The child had received two balls in the head,
But his bosom still throbbed; he was not dead;
The house was humble, peaceable and clean,
A portrait on the wall—beneath was seen
A branch blessed by the priest, for good luck kept;
An old grandmother sat quiet and wept.
We undrest him in silence. His pale lips
Oped; Death on his eye cast fierce its eclipse;
His arms hung down; he seemed in a trance;
A top fell out from his pocket by chance;
The holes of his wounds seemed made by a wedge:
Have you seen mulberries bleed in a hedge?
His skull was open like wood that is split;
The grandmother looked on, at us, and it.
'God! How white he is—bring hither the lamp,'
She said at last, 'and how his temples are damp!
And how his poor hair is glued to his brow!'
And on her knee she took him—undrest now.
The night was dreary; random shots were heard
In the street; death's work went on undeterred.
'We must bury the child,' whispered our men.
And they took a white sheet from the press; then,
