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MOBILE, October 3.-Brute Butler has issued an order (No. 76) requiring all persons in New-Orleans, male or female, eighteen years of age or upwards, who sympathize with the Southern Confederacy, to report themselves by first October, with descriptive lists of their property, real and personal. If they renew their allegiance to the United States Government, they are to be recommended for pardon; if not, they will be fined and imprisoned, and their property confiscated. The policemen of the city are charged with the duty of seeing that every householder enrols his property in the respective districts.—Richmond Inquirer, October 6.

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A BRILLIANT EXPLOIT.-One of the coolest and most extraordinary exploits of the war is thus described in a letter by Brig.-Gen. Brown, dated Springfield, Mo. After a preliminary description of an engagement with the rebels, eighteen miles from Newtonia, Gen. Brown proceeds:

"The General (Schofield) sent Lieutenant Blodgett, attended by an orderly, with orders to Colonel Hall, Fourth Missouri cavalry, to move to the left and attack in that direction. The route of the Lieutenant was across a point of woods, in which, while passing, he suddenly found himself facing about forty rebels drawn up in irregular line. Without a moment's hesitation, he and the orderly drew their pistols and charged. At the same time, tempering bravery with mercy, and not feeling any desire to shed blood needlessly, he drew out his handkerchief and waved it in token of his willingness to surround and capture the whole rebel force rather than shoot them down.

"The cool impudence of the act nonplused the foe, and perhaps thinking there was a large force in the rear, eight of them threw down their arms and surrendered, and the balance 'skedaddled.' It is difficult to say which I admired most in the Lieutenant, his bravery in making the charge against such odds, when to have hesitated a moment was certain death, or his presence of mind and coolness in offering them their lives. The orderly, too, deserves more than a passing notice. His name is Peter Basnett, and he was at one time Sheriff of Brown County, Wis. The Lieutenant and orderly were well matched-both quiet and determined

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BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow;
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,

No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps
Her ancient promise well,

Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps
The battle's breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hours
Through harvest-happy farms,

And still she wears her fruit and flowers
Like jewels on her arms.

What means the gladness of the plain,
This joy of eve and morn,
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain
And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field's crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear

Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear,

She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below

The fires that blast and burn; From all the tears of blood we sow,

She waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than ours
The good of suffering born-
The hearts that blossom like her flowers
And ripen like her corn.

Oh! give to us, in times like these,
The vision of her eyes;
And make her fields and fruited trees
Our golden prophecies!

Oh! give to us her finer ear!

Above the stormy din,

We, too, would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in!

A RECRUITING RALLY.

Men of Maine! men of Maine!
Now again, now again,

Our country calls her sons to the field:
Leave your work, leave your plough,
Rally prompt, rally now,

For Dirigo's emblazed on Maine's shield.

Hold not back, hold not back,
Glory's track, glory's track
Opes to us, as it did to our sires;

What they built we renew,
Let their sons light anew

Freedom's pure flame, of liberty's fires.

As our pine, as our pine,
Always shine, always shine,
Ever verdant, amid winter's blast;
Let our faith in the right

Make us stand to the fight,

Not relax while the battle doth last.

Sons of Maine! Sons of Maine!
Not in vain, not in vain,
Let our brothers encamped call for aid;
Let the Seven Thousand* charge!
With the ONE-ARMED, at their targe,
And rebellion at our feet will be laid.

PORTLAND.

A SONG WITHOUT A TITLE.

COMPOSED BY J. FERGUSON, CO. A, TWENTY-FIRST REGIMENT
INDIANA VOLUNTEERS.

TUNE-Happy Land of Canaan.

The rebels are enraged,

To think we are engaged

In trying to put down this cursed rebellion;
We will show them that we can

Turn out to a single man,

To drive them to the happy Land of Canaan.
Oh! oh! oh! Confeds, don't you know
A good time for us is a-coming?
We will show you that we're right,
That you rebels cannot fight,

And we'll blow you to the happy land of Canaan

The rebels soon will find

That the Yankees are the kind

Of men to put down this rebellion;
The rebs think they are strong;.

