Part 6 (2/2)

FREDERICKSBURG

Dec. 13, 1862

THE increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, And on the church-yard by the road, I know It falls as white and noiselessly as snow.

'Twas such a night two weary summers fled; The stars, as now, were waning overhead.

Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow Where the swift currents of the river flow Past Fredericksburg: far off the heavens are red With sudden conflagration: on yon height, Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath: A signal-rocket pierces the dense night, Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath: Hark! the artillery ma.s.sing on the right, Hark! the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

CIVIL WAR[2]

”RIFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette; Ring me a ball in the glittering spot That s.h.i.+nes on his breast like an amulet!”

”Ah, Captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There's music around when my barrel's in tune!”

Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped, And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

”Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and s.n.a.t.c.h From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood; A b.u.t.ton, a loop, or that luminous patch That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!”

”O, Captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track, When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back, That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.”

”But I s.n.a.t.c.hed off the trinket,--this locket of gold; An inch from the center my lead broke its way, Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.”

”Ha! Rifleman, fling me the locket!--'tis she, My brother's young bride, and the fallen dragoon Was her husband--Hus.h.!.+ soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree, We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!

”But hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; War is a virtue,--weakness a sin; There's a lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!”

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.

[2] The above has been sometimes ent.i.tled ”The Fancy Shot.” It appeared first in a London weekly and is commonly attributed to Charles Dawson Shanly, who died in the late seventies.

'ROUND s.h.i.+LOH CHURCH

WITHIN s.h.i.+loh Church that fateful day of 1862, no sound of song or praise was heard. But all without the leaden missiles rang and sang in chorus of red death. Green blades of gra.s.s, dew-tipped, sprang up to greet the sun that April morn, but ere night fell were bowed to earth with weight of human blood. Ne'er before had little church looked out on such a scene. Ten thousand homes and hearts of North and South were there made desolate; and twice ten thousand men gave up their lives. The world looked on and wondered.

Albert Sidney Johnston, the hero of three wars, had staked his life and cause that April day, for victory or defeat.

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