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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,
Who dashed upon old Fifty-nine

As if she were a child.
But soon they found us foemen good,

Who worked with might and will,
And would not give one inch of ground-

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.



“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 "-
Around my neck her arms she threw,
And to her breast my own she drew-

With tears her fond eyes swam.
“ You're dearer to me than I thought-

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,
And thought of you all, my comrades,

But did not think you nigh..
How good it is to meet once more

Before I go away,
To march and carry a different flag,

In the endless realms of day!
“ Tell them I held—” his head bowed down,

As if nature claimed her own,
And they carried off the soldier,

Thinking life had flown.
But he recovered slowly

From wounds-a sad array-
And says he'll yet meet foemen

To fight another day.
WILKESBARRE, April 13, 1861.

“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!

Hark to the sound of the war-charger prancing

The red gory field of yon mighty domain ;
Where kinsmen and brothers to death are advancing,

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 ;

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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

bread ?

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.


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.
O weary Pilgrim! go not forth,
The wind is shrieking from the North ;
And pallid Snow, a phantom, steals,
Attendant on its chariot-wheels;
The freezing night broods o'er the street
'Tis dark and cold for aged feet.
Wait till the morn, when, from the towers,
Deep-throated bells, with iron powers,
Shall usher in to lands of cheer
And lands of gold, the brave New Year
Then, when the day new promise brings,
When mirth and song the loudest rings-
When sunlight gilds the forest ways,
And strikes the hoar frosts' troubled maze,
Thou canst go ontvard at thy will,
Thy secret purpose to fulfil.”
“Maiden, most kind, I may not see

The morn that brings such hope to thee;
But if thou canst, with pitying eye,
Look on, and see an old man die,
I will not cross again thy door,
But tarry till my work is o'er."
His very tones, so soft and low,
O'erran his lips with silvery flow,
And leave such echoes as we find
Dropped from the flying April wind;
Or lingering after summer showers
Midst swaying vines in forest bowers;


“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
With records stained of hate and rage-
Of hosts drawn up in brave array
To fight each other's lives away!
Of clash of sword and noise of gun-
Of corpses stiffening in the sun-
Of hissing shot and booming shell,
Confusion like to that of hell!
Of men, whom mothers once wept o'er,
To devils turned-like men no more !
Of the dread silence afterward,
That steals along the trodden sward,
And settles down o'er faces white,
That never more shall greet the light;
Of passions maddened to excess-
of blood that flowed in plenteousness
Of all the hopes and treasures lost,
To crown the dreadful holocaust!

“O shrine of Death !" the old man cries,
“Whose greedy flames in triumph rise,

Fed by the dread Iconoclast,
Who, heralded by trumpet blast,
Has drained our land of hopes and cheers,
And sowed its fallow ground with tears,
The bleaching bones of dead desires,
The ashes of Ambition's fires,
The royal wine of human life
Spilled over in unholy strife-
The vilest passions 'neath the sun,
Whose work of evil just begun
May never more on earth be done-
A harvest dread of blood and groans,
These are thy temple’s altar-stones !"

Or the low sound that sometimes springs,
Like murmurous clash of unseen wings,
Moaning from trees or vines, or both,
In the swift struggle of their growth-
A strange commingling of all tones,
Or sweet or sad, that Nature owns.
The old man rests again, and seems
To gather up anew his dreams.
From 'neath his mantle, gray and torn,
He draws a book, with pages worn,
And turning o'er its leaves so thin
With frequent seconds entered in,
He strives all eagerly to find
Some thought peculiar to his mind,
As one may take from dusty shelf
Some precious tome, as dear as self,
And turning o'er, with lingering touch,
The leaves full freighted, holding much
Of earnest thought, and won desire,
That kindle passion into fire-
Read here and there some loving rhyme;
Some echo of a far-off time;
Some thought entrapped in mystic words,
(A fowler's mesh holds struggling birds ;)
And note, with acquiescent smile,
The working of the poet's wile :
So, here and there, the old man reads
Of grand endeavor, toil, and deeds;
Of purposes of high surprise-
Of visions granted to the wise-
Of struggles long, and victories won-
Of wonders wrought, and labor done -
Of men who rule the age of gold,
Possessing treasures manifold -
Of life and death-of war and peace
Loud bursts of song in many keys,
And mournful wails of low regret-

that yawn uncovered yet-
Till we who list are fain to think
That Memory gives him gall to drink.
He reads the wooing of the Spring,
When, in the meadows wandering,
He met the maid, her work begun,
And found her fair to look upon.
He reads the fitting of the May,
That bore his maiden-bride away;
And sighs, in mem'ry of the hour
When first he trod her vacant bower,
(Its slender pillars twined across
With orange lichens and green moss,).
And found her buds, no more subdued,
Decking with bloom their solitude.
He murmurs o'er the self-same tune
He heard the south wind play in June,
And finds some lingering of the haze
That tangled in its misty maze
The falling leaves and blossoms sweet,
Beneath the Indian Summer's feet.
“Oh! sweet as Love, but dearer far,"
The old man sighs, “ these memories are;
But sadder still, with longing pain,
For they may never come again!
But one short June my life may know-
May see its roses blush and blow-
Its lilies whiten to the sky,
And then in conscious splendor die;
But with no dream of smiling hope,
That when, o'er yonder snowy slope,
The Summer flitteth down, that she
Will bring those blossoms back to me!"