But 'twill not be very long,

Until we send them to the happy land of Canaan.
Oh! oh! oh! Ye rebels, don't you know
That the Yankees from the North are a-coming?
You may think we are in fun,

But we'll make you rebels run,

Oh! oh! oh! Ye rebels, don't you know
A good time for the Yankees is a-coming?
Secession has played out,

We will make you face about,

And march you to the happy land of Canaan.

The happy time has come,

And the rebels are undone,

Their conscription no longer will sustain them;
We will show them how the South
And Jeff Davis are played out

Since they started from the happy Land of Canaan
Oh! oh! oh! Ye rebels, don't you know
A good time for the Feds is a-coming?
We will show you how to fight,

And put you all to flight,

En route for the happy land of Canaan.

AN APPEAL.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Listen, young heroes! your country is calling!
Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true!
Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling,
Fill up the ranks that have opened for you!
You whom the fathers made free and defended,
Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame!
You whose fair heritage spotless descended,

Leave not your children a birthright of shame!

Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping!
Wait not till Honor lies wrapped in his pall!
Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping-
"Off for the wars !" is enough for them all.

Break from the arms that would fondly caress you!
Hark! 'tis the bugle-blast! sabres are drawn!
Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you!
Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone!

Never or now! cries the blood of a nation,
Poured on the turf where the red rose should
bloom:

Now is the day and the hour of salvation-
Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom!

Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon
Through the black canopy blotting the skies!

Or we'll blow you to the happy land of Canaan. Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon

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O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies!
From the foul dens where our brothers are dying,
Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,
From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying
Pleading in vain for a handful of earth;

From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered,
Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field's plough.
Comes the loud summons; too long you have slumbered,
Here the last Angel-trump-Never or Now!

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER.

BY GEORGE H. BOKER.

Close his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,

Hand of man, or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low !

Leave him to God's watching eye,

Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by:

God alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

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Antistrophe:

The sound of mourning! dear homes ruthlessly Laid waste! for Death and Hell walk hand in hand! Sackcloth and Ashes! Bend the stubborn kneeWoe is thy heritage, thou goodly land.

EPODE.

O bleeding land! there is, that bringeth cheer;
Renew thy fading hopes, repress thy sighs.
O traitor band! there is, that causeth fear;
Haste ye and hide, ere Nemesis arise!

O mourning heart, be still! The gloomy night,
Even to eye that's not "of faith," grows gray;
Soon shall its darkness melt away in light.

Come, quickly come, light of the glorious day!

Arise, and gird your loins, ye men of might! Earth trembling, hope, heaven, bide the end; hear ye!

Go forth, great-hearts! Do battle for the right! Go forth, and faint not: "God and Liberty!"

"Thine is the fight, O God." For liberty

To worship thee in peace, we draw the sword; Thy cause shall fail not, save ordained by thee; Even as the sparrow falls but by thy word.

Grant thou, All-Merciful! thy mercy to us,
Only thine arm of strength can us subdue.
With thine own spirit toward our foes, imbue us;
So shall we temper justice" to thy view.

EDMUNDUS SCOTUS, Ninth Illinois Cavalry. CHICAGO, November 27, 1862.

FREDERICKSBURGH.

BY W. F. W.

Eighteen hundred and sixty-two

That is the number of wounded men Who, if the telegraph's tale be true,

Reached Washington City but yester e'en

And it is but a handful, the telegrams add,
To those who are coming by boats and by cars;
Weary and wounded, dying and sad;

Covered-but only in front-with scars.

Some are wounded by Minié shot,

Others are torn by the hissing shell,
As it burst upon them as fierce and as hot
As a demon spawned in a traitor's hell.
Some are pierced by the sharp bayonet,
Others are crushed by the horses' hoof;
Or fell 'neath the shower of iron which met
Them as hail beats down on an open roof.

Shall I tell what they did to meet this fate?
Why was this living death their doom-
Why did they fall to this piteous state

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Sudden flashed on them a sheet of flame
From hidden fence and from ambuscade;
A moment more-(they say this is fame)-
A thousand dead men on the grass were laid.

Fifteen thousand in wounded and killed,

At least, is "our loss," the newspapers say. This loss to our army must surely be filled Against another great battle-day.

