The spirit of democracy. [volume] (Woodsfield, Ohio) 1844-1994, 1864-11-16
Aoettg,
Written for The Crisis.1
THE HERO WITHOUT A
NAME.

BIZ COL. wM. 8. HAWKINS, Q. Q. A.
(pRIsoNER OF wAE,)
loved. when child, to seek the pag.
Where Wars proud tales are grandly
| told,
And to dream of the might Of that former
age
+ In the brave good daysof old
When men for Virtue aud Honor foughi
In ssrried pride meath their banners
bright,
BY the fairy hands Of Beauty wrought,
And broidersd with "God and Right. y
And there read of Sir Launcelot true,
Whose deeds have been sung in obisr
strain
And of Roderick the Bold, whs his fal-
ehisn diew
In the cause Of his native Spain.
In thought behsld gay Sydney ride,
His white plume dsttlng the fields ex-
panse,
And Bayard, who came like the swirl of
the tide,
As he struck for the Lillies OF France.
On the crags of Scotland there I saw,
With his hair OF gsldea hue, Montrose;
And swsrthy Douglas, whose name
was awe
In the homes of his English foes
There was Winkelreid, in: the Swissland
famed,
And the m0untainesr's boast, devoted
Tell,
Who smiled as before his shaft, well
aimed
His country's tyrant fell.
Meath Erin's flag, that glad "sun-burst," :"
Was Enmet, whs stands in that martyr
van,
Whose blood sancti6ed the gibbet accur-
sed.
Where he died for the rights of men.
There was Light Hsrse u.fry," who led
In the fray,
And Marion, the pride of his cavaliers;
There WAS Washington, too whose grave
to-day
Is the shrine of III. Patriot's tears.
These splendid form. were part of the
throng
That delighted me, nisying in pageants
grand
Through the wastes of Time and the fields
OF Song
From the legends of every land.
But l little hoped myself to sec
A spirit akin to those stately mon,
Nor thought that great hearts like theirs
could be
In a prisons crowded pen.
Yet I've seen in the wards Of the Hospital
there
A Hero, fancy, as peerless of soul
A pale faced boy, whose home is tair
" here the waters OF Cumberland, roll.
On his narrow cot In that narrow room.
" here the music he hears is the sigh
and the sroan,
He lies through. the days long pain and
But be never makes mean.
They hewed him down with their blades
When the troopers charged from the
camps Of the foe,
But he was not killed-althsugh, feel
1t would have been better SO.
For my heart within me- is very sad,
As sit and hold his wasted hand,
And hear him tell OF the times that were
glad
In our dear and sunny land.
There are hours again in his fever's heat
When his restless fanciss fly to his
When he talks of the seythes in the fall
ling wheat,
And ofreapers that 90 and come
Of his boyish mates and their frolicsome
glee
Thro' the cedar glaics and tho wood
lands dim, ~
And hew he carved there on many a tree
A name that was dear to him;
OF the sweet wild rose that scatter the
lights
Through the cottage dosr and the win
dow panes,
And October's haze on the far off heights
And the quiet country lanes;
Of the rivulets plash and the song of the
birds,
And the csrn-rows standing, like men
with spears,
Of his mothers prayers and her loving
words
Then his cheeks are wet with tears
And I seem TO see her, as the Autumn
leaves
Are silently falling in the glen
| As the swallows come back to the shelter
ing caves,
Where he shall not come again.
Then rejoice that she cannot see
How the blight has stained her faires
bloom
/ am glad that her steps will never be
Beside his Northern tomb.
And I think of another, who watches
too,
When the early stars are bright on rh,
hill,
Nor knows that his heart, SO con6ding anc