To naught; that steel-nerved will the loftier towers, Like the fierce sleet that loads the thundering gale. Ranks crushed beneath showered shot and shell, like grain By that same sleet, across the heaped-up plain Once more in other scenes he meets the foe. Of dawn not sunset! shalt thou trail in dust? Now like some towering crag no storm can shake, Then, the dread last-O woful, woful day! His form-war's hue and love's-and they were turned From them the land hath wrought to deck the hero's shrine. He fell in conflict's fiercest, wildest flame; And now his loved and laurelled ashes claim Colonel Benedict fell literally on a bed of crimson rosesthe wild Louisiana rose. VOL. VIII.-POETRY 4 Our heartfelt sorrow! for among the brave, Ah! the bright hour he came, though weak and low We bore him to his sylvan home; there flowers In deep disdain of Fortune's fitful breath, In gold o'er graves like his-Fame's gold-that Time Blessed is he who suffers, and we know A solemn joy, that one whose manhood's glow Faded so soon, should die to mark how grand Above all fleeting life, to die for Native Land. OUR FLAG IN '64. BY D. B. DUFFIELD. Fling, fling our banner out, With all its stirring voices, The foe is striking hard; With all its muttering thunders, May swallow up its light. • Benedictus qui patitur. Motto of the Benedict family. Ay! when our soldiers brave, On battle-field and wave, Sprang forth with deadly stroke Through battle's blazing smoke, Our standard to uphold, And save its every fold, These home-born traitors cry, "God grant no victory!" Though scores of gallant heroes Round the old flag bravely die. Rise, then, each loyal man, When our fathers, true and bold, The flag, the flag bends low, Till stormy Treason's rage Proclaim her cause their own, and cry, Our Flag shall stay unfurled! Our Flag shall stay unfurled, Our Flag shall stay unfurled! Though Freedom's foes may plot her death, What hands dare strike that hopeful Flag, for which our fathers bled? Who mocks the wisdom of the past, the counsels of the Dead? Shall Faction spoil our heritage? Nay, shout it to the world The progress of our race depends-Our Flag shall stay unfurled! Our Flag shall stay unfurled, Our Flag shall stay unfurled! * Written in 1861. The authorities of Baltimore city had forbidden the display of the American flag, but in many instances it was kept afloat, till torn down by the police. After several weeks of trouble and anxiety, the Union people prevailed, the rebel ensigns were secreted or destroyed, and the beautiful Flag of our Nation was flung out on the breeze from a thousand windows and spires all over the city. Here God has smiled-here Peace has reigned-all tongues have utterance here; Here Faith is free to choose her creed-no despot's stake is near; Here reigns an empire without walls, a wonder to the world: And shall this fabric be dissolved? Columbia's Flag be furled? Our Flag shall stay unfurled, Our Flag shall stay unfurled! Though Freedom's foes may plot her death, Our Flag shall stay unfurled! Float on, thou emblem of the age-defence on land and sea! O God of hosts! in humble faith, we trust our cause to thee ! Then traitor's plots and tyrant hordes against us may be hurled Yet shall our Flag victorious wave, the hope of all the world! Our Flag shall stay unfurled, Our Flag shall stay unfurled! Though Freedom's foes may plot her death, THE TATTERED FLAGS. FEBRUARY 22, 1864. Stirring music thrilled the air, Brightened with the smiles she gave; As upon each laurel crown Heaven had poured a blessing down. Is this the land of Washington, Of Marion, Stark, and mighty Wayne, And dashed to earth his galling chain? Were these our sires-are we the sons Of men whose fame hath filled the earth? And have we dwarfed and dwindled thus, To mock the majesty of birth? Arise! ye heroes of the past! Where mould your bones by many a steep, Behold the sons that heir your fame Behold your progeny and weep! Were such, with old Laconia's son,* The men who fought at Bennington ? Is this the land of Washington, That warmed the patriot's sanguine dreams, Where Liberty made bright her shield, And nursed her eaglets in its gleams? Their protests on a bloody scroll? To forge the insignia of her shame; No! never while one spark remains Unquenched of freedom's altar-fires, Which still may shoot aloft in flame, Fanned by the memory of our sires; No not till every patriot's blood Is poured upon the sword to rust, And Liberty, without her shield, Trails her bright garments in the dust; Not till the mother fails to teach Her offspring, with a zeal divine, Laconia's Son.