Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear,
O’er the rabble’s laughter;
And while Hatred’s fagots burn,
Glimpses through the smoke discern
Of the good hereafter.
Knowing this, that never yet
Share of Truth was vainly set
In the world’s wide fallow;
After hands shall sow the seed,
After hands from hill and mead
Reap the harvests yellow.
Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,
Must the moral pioneer
From the Future borrow;
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,
And, on midnight’s sky of rain,
Paint the golden morrow!
A letter-writer from Mexico during the Mexican war,
when detailing some of the incidents at the terrible
fight of Buena Vista, mentioned that Mexican women
were seen hovering near the field of death, for the
purpose of giving aid and succor to the wounded.
One poor woman was found surrounded by the maimed
and suffering of both armies, ministering to the wants
of Americans as well as Mexicans, with impartial tenderness.
Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward
far away, O’er the camp of the invaders, o’er
the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning?
are they far or come they near? Look abroad,
and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.
Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle
rolls; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy
on their souls! “Who is losing? who is
winning?” Over hill and over plain, I see but
smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain.”
Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena,
look once more. “Still I see the fearful
whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in
strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse,
Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down
its mountain course.”
Look forth once more, Ximena! “Ah! the
smoke has rolled away; And I see the Northern rifles
gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark! that
sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels;
There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon
at their heels.
“Jesu, pity I how it thickens I now retreat
and now advance! Bight against the blazing cannon
shivers Puebla’s charging lance! Down
they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together
fall; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them
ploughs the Northern ball.”
Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and
frightful on! Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us,
who has lost, and who has won? Alas! alas!
I know not; friend and foe together fall, O’er
the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters,
for them all!
“Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed
Mother, save my brain! I can see the wounded
crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now
they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and
strive to rise; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them,
lest they die before our eyes!
