To naught; that steel-nerved will the loftier towers, Our heartfelt sorrow! for among the brave,
Treading the painful thorns like pleasant flowers, None braver; and when battle left his eye,
Free once again, war's trumpet-clangors ring

None softer! Let the stricken nation sigh
The warrior to the birthplace of the Spring.

For such as he who perish by the way, Where the stern Mississippi sea-like sweeps,

While up on crimson feet she toils to greet the day. To summer flowers, pine cones of wintry steeps, Into Death's eyes again he fixed his gaze.

Ah! the bright hour he came, though weak and low Lo! where Port Hudson's deadly batteries blaze, With prison languors! Cheerily on were borne Whose that tall form that towers when all lie low, The merry clang of the bells. Clang, clang, they rang! Brow to the sun and bosom to the foe?

Joy in our hearts in jocund music sprang ! Brow to the sun, his brave sword in his hand, And all shone pleasureful. One long, long toll, Pointing “There—up and onward, patriot band !” One long, deep, lingering sound that tells the goal Again ! red batteries' hurling awful hail

Of some spent life, then moans along the air Like the fierce sleet that loads the thundering gale. As sorrowing hands our hero's ashes bear Ranks crushed beneath showered shot and shell, like To lie in honored state. We saw his form grain

Sprinkled with blossoms breathing fresh and warm ;
By that same sleet, across the heaped-up plain That form so still, so peaceful to our gaze,
Full in the fort's hot, gaping hell, he leads

That soared so grand amid the battle's blaze,
His stormers ; slaughter drives his flashing steeds Scorning the shrieking shell, the whizzing ball,
Trampling broad lanes amid the serried might; Sleeping so still beneath his warrior-pall !
But on, bathed deep in battle's awful light,
On that tall form with lightnings all around;

We bore him to his sylvan home; there flowers
Firm his proud step along the streaming ground, Should o'er him smile; but chief, the oak that towers
Quaking with cannon-thunders; up his tread, Unbent by blasts, and breaks but to the dart
Up to the parapet, above his head

Of the red bolt, from that heroic heart The starry flag borne by a hand that falls,

Should spring; for, 'mid his kindly graces soared Death-struck; he grasps the flag—the rebel walls A firm-knit will-a purpose strong that warred See the waved stars in that strong clutch, till back In deep disdain of Fortune's fitful breath, The ebbing conflict drags him in its track.

And only bowed its rock-clutched strength to Death.

There shall he lie. When our new-kindled sun Once more in other scenes he meets the foe.

Shall dawn, his first rejoicing rays shall run O'ermatched, our columns stagger to their blow;

In gold o'er graves like his-Fame's gold—that Time Vain on their squares bold Emory's files are hurled ;

Shall brighten-and his monument sublime, Backward the dashing cataract is whirled

Oh! seek it not in stone, but in piled hearts Splintered to spray. 0 banner of the skies !

That loved him! The carved marble soon departs, Flag of the rising constellations, dyes

But the heart's token, sent through ages down, Of dawn not sunset! shalt thou trail in dust?

Warm in its living might, mocks Time's most witherShall blind, dead darkness hide our blazing trust ?

ing frown.
On, braves! but no - they pause — they reel — they
break!

Blessed is he who suffers, * and we know
Now like some towering crag no storm can shake, A solemn joy, that one whose manhood's glow
Like some tall pine that soars when all the wood

Faded so soon, should die to mark how grand
Bows to the winds—some rock amid the flood,

Above all fleeting life, to die for Native Land.
Our bero stands ! he forms each tottering square.
Through them the blazing thunderbolts may tear,
But vain : the bulwark stands, a living wall,

OUR FLAG IN '64.
Between the foeman and that banner's fall.
Then, the dread last-0 woful, woful day!
Ah! the dimmed glory of that trophied fray!

Fling, fling our banner out,
Ah ! the fell shadow of that triumph's ray !

With loyal song and shout,

O’er every home and hill, Hurling the foeman's might back, back, at last

By each deep valley's mill,
Onward he sweeps-on, on, as sweeps the blast!

And let its heaven-lit beam
On through the keen, red, hissing air-ah! woe!
That ruthless fate should deal such cruel blow!

Round every hearth-stone gleam,

And fill the passing hour-
On, through the keen, red, hurtling air—but see
That form-it reels-it sinks ! that heart, so free

This pregnant, fateful bour

With all its stirring voices,
To dare the battle-tempest's direst might,

And the thunder of its power.
Winged with the quick, fierce lightning of the fight,
And soaring through the victory's gladdening light,

The foe is striking hard ;
Up to untroubled realms, hath passed in instant flight!

But in the castle-yard
Death, where he fell, in roses red inurned*
His form-war's hue and love's—and they were turned

Uprise fresh traitor bands

To snatch from out our hands, To laurels at the touch, and one green twine

From fortress and from sea, From them the land hath wrought to deck the hero's

This banner of the free, shrine.

To give it coward Alight, He fell in conflict's fiercest, wildest flame;

That Anarchy's dark night, And now his loved and laurelled ashes claim

With all its muttering thunders,

May swallow up its light. • Colonel Benedict fell literally on a bed of crimson roses the wild Louisiana rose.

