"Send me home to my mother,
For I am the Last of Three!"
Wasted and wan was the blue-eyed boy
Who begged this boon of me,—
"Send me home to my mother,
For I am the Last of Three!"
No need of words between us,
No need to ask him when,
I was to send to his mother,
Her darling home again,—
For the shadow of Death was stealing
Over his face e'en then.
"Where are your brothers, Willie?"
"Killed; both killed in the war;
Two sons has my mother given,—
Now her country claims one more,
O mother." We knelt beside him,
God's peace for him to implore.
Tall and fair and slender,
With the sweetest, kindliest smile,
And a voice whose truthful accents
Proclaimed one "free from guile!"
O, what a loss for that mother,
So far from him the while!
Vain! care and skill and tenderness,
Nurses' and Surgeons' love!
Racked with pain from wounds neglected,
His back all bruised and raw,
For his bed at Savage Station
Had been coarse, mouldy straw.
And never, without weeping,
Can they who watched him speak
Of the days and nights of torture,
For one long weary week,—
Endured with holy patience
By that spirit brave and meek!
Once we asked him, "Tell us Willie,
If God your strength restore,
Don't you think you've done and suffered
Your part in this sad war?"
"No, sister; if ever able,
I would fight as I fought before."
Writhing in strong convulsions,
His face distorted and drawn,
Whatever his restless fingers
Could grasp, all rent and torn,—
This martyr's last fierce agony,
Drew sobs from warriors worn.
O, but his serene countenance
Was beautiful to see,
When God gave his beloved sleep,
And Death had set him free!
And we sent him to his mother,
For he was "the Last of Three!"
She wrote, "The Lord has taken
The last of my lambs away,
I am left in my old age childless,
Yet 'Thy will be done,' I say;
And that I soon may join them,
Pray for me, sister—pray!"