Into a ward of the whitewashed halls Where the dead and the dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody’s darling was borne one day-- Somebody’s darling, so young and brave; Wearing yet on his sweet pale face-- Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave-- The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold Kissing the snow of that fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mould-- Somebody’s darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow Brush his wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now-- Somebody’s darling is still and cold. Kiss him once for somebody’s sake, Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take-- They were somebody’s pride, you know. Somebody’s hand hath rested here-- Was it a mother’s, soft and white? Or have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light? God knows best. He has somebody’s love, Somebody’s heart enshrined him there, Somebody wafts his name above, Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody’s watching and waiting for him, Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling, childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead-- Pausing to drop on his grave a tear. Carve on the wooden slab o’er his head: “Somebody’s darling slumbers here.” [Southern.] [Illustration] LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. BY SARAH T. BOLTON. What, was it a dream? am I all alone In the dreary night and the drizzling rain? Hist!--ah, it was only the river’s moan; They have left me behind with the mangled slain. Yes, now I remember it all too well! We met, from the battling ranks apart; Together our weapons flashed and fell, And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart. In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done, It was all too dark to see his face; But I heard his death groans, one by one, And he holds me still in a cold embrace. He spoke but once, and I could not hear The words he said, for the cannon’s roar; But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear,-- O God! I had heard that voice before! Had heard it before at our mother’s knee, When we lisped the words of our evening prayer! My brother! would I had died for thee,-- This burden is more than my soul can bear! I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek, And begged him to show me by word or sign, That he knew and forgave me; he could not speak, But he nestled his poor cold face to mine.