Charley of Malvern Hill
A war-worn soldier, bronzed and seamed
By weary march and battle stroke;
’Twas thus, while leaning on his crutch,
The wounded veteran spoke,—
“The blue-eyed boy of Malvern Hill!
A hero every inch was he,
Though scarcely larger than the child
You hold, sir, on your knee.
Some mother’s darling! On that field
He seemed so strangely out of place,
With his pure brow, his shining hair,
His sweet, unconscious grace.
But not a bearded warrior there
Watched with a more undaunted eye
The blackness of the battle-cloud,
As the fierce storm rose high.
That morn—ah! what a morn was that!—
We thought to send him to the rear;
We loved the lad—and love, you know,
Is near akin to fear.
We knew that many a gallant soul
Must pass away in one long sigh,
Ere nightfall. On that bloody field,
’Twas not for boys to die.
But he—could you have seen him then,
As, with his blue eyes full of fire,
He poured forth tears and pleadings, half
Of shame and half of ire!
‘Oh! do not bid me go!’ he cried;
‘I love yon flag as well as you!
I did not join your ranks to run
When there is work to do!
I did not come to beat my drum
Only upon some gala day.’
The colonel shook his head, but said,
‘Well, Charley, you may stay.’
Ah! then his tears were quickly dried,
A few glad words he strove to say;
But there was little time to talk,
And hardly time to pray.
For bitter, bitter was the strife
That raged that day on Malvern Hill;
Blue coats and gray in great heaps lay,
Ere that wild storm grew still.
At length we charged. My very heart
Sank down within me, cold and dumb,
When to the front, and far ahead,
Rushed Charley with his drum!
Above the cannon’s thundering boom,
The din and shriek of shot and shell,
We heard its clear peal rolling out
Right gallantly and well.
A moment’s awful waiting! Then
There came a sullen, angry roar,—
O God! An empty void remained
Where Charley stood before.
What did we then? With souls on fire
We swept upon the advancing foe,
And bade good angels guard the dust
O’er which no tears might flow!”