THE CRIPPLE AT THE GATE.* Look! how the hoofs and wheels to-day Love and laughter like jewels slip From the sparkling eye and the merry lip; Weary and footsore, and ragged and soiled, Of the champing steeds that passed him by ; But it is not the gloom of an envious pain! *We all remember one of the sad evidences of the unavoidable insufficiency of our War Department to the demands made upon it by a gigantic and protracted struggle which spread over such vast distances and employed so many men, -the sight of discharged soldiers, sometimes wounded or enfeebled by disease, without the means of reaching their homes, which often were hundreds of miles away. From this seeming reproach we were at last relieved by the efforts of that noble organization, the Sanitary Commission. THE CRIPPLE AT THE GATE. He tells me his tale in a simple way: 'Tis the fortune of war, and it might be worse; I did think I had a kind of a claim "Don't you think it hard yourself, Sir? There's a hundred dollars of bounty due True, In three years, or when the war's ended; but how But how does it look for a soldier to 'tramp,' From the fields where he often risked his life, "Whose fault this is, Sir, I do not know," Said the wayworn man as he rose to go; "But of this, alas! I am sure — the sight Of a soldier returning in such a plight To the home whence, a few short months ago, He marched in a gallant band, With music, and banners, and shining steel, And cause more bosoms with doubt to swell, 133 Lofty carriage and low coupé Still whirl the dust on the broad highway; But I gaze no more on the joyous train, Till his tall form sinks down the dark hill-side; To beg at the stranger's gate!" Harpers' Weekly. WANTED A MAN. BY EDMUND C. STEDMAN. BACK from the trebly crimson'd field "Give us a man of God's own mould, Give us a rallying-cry, and then, WANTED-A MAN. "No leader to shirk the boasting foe, And to march and countermarch our brave, Nor another, to bluster, and lie, and rave;- "Hearts are mourning in the North, While the sister rivers seek the main, Red with our life-blood flowing forth, Who shall gather it up again? Though we march to the battle-plain Firmly as when the strife began, Shall all our offering be in vain? Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN! "Is there never one in all the land, In trying to make good bread from bran "Oh, we will follow him to the death, Oh, we will use our latest breath, Ours to battle, as patriots can When a Hero leads the Holy War!Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN!" SEPTEMBER 8, 1862. 135 New York Tribune. That is the number of wounded men Who, if the telegraph's tale be true, Reached Washington City but yester e'en. And it is but a handful, the telegrams add, Covered - but only in front with scars. Some are wounded by Minié shot, Others are torn by the hissing shell, Some are pierced by the sharp bayonet, Others are crushed by the horses' hoof; Or fell 'neath the shower of iron which met Them as hail beats down on an open roof. Shall I tell what they did to meet this fate? Why did they fall to this piteous state 'Neath the rifle's crack and the cannon's boom? Orders arrived, and the river they crossed; No matter how many were shot and lost, And floated — sad corpses away from the place. - Orders they heard, and they scaled the height, |