The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1861-11-16
5rlrrt Poetry.
From The Independent
The Soldiers Mother.

BY the low west window dreaming,
With the ling ring sunlight cleaning
Softly on her sanity brow
OF her boy to battle marching,
Heat and thirst the loved lips parching,
Dreams she in the twilight now.
Yet with rapid fingers knitting,
In the ancient armchair sitting
Musing of her soldier SON
Pausing III her thoughts Of sorrow,
Wond ring if upon the morrow
She can have the blue socks done.
Thinking of the soldiers standing
As she saw them on the landing.
Thinking how they stcrnly drill them
Back and forth the needles going
From the socks, God only knowing
If or not his feet shall ill them.
Now she hears his gay voice humming,
And his rapid footsteps coming
Up the pathway from the barn,
And she trusts the sweet dcceiviny,
All that sunset dream inwcaying
With the threads of notified warn.
Up the stone steps he is springing,
And he enters gayly singing
Snatches from fay rite song.
And her heart gains courage boder
As she rests her aged shoulder
'Gainst that young arm brave and strong.
But there comes a quick recalling
From these lancies by the falling
OF Il needle to the floor,
SHY ring through that hour clysian,
Shalt ring all her sunset vision
OF the golden days of yore
With the fears her dim eyes binding,
And the loosen yarn rewinding
With slow finger round the ball,
With fond mnsing thinks she sadly
How he would have sprung up gladly
When be heard the needle fall.
And she rises from her dreaming,
With her patient fingers scanning
Back and forth another row,
Noting while IN that sweet cleaning
Leagues atar her thoughts were roaming
How her hands made progress slow.
But sound her quick ear greeting
Starts her trighten'd heart to beating
With a troubled throb and surge,
For she hears the church bells toling,
And the solemn muttlcd rolling
or slow music like II dirge
Hccds she not the stitches falling,
As with eager accents calling
Some one passing by the door,
All her wild torchodingS masking,
And with lips untult ring asking
Whom this mourntul dirge is for?
"Why, they've fought Il fearful battle,
And our men were slain like cattle
Who once thought that we could lose?
At Manassas dead and dying
Near Il thousand men arc living,
Here "a paper with the news !"
How her eager fingers seize it,
While her heart with fears that freeze it
Shrinks back with a sudden dread
What if he were dead or dying!
But she stills her hearts Wild CRYING.
And that black list Of the dead
With her frcnzicd gaze o crrcalng,
Every other name llnlceding,
Only one name sees she there
That of one with blue eyes beaming.
And "A broad white forehead cleaning
Meath the waves of nut brown hair.
Round her still the twilight fingers.
While from out her nervclcss fingers
Falls the paper to the floor.
Ne cr again will he be singing.
And his young feet gladncss bringing
Meier shall cross the threshold more.
For his coming she viii listen
Nainly, and the tcardrops glistcn
AS she sinks back in her chair.
Of the brown hair and the bright lips
Musing, while her own sad white lips
Culver with wordcss prayer
But she strives her grief to smother,
lis not meet soldiers mother
Thus should yield to sorrow vain
Are there not a hundred others,
Stricken, desolatcd mothers,
Weeping for their brave ones slain?
For their country still are bleeding
Soldiers brave who will be needing
Warm socks for their valiant feet
Feet which nee before the traisprs,
Like the feet of some bold pratcrs,
Beatsa cowardly retreat.