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AT FORT PILLOW. |
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You shudder as you think upon th' carnage of the grim
report, The desolation when we won the inner trenches of the
fort; But there are deeds ye may not know, that scourge the
pulses into strife; Dark memories of deathless woe pointing the bayonet and
knife.
The house is ashes where I dwelt, beyond the mighty inland sea,
The tombstones shattered where I knelt by that old church at Pointe Coupee;
The Yankee fiends that came with fire, camped on the consecrated sod,
And trampled in the dust and mire the holy Eucharist of God!
The spot where darling mother sleeps, beneath the glimpse of
yon sad moon, Is crushed with splintered marble heaps, to stall the horse of
some dragoon; God! when I ponder that black day it makes my frantic
spirit wince; I marched—with Longstreet—far away, but have beheld the
ravage since. |
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