Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1878-06-29
NO. 153.
Misfellanfous.
For the Journal
A MEMORY OF ANDERsONv VILE.
By REV. j. II. BEALE.

In his prison a soldier was standing apart
From his comrades, at twilight, still lingering
near
And the tides of emotion we're flooding his heart
As he thought of his home with a sickening
fear.
lie discovers in the distance a light cloud of
On the wings Of the evening in quietness soar,
But tins vision memory sadly awoke
OF the bone he had left by fair Kennebec's
shore.
From his dismal enclosure he eagerly gazed,
AT the sun as he sank in his glory to rest
Ger the meadows where cattle had patiently
grazed,
As the engthening shadows had crep: from the
West.
When more deei ly were falling the curtains of
night
Ger the prospect that stretched in its beauty
away,
Then the moon at her full shed silyery light
On the landscape with luster more mellow than
day.
by the CLEAN in a window he dimly had seen
fond mother receiving her darngs' Good
night"
But veil of hot tears such a vision would screen
From his heart that would break at the tor,ur
ing sight
Then a while in the shadow he silently stands
That the ebbing and flow of emotion NAV cease
For with groanng he hideth his face in his hands
As he weeps in the darkness, stranger to peace.
From this position of grief he doth suddenly start
AT the boot Of an owlet which comes TO his
But the voice is more human and ouick to bis
There has dawncd the bright hope of assistance
so near
Md the threa. sning hayonets cleaning so nigh
Round the wall thai encloses his darksome
abode,
strange form ne discovers with his accurate
eye,
Now apprc aching the sentry along the dark road
Then H.sh IN the moonlight, and swiiter than
In its night. slight missve is instantly flung
And the soldier AS its lnkle is heard
On the floor Of his prison, to seize it has sprung.
But the stone past the guard so unerringly came
That it quietly dropped on the ground at his
feet
With precision that told the unialtering aim
On it. mission had sent it, thus trusty and feet.
Whence it fell quick he picked up the pebble so
small. H4-
And be frds it securely made fast TO a string
Which he draws in most cautiously over the wall
Till IL soon in his hand strange paper did
bring
BY the light of the moon the soldier could read
This poor scrawl with its writing in characters
queer,
u
shond now come with such comfort his spirit.
to cheer.
THE LETTER.
when de 'poste in prison was bound wild de chain.
And de church had all prayed for his rescue
from def.
Den de Lord sent his angel to wake him again,
And to lead from his cell widout steiria bien;
when dc angel had struck him a blow on de
side
Did not Peter in haste from his slumber awake.
Did he fear den TO foler his heabenly guide.
Or de hand of dat angel to eagerly take p
"If de Lord send his angel to sabe you ssme day,
When his people are crying from morning to
If he comes den to lead YOU secure in de way,
Does You care if he stretches black hand or
white 7"
If de Lord cause de prison in anger to quake
And de soldier should seape past de guns of de
guard,
Dere are friends who are wan to eagerly take
ln dere own de weak hands dat in battle were
scar'd."
While retreating so cautiously out from his sight
The dim shadows so quickly the phantom enfold,
That our hero has doubts If his senses are right,
But he clutches the letter more precious than
gold
Then thereafter, when curtains of night fall apace
As tntS enenllF stUiet-a uarkenIng pail
To enfold all the land in their sable embrace,
He is digging tunnel far under the wall.
And while thus he is faithfully podding away
At his wearisome task that seems endless and
Slow
He is cheered with a hope that with sunniest ray
In his soul makes his prison in brightness to
glow.
But alas for the hope that has sprung up iu vain,
BY treachel Gus comrade betrayed to the guard,
With promise that thus he some favor may gain;
Now consigned to fate that Is fearfully hard.
For the form of fierce hunger soon enters his cell
AT his life the dread monster is gnawing away
And with agony deeper than language can tell
lie cal trace all the footsteps Of wasting decay.
Though his famshiug flesh with gaunt famine is
weak
From his lips closed with pride there escapes
not cry;
lie has sunk in stupor, no more can he speak,
His long anguish is DER; he's contented to die
In a heap with score quick they lay him away,
Not prayer of formslity even is said -
At his home in the North, there is weeping to. day,
For no chaplet can rest on the grave of their
dead.
While with tenderest offerings strew we each
grave,
Where the form Cf patriot rests iu his sleep,
We remember the thousands, as gallant and brave,
Der whom even now there are dear ones who