Poetry of Col. W. Hawkins, Camp Chase
Livingston Parish File, Louisiana
File prepared by D.N. Pardue




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From the French Settlement Historical Register, published by the French Settlement
Historical Society, French Settlement, Louisiana 70733. The LaGenWeb Archives thanks 
them for contributing this information.

Vol. 3, December 1978

Originally submitted to the FSHR by Pamela Lass

         
                                       MY FRIEND

     Written by Col. W. Hawkins, C.S.A., a prisoner of war at Camp Chase, 
a friend of a fellow prisoner who was engaged to be married to a Southern lady.
She proved faithless to him.  The letter arrived soon after his death, and was
answered by Col. Hawkins in the following lines:

Your letter came, but came too late
 For Heaven has claimed its own;
Ah! sudden change from prison bars
 Unto the Great White Throne.
And yet I think he would have stayed
 For one more day of pain,
Could he have read the tardy words
 Which you have sent in vain.

Why did you wait, fair lady,
 Through so many a weary hour?
Had you other lover with you
 In that silken dainty bower?
Did others bow before your charms
 And twine bright garlands there?
And yet, I ween, in all that throng
 His spirit had no peer.

I wish that you were by me now
 As I draw the sheet aside,
To see how pure the look he wore
 A while before he died.
Yet sorrow that you gave him
 Still has left its weary trace.
And a meek and saintly sadness
 Dwells upon that palid face.

"Her love," he said, "could change for me
 The winters cold to spring."
Ah! trust of thoughtless maiden's love,
 Thou art a better thing!
For when those valleys fair in May,
 Once more with blooms shall wave,
The Northern violets shall blow
 Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been
 But one more pang to bear;
Though to the last he kissed with love
 This tress of your soft hair.
I did not put it where he said,
 For when the angels come
I would not have them find the sign
 of falsehood in his tomb.

I've read your letters, and I know
 The wiles you have wrought
To win that noble heart of his,
 And gained it; fearful thought.
What lavish wealth men sometimes give
 For a trifle light and small;
What manly forms are often held
 In folly's flimsy thrall.

You shall not pity him, for now
 He's past your hope and fear;
Although I wish you could stand
 With me beside his bier.
Still I forgive you; Heaven knows
 For mercy you'll have need,
Since God his awful judgement sends
 On each unworthy deed.

To-night the cold wind whistles by,
 As I my vigils keep
Within the prison dead-house, where
 Few mourners come to weep.
A rude plank coffin holds him now,
 Yet death gives always grace;
And I had rather see him thus
 Than clasped in your embrace.

To-night your rooms are very gay,
 With wit, and wine, and song;
And you are smiling just as if
 You never did a wrong.
Your hand so fair that none would think
 It penned those words of pain;
Your skin so white - would God you soul
 Were half so free of stain.

I'd rather be this dear, dear friend,
 Than you in all your glee;
For you are held in grievous bonds
 While he's forever free.
Whom serve we in this life we serve
 In that which is to come;
He chose his way; you yours; let God
 Pronounce the fitting doom!

CAMP CHASE, December 1864