The Rose of Death.

II.
“For I am Northern born:
She,—only yestermorn
I saw on her lips her Southern scorn.
Coldly she saw me fling
My student’s cap away;
Coldly she heard me say,
‘In the Union ranks I march to-day!’
And here I march, and sing;—
O the red, red rose,
She little knows
The flower that I may bring!

III.
“Ah, it were sweet to know,
When face to face with the foe,
That a loving heart did with me go,
Like the kiss of a talisman ring,
Praying that death might spare
The life of her lover there,
In the cannon’s smoke and the trumpet’s blare.
No matter. I march, and sing
O the red, red rose,
She little knows
The flower that I may bring!

IV.
“Her love,—have I lost it all,
Because at my country’s call
I said, “‘T were better in battle to fall
Than see this treason cling!”
Her friends are my foemen now,
Traitor is writ on each brow.
On, comrades! I have made a vow,
And I breathe it as I sing
O the red, red rose,
She little knows
The flower that I may bring!”

V.
Deep in the battle there
His breast to the guns is bare,
Where flame and smoke befoul the air,
Swords clash and rifles ring.
“She loves,” he cried, “but the brave
Who fight for the chains of the slave.
What then? I can fill a patriot’s grave,
Though she may jest, and sing
O the red, red rose,
He thinks that he knows
The flower he home will bring!”

VI.
All terror the soldier scorns,
Mid the cannon and clanging horns;
From the bristling fields of the bayonet thorns
A rose on his breast he will bring.
What is it? A death-shot red
To his fearless heart has sped;
With his face to the fire, he reels,—he is dead!
And the soldiers who bear him sing
O the blood-red rose!
She little knows
The flower that home we bring!

VII.
Ah, sad were the streets the morn
When that brave form was borne,
Wrapped in the Union banner, torn
Like a wounded eagle’s wing.
At her window the maiden stood,
Changed from her angry mood;
And she saw on her lover’s breast the blood;
And the death-march seemed to sing
O the blood-red rose.
From our country’s foes
Is the only flower we bring!

VIII.
She rushed to the bier with a cry.
“O God!” she said, “it was I
Who sent him, without one kiss, to die
In the flush of his morn of spring!
Too late,—this pang at my breast!
Ah, let me at least go rest
In the grave where you bear the dearest, best!
And the pitying winds shall sing
Here Love’s red rose
Met Death’s, at the close
Of their lives, in eternal spring!”