A Ballad of Metz

LÉON went to the wars,True soul without a stain;First at the trumpet-call,Thy son, Lorraine!

Never a mighty hostThrilled so with one desire;Never a past CrusadeLit nobler fire.

And he, among the rest,Smote foemen in the van,—No braver blood than hisSince time began.

And mild and fond was he,And sensitive as a leaf;—Just Heaven! that he was this,Is half my grief!

We followed where the lastDetachment led away,At Metz, an evil-starredAnd bitter day.

Some of us had been hurtIn the first hot assault,Yet wills were slackened not,Nor feet at fault.

We hurried on to the front;Our banners were soiled and rent;Grim riflemen, gallants all,Our captain sent.

A Prussian lay by a treeRigid as ice, and pale,And sheltered out of the reachOf battle-hail.

His cheek was hollow and white,Parched was his purpled lip;Tho’ bullets had fastened onTheir leaden grip,

Tho’ ever he gasped and called,Called faintly from the rear,What of it? And all in scornI closed mine ear.

The very colors he wore,They burnt and bruised my sight;The greater his anguish, soWas my delight.

We laughed a savage laugh,Who loved our land too well,Giving its enemies hateUnspeakable:

But Léon, kind heart, poor heart,Clutched me around the arm;“He faints for water!” he said,“It were no harm

To soothe a wounded manAlready on death’s rack.”He seized his brimming gourd,And hurried back.

The foeman grasped it quickWith wild eyes, ’neath whose lidA coiled and viper-like lookGlittered and hid.

He raised his shattered frameUp from the grassy ground,And drank with the loud, mad hasteOf a thirsty hound.

Léon knelt by his side,One hand beneath his head;Not kinder the water thanThe words he said.

He rose and left him so,Stretched on the grassy plot,The viper-like flame in his eyesAlas! forgot.

Léon with easy gaitStrode on; he bared his hair,Swinging his army cap,Humming an air.

Just as he neared the troops,Over there by the stream—Good God! a sudden snapAnd a lurid gleam.

I wrenched my bandaged armWith the horror of the start:Léon was low at my feet,Shot thro’ the heart.

Do you think an angel toldWhose hands the deed had done?To the Prussian we dashed back,Mute, every one.

Do you think we stopped to curse,Or wailing feebly, stood?Do you think we spared who shedA friend’s sweet blood?

Ha! vengeance on the fiend:We smote him as if hired;I most of them, and moreWhen they had tired.

I saw the deep eye loseIts dastard, steely blue:I saw the trait’rous breastPierced thro’ and thro’.

His musket, smoking yet,Unhanded, lay beside;Three times three thousand deathsThat Prussian died.

And he, my brother, Léon,Lies, too, upon the plain:O teach no more Christ’s mercy,Thy sons, Lorraine!

Massachusetts volunteer regiment, belonging to the Fifth