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If I should die of this slight wound
The trust is not misplacedCarry it back to those who gave,
And say 'twas ne'er disgraced.
“Just there we met the 'Catamounts '*
From Alabama's wild,
As if she were a child.
Who worked with might and will,
It was not in our drill!
And spirits unfettered their prison deserted,
Surveyed them with horror, and fled in dismay. Be still, little baby, your mother is weeping
In secret she whispers the name of her dear, Your father, so young and so noble, is sleeping
The wail of his darling falls dead on his ear. Oh! when shall Columbia her freedom inherit,
And peace, like an angel, descend with a smile ; Or fate send a hero, with Washington's merit, To stay the red surge that o'erwhelms the soil ?
-From Glasgow (Scotland) Penny Post.
BY W. A. KENDALL.
“My poor old flag was torn to shreds,
But still I held it high, Determined that this tree itself
Should run as soon as I. Wounded and faint at last I fell
Upon the reeking ground, And feeling round for my dear flag,
This, alas! is all I found.
“ You've donned the peerless uniform
Of good old Uncle Sam "-
With tears her fond eyes swam.
Since in this steadfast hue Your form was draped, its impress takes A depth such as a hero's makes
All hail, my own true blue !
“I crawled away to this old tree,
To lay me down and die,
But did not think you nigh..
Before I go away,
In the endless realms of day!
As if nature claimed her own,
Thinking life had flown.
From wounds-a sad array-
To fight another day.
“Prouder am I to see you thus
Though it preludes good-byThan were you crowned perchance a king, Whose name in action ne'er did ring,
Whose soul gives fame the lie.
“Your stature seems to gain in height
From your high motive's aim ; And to such eminence my heart Is lifted, I am strong to part
Oh! to reserve were shame!
“Go, save our country! she is first
Stand guard until you fall; Or till the danger overcome Shall respite the alarum-drum
I will delay recall.
“Go, where along the lurid front
The Union vanguards tramp! Do your whole duty, danger spurn, When Freedom's laurelled, then return
These arms shall be your camp!
THE AMERICAN WAR.
The red gory field of yon mighty domain ;
And father and son swell the ranks of the slain. Their trumpets are sounding slave emancipation !
What genius awoke that harmonical strain, Or charmed it to sluinber in vile degradation,
Till union extinction had kindled the flame ? Ye sons of Columbia, your rigor surrender,
The sun of your glory descends into night; Your grandsires, who bled for your freedom and splen
dor, In union combined ye—then why do ye fight? Your maidens are sighing amidst their devotion,
For loved ones laid low in the flower of their bloom; Hearts that responded each tender emotion
Lie silent and cold in the warrior's tomb. The daisies may wave where the pale lips were parted,
In hateful reproach, or in anguish to pray ;
Ah! just as long as history owns a record,
This foulest shame upon the South shall rest, That writ, in blood and flame, the fiendish motto,
No pity, none, upon the rebel crest.
Not for the wounded, and the sick and dying!
Not for brave prisoners craft but forced to yield ! Nor women and young children ! then, O Southron!
Go, blazon Chivalry upon your shield !
Is this the foe whose wounded we have tended ?
Is this the foe whose prisoned we have fed ? Whose women and whose children we have succored, When their own soldiers robbed them of their
O the brave hearts they riddled with their bullets!
O the sick forms they mangled where they lay ! Their murdered blood cries up to God, Avenge us !
Cries out to you, O brothers ! night and day.
Then grasp your muskets and belt on your sabres,
For fiercely burns the hate of desperate men; But go not forth to murder and to pillage,
Nay, leave such bandit-deeds to such as them.
Brave hearts ne'er yet were cruel to the vanquished;
Ye will not stain the dear old flag ye bear With crimes that would disgrace the martial manhood,
That took that flag from fingers young and fair, Let none at home prate peace and compromising,
When rebel tactics is to butcher men ! Nay, rally, freemen, in one grand uprising,
For the world wills that we should conquer them! O bearded faces, brown but kind and tender!
Through weary marches, our prayers march with you, And sweet lips cry from home: Dear braves, re
member, As you to country, we to you are true.
LIZZIE P. SIDNEY, OHIO, April 26.
NEW YEAR, 1864. Beside my quiet hearth to-night A Pilgrim sits, with locks of white, With drooping head and folded hands, As one who dreams of far-off lands; As one all conscious that the hour Is bearing from him wealth and power, And looks to sunset shores attained, Where blessings lost may be regained. Oh! weird and strange the old man seems, As though I saw him in my dreamsHis garments stained with moss and dust, His eyes like graves of buried trust, His lips all trembling, pale, and still, A worker he, of good or ill. “O Stranger! tell me whence thy flight, To rest beside my hearth to-night; Tell me thy hope—thy eager quest, That I may honor thee, my Guest !" He answers not, but turns to go,
Over bis worn staff bending low.
