“In His Blanket on the Ground”
Weary, weary lies the soldier,
In his blanket on the ground
With no sweet “Good-night” to cheer him,
And no tender voice’s sound,
Making music in the darkness,
Making light his toilsome hours,
Like a sunbeam in the forest,
Or a tomb wreathed o’er with flowers.
Thoughtful, hushed, he lies, and tearful,
As his memories sadly roam
To the “cozy little parlor”
And the loved ones of his home;
And his waking and his dreaming
Softly braid themselves in one,
As the twilight is the mingling
Of the starlight and the sun.
And when sleep descends upon him,
Still his thought within his dream
Is of home, and friends, and loved ones,
And his busy fancies seem
To be real, as they wander
To his mother’s cherished form.
As she gently said, in parting
“Thine in sunshine and in storm:
Thine in helpless childhood’s morning,
And in boyhood’s joyous time,
Thou must leave me now—God watch thee
In thy manhood’s ripened prime.”
Or, mayhap, amid the phantoms
Teeming thick within his brain,
His dear father’s locks, o’er-silvered,
Come to greet his view again;
And he hears his trembling accents,
Like a clarion ringing high,
“Since not mine are youth and strength, boy,
Thou must victor prove, or die.”
Or perchance he hears a whisper
Of the faintest, faintest sigh,
Something deeper than word-spoken,
Something breathing of a tie
Near his soul as bounding heart-blood:
It is hers, that patient wife—
And again that parting seemeth
Like the taking leave of life:
And her last kiss he remembers,
And the agonizing thrill,
And the “Must you go?” and answer,
“I but know my Country’s will.”
Or the little children gather,
Half in wonder, round his knees;
And the faithful dog, mute, watchful,
In the mystic glass he sees;
And the voice of song, and pictures,
And the simplest homestead flowers,
Unforgotten, crowd before him
In the solemn midnight hours.
Then his thoughts in Dreamland wander
To a sister’s sweet caress,
And he feels her dear lips quiver
As his own they fondly press;
And he hears her proudly saying,
(Though sad tears are in her eyes),
“Brave men fall, but live in story,
For the Hero never dies!”
Or, perhaps, his brown cheek flushes,
And his heart beats quicker now,
As he thinks of one who gave him,
Him, the loved one, love’s sweet vow;
And, ah, fondly he remembers
He is still her dearest care,
Even in his star-watched slumber
That she pleads for him in prayer.
Oh, the soldier will be dreaming,
Dreaming often of us all,
(When the damp earth is his pillow,
And the snow and cold sleet fall),
Of the dear, familiar faces,
Of the cozy, curtained room,
Of the flitting of the shadows
In the twilight’s pensive gloom.
Or when summer suns burn o’er him,
Bringing drought and dread disease,
And the throes of wasting fever
Come his weary frame to seize—
In the restless sleep of sickness,
Doomed, perchance, to martyr death,
Hear him whisper “Home”—sweet cadence,
With his quickened, labored breath.
Then God bless him, bless the soldier,
And God nerve him for the fight;
May He lend his arm new prowess
To do battle for the right.
Let him feel that while he’s dreaming
In his fitful slumber bound,
That we’re praying—God watch o’er him
In his blanket on the ground.