Poems (Truesdell)/Lament for the late Nathaniel M'Lain

by Helen Truesdell

LAMENT

FOR THE LATE NATHANIEL M'LAIN.

INSCRIBED TO HIS SISTER, MRS. MILTON M. HALE.

"That soldier had stood on the battle-plain,
 Where every step was over the slain;
But the brand and the ball had passed him by,
 And he came to his native land—to die."—L. E. L.

My brother! O my brother!
 My soul is sad to-night:
I'm thinking of the fatal news—
 The dark and withering blight—
That fell upon my spirit,
 When on lightning wings it sped,
And told me thou, beloved one,
 Wert sleeping with the dead.

When rang the deadly clarion
 Beneath a southern sky,
Thou, thou wert there, my brother,
 To dare, to do, or die;
Yea, ever 'mid the thickest fight—
 The bravest of the brave—
Willing to share a soldier's fate,
 Or fill a soldier's grave.

But thou wert spared amid it all,
 To see thy home once more;
Yea, borne on Neptune's friendly waves,
 Didst reach thy native shore:
And loving friends, and tender ones,
 Came forth thy steps to greet,—
Oh, it was joy, the dearest joy,
 Those early friends to meet!

Our gray-haired sire beside thee stood,
 While pride thrilled through his breast,
Murmured thy name in tender tones—
 And, brother, thou wert blest:
Our mother, too, oh! who can tell
 The deep unselfish love
That thrilled each fiber of her soul,
 As angels thrill above!

But not for me, oh! not for me,
 To look upon thy face,—
Only the mournful task is mine,
 This record sad to trace:
For now, O brother of my soul!
 From earth thou'st passed away,
And that warm, generous heart of thine,
 Lies 'neath the cold, cold clay.

In sable garb, with saddened step,
 And sadly-waving plume,
They laid thee with thy young renown,
 Low in the silent tomb;
With laurels fresh upon thy brow,
 They laid thee down to rest
Within thine own dear native land—
 Fair Valley of the West!

Our father's joy is turned to grief;
 Our mother's hopes have fled;
The visions that we cherished, all
 Like withered leaves lie dead:
And she, the chosen of thy heart,
 The tender and the true,
Has gazed her last upon thy face,
 And wept her last adieu.

Yet vain our sorrows, vain our tears;
 Though never vain the spell
That lingers round a sister's heart,
 When she has said farewell
To one, who e'en from childhood's hour
 Has grown up by her side,
From all its witching tenderness,
 To manhood's joyous pride.

Then bid me not to dry my tears.
 Nor bid me cease to mourn,—
The deep, deep love that stirs my soul,
 With life's first breath was born.
Brother! the memory of thy worth
 Shall live within my breast,
And point me to that sacred home,
 Where thou hast found a rest.