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Our gunner, affrighted, unto Paul Jones he came,
At length our shot flew so quick, they could not stand:
God help the poor widows, who shortly must weep
BY LUCY HAMILTON HOOPER.
Gay leaders in the “German's” maze,
Light danglers by a lady's chair,
Knows you no more. Where are you?--where? Our lists of "dancing men” grow thin;
And, as one turns the page, one sees The old familiar names no more:
They're writ on sadder lists than these Dark records of red battle-fields,
Of crimson sands and gory sod, Where, 'mid the rush and roar of war,
Brave souls and true went up to God.
In loathsome prisons far away,
There are our carpet-knights to-day
And if, in haunts forsaken long,
We greet once more a well-known face, On pallid brow and faded lip
We mark the fatal fever-trace:
Or, with full heart and eyes, we note
The gallant soldier's empty sleeve: Yet back, unshed, we press our tears!
We are too proud of him to grieve! And, gallant hearts ! undaunted still
By perill'd life and wearing pain, They turn from loving homes away,
Their scarce-saved lives to stake again.
Scarce has each fearful wound been heal'd,
Scarce has the fever ceased to burn, When from each wan lip rings the cry,
“Our country needs us ! we return!
“We go to bear her flag once more
To victory 'neath the Southern sky. We've suffer'd for her cause; and now
We're ready for that cause to die!"
My country! though thy flag to-day
Droops, dimm’d and rent by rebel guns, Thou hast no cause to faint or fear!
Be proud the while thou hast such sons!