• Benedictus qui patitur. Motto of the Benedict family. VOL. VIII.-POETRY 4

BY D. B. DUFFIELD.

He is one, he is one

count, blazing away close to the ground, like a fire-fly Of that noble band

in the grass. Late in the waning day, the waif left Who have fought, who have died, almost alone in the whirl of the battle, a rebel Colonel For their fatherland.

dashed up, and looking down at him, ordered him to surrender : “ Surrender !” he shouted,"

you little He needs no tears;

d-d son of a - !" The words were hardly out of An angel now,

mouth, when Johnny brought his piece to “order A saintly crown

arms," and as his hand slipped down to the hammer, Upon his brow.

he pressed it back, swung up the gun to the position of We should not weep

charge bayonet,” and as the officer raised his sabre That he is gone;

to strike the piece aside, the glancing barrel lifted With us 'tis night,

into range, and the proud Colonel tumbled from his With him 'tis morn.

horse, his lips fresh-stained with the syllable of vile reproach he had Aung on a mother's grave in the hearing of her child !

A few swift moments ticked on by musket-shots, A BRAVE DRUMMER-Boy.—Orion P. Howe, of Wau- and the tiny gunner was swept up at a rebel swoop kegan, Illinois, drummer-boy to the Fifty-fifth volun- and borne away a prisoner. Soldiers, bigger but not teers of that State, was appointed to fill a vacancy in better, were taken with him, only to be washed back the Naval School at Newport. The following extract again by a surge of Federal troopers, and the prisoner from a letter written by Major-General Sherman to of thirty minutes was again John Clem“ of ours;" Secretary Stanton, detailing an incident which trans- and General Rosecrans made him a sergeant, and the pired during the assault upon the rehel works at stripes of rank covered him all over, like a mouse in a Vicksburgh, on May nineteenth, doubtless secured the harness; and the daughter of Mr Secretary Chase boy's promotion :

presented him a silver medal appropriately inscribed, “When the assault at Vicksburgh was at its height which he worthily wears, a royal order of honor, upon on the nineteenth of May, and I was in front near the his left breast; and all men conspire to spoil him; road which formed my line of attack, this young lad but, since few ladies can get at him here, perhaps he came up to me wounded and bleeding, with a good, may be saved. healthy boy's cry: 'General Sherman, send some cart- But what about last night? Well, like Flora Mcridges to Colonel Malmborg; the men are nearly all Flimsey, the Sergeant “ had nothing to wear ;" the out.' 'What is the matter, my boy?' "They shot clothing in the wardrobe of loyal livery was not at all me in the leg, sir, but I can go to the hospital. Send like Desdemona's handkerchief, “too little," but like the cartridges right away.' Even where we stood the the garments of the man who roomed a month over a shot fell thick, and I told him to go to the rear at baker's oven, a world too wide;" and so Miss Babonce, I would attend to the cartridges, and off he cock, of the Sanitary Commission, suggested to a resilimped. Just before he disappeared on the hill, he dent of your city, that a uniform for the little Orderly turned and called as loud as he could : Calibre 54.' would be acceptable. Mr. Waite and other gentlemen I have not seen the lad since, and his Colonel, Malm- of the “Sherman House" ordered it, Messrs. A. D. borg, on inquiry, gives me his address as above, and Titsworth & Company made it, Chaplain Raymond says he is a bright, intelligent boy, with a fair prelim- brought it, Miss Babcock presented it, and Johnny inary education.

put it on. Chaplain Raymond, of the Fifty-first Ilii. “What arrested my attention then was, and what nois—by the by, a most earnest and efficient oficerrenews my memory of the fact now is, that one so accompanied the gift with exceedingly appropriate young, car a musket-ball wound through his leg, suggestion and advice, the substance of which I send should have found his way to me on that fatal spot, you. This morning I happened at headquarters just and delivered his message, not forgetting the very im- as the belted and armed Sergeant was booted and portant part even of the calibre of his musket, 54, spurred, and ready to ride. Resplendent in his elegant which you know is an usual one.

uniform, rigged cap-a-pie, modest, frank, with a clear "I'll warrant that the boy has in him the elements eye and a manly face, he looked more like a fancyof a man, and I commend him to the Government as picture than a living thing. Said he to the Chaplain : one worthy the fostering care of some one of its na- * You captured me by surprise, yesterday.” Now, he tional institutions,"

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 SergeantLITTLE JOHNNY CLEM.—A pleasant little scene oc- fancy a handful of a hero, and then read the Arabian curred last evening at the headquarters of General Nights, and believe them! Long live the little OrThomas. Of course you remember the story of little derly ! 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

FORT SMITH, ARK., February 17, 1964. form the lines; a duty having its counterpart in the “Special ORDERS, No. 45 : surveyor's more peaceful calling, in the flag-man who “ Miss Cecilia De Jeunne, a resident of Fort Smith, flutters the red signal along the metes and bounds. having admitted to the General Commanding that she On the Sunday of the battle, the little fellow's occu- is disloyal to the Government of the United States ; pation gone, he picked up a gun that had fallen from that she gave utterance to exclamations of joy when some dying hand, provided himself with ammunition, she heard that Major-General Blunt and all his staff and began putting in the periods quite on his own ac- were killed; that she has expressed sentiments of dis

A FEMALE REBEL.