,
 To sleep the warrior's tranquil rest;
May God who took, and Christ who gave,
 The lone widow and orphan bless!