IN MEMORIAM.

Lieut. Sidney A. Sherman, who fell at the Battle of Galveston, January 1, 1863.

By Miss Mollie E. Moore.

Pillow his head on his flashing sword,
Who fell ere the fight was won,
The turf looks red where his life was poured—
He fell beside his gun!

He died with the gleam in his youthful eye,
The fire in his gallant breast,
The light was shadowed but could not die,
That glisten’d upon his breast!

For Liberty claimed his parting breath,
And Fame his last trumpet cry:
Yes, Freedom hath torn his young name from Death—
The brave can never die!

His young breast met, like an ocean rock,
The clash of the battle-storm;
His proud soul smiled at the tempest shock,
That thundered around his form.

But his life grew faint when the storm raged high,
And ebbed with the dawning sun,
And there on the field of victory
He fell beside his gun!

From the gallant throng there is missed a crest,
A sword from the ranks of steel,
A hand from the gun whose mad unrest,
Hath made our foemen reel.

A blithe young voice from the mellow strain,
That floated at evenfall;
A voice from the camp-song’s high refrain,
A step in his father’s hall:

In his father’s hall—where his mother’s eye,
Late hung with a gleam of joy,
On the proud young form, as the hopes beat high
In the breast of her soldier boy.

And the dashing sound of the distant sea,
With the wail in its troubled breast,
To the hearts ’round that clouded hearth will be,
But an echo of their unrest!

But pillow his head on his flashing sword,
Whose Fame on the field was won—
The strife raged high where his blood was poured—
And—he fell beside his gun!

Oh, circle the banner around his form,
That he loved with a soldier’s pride,
For it shone like a star thro’ the battle storm,
O’er the field where our hero died!

He went from the red field down to the grave,
He fell where his fame was won,
And his own fair State hath a name for the brave,
And a song for her martyred son!

Yes, Liberty shrined his parting breath,
And Texas his fainting cry—
Yes, Fame hath torn his young name from death,
The brave can never die!

Then pillow his head on his flashing sword,
Who fell where the field was won;
The turf is red where his life was poured—
He fell beside his gun!

Tyler, Texas, 1863.