The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1868-12-19
ALL But LOST.
BY CHARLES POLLEN LEE.

The Northern bugles blithely play
Through the Shenandoah at break of day,
And troop of horsemen clad in blue
Ride over the meadows wet with dew.
Their chargers are fresh and their spirits
high,
And they champ the bit as they thunder by,
And their nostrils wide in the balm of morn
Make answer shrill to the bugle horn.
Oh, a gallant band of troopers are they
Who ride so swift from the camp to-day,
Sturdy and tall, in heart as strong
AS the heroes brave i'll the minstrefs song,
And every mind from guile as free [sea.
As the zephyr that blows from the distant
Proud were the men of their noble band,
And proud of the cause for which they
bled,
And ready to WELD the battle brand
And cleave Rebellion's Gorgon head
But prouder yet their leader was
Of his troops brave and their noble cause !:
And as onward he spurred his flying steed,
His horsemen felt sure some gallant deed
Would come about ere the burning sun
Had half of his daily journey run.
In a little town this very day,
From these Union riders far away,
Was the noise of arms and tramp of feet,
And the loud command in every street.
Columns of gray clad soldiery
OF veteran horse and infantry,
Marched hither and thither, while fife and
drum
Rose far above the busy hum.
And see they halt just out of the town,
The infantry form in a hollow square,
While the horsemen gallop up and down
And restrain the crowd with their sabres
But why this throng and this warlike show?
Why gallop these orderlies to and fro?
Why muffle those drums that heavily roll
Such dead ming weight ON the list'ner's
soul?
o, Heaven what is it that rises there
In the middle of yondcr hollow square;
A scaffold it is, whose form uncouth
Tells palmer than words the awful truth,
Some one must die on this lovely day,
Though heaven is fair and Nature gay;
Eut man ne'er thinks when working ill
II the day be fair or dark and chill
AID he never hears to the silent prayer
That Nature is making everywhere
Her mute appeals to the Throne above,
For the sons of mel to live in love.
VI.
Some one must die, who is drawing near
IT'S stalwart man of noble mien,
His face is calm and his eye is clear
AS the liquid blue of the sky serene.
Unmoved between the files of gray
To the gate of death he takes his way,
Unheeding the cruel taunt or sheer
Which falls from the Rebel musketeer;
But, ready for death, his inward prayer
Asks not for life, but strength to bear
The martyrs crown, though thorny it be,
VII.
And what was his crime? The tale is brief, -
He heard the voice of Freedom call,
And he left old Maine when the rebel chief
1nsulted the flag on Sumpter's wall.
And long he. fought with valiant might
Than the one to die ON this summer morn
The General sought for scout, and he
WAS Wiling TO suher the jeopardy
II he only might aid with his honest hand
The goodly cause of his native land.
He went, was taken and doomed to die
BY Rebel Court as Tn on spy.
VIII.
IT'S hard to die when life is strong, [age,
When the heart thrObs vigorous free from
And the blood in the vein speeds brisk
along, [engage
And the hopes of the Future the mind
Stern war knows nought of the claims of
youth
Nor Rebel horde of honor and truth.
SO Oh they move with jecr and cry
Till they reached the spot where the scout
must die.
TX.
The time has come five minutes for prayer
Is all that the Rebel Chief can spare;
Dead silence reigns, and all is still [rill,
But the murmuring breeze or the flowing
Or, over the meadow, the lark's blithe lay
That carols so sweet for the sunny day.
x
One minute is gone he is praying now
But still unmoved is his youthful brow.
Two more have fled, the prayer is done
And he looks once more on the cheerful sun.
On the scenes around and his mind runs O. er
With the lightning speed the days of yore.
He sees again that village i'll Maine
And he dreams himself a boy again.
The gentle mother clasps her boy,
And then face-so dear to him
His sweetheart s-ah his eye is dim [quells
With the meurnfiIl thought, but he bravely
The deep emotion that quivers and swells.
ri.
Ono minute ia left one minnie for breath.
q Cod hut whv SO awful is Death?
Whv doth the soul of the diving treasure
The minute is up, and he must die,
Is there no hope? but stop that cry!
What is it that stays the hand of death,
And eehoing holds the very breath
IT'S a bugle blast. o! where can it be?
That carol Of hope so wild and free,
1t echoes again. now louder and nearer
The sweet notes ring, till clearer and clearer,
SrLe prisoner hears the bugle blast
He beard so oft in the busy past.
d can 1t be true o, is it true
That he y0nder sees a line of blue!
Rejoice rejoice tits the Union horse