By Blomfield Jackson, M.A.
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.1 #1 (Nov 1866).
(The following incident has been reported in the Daily Telegraph's Correspondence.)
The cannon were belching their last
O'er the fields where the routed were flying,
And shouting pursuers strode fast
Through the heaps of the dead and the dying.
War's rage was beginning to wane;
The fierce cared no longer to strike;
And the good stooped to soften the pain
Of victors and vanquished alike.
A yellow-haired Austrian lad
Lay at length on a shot-furrowed bank;
He was comely and daintily clad
In the glittering dress of his rank.
Not so white, though, his coat as his cheek,
Nor so red the sash crossing his chest
As the horrible crimson streak
Of the blood that had welled from his breast.
His foes approached where he was laid,
To bear him in reach of their skill;
But he murmured, "Give others your aid;
By our Fatherland! let me lie still."
At dawn they came searching again,
To winnow the quick from the dead;
The boy was set free from his pain,
And his faithful young spirit had fled.
As they lifted his limbs from the ground,
To hide them away out of sight,
Lo! under his bosom they found
The flag he had borne through the fight.
He had folded the silk he loved well,
Lest a shred should be seen at his side:
To wave it in triumph he fell;
To save it from capture he died.
The head of the sternest was bared
As they gazed on the shot-riven rag,
And the hand of the hardiest spared
To make prey of that Austrian flag.
O'er the tomb of their brother they bowed,
With a prayer for a spirit as brave;
And they gave him the flag for a shroud
In his narrow and nameless grave.