San Antonio light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1911-1993, 1923-04-29
YOUR LETTER, LADY, CAME TOO LATE.

1.-THE following beautiful and touching lines were
written during the war by an officer of the Con-
federate army, at the time a prisoner on John
sons island. A young Georgian, when the war
broke out, was engaged to be married to one OF
the most beautiful and brilliant bellies of Savannah,
but died in captivity. While he lay dead, letter
came from this young lady to her lover. 1t was a
cruel, cold, heartless letter, altogether different
in tone and in manner from any she had ever
before written him. 1t spoke of brilliant balls she
had lately attended, and dwelt with ill-concealed
rapture upon the innumerable projections of GER
tain colonel of General Wheeler's staff, of his
manly form, his exquisite manners his noble coun-
tenance, his low, soft, rich voice. his graceful
dancing, his marvellous conversational powers etc,
etc, and closed with these chilling words: RE
spectfully. etc. Virginia" Hitherto she had ended
every letter with Your own devoted and faithful
Virginia."
This letter was received at the prison few
hours after the death of him to whom it was
written, and replied to by his comrade follows
Your letter, lady, came too 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 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 among their shadowy throng
His spirit had peer.
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 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 bitter thing!
For when these valleys bright in May
Once more with blossoms wave,
The northern violets shall blow
Above bis humble grave.
Your dole of scant 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 falsehood in the tomb.
I've seen 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 them
In folly's falsest thrall.
| You shall not pity him, for now
| His sorrow has 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 even be pleading grace for you
| Before the court of heaven.
| Tonight the cold wind whistles by
As 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 your soul
| Has done deadly wrong.
Your hand so fair that none would think
l. 1t penned these words OF pain
Your skin so white-would God, your heart
Were half as free from stain.
I'd rather be my comrade dead,
Than you in life supreme: ri
/ 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.
COL w s. Hawkins