Orleans County monitor. [volume] (Barton, Vt.) 1872-1953, 1873-06-23
MORE CRUEL THAN WAR.


correspondent of the Kansas City Times revives a
striking poem, of which this is the history south
srn prisoner of at Camp Chase, in Ohio, after pin
ng of sickness in the hospital of that station for
me and confding to his friend and fellow-captive,
Col. w. S. Hawkins of Tennessee, that he heavy
If heart because his affianeed bride in Nashville did
lot write to him. died just before the arrival of
er in which the lady curtly broke the engagement.
Jol Hawkins had been requested to open any epistle
which should for him thereafter and upon read
ng the letter in question: penned the following versi
led answer. The lines were imperectly given by the
southern press just after the and deserve revival
only for the sake of the corrections requisite to do
nstice to their sentiment and win for them wider
lppreciation.-[New York World.
MY FRIEND.
Your letter, lady. came to late,
For heaven had claimed its own;
All, sudden change-from prison-bars
Unto the great white throne
And yet think he would have stayed,
To live fol his disdain,
Could he have read the careless words
Which you have sent in vain.
So full Of patience did he watt
Through many weary hour,
That DER his simple-soldier faith
Not even death had power;
And you-did others whisper low
Their homage in your ear,
As though amongst their shallow throng
His spirit had peer2
would that you were by now.
To draw the sheet aside
And see how pure the look he
The moment when he died.
The sorrow that you gave to him
Had left its weary trace
As 'twere the shadow of the
Upon his pallid face.
"Her love-" he said, "could change for me
The winters cold to springs"
All, trust of tickle maiden's love,
Thou art a bitter thing
For when these valleys, bright in May,
Once more with blossoms wave,
The northern violets shall blow
Above his humble grave.
Your dole of scanty words had been
But one more pang to bear,
For him who kissed unto the last
Your tress of golden hair
did not put it where he said,,
For, when the angels come,
would not have them find the sign
OF fa!sehoOd in the tomb.
I've read your letter, and know
The wiles that you have wrought
To win that noble heart of his,
And gained it-cruel thought
What lavish wealth men sometimes give
For what is worthless all
What manly bosOms beat for truth
In folly's falsest thrall
You shall not pity him, for now
His sorrow has an end
Yet would that You could stand with me
Beside my fallen friend;
And forgive YOU for his sake,
And he-f it be given
May cen be pleading grace for you
Before the court of heaven.
Tonight the cold winds whistle by
AS my vigil keep
Within the prison dead house where
Few mOurners come to weep
rude plank coffin holds his form;
Yet death eXalts his face,
And would rather see him thus
Than clasped in your embrace.
Tonight your home may shine with lights
And ring with merry song,
And You be smiling as your soul
Had done deadly wrong;
Your hand so fair that none would think
1t penned these words of pain;
Your skin white-would God, your heart
Were half as free from stain.
I'd rather be my comrade dead
Than yOu in life supreme
For yours the sinners walking dread
And his the martyrs dream.
Whom serve we in this life, we serve
In that which is to cOme
He chose his way =; You yOurs; let God
Pronounce the fitting doom.