To Laura
We met by chance; yet in that ‘ventful chance
The mystic web of destiny was woven:
I saw thy beauteous image bending o’er
The prostrate form of one that day had proven
A hero fully nerved to deal
To tyrant hordes – the south avenging steel.
“Twas woman’s cherished sphere. Thy self-devotion-
Enchained my heart; were all as true as thou,
This war were not, and peace were still our portion.
I saw thee soothe the soldier’s aching brow-
And ardent wished his lot were mine—
To be carressed with care like thine.
Fair Laura, (I flatter not,) – thy praise
Is writ in words which war’s alarms
Or time can ne’er from mem’ry efface
Thy worth, thy modesty, not the least of charms—
Will be the soul-inspiring theme
To fill th’enraptured “soldier’s dream”
The past to one is precious; and to thee—
I trust it is not all regret, but even
In war's dread desolation there may be
Some charmed remembrance to its havoc given
Some long-cherished, ne’er forgotten token
One friendship made ne’er to be broken.
To Him omnipotent I leave thee now—
Years, long years, our paths, may sever
May grief o’er shadow ne’er my Laura’s brow-
And fortune smile upon thee ever.
And when this page shall meet your glance
Forget not him, you met by chance.
Mar. 3, 1862 J.E.B.