Elizabeth Margaret Chandler

“ We think not, we feel not, what horrors are thine.
But oh! when the victors and vanquish'd have parted,
When lonely we stand on the war-ground deserted,
And think on the dead, and on those broken-hearted,
Thy blood-sprinkled laurel-wreath ceases to shine. ”

“ They care not for conquest, disgrace cannot wound them,
Distinct but in name, from the earth spread around them,
Beside their red broad-swords, unconscious, they lie.
How still is the scene! save when dismally whooping,
The night-bird afar hails the gathering gloom;
Or a heavy sound tells that their comrades are scooping
A couch, where the sleepers may rest in the tomb.
Alas! ere yon planet again shall be lighted,
What hearts shall be broken, what hopes will be blighted,
How many, ‘midst sorrow's dark storm-clouds benighted,
Shall envy, e'en while they lament, for their doom. ”