The morn that brings such hope to thee;
THE HERO OF SUGAR PINE,
“Oh! tell me, Sergeant of Battery B,
O hero of Sugar Pine! Some glorious deed of the battle-field,
Some wonderful feat of thine;
"Some skilful move when the fearful game
Of battle and life was played On yon grimy field, whose broken squares
In scarlet and black are laid."
But now he reads a darker page
“O shrine of Death !" the old man cries,
Fed by the dread Iconoclast,
Or the low sound that sometimes springs,
that yawn uncovered yet-
Again he reads-of lofty rooms
“What matters it," the old man sighs,
What matters it, if fires be warm,
Oh! let thy coming prove
The altars of our love,
With offerings manifold.
Where Poverty, so gaunt and worn,
“O wonder strange !" the old man cries,
That for the lack of bread and wine,
O happy New Year! go
If tears have ceased to flow,
“A better day hath dawned !"
AFTER THE FIGHT.
'Tis morning again on the tents and the spears,
But the soldier's voice is for ever still; There's a form that's missed from the cavaliers, There's a sweet face blurred with bitter tears
There's a nameless grave on the hill.
Up through the smoke and the driving shot,
And the strife,
With a deafʼning shout,
And our swords are out,
At the foeman's life.
There's a swift, bright flash
From the guns, and a crash, And the red earth jars
'Neath the thunder of death. And many a brave boy fell when that fire
But the dead lay white,
In the ghastly light,
Looked in on the rout.
In his side ;
Yet never will come,
To the loved ones at home, Who watch for him still,
The Soldier who died.
GEN. BUTLER AND THE “PERFECTIONISTS."
In Norfolk there is a society called “ Perfectionists," and in their behalf some ten or twelve of this number addressed a letter to the Commanding General of that department, setting forth their objections to swearing allegiance to any earthly government. The subject was disposed of by General Butler in the following characteristic manner :
“ UEA , }
Fort Morroe, Va., January 13, 1864. “J. F. Dozier, E. H. Boaseley, and others :
“GENTLEMEN : I have read your petition to General Barnes, setting forth your objections to swearing allegiance to any earthly government.
“ The first reason which you set forth is that all human governments are a necessary evil, and are continued in existence only by the permission of Jehovah until the time arrives for the establishment of his kingdom, and in the establishment of which all others will be subdued unto it, thus fulfilling that declaration in the eighth of Daniel, fourteenth verse,' etc.
“You therein establish to your own satisfaction three points :
"First. The government, although an evil, is a necessary one. Second. That for a time it is permitted to exist by the wisdom of Jehovah. Third. That the time at which a period is to be put to its existence is not come.
“Therefore you ought to swear allegiance to the government of the United States :
“First. Because, though an evil, you admit it to be necessary. Second. Although an evil, you admit that it is permitted by the wisdom of Jehovah, and that it is not for his creatures to question the wisdom of his acts. Third. You only claim to be excused when Jehovah's government is substitutel, which period, you admit, has not yet arrived. Your obedient servant,
“ BENJ. F. BUTLER."
THE STORY OF A DAY.
A SOLDIER slept, as the morning uprolled
O'er the white tents pitched on the pleasant plain.
And the fields of yellow grain.
And he merrily sang in his joyous glee;
That yet on his brow would be.
And told of grim lines advancing fast,
As the hurrying squadron passed.
With the hissing of shot and the clang of steel
Till they made the foemen reel.
And the soft dews fell on the face of the dead;
He lay with his bleeding head.
LETTER FROM THREE GOOD LITTLE BOYS.
The Richmond Whig of the twenty-ninth of January, published the following “ Letter from Three Good Little Boys," in which, under cover of a facetious style, the desperation of the rebel army was disclosed, and the “government" condemned for its inefficiency and retention of incompetent agents :
" OUT IN THE FIELD,
January 28, 1861. “ DEAR PA: We take our Pen in Hand to write You a letter.
We have Got something to say to You. It is Bad News, and we are sorry to say it. But it is the Fact. And we Hope You won't get Very Vadd with us for telling it, for It is the Real Truth, and we don't mean to Hert your Feelings by telling it. Because, if we could help telling It, we wouldn't Tell It. Dear Pa, the truth is this. Us Boys that You sent into the Field to Fight the Yankees are getting Mighty Hungry, and the Reason of it All is that we don't get Enough to Eat.
“Now You Know that Boys that don't get a Plen. ty to Eat can't Fight. They can Fight some. But