-In the early days of the discovery and settlement of New-Hampshire, it was called Laconia. At the famous battle, or battles, of Bennington (for two were fought on the same day and on the same field) General Stark, of NewHampshire, commanded. A strong and mighty angel, Two captives by him kneeling, Each on his broken chain, Sang praise to God who raiseth The dead to life again! Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the angel said; "Take thou, O Freedom's priest! its signThe white, the blue, and red!" Then rose up John De Matha In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France The ransom of the slave. The gates of tower and castle The drawbridge at his coming fell, The door-bolt backward drew. For all men owned his errand, At last, outbound from Tunis, But, torn by Paynim hatred, Her sails in tatters hung; And on the wild waves rudderless, A shattered hulk she swung. "God save us!" cried the captain, "For naught can man avail: Oh! woe betide the ship that lacks Her rudder and her sail! "Behind us are the Moormen ; At sea we sink or strand : Then up spake John De Matha: They raised the cross-wrought mantle, With rudder foully broken, And sails by traitors torn, Our Country on a midnight sea Is waiting for the morn. Before her, nameless terror; Behind, the pirate-foe; The hope of all who suffer; The dread of all who wrong; She drifts in darkness and in storm, But courage, O my mariners! Ye shall not suffer wreck While up to God the freedman's prayers Are rising from your deck. Is not your sail the banner Which God hath blest anew, The red of sunset's dye, Wait cheerily, then, O mariners! Sail on, sail on, deep-freighted With blessings and with hopes; The saints of old, with shadowy hands, Are pulling at your ropes. Behind ye holy martyrs Uplift the palm and crown; Before ye unborn ages send Their benedictions down. Take heart from John De Matha! God's errands never fail! Sweep on through storm and darkness, The thunder and the hail! Sail on the morning cometh, The port ye yet shall win; And all the bells of God shall ring The good ship bravely in! THE CONFLICT OF AGES. BY B. HATHAWAY. All good awaits the ripened years: The life to nobler being grown. Though sore begirt with peril-days, Faith shapes anew the promise-song Yet speed the earthquake shock that cleaves It is not all a godless strife That sets the longing captive free; More dread than battle-thunders be The despot's rod, the assassin's knifeThe dungeon's gloom, the death in life, Of Peace, whose price is Liberty! THE YOUNG PATRIOT. ONE more absent, The battle done; One more buried Lay him low, lay him low, He minds not heart-ache. He is one, he is one Of that noble band Who have fought, who have died, For their fatherland. He needs no tears; We should not weep A BRAVE DRUMMER-BOY.-Orion P. Howe, of Waukegan, Illinois, drummer-boy to the Fifty-fifth volunteers of that State, was appointed to fill a vacancy in the Naval School at Newport. The following extract from a letter written by Major-General Sherman to Secretary Stanton, detailing an incident which transpired during the assault upon the rebel works at Vicksburgh, on May nineteenth, doubtless secured the boy's promotion: "When the assault at Vicksburgh was at its height on the nineteenth of May, and I was in front near the road which formed my line of attack, this young lad came up to me wounded and bleeding, with a good, healthy boy's cry: 'General Sherman, send some cartridges to Colonel Malmborg; the men are nearly all out.' 'What is the matter, my boy?' 'They shot me in the leg, sir, but I can go to the hospital. Send the cartridges right away.' Even where we stood the shot fell thick, and I told him to go to the rear at once, I would attend to the cartridges, and off he limped. Just before he disappeared on the hill, he turned and called as loud as he could: Calibre 54.' I have not seen the lad since, and his Colonel, Malmborg, on inquiry, gives me his address as above, and says he is a bright, intelligent boy, with a fair preliminary education. "What arrested my attention then was, and what renews my memory of the fact now is, that one so young, carrying a musket-ball wound through his leg, should have found his way to me on that fatal spot, and delivered his message, not forgetting the very important part even of the calibre of his musket, 54, which you know is an usual one. "I'll warrant that the boy has in him the elements of a man, and I commend him to the Government as one worthy the fostering care of some one of its national institutions." LITTLE JOHNNY CLEM.-A pleasant little scene occurred last evening at the headquarters of General Thomas. Of course you remember the story of little Johnny Clem, the motherless atom of a drummer-boy, aged ten," who strayed away from Newark, Ohio; and the first we knew of him, though small enough to live in a drum, was beating the long roll for the Twenty-second Michigan. At Chickamauga, he filled the office of "marker," carrying the guidon whereby they form the lines; a duty having its counterpart in the surveyor's more peaceful calling, in the flag-man who flutters the red signal along the metes and bounds. On the Sunday of the battle, the little fellow's occupation gone, he picked up a gun that had fallen from some dying hand, provided himself with ammunition, and began putting in the periods quite on his own ac count, blazing away close to the ground, like a fire-fly in the grass. Late in the waning day, the waif left almost alone in the whirl of the battle, a rebel Colonel dashed up, and looking down at him, ordered him to surrender: "Surrender!" he shouted, " you little d-d son of a -!" The words were hardly out of his mouth, when Johnny brought his piece to "order arms," and as his hand slipped down to the hammer, he pressed it back, swung up the gun to the position of "charge bayonet," and as the officer raised his sabre to strike the piece aside, the glancing barrel lifted into range, and the proud Colonel tumbled from his horse, his lips fresh-stained with the syllable of vile reproach he had flung on a mother's grave in the hearing of her child! A few swift moments ticked on by musket-shots, and the tiny gunner was swept up at a rebel swoop and borne away a prisoner. Soldiers, bigger but not better, were taken with him, only to be washed back again by a surge of Federal troopers, and the prisoner of thirty minutes was again John Clem "of ours;" and General Rosecrans made him a sergeant, and the stripes of rank covered him all over, like a mouse in a harness; and the daughter of Mr Secretary Chase presented him a silver medal appropriately inscribed, which he worthily wears, a royal order of honor, upon his left breast; and all men conspire to spoil him; but, since few ladies can get at him here, perhaps he may be saved. But what about last night? Well, like Flora McFlimsey, the Sergeant "had nothing to wear;" the clothing in the wardrobe of loyal livery was not at all like Desdemona's handkerchief, “too little," but like the garments of the man who roomed a month over a baker's oven, "a world too wide;" and so Miss Babcock, of the Sanitary Commission, suggested to a resident of your city, that a uniform for the little Orderly would be acceptable. Mr. Waite and other gentlemen of the "Sherman House" ordered it, Messrs. A. D. Titsworth & Company made it, Chaplain Raymond brought it, Miss Babcock presented it, and Johnny put it on. Chaplain Raymond, of the Fifty-first Illinois-by the by, a most earnest and efficient officeraccompanied the gift with exceedingly appropriate suggestion and advice, the substance of which I send you. This morning I happened at headquarters just as the belted and armed Sergeant was booted and spurred, and ready to ride. Resplendent in his elegant uniform, rigged cap-a-pie, modest, frank, with a clear eye and a manly face, he looked more like a fancypicture than a living thing. Said he to the Chaplain : "You captured me by surprise, yesterday." Now, he is "going on" thirteen, as our grandmothers used to say; but he would be no monster if we called him only nine. Think of a sixty-three pound Sergeantfancy a handful of a hero, and then read the Arabian Nights, and believe them! Long live the little Orderly! |