Was there ever message sweeter <br />Than that one from Malvern Hill, <br />From a grim old fellow-you remember? <br />Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill. <br />With his rough face turned a little, <br />On a heap of scarlet sand, <br />They found him, just within the thicket, <br />With a picture in his hand,- <br /> <br /> <br />With a stained and crumpled picture <br />Of a woman's aged face; <br />Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty, <br />Young and living-tender-from the face <br />When they flashed the lantern on it, <br />Gilding all the purple shade, <br />And stooped to raise him softly,- <br />'That 's my mother, sir,' he said. <br /> <br /> <br />'Tell her'-but he wandered, slipping <br />Into tangled words and cries,- <br />Something about Mac and Hooker, <br />Something dropping through the cries <br />About the kitten by the fire, <br />And mother's cranberry-pies; and there <br />The words fell, and an utter <br />Silence brooded in the air. <br /> <br /> <br />Just as he was drifting from them, <br />Out into the dark, alone, <br />(Poor old mother, waiting for your message, <br />Waiting with the kitten, all alone!) <br />Through the hush his voice broke,-'Tell her- <br />Thank you, Doctor-when you can, <br />Tell her that I kissed her picture, <br />And wished I 'd been a better man.' <br /> <br /> <br />Ah, I wonder if the red feet <br />Of departed battle-hours <br />May not leave for us their searching <br />Message from those distant hours. <br />Sisters, daughters, mothers, think you, <br />Would your heroes now or then, <br />Dying, kiss your pictured faces, <br />Wishing they 'd been better men?<br /><br />Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-message-22/
