Come, we 'll lay us down, my child;
Poor the bed is,— poor and hard;
Yet thy father, far exiled,
Sleeps upon the open sward,
Dreaming of us two at home :
Or beneath the starry dome
Digs out trenches in the dark,
Where he buries
Where he buries those who died
Fighting bravely at his side
By the Alma River.
Willie, Willie, go to sleep;
God will keep us, O my boy;
He will make the dull hours creep
Faster, and send news of joy,
When I need not shrink to meet
Those dread placards in the street,
Which for weeks will ghastly stare
In some eyes Child, say thy prayer
Once again, a different one,
Say, "O God, thy will be done
By the Alma River.”
DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.
Nathan Hale.
To drum-beat and heart-beat
A soldier marches by ;
There is color in his cheek,
There is courage in his eye;
Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat
In a moment he must die.
By starlight and moonlight
He seeks the Briton's camp,
And he hears the rustling flag
And the armed sentry's tramp,
And the starlight and moonlight
His silent wanderings lamp.
With slow tread and still tread
He scans the tented line,
And he counts the battery guns
By the gaunt and shadowy pine;
And his slow tread and still tread
Gives no warning sign.
The dark wave, the plumed wave,
It meets his eager glance,
And it sparkles 'neath the stars
Like the glimmer of a lance;
The dark wave, the plumed wave,
On an emerald expanse.
A sharp clang, a steel clang,
And terror in the sound,
For the sentry, falcon-eyed,
In the camp a spy hath found;
With a sharp clang, a steel clang,
The patriot is bound.
With calm brow, with steady brow,
He robes him for the tomb;
In his look there is no fear,
Nor a shadow trace of gloom;
But with calm brow, with steady brow,
He robes him for the tomb.
Through the long night, the still night,
He kneels upon the sod,
And the brutal guards withhold
E'en the solemn word of God;
Through the long night, the still night,
He walks where Christ hath trod.
In the blue morn, the sunny morn,
He dies upon the tree,
And he mourns that he can lose
But one life for liberty;
In the blue morn, the sunny morn,
His spirit wings are free.
But his last words, his message words,
They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm
A patriot could die ;
With his last words, his message words,
A soldier's battle-cry.
From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
From monument and urn,
The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,
His tragic fate shall learn ;
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf
The name of Hale shall burn.
P from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar,
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
With Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good, broad highway leading down;
And there, through the flash of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight.
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with the utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell, - but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south,
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth,
Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away.
Under his spurning feet the road
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire;
But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire,
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
What was done,
- a glance told him both,
And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
He dashed down the line 'mid a storm of huzzas,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there because
The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray,
By the flash of his eye and his nostril's play
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester, down to save the day!"
Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan!
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high,
Under the dome of the Union sky,-
The American soldier's Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright:
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester, - twenty miles away!"
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Driving Home the Cows.
UT of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turned them into the river-lane ;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow-bars again.
Under the willows and over the hill,
He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had said
He never could let his youngest go;
Two already were lying dead
Under the feet of the trampling foe.
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