BULL RUN, SUNDAY, JULY 21ST.

BY ALICE B. HAVEN.

Curses spring to my lips! Oh, my God, send the hail
Of swift ready vengeance for deeds such as this!
Forego all thy mercy, if judgment must fail!
Forgive my wild heart if it prayeth amiss-
His blood crieth upward!

"Amiss!"-and the strife of my clamorous grief
Is hushed into stillness-what grief like to thine!
If my poor human heart, with its passions so brief,
Is tortured with pangs, can we guess the Divine,
With depths past all searching!
VOL. II.-POETRY 40

I know eyes more tender looked upward to Thee; That visage, so marred by the torturing crownThose smooth, noble limbs, racked with anguish I

see;

The side where the blood and the water gushed down,

From stroke fierce and brutal.

Help lips white with anguish to take up His prayer;
Help hearts that are bursting to stifle their cries;
The shout of the populace, too, has been there,
To drown pleas for justice, to clothe truth in lies-
To enrage and to madden.

They knew not we loved them; they knew not we prayed

For their weal as our own;-" we are brethren," we plead ;

Unceasing those prayers to Our Father were made; When they flung down the palm for palmetto, we said,

"Let us still hope to win them."

"God so loved, that He gave!" We are giving to

these

The lives that were dearer to us than our own; Let us add prayer for blood, trusting God to appease Our heart's craving pain, when He hears on his throne,

"Oh, Father, forgive them!"

-N. Y. Evening Post, July 27.

NOT YET.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Oh, country, marvel of the earth!

Oh, realm to sudden greatness grown! The age that gloried in thy birth,

Shall it behold thee overthrown? Shall traitors lay that greatness low? No! Land of Hope and Blessing, No!

And we who wear thy glorious name,

Shall we, like cravens, stand apart,
When those whom thou hast trusted, aim
The death-blow at thy generous heart?
Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo!
Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!

And they who founded, in our land,
The power that rules from sea to sea,
Bled they in vain, or vainly planned
To leave their country great and free?

Their sleeping ashes, from below, Send up the thrilling murmur, No!

Knit they the gentle ties which long
These sister States were proud to wear,
And forged the kindly links so strong,⚫
For idle hands in sport to tear-
For scornful hands aside to throw?
No! by our fathers' memory, No!

Our humming marts, our iron ways,

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain crest,

The hoarse Atlantic, with his bays,

The calm, broad Ocean of the West,

And Mississippi's torrent-flow,
And loud Niagara, answer, No!

Not yet the hour is nigh, when they

Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit, Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say, "Proud country, welcome to the pit! So soon art thou, like us, brought low?" No! sullen group of shadows, No!

For now, behold, the arm that gave
The victory in our fathers' day,
Strong, as of old, to guard and save-

That mighty arm which none can stay-
On clouds above, and fields below,
Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No!

AFTER THE FIGHT AT MANASSAS.

PY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

By the great bells swinging slow The solemn dirges of our woe, By the heavy flags that fall Trailing from the bastioned wall, Miserere, Domine!

By our country's common blame,
By our silent years of shame,
By our curbed and bated breath
Under dynasties of Death,
Miserere, Domine!

By the sin we dared disown,

Till its "dragon teeth" were sown,
By the cause, yet unavowed,
By the fire behind the cloud,
Miserere, Domine!

By our Northern host betrayed,
At Manassas' bloody raid,
By our losses unatoned-
Our dead heroes, heart-enthroned,
Miserere, Domine!

For Rhode Island's gallant stand-
Her" unconquerable band;"-
For the dear, familiar names,
Now linked to old, historic fames,
Te laudamus, Domine!

For our boys that knew not fear,
For their "gallant Brigadier,"
For their leader, brave and young,
For their praise on every tongue!
Te laudamus, Domine!

By the hope that suffers long,
And grows through holy sorrow strong,
By all the starry flags unfurled,
For the last war-field of the world,
Give us, O God, the victory!
-Providence Daily Journal, Aug. 6.

THE REST-WHERE ARE THEY?

Written on seeing the returning regiments, and after having read a familiar name among the killed of the Sev. enty-first, at the battle of Bull Run.

BY LAURA ELMER.

Our hearts give us answer-they're taken;
Accepted's the offering they made!
On earth never more shall they waken-
On Liberty's altar they're laid,-
Blest sacrifice!

Blest dead, be ye now softly sleeping-
Our tenderest tears shall bedew

Each grave-and we're proud 'mid our weeping,
That trial's hour proved ye so true
In sacrifice!

O patriots, rest safe forever

From temptings inglorious secure

Ye've triumphed in holy endeavor;

Your blood-yes, your blood proves how pure Your sacrifice!

We'll weep as your agonies sharing,

Ye fainting, death-wounded, and lone; That poor shattered limb, with none caring, A mother once clasped as her own, In purest joy!

How warm-God, how true were her kisses!
Like jettings of life-blood they came;
That silk-dimpled knee bore her blisses-
Aye, blisses all worthy the name-
Sweet baby boy!

Few summers have sped since she clasped thee,
And chased c'en a shade from thy brow;

The pitying winds gliding past thee,
Seem mocking balm-breaths to thee now
Of life's past joy!

'Tis over-thy last pulse has fluttered; Thou'rt glorious now-thou'rt secure; 'Gainst thee ne'er can libel be utteredThy blood proves thy loyalty pureDear sacrifice!

Thy country's thou art, and forever,

Thy country's while lasteth all time; Safe bosomed, and nothing can sever

This bond of thy life's yielded primeSweet sacrifice!

Such memories hallowed we'll cherish-
How precious to die with the brave!
O shout: Ne'er can Liberty perish-
Her saviours confront c'en the grave-
Grand sacrifice!

THE CIVILIANS AT BULL RUN.

BY H. R. TRACY.

Have you heard of the story, so lacking in glory,
About the civilians who went to the fight?
With every thing handy, from sandwich to brandy,
To fill their broad stomachs, and make them all
tight.

There were bulls from our State street, and cattle from Wall street,

And members of Congress to see the great fun; Newspaper reporters, (some regular snorters,) On a beautiful Sunday went to Bull Run,

Provided with passes as far as Manassas,
The portly civilians rode jolly along;

Till the sound of the battle, the roar and the rattle
Of cannon and musket drowned laughter and song.

Their hearts were all willing to witness the killing, When the jolly civilians had chosen their ground; They drank and they nibbled-reporters they scribbled,

While shot from the cannon were flying around.

But nearer the rattle and storm of the battle

Approached the civilians who came to a show, The terrible thunder filled them with wonder

And trembling, and quaking with fear of the foe.

The hell's egg-shells flying, the groans of the dying, Soon banished their pleasure and ruined their

fun; There was terrible slaughter-blood ran like water, When civilians were pic-nicking down at Bull Run.

Their forms aldermanic are shaken with panic, When the "Black Horse" sweep down like a cloud on the plain;

They run helter-skelter, their fat bodies swelter,They fly from the field thickly strewn with the slain.

Oh, save me from their rage! Oh, give me my carriage!

The civilians cry out at the sound of each gun; No longer they're frisky with brandy and whiskey, No longer they seek for a fight at Bull Run!

Did they come down there balmy, to stampede the army?

It would seem so, for how like a Jehu they drive! O'er the dead and the wounded their vehicles bounded, They caring for naught but to get home alive.

For the sharp desolation that struck through the nation,

We hold to account the civilians and-rum;
When our soldiers next go to battle the foe,
May our portly civilians be kept here at home.

-Boston Herald.

THE LATEST WAR NEWS.

Oh, pale, pale face! Oh, helpless hands!
Sweet eyes by fruitless watching wronged,

Yet turning ever towards the lands
Where War's red hosts are thronged.