CARTE DE VISITE.

“‘TWAS a terrible fight,” the soldier said;
“Our Colonel was one of the first to fall,
Shot dead on the field by a rifle-ball–
A braver heart than his never bled.”

A group for the painter’s art were they:
The soldier with scarred and sunburnt face,
A fair-haired girl, full of youth and grace,
And her aged mother, wrinkled and gray.

These three in porch, where the sunlight came
Through the tangled leaves of the jasmine-vine,
Spilling itself like a golden wine,
And flecking the doorway with rings of flame.

The soldier had stopped to rest by the way,
For the air was sultry with summer-heat;
The road was like ashes under the feet,
And a weary distance before him lay.

“Yes, a terrible fight; our ensign was shot
As the order to charge was given the men,
When one from the ranks seized our colors, and then
He, too, fell dead on the self-same spot.

“A handsome boy was this last: his hair
Clustered in curls round his noble brow;
I can almost fancy I see him now,
With the scarlet stain on his face so fair.”

“What was his name?–have you never heard?–
Where was he from, this youth who fell?
And your regiment, stranger, which was it? tell!”
“Our regiment? It was the Twenty-third.”

“The color fled from the young girl’s cheek,
Leaving it white as the face of the dead;
The mother lifted her eyes and said:
“Pity my daughter–in mercy speak!”

“I never knew aught of this gallant youth.”
The soldier answered; “not even his name,
Or from what part of our State he came:
As God is above, I speak the truth!

“But when we buried our dead that night,
I took from his breast this picture–see!
It is as like him as like can be:
Hold it this way, towards the light.”

One glance, and a look, half-sad, half-wild,
Passed over her face, which grew more pale,
Then a passionate, hopeless, heart-broken wail.
And the mother bent low o’er the prostrate child.

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