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To naught; that steel-nerved will the loftier towers, Our heartfelt sorrow! for among the brave,
Treading the painful thorns like pleasant flowers, None braver; and when battle left his eye,
Free once again, war's trumpet-clangors ring

None softer! Let the stricken nation sigh
The warrior to the birthplace of the Spring.

For such as he who perish by the way, Where the stern Mississippi sea-like sweeps,

While up on crimson feet she toils to greet the day. To summer flowers, pine cones of wintry steeps, Into Death's eyes again he fixed his gaze.

Ah! the bright hour he came, though weak and low Lo! where Port Hudson's deadly batteries blaze, With prison languors! Cheerily on were borne Whose that tall form that towers when all lie low, The merry clang of the bells. Clang, clang, they rang! Brow to the sun and bosom to the foe?

Joy in our hearts in jocund music sprang ! Brow to the sun, his brave sword in his hand, And all shone pleasureful. One long, long toll, Pointing “There—up and onward, patriot band !” One long, deep, lingering sound that tells the goal Again ! red batteries' hurling awful hail

Of some spent life, then moans along the air Like the fierce sleet that loads the thundering gale. As sorrowing hands our hero's ashes bear Ranks crushed beneath showered shot and shell, like To lie in honored state. We saw his form grain

Sprinkled with blossoms breathing fresh and warm ;
By that same sleet, across the heaped-up plain That form so still, so peaceful to our gaze,
Full in the fort's hot, gaping hell, he leads

That soared so grand amid the battle's blaze,
His stormers ; slaughter drives his flashing steeds Scorning the shrieking shell, the whizzing ball,
Trampling broad lanes amid the serried might; Sleeping so still beneath his warrior-pall !
But on, bathed deep in battle's awful light,
On that tall form with lightnings all around;

We bore him to his sylvan home; there flowers
Firm his proud step along the streaming ground, Should o'er him smile; but chief, the oak that towers
Quaking with cannon-thunders; up his tread, Unbent by blasts, and breaks but to the dart
Up to the parapet, above his head

Of the red bolt, from that heroic heart The starry flag borne by a hand that falls,

Should spring; for, 'mid his kindly graces soared Death-struck; he grasps the flag—the rebel walls A firm-knit will-a purpose strong that warred See the waved stars in that strong clutch, till back In deep disdain of Fortune's fitful breath, The ebbing conflict drags him in its track.

And only bowed its rock-clutched strength to Death.

There shall he lie. When our new-kindled sun Once more in other scenes he meets the foe.

Shall dawn, his first rejoicing rays shall run O'ermatched, our columns stagger to their blow;

In gold o'er graves like his-Fame's gold—that Time Vain on their squares bold Emory's files are hurled ;

Shall brighten-and his monument sublime, Backward the dashing cataract is whirled

Oh! seek it not in stone, but in piled hearts Splintered to spray. 0 banner of the skies !

That loved him! The carved marble soon departs, Flag of the rising constellations, dyes

But the heart's token, sent through ages down, Of dawn not sunset! shalt thou trail in dust?

Warm in its living might, mocks Time's most witherShall blind, dead darkness hide our blazing trust ?

ing frown.
On, braves! but no - they pause — they reel — they

Blessed is he who suffers, * and we know
Now like some towering crag no storm can shake, A solemn joy, that one whose manhood's glow
Like some tall pine that soars when all the wood

Faded so soon, should die to mark how grand
Bows to the winds—some rock amid the flood,

Above all fleeting life, to die for Native Land.
Our bero stands ! he forms each tottering square.
Through them the blazing thunderbolts may tear,
But vