OVER THE RIVER.
By Miss Maria E. Jones.
|Over the river there are fierce, stern meetings,|
No kindly clasp of hand, no welcome call;
But hatred swells the chorus of the greetings,
Of foes who meet at Death’s high carnival;
No flash of wine-cups, but the red blood streaming
From ragged wounds, upon the thirsty sand,
And fierce, wild music of bright sabre gleaming,
Where eager foemen grapple hand to hand.
Over the river are our lov’d ones lying,
Alone and wounded on the couch of pain;
Consum’d by wasting fevers—even dying—
Sighing for those they ne’er may see again;
There are untended graves where grass is growing
Rankly and tall o’er each lone sleeper’s head;
There are long trenches, where bright flowers blowing,
Mark the common grave of thousands dead.
Over the river victory shouts of gladness,
Great waves of joy rise above seas of woe;
Over the river comes a wail of sadness,
A city’s fallen, or a chief laid low;
Alas! for us! we must sit still and ponder
Upon the woes of battle all the day,
And dream, and sew, and weep, while our thoughts wander
Over the river! Let us watch and pray.