"Our loss!" Whose loss? Let demagogues say That the Cabinet, President, all are in wrong. What do the orphans and widows pray?

What is the burden of their sad song?

'Tis their loss! But the tears in their weeping eyes
Hide Cabinet, President, Generals-all;
And they only can see a cold form that lies
On the hillside slope, by that fatal wall.

They cannot discriminate men or means

They only demand that this blundering cease.
In their frenzied grief they would end such scenes,
Though that end be-even with traitors-peace.

Is thy face from thy people turned, O God?

Is thy arm for the Nation no longer strong?

We cry from our homes-the dead cry from the sod-
How long, O our righteous God! how long?
NEW-YORK, December 17, 1862.

THE EAGLE OF CORINTH.*

Did you hear of the fight at Corinth,
How we whipped out Price and Van Dorn?
Ah! that day we earned our rations-
(Our cause was God's and the Nation's,
Or we'd have come out forlorn !)
A long and a terrible day!
And, at last, when night grew gray,
By the hundred, there they lay,
(Heavy sleepers, you'd say)-

That wouldn't wake on the morn.

Our staff was bare of a flag,
We didn't carry a rag

In those brave marching days-
Ah! no-but a finer thing!
With never a cord or string,
An Eagle, of ruffled wing,

And an eye of awful gaze!

The grape it rattled like hail,
The Minies were dropping like rain,
The first of a thunder-shower-

The wads were blowing like chaff,
(There was pounding, like floor and flail,
All the front of our line!)
So we stood it, hour after hour-
But our eagle, he felt fine!

'Twould have made you cheer and laugh,

"The finest thing I ever saw was a live American eagle, carried by the Eighth Iowa, in the place of a flag. It would fly off over the enemy during the hottest of the fight, then would return and seat himself upon his pole, clap his pinions, shake his head and start again. Many and hearty were the cheers that arose from our lines as the old fellow would sail around, first to the right, then to the left, and always return to his post, regardless of the storm of leaden hail that was around him. Something seemed to tell us that that battle was to result in our favor, and when the order was given to charge, every man went at them with fixed bayonets, and the enemy scattered in all directions, leaving us in possession of the battle-field."-Letter from Chester D. Howe, Co. E, Twelfth Illinois Volunteers.

To see, through that iron gale,
How the Old Fellow'd swoop and sail
Above the racket and roar-
To right and to left he'd soar,
But ever came back, without fail,

And perched on his standard-staff.

All that day, I tell you true,

They had pressed us, steady and fair,
Till we fought in street and square-
(The affair, you might think, looked blue,)
But we knew we had them there!
Our works and batteries were few,
Every gun, they'd have sworn, they knew-
But, you see, there was one or two
We had fixed for them, unaware.

They reckon they've got us now!

For the next half-hour twill be warmAy, ay, look yonder !-I vow,

If they weren't secesh, how I'd love them!
Only see how grandly they form,
(Our eagle whirling above them,)

To take Robinette by storm!
They're timing!-it can't be long-
Now for the nub of the fight!

(You may guess that we held our breath,) By the Lord, 'tis a splendid sight! A column two thousand strong

Marching square to the death!

On they came, in solid column,
For once, no whooping nor yell-
(Ah! I dare say they felt solemn.)
Front and flank-grape and shell...

Our batteries pounded away!
And the Minies hummed to remind 'em
They had started on no child's play!
Steady they kept a-going,

But a grim wake settled behind 'em-
From the edge of the abattis,

(Where our dead and dying lay
Under fence and fallen tree,)

Up to Robinette, all the way

The dreadful swath kept growing!
'Twas butternut, flecked with gray.

Now for it, at Robinette!
Muzzle to muzzle we met-
(Not a breath of bluster or brag,

Not a lisp for quarter or favor)-
Three times, there, by Robinette,
With a rush, their feet they set
On the logs of our parapet,

And waved their bit of a flag

What could be finer or braver!

But our cross-fire stunned them in flank, They melted, rank after rank(O'er them, with terrible poise,

Our Bird did circle and wheel !) Their whole line began to waverNow for the bayonet, boys!

On them with the cold steel!

Ah! well-you know how it endedWe did for them, there and then, But their pluck, throughout, was splendid. (As I said before, I could love them!)

They stood, to the last, like menOnly a handful of them

Found the way back again.

Red as blood, o'er the town,
The angry sun went down,
Firing flag-staff and vane-
And our eagle-as for him,
There, all ruffled and grim,

He sat, o'erlooking the slain !

Next morning, you'd have wondered

How we had to drive the spade! There, in great trenches and holes, (Ah! God rest their poor souls!) We piled some fifteen hundred,

Where that last charge was made!

Sad enough, I must say.

No mother to mourn and search,
No priest to bless or to pray-
We buried them where they lay,

Without a rite of the church-
But our eagle, all that day,

Stood solemn and still on his perch.

'Tis many a stormy day

Since, out of the cold, bleak North,
Our Great War Eagle sailed forth
To swoop o'er battle and fray.
Many and many a day

O'er charge and storm hath he wheeled-
Foray and foughten-field-

Tramp, and volley, and rattle!-
Over crimson trench and turf,
Over climbing clouds of surf,
Through tempest and cannon-rack,
Have his terrible pinions whirled-

(A thousand fields of battle!
A million leagues of foam!)
But our Bird shall yet come back,

He shall soar to his eyrie-home-
And his thunderous wings be furled,
In the gaze of a gladdened world,
On the Nation's loftiest Dome.
December, 1862.

A NATIONAL HYMN.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

H. H. B.

Great God! to whom our nation's woes,
Our dire distress, our angry foes,
In all their awful gloom are known,
We bow to thee and thee alone.

We pray thee mitigate this strife,
Attended by such waste of life,

Such wounds and anguish, groans and tears,
That fill our inmost hearts with fears.

Oh! darkly now the tempest rolls,
Wide o'er our desolated souls;
Yet, beaten downward to the dust,
In thy forgiveness still we trust.

We trust to thy protecting power
In this, our country's saddest hour,
And pray that thou wilt spread thy shield
Above us in the camp and field.

O God of battles! let thy might
Protect our armies in the fight-
Till they shall win the victory,
And set the hapless bondmen free.

Till, guided by thy glorious hand,
Those armies reünite the land,

And North and South alike shall raiso
To God their peaceful hymns of praise.

"I FIGHTS MIT SIGEL !"

BY GRANT P. ROBINSON.

I met him again, he was trudging along,
His knapsack with chickens was swelling:
He'd "Blenkered" these dainties, and thought it no
wrong

From some secessionist's dwelling.

"What regiment's yours? and under whose flag

Do you fight?" said I, touching his shoulder;
Turning slowly around he smilingly said,
For the thought made him stronger and bolder:
"I fights mit Sigel !"

The next time I saw him his knapsack was gone,
His cap and canteen were missing,
Shell, shrapnel, and grape, and the swift rifle-ball
Around him and o'er him were hissing.

How are you, my friend, and where have you been,
And for what and for whom are you fighting?
He said, as a shell from the enemy's gun
Sent his arm and his musket a "kiting:"
"I fights mit Sigel "

And once more I saw him and knelt by his side,
His life-blood was rapidly flowing;

I whispered of home, wife, children and friends, The bright land to which he was going; And have you no word for the dear ones at home, The "wee one," the father or mother? "Yaw! yaw!" said he, "tell them! oh! tell them I fights"

Poor fellow he thought of no other

"I fights mit Sigel !"

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TROPHIES OF THE FIELD OF ANTIETAM.

MESSRS. EDITORS: During a visit to the headquarters of the army of the Potomac at Sharpsburgh, a few days after the great battle of Antietam, in company with several gentlemen from Philadelphia, I was favored with a personal interview with Gen. McClellan, during which our attention, while in his tent, was drawn to a large number of colors taken from the rebels in the battles of South-Mountain, Antietam, and Shepherdstown Bluffs. As they possessed great interest to our party, Gen. McClellan very kindly gave us a great deal of information in regard to them, and by his permission I made the list and descriptions of them herewith appended. As will be seen by a reference to the General's official report of the battles, this list comprises less than one half of the colors captured, the whole number being thirty-nine. The list embraces all, however, which at the time of our visit had been received at the headquarters, and though only partial, may, nevertheless, possess an interest for your readers.

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