^82 SKETCHES IN RHYME. 



Still ungathered lies that harvest swathed by death with reaper keen, 

 Ripe and ready for the garner long neglected hath it been, 

 But the harvesters are busy, they have other fields to glean, 

 Swathed by death with reaper keen. 



Now beneath South Mountain's shadows, southward the invaders go 

 Through the slanting rain and darkness in a fierce tumultuous flow ; 

 And give back the hard won acres with their harvest to the foe ; 

 Dead and dying lying low. 



And the gleaners come together, gather up the trampled sheaves. 

 And they lay them in the garner ; dust to dust the earth receives. 

 O the thorns among the roses in the wreath which Victory weaves. 

 Blood stains dull its laurel leaves ! 



Well alligned down in the trenches, blankets mufiled in a row, 

 Like a sleeping line of battle waiting for the trumpet's blow. 

 Shoulder touching comrade shoulder, as in life they faced the foe — 

 Blanket mufiled, lying low. 



And they gather up the living fragments of that festal day. 

 And the jolting ambulances, o'er the late plowed fields away. 

 Bear those maimed, neglected wounded, sad mementos of the fray — 

 Fragments of war's festal day. 



Bear them fainting o'er the meadows which they late exultant trod. 

 Up the slopes where late their lines in billows bayonet-crested fiowed, 

 To the hospitals beyond them, gleaming from the trampled sod, 

 Slowly ebbed which fiercely flowed. 



Days and nights of suffering followed, when one day at early morn 

 To that tented shrine there came a pilgrim old and travel-worn, 

 With his staff" and heavy burden — burden, he full long had borne, 

 Came one day at early morn. 



And his plain attire bespoke him follower of that noble creed 

 Taught of old by Penn and Barclay — born of persecution's seed. 

 Mindful of the Light within him ever he in word and deed ; 

 Follower of a peaceful creed. 



