Our Parrotts felt the distant wood
With humming, shrieking, growling shell;
When suddenly the mouth of hell
Gaped fiercely for its human food.

A long and low blue roll of smoke
Curled up a hundred yards ahead,
And deadly storms of driving lead
From rifle-pits and cane-fields broke.

Then while the bullets whistled thick,

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And hidden batteries boomed and shelled, Charge bayonets!" the colonel yelled ; "Battalion forward, double quick!"

With even slopes of bayonets

Advanced · a dazzling, threatening crest Right toward the rebels' hidden nest, The dark-blue, living billow sets.

The color-guard was at my side;

I heard the color-sergeant groan;
I heard the bullet crush the bone;
I might have touched him as he died.

The life-blood spouted from his mouth
And sanctified the wicked land:
Of martyred saviours what a band
Has suffered to redeem the South!

I had no malice in my mind;

Guide right!'

I only cried, "Close up.
My single purpose in the fight
Was steady march with ranks aligned.

I glanced along the martial rows,

And marked the soldiers' eyeballs burn;

SONG OF NEW ENGLAND SPRING BIRDS.

Their eager faces, hot and stern,
The wrathful triumph on their brows.

The traitors saw; they reeled, they fled:
Fear-stricken, gray-clad multitudes
Streamed wildly toward the covering woods,
And left us victory and their dead.

Once more the march, the tiresome plain,
The Father River fringed with dykes,
Gray cypresses, palmetto spikes,

Bayous and swamps and yellowing cane;

With here and there plantations rolled
In flowers, bananas, orange-groves,
Where laugh the sauntering negro droves,
Reposing from the task of old;

And, rarer, half-deserted towns,

Devoid of men, where women scowl,

Avoiding us as lepers foul

With sidling gait and flouting gowns.

THIBODEAUX, La., March, 1863.

153

Harpers' Monthly.

SONG OF NEW-ENGLAND SPRING BIRDS.

WHEN Robin, Swallow, Thrush, and Wren,
From "way down South" had come again,
I roamed through field and wood to see
If birds, like men, could Rebels be;
I wondered if their tiny throats
Would circulate secession notes;

I think, may be, my thoughts they knew,
So what they sang, I'll sing to you.

First rising from a sedgy brook,

The stump, bold Bob-o' Lincoln took;

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Well, now, I guess I'm glad,” said he, "For my free speech a stump to see; They could n't hold me in the mesh Of that strange net they call 'Secesh'; To keep me down they need n't think on, Hurrah! for Bob (and Abram) Lincoln !”

The Robin Red-breast sang his song;
"Ah, me! I've seen such fearful wrong!
I thought at first the storm would clear up,
But soon I had no heart to chirrup!
The Sunny South' is fine, I know,
When Northern hills are white with snow;
But oh, 't is full of grief and pain!
Cheer up! chirrup I'm home again.”

and me,

The Wren piped forth her tiny cry ;
“A little thing, I know, am I;—
But small, weak things, like you
My sister Sparrow, love the free!"
The Sparrow heard the lowly call,
And said, “Who heeds the sparrows' fall,
And keeps them always in His sight,
Shall hear ME sing' God speed the Right!'"

Then Jay, the bluebird, joined the throng,
And bade the white Dove fly along;
And Oriole with throat of red,

And then exultantly, he said:
"Come, loyal birds, and as we stand,
Behold the colors of our Land!

Let every bird that 's brave and true,
Sing, cheer, the Red and White and Blue!"

The sky o'erhead was clear and bright,
The North wind sang o'er plain and height;

THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVILLE.

The rill went singing on its way,

And leaves and flowers were bright and gay;
The rock and wood and meadow rang,

As loud and clear and sweet they sang,

And every bird, it seemed to me,

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Sang "Praise the Lord! We're free! we 're free!”

Commonwealth.

THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVILLE.

THE ripe red berries of the wintergreen

Lure me to pause awhile

In this deep, tangled wood. I stop and lean
Down where these wild flowers smile,

And rest me in this shade; for many a mile,
Through lane and dusty street,

I've walked with weary, weary feet,

And now I tarry 'mid this woodland scene, ’Mong ferns and mosses sweet.

Here all around me blows

The pale primrose.

I wonder if the gentle blossom knows
The feeling at my heart the solemn grief,

So whelming and so deep

That it disdains relief,

And will not let me weep.

I wonder that the woodbine thrives and grows,

And is indifferent to the nation's woes.

For while these mornings shine, these blossoms bloom, Impious rebellion wraps the land in gloom.

Nature, thou art unkind,

Unsympathizing, blind!

Yon lichen, clinging to th' o'erhanging rock,

Is happy, and each blade of grass O'er which unconsciously I pass Smiles in my face, and seems to mock

Me with its joy. Alas! I cannot find

One charm in bounteous Nature, while the wind

That blows upon my cheek bears on each gust

The groans of my poor country, bleeding in the dust.

The air is musical with notes

That gush from wingèd warblers' throats,

And in the leafy trees

I hear the drowsy hum of bees.

Prone from the blinding sky

Dance rainbow-tinted sunbeams, thick with motes;
Daisies are shining, and the butterfly

Wavers from flower to flower; —yet in this wood
The ruthless foeman stood,

And every turf is drenched with human blood!

O heartless flowers!

O trees, clad in your robes of glistering sheen,
Put off this canopy of gorgeous green!

These are the hours

For mourning, not for gladness. While this smart
Of treason dire gashes the nation's heart,
Let birds refuse to sing,

And flowers to bloom upon the lap of spring.
Let Nature's face itself with tears o'erflow,
In deepest anguish for a people's woe.

While rank Rebellion stands

With blood of martyrs on his impious hands;
While slavery and chains

And cruelty and direst hate

Uplift their heads within th' afflicted State, And freeze the blood in every patriot's veins Let these old woodlands fair