Again he reads-of lofty rooms
Where warm airs tremble with perfumes ;
Where music answers beauty's laugh,
And red wine waits for all to quaff';
Where roses, blushing with delight,
Press closer to the carpet white
In dumb, red passion, faint and sweet,
Beneath the tread of dancing feet;
Where costly flowers, in blooming bands,
Drop fragrance on the jasper stands;
Where pictures deck the broad, high walls,
And curtains, in their silken falls,
Brush marble forms that hold, like saints,
Life's semblance in their cold restraints-
So pure, so holy, that they seem
The incarnation of a dream!

“What matters it," the old man sighs,
“ If lamps flash radiance o'er young eyes ;

What matters it, if fires be warm,
And music drowns the shrieking storm,
That the cold winter night without
Waves its white, frozen wings about,
And pallid in its icy wrath
The swift snow hurries o'er the path,
And strives with eager haste to meet
Some weary, faint, and haggard feet-
That it may drain some veins of life,
And ease some aching heart of strise !"
Another page he turneth o'er,
And reads, more sadly than before
Within the shadows floating wide
From yon high palaces of pride,
Are lowly cots, all bare and black,
Gaping with many a wide-mouthed crack ,

Oh! let thy coming prove
A resurrection to our buried hopes,
That we may raise again on sun-barred slopes

The altars of our love,
And the quenched fires revive, though spent and cold,

With offerings manifold.

Where Poverty, so gaunt and worn,
Sits ever waiting and forlorn ;
Where no strange perfumes fill the gloom;
Where no buds tremble into bloom;
Where no songs ring, but tears and sighs;
And little children's hungry cries
Make terrible the echoes there,
Already burdened with despair ;
Where mothers, mad with woes like these,
Watch their young children starve and freeze,
And pray that Death would bear them far
To realms beyond the morning star;
Where, in the heavenly courts above,
Their voices, loud in songs of love,
By grief and woe no more controlled,
Will say no longer, “I am cold !"

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“O wonder strange !" the old man cries,
“A riddle for the learned and wise,

That for the lack of bread and wine,
God's image, likeness so divine,
Should find on this broad earth He gave,
His only heritage-a grave!
The sick pray loud with fast-closed palms,
For added wealth and soothing balms-
They drink rare wines from cups of gold,
And yet their neighbor dies of cold !
Oh! when will Charity anointed be?
Greatest of all the blessings three !"

O happy New Year! go
From lands of shade to lands of sun;
And count thy victory duly won

If tears have ceased to flow,
And mourners shout from bloody graves that yawned:

“A better day hath dawned !"


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'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.
CAMP CHASE, Ohio, October, 1564.

Up through the smoke and the driving shot,

And the strife,
Ring the bugle-notes sounding a charge ;
And the spurs strike deep,
And away we plunge,

With a deafʼning shout,

And our swords are out,
For the ghastly lunge

At the foeman's life.
Still are the guns, for a space, as though

Without breath;
And our men go gallantly down,
With unbroken ranks,
And a shout for the “Stars."

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

Burst out.
Yet we hurled the foe heavily back,
In the fierce, wild fight,
And the victory was won;

But the dead lay white,

In the ghastly light,
As the sinking sun

Looked in on the rout.
This one came from the fight with a ball

In his side ;
And he sleeps so peacefully now
That we'll leave him to rest,
By our camp on the hill.

Yet never will come,

To the loved ones at home, Who watch for him still,

The Soldier who died.


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,



A SOLDIER slept, as the morning uprolled

O'er the white tents pitched on the pleasant plain.
The bayonets' gleam was the gleam of gold,
Where the sunlight poured on the height and the wold,

And the fields of yellow grain.
Then the soldier arose, when his rest was done,

And he merrily sang in his joyous glee;
He sharpened his sword and he brightened his gun,
And he smiled, as he thought of the laurels won,

That yet on his brow would be.
The couriers rode when the noontide came,

And told of grim lines advancing fast,
So the camp was filled with a wild acclaim,
And the soldier's heart was kindled with flame

As the hurrying squadron passed.
But the glen full soon was the place of blood,

With the hissing of shot and the clang of steel
And men lay dabbled and stained in the wood,
Though the soldier's comrades in valor stood

Till they made the foemen reel.
When the night came down the corses were strewn,

And the soft dews fell on the face of the dead;
But the soldier's song had changed to a moan,
As, faint and pale, where the sad moon shone,

He lay with his bleeding head.


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 :


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

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