The Fate of Sergeant E. Mettetal

The Plymouth Historical Museum has acquired a journal of assorted poems, written in 1890, by A. M. Mettetal. In the middle of this journal was a poem titled: Fate of Sergeant E. Mettetal. This recently discovered (Spring, 1998) document contains a great deal of previously unknown information about Emile Mettetal. It is also an excellent example of late-Victorian memorial poetry. Presumably the poem's author, A. M. Mettetal was a close relative of the ill-fated sergeant.

Many thanks to Dan LeBlond and the Plymouth Historical Museum for permission to use this poem on the website. An image the original hand-written poem as well as additional information about Emile can be found by following the link below.

http://www.plymouth.lib.mi.us/~history/Mettatal1.html

The Fate of Emile Mettetal

A prisoner lies in the Florence cell
With languid thoughts of home
Of parents dear, of friends beloved
From whom he sought to roam.
He heard his country's wild alarms
At traitorous hands upraised
To rend the banner, that our sires
With blood and sufferings raised.

The patriotic fires that glowed
Within his manly breast
Roused stern ambitions voice for fame
Sought in the fair lands oppressed.
Decked in a suit of deepest blue
And soldier's knapsack bound
He bade his home and friends adieu
For deeds of glory crowned.

At Fredericksburg the rebel hosts
Were met in strong attire
There many of our brave boys fell
Neath Secessions galling fire
At Fitz Hugh's landing we will find
our bravest boys in blue
At Gettysburg they fought, they bled
Still to their country true

On many a battle field they fought
On fair Virginia's plains
And many of our twenty fourth
Were numbered with the slain.
At the battle of the Wilderness
The fate of one is told
The 'dashing sergeant' here was missed
Yet dear the prize was sold

To southern dungeons he's reduced
To pine away in grief
While friends at home who know his fate
Can send him no relief
For long - long months he's thus confined
With naught his heart to cheer
Though far away, are parents dear
From whom he longs to hear.

At length a message from the north
Proclaimed the captive free
Proclaimed him free to seek the home
And friends he longed to see.
Alas! poor Emile! tragic fate
Which we must call thine own
Has taken from thy parents dear
A worthy, noble son.

On board the 'General Lyon' bound
To fair Potomac's shore
He little thought that he should see
His native land no more
Yes! there upon the burning deck
Me thinks I see him stand
With features turned to catch a glimpse
Of his dear native land.

Alas! the billows madly toss
Hope dies within his breast
Now conscious that he soon must lie
Beneath the ocean's crest
The angry waves roll o'er the wreck
At midnights awful gloom
And he's left struggling with the tide
Against a frightful doom

But all in vain, exhausted now
He sinks beneath the wave
That rolls above that sinking form
To shroud the soldier's grave
Still do I hear those accents mild
Oh father! mother! hear thy child
He sinks! he dies! he's gone

No little mound of earth is left
On which to strew my flowers
No marble slab by which to kneel
Mid Elmwood's shady bowers
There's but one solitary rock
On Carolina's shore
Cape Hatteras on the Atlantic side
Mid billows deafening roar.

Yes! there he sleeps our darling boy
Who fought our flag to save
But why these tears since now he fills
A martyred patriots grave.
A father's locks are turning gray
A mother's voice is dumb.
The sisters smiles have flown away
While I bedeck his tomb.

O! brave defender of our rights
Renew affections chain
The memory of one blighted flower
Can make it strong again
O! Emile we can never forget
The laurels thou hast won
Has made thee follower of our
Brave Gallant Washington.

Permission to use this poem in the 24th Michigan Regimental Website has been graciously granted by Dan LeBlond, xenon@primenet.com and the Plymouth Historical Museum.

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