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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 flerce sleet that loads the thundering gale.
Ranks crushed beneath showered shot and shell, like


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.

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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

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.


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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.



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.

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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 fameBehold your progeny and weep! Were such, with old Laconia's son,' The men who fought at Bennington ?


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And not till this, and not till then,

Shall dawn that black and hateful hour That dooms the patriot's tongue and pen To bide the weight of bigot power; And then to shame our father's graves, We shall deserve the brand of slaves. OWENSBORO, Ky., 1864.



A. D. 1154-1864.


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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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!




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!


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!




"Miss Cecilia De Jeunne, a resident of Fort Smith, having admitted to the General Commanding that she is disloyal to the Government of the United States; that she gave utterance to exclamations of joy when she heard that Major-General Blunt and all his staff were killed; that she has expressed sentiments of dis

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