The School-Boy's Lesson in Poetry remembered by the Soldier on the Field of Battle. (EXTRACT FROM MR. MURDOCH'S LECTURES.) I SHALL here narrate an incident of the war as an illustration of the lasting impression made on the youthful mind by the recitation of patriotic poetry, at school or elsewhere. And how true is that instinct of our nature which impels us, in moments of trial or danger, to look within ourselves or towards others for the expression. of some ennobling sentiment, by which to fan the flame of heroic valor and excite the ardor of enthusiasm,-that spirit which spurs men on to dare and do in defence of principle and right! Hence it is that, in the preparations for battle, martial music becomes a necessity. Then, too, does the language of heroism, and manly devotion in the cause we fight for, prove the steel to the flint, while the sparks that flash from the contact serve to create a flame, which, firing the veins and swelling the heart, leaves no room for the cooler faculties to operate on the nervous system. Then do men, borrowing courage from the words of heroes, burn with so fierce a flame of venturous daring that they themselves are struck with wonder when the deeds are done. The following incident I am about to relate proves how universally poetry is allied to heroic deeds, and how spontaneous is the growth of sublime courage under the excitement of danger and trial in the defence of our country's honor. During Kirby Smith's raid in Kentucky, I was enjoying the hospitality of Colonel Jack Casement (as he is familiarly called), of the 103d Ohio. While eating our dinner of hard bread and coffee, the pickets were driven in, the order to form in line of battle was given, the trenches were manned, and, after a short speech from the Colonel, in which he exhorted his men to keep cool, load quick, and fire low, we stood awaiting the enemy, who, as we supposed, were about to make an assault upon the works from the cover of a thickly-wooded ravine on our left. My sensations were new and strange, as I had never been under fire, and, turning to the Colonel, I asked his advice as to the way in which I could be most useful to him. He replied, "While they are advancing up the turnpike yonder, the best thing you can do will be to stand by the regimental colors and give the boys a verse or two of Marco Bozzaris, "Strike!-till the last arm'd foe expires! Strike!-for your altars and your fires!' etc. "Do that, and, I'll pledge my life for it, there is not a drop of blood in the 103d that will not fire up and burn as long as a foe dare face them. Throw down your carbine, captain, and give us the poetry of war. That's the prelude to remind us of mother and father, of sister and brother, of our country and God! That's the music to make the boys fight, and that's the weapon you know how to strike with." I was not called upon to make the experiment; for the rebel advance we were waiting for turned out to be a party of our own forces, who, while on a reconnoissance, mistook their road. Being in a strip of wood, covered with a thick and tangled undergrowth, where the ground was broken by the winding course of a small stream, the advancing party did not realize their position until they saw the guns of Fort Mitchell frowning down upon them. Thus they narrowly escaped receiving the fiery greeting we had in readiness for the foe. Marco Bozzaris. BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. Ar midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour In dreams, through camp and court he bore In dreams, his song of triumph heard; At midnight, in the forest shades, There had the Persian's thousands stood, And now there breathed that haunted air An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke. "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" As lightnings from the mountain cloud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike!-till the last arm'd foe expires: They fought like brave men, long and well; His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their loud hurrah Then saw in death his eyelids close, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, The thanks of millions yet to be. Come when his task of fame is wrought; Of sky and stars to prison'd men; Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb; But she remembers thee as one |