La Muerta De Resaca.
Arthur T. Lee. Army Ballads, 1871.
From the Palo Alto plain;
From the groaning of their dying,
From the silence of their slain;
Low, on the cold earth bleeding,
Where by ruthless hands she fell,
Lay a maiden fair and lovely,
‘Midst the tangled chaparral.
Fair her dark brow of beauty;
Her robeless breast more fair;
And shining as the raven’s wing
Her dark and braided hair;
And features that the sculptor’s hand
Might strive to trace in vain,—
In death’s pale marble slumbered there,
Beside that field of slain.
None knew if that pale lip had been
The seat of truth or guile;
For none could read the mystery
That slept beneath its smile;
None marvelled at her death,
None asked the story of her life,
Or by what ruthless hand she fell,
Or whether maid or wife.
She caught a passing glance from all,
But no one paused to sigh;
For Resaca de la Palma,
Rushed the maddened columns by;
And the only smile that upward went,
Amidst that battle storm,
Was where the smoke went rolling
O’er that lovely maiden’s form.
That night the wreath of glory sat
On many a hero’s brow;
And deeds of those heroic men
We hear them tell of now;
Their sounding fame through all the land
Rings out with trumpet tone;
But the fame of that heroic girl
Lives with her God alone.