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To naught; that steel-nerved will the loftier towers,
Treading the painful thorns like pleasant flowers,
Free once again, war's trumpet-clangors ring
The warrior to the birthplace of the Spring.
Where the stern Mississippi sea-like sweeps,
To summer flowers, pine cones of wintry steeps,
Into Death's eyes again he fixed his gaze.
Lo! where Port Hudson's deadly batteries blaze,
Whose that tall form that towers when all lie low,
Brow to the sun and bosom to the foe?
Brow to the sun, his brave sword in his hand,
Pointing "There-up and onward, patriot band!"
Again! red batteries' hurling awful hail

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
Full in the fort's hot, gaping hell, he leads
His stormers; slaughter drives his flashing steeds
Trampling broad lanes amid the serried might;
But on, bathed deep in battle's awful light,
On that tall form with lightnings all around;
Firm his proud step along the streaming ground,
Quaking with cannon-thunders; up his tread,
Up to the parapet, above his head
The starry flag borne by a hand that falls,
Death-struck; he grasps the flag-the rebel walls
See the waved stars in that strong clutch, till back
The ebbing conflict drags him in its track.

Once more in other scenes he meets the foe.
O'ermatched, our columns stagger to their blow;
Vain on their squares bold Emory's files are hurled;
Backward the dashing cataract is whirled
Splintered to spray. O banner of the skies!
Flag of the rising constellations, dyes

Of dawn not sunset! shalt thou trail in dust?
Shall blind, dead darkness hide our blazing trust?
On, braves! but no- they pause-they reel-they
break!

Now like some towering crag no storm can shake,
Like some tall pine that soars when all the wood
Bows to the winds-some rock amid the flood,
Our hero stands! he forms each tottering square.
Through them the blazing thunderbolts may tear,
But vain the bulwark stands, a living wall,
Between the foeman and that banner's fall.

Then, the dread last-O woful, woful day!
Ah! the dimmed glory of that trophied fray!
Ah! the fell shadow of that triumph's ray!
Hurling the foeman's might back, back, at last
Onward he sweeps-on, on, as sweeps the blast!
On through the keen, red, hissing air-ah! woe!
That ruthless fate should deal such cruel blow!
On, through the keen, red, hurtling air-but see
That form-it reels-it sinks! that heart, so free
To dare the battle-tempest's direst might,
Winged with the quick, fierce lightning of the fight,
And soaring through the victory's gladdening light,
Up to untroubled realms, hath passed in instant flight!
Death, where he fell, in roses red inurned*

His form-war's hue and love's-and they were turned
To laurels at the touch, and one green twine

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,
None braver; and when battle left his eye,
None softer! Let the stricken nation sigh
For such as he who perish by the way,
While up on crimson feet she toils to greet the day.

Ah! the bright hour he came, though weak and low
With prison languors! Cheerily on were borne
The merry clang of the bells. Clang, clang, they rang!
Joy in our hearts in jocund music sprang!
And all shone pleasureful. One long, long toll,
One long, deep, lingering sound that tells the goal
Of some spent life, then moans along the air
As sorrowing hands our hero's ashes bear
To lie in honored state. We saw his form
Sprinkled with blossoms breathing fresh and warm;
That form so still, so peaceful to our gaze,
That soared so grand amid the battle's blaze,
Scorning the shrieking shell, the whizzing ball,
Sleeping so still beneath his warrior-pall!

We bore him to his sylvan home; there flowers
Should o'er him smile; but chief, the oak that towers
Unbent by blasts, and breaks but to the dart
Of the red bolt, from that heroic heart
Should spring; for, 'mid his kindly graces soared
A firm-knit will-a purpose strong that warred

In deep disdain of Fortune's fitful breath,
And only bowed its rock-clutched strength to Death.
There shall he lie. When our new-kindled sun
Shall dawn, his first rejoicing rays shall run

In gold o'er graves like his-Fame's gold-that Time
Shall brighten-and his monument sublime,
Oh! seek it not in stone, but in piled hearts
That loved him! The carved marble soon departs,
But the heart's token, sent through ages down,
Warm in its living might, mocks Time's most wither-
ing frown.

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 loyal song and shout,
O'er every home and hill,
By each deep valley's mill,
And let its heaven-lit beam
Round every hearth-stone gleam,
And fill the passing hour-
This pregnant, fateful hour-

With all its stirring voices,
And the thunder of its power.

The foe is striking hard;
But in the castle-yard
Uprise fresh traitor bands
To snatch from out our hands,
From fortress and from sea,
This banner of the free,
To give it coward flight,
That Anarchy's dark night,

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,
Your home-horizon scan,
And plant the nation's flag
On hill-side and on crag;
And let your swelling soul
In earnest tones outroll
That brave resolve of old,

When our fathers, true and bold,
Swore a fealty to the flag
Which never once grew cold.

The flag, the flag bends low,
For whirlwinds round it blow,
And wild, chaotic night
Is veiling it from sight;
So let us every one,
While yet the winds rage on,
Cling round the straining mast
And hold the banner fast,

Till stormy Treason's rage
Be safely overpast.

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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,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,
Our Flag shail stay unfurled!

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!
Though Freedom's foes may plot her death,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,
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,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,

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,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,
Our Flag shall stay unfurled!

THE TATTERED FLAGS.

FEBRUARY 22, 1864.

Stirring music thrilled the air,
Brilliant banners fluttered there,
Pealed the bells and rolled the drum,
And the people cried: "They come !"
On they came with measured tramp-
Heroes proved in field and camp.
Banners waved more proudly then;
Cheered the children, cheered the men ;
Beauty, lover of the brave,

Brightened with the smiles she gave;
While the sun, in golden jets,
Flowed along the bayonets,

As upon each laurel crown

Heaven had poured a blessing down.
All was stirring, grand, and gay,
But the pageant passed away
When, with proud and filling eye,
I saw the tattered flags go by!
Fancy then might faintly hear
Hosts advancing, battle cheer,
Sightless bullets whiz along-
Fit refrain for battle-song;
Cannon, with their sulphurous breath,
Hurling messages of death;
Whirring shot and screaming shell
Fluttering where in wrath they fell,
Opening graves-while purple rills
Scar the fields and streak the hills.
See the serried columns press-
Bold, defiant, merciless-
On the long and slender line
Where the starry banners shine;
With demoniac yells they come,
Fiercely drive their bayonets home,
And the arching heavens resound-
God! our men are giving ground!
Shouts, and cries of wild despair,
Mingle in the murky air.

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Is this the land of Washington,
For which our patriot-fathers bled,
Whose mighty strides to freedom shook
The continent beneath their tread?
Is the land of Knox and Green-

Of Marion, Stark, and mighty Wayne,
Who hurled the despot from our shores,

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?
Where Bunker Hill and Monmouth field
Shot terror to the oppressor's soul,
And wrote, with many a flying pen,

Their protests on a bloody scroll?
And shall hour-born oppression spurn
These creeds to alien tyrants taught,
And Freedom's beauteous limbs enthrall,
Or bind the lightning of her thought?
Shall her unwilling hands be made

To forge the insignia of her shame;
Her tongue to speak, her pen to write,
A flaming falsehood on her fame?
Say, ye who stood on Trenton's height,
Shall thus Columbia's freemen write?

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,
The foeman's rights, baptized in blood,
At Bunker Hill and Brandywine;

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.

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A strong and mighty angel,
Calm, terrible, and bright,
The cross in blended red and blue
Upon his mantle white!

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
Before him open flew,

The drawbridge at his coming fell,

The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand,
And paid his righteous tax;
And the hearts of lord and peasant
Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis,
His bark her anchor weighed,
Freighted with seven score Christian souls
Whose ransom he had paid.

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 :
There's death upon the water,
There's death upon the land!"

Then up spake John De Matha:
"God's errands never fail !
Take thou the mantle which I wear,
And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle,
The blue, the white, the red;
And straight before the wind off shore
The ship of Freedom sped.

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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 clouds are black above her,
The sea is white below.

The hope of all who suffer;

The dread of all who wrong;

She drifts in darkness and in storm,
How long, O Lord! how long?

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 mantle that De Matha wore,
The red, the white, the blue?
Its hues are all of heaven-

The red of sunset's dye,
The whiteness of the moon-lit cloud,
The blue of morning's sky.

Wait cheerily, then, O mariners!
For daylight and for land;
The breath of God is in your sail,
Your rudder is his hand.

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:
Above the Present's cry and moan,
We catch the far-off undertone
Of coming Time, undimmed with tears;
And more this frailer life endears

The life to nobler being grown.

Though sore begirt with peril-days,

Faith shapes anew the promise-song
Of-Right shall triumph over Wrong;
And Evil's subtle, darkened ways
Be set in light. Yet still delays
The golden year, delaying long.
While shrouded in impending gloom,
Hangs dim the nation's beacon star :
Like deepening thunders, boding far,
Comes up the cannon's awful boom;
Like near resounding trump of doom,
Wide bay the hungry hounds of war!
Alas! but discord's clang and jar
May Freedom nurse to larger growth;
But fiercest mortal strife, in sooth,
Can drive the embattled hosts afar,
That, mad with maniac frenzy, bar
The gates to wider realms of truth.

Yet speed the earthquake shock that cleaves
The fetters from a shackled race;
The mountain rive, from crown to base,
Of crime that all the land bereaves;
The whirlwind lightning-wing, that leaves
To Freedom broader breathing-space!

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 left us,
Victory won.

One more buried
Beneath the sod;
One more standing
Before his God.

Lay him low, lay him low,
Ere the morning break;
Sorrow not, sorrow not,

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;
An angel now,
A saintly crown
Upon his brow.

We should not weep
That he is gone;
With us 'tis night,
With him 'tis morn.

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!

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