By Mrs. Wm. Barnes, of Galveston.

A warrior has fallen! a chieftain has gone!
A hero of heroes has sunk to his rest!
Those hands that wielded the sword and the sabre,
Now lie pulseless and cold o’er his motionless breast;
That voice that has gladden’d valiant comrades in arms,
And driven away their deep shadows of gloom,
Is seemingly hush’d to those seared-stricken hearts,
But loudly will speak from its still, hollow tomb!

Aye, seemingly hush’d, like the black, death-like waters,
As they mirror the face of the threatening sky;
But see ye the ripple that waves in the distance,
Warning the mariner that danger is nigh?
Aye, seemingly hush’d, like the dead, sullen calm,
As it heralds Vesuvius’ virulent ire,
Ere she, out of her bosom, malignantly pours
Her dull molten lava, her columns of fire.

Aye, seemingly hush’d, but the words he has spoken
Lie deeply incased in the breasts of his men,
And tho’ to the “echoless shore” he is wafted,
His voice will be heard yet again and again;
How oft-seated by the bivouac’s bright fires,
While his men have stood ’round, wrapt in wondrous delight,
Has he spurred them to noble and chivalric deeds,
As he vividly pictured a forthcoming fight.

Full many a time has the rough, sunburnt hand
Dash’d the unbidden tear from the veteran’s cheek,
As of home—that lov’d spot to each memory so dear—
With heartfelt emotion his chieftain would speak;
Aye, seemingly hush’d is the tongue of the warrior,
In their bosom its echo is lingering still;
Long as their pulse beats, its prompting they yield to—
Yes, long as their noble hearts have power to feel.

The hero of Valverde—the hero of Mansfield,—
Now sleeps the calm sleep of the happy and blest;
Those eyes once so lustrous are now sightless and dim,
Those limbs once so active have sunk to their rest;
O there let him lie where the first beams of morning
Shall shed o’er his tomb a soft halo of light,
And the moon’s gentle rays that dear spot shall enliven,
As she glides on her course through the still, solemn night.

Plant the wild-tendriled vine and flowers of the prairie
O’er the grave of the chieftain that slumbereth there—
How sweetly they’ll mingle their gentle perfumes with
The orphans’ and widows’ sweet incense of prayer;
Let the song of the whippoorwill, pensive and sad,
As he flits on the sprays of the green willow tree,
And the deep azure waves of the fair Colorado,
By day and by night his mournful requiems be!