The National tribune., 1901-12-05
MY FRIEND.
War Poem, and the Circumstances Under
which It Was Written.

MY FRIEND.
A War Poem, and the Circumstances Under
Which It Was Written.
EDITOR NATIONAL TRIBUNE: The fol-
lowing poem was asked for by Thomas
Mccarthy, Of Seymour, ILL.,, a week or two
since. 1t is q striking poem and the most
scathing one l ever read, and this is its
history. A Southern prisoner Of war at
Camp Chase, In Ohio, after pining in the
hospital of that station for a long time of
sickness, and confding to his fellow-cap
tive, Col. w. S. Hawkins, of Tennessee,
that he was heavy of heart because his
aftianced bride, in Nashville, did not write
to him, died just before the arrival of
letter in which the lady curtly broke the
engagement. Col. Hawkins had been re-
quested by his dying comrade to open any
mail that should come for him, and, upon
reading the letter in question, sat down
and wrote the poem as an answer to her
letter.
The lines were imperfectly given by the
| Southern press at the close of the war,
and some years later revived by CORE
spOndent of the Kansas City Times, and
again published by the New Orleans Pic
ayune some time in the seventies.
l think thousands, North and South
would like to have this poem for their
| scrapbooks. and | have often wondered
of literary paper, did not give room
each week for one or two poems. The
poem in question is entitled
MY FRIEND.
Your letter, lady, came too late
For Heaven had claimed its own;
Ah, sudden change-from prison bars
| Unto the great white thronei
And yet, | think he would have stayed,
To live for his disdain,
Could he have read the careless words
Which you have sent in vain.
So full of patience did he wait
Through many a 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 a peer?
l would that you were by me now,
To draw the sheet aside
And see how pure the look he wore
The moment when he died.
The sorrow that you gave to him
Had left its weary trace,
AS 'twere the shadow of the cross
Upon his pallid face.
Her love-" he said, "could change for me
The Winters cold to Spring"
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 violet shall blow
Above his humble grave.
Your dole of scanty words had been
But one more pang to bear,
For him who kissed until 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 falsehoOd in the tomb.
I've read your letter, and I know
The wiles that you had 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,
AS he-if it be given
May cen be pleading grace for you
Before the throne Of Heaven.
Tonight the cold winds whistle by,
As l my vigil keep
Within the prison dead-house, where
Few mourners come to weep.
A 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 no deadly wrong;
Your hand so fair, that none would think
1t penned these words of pain,
Your skin so white-would God your
heart
Were half so free from stain.
I'd rather be my comrade dead
Than you in life supreme;
For yours, the sinners waking 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
F. S. MILLER, Co. c, 10th Ind, Newton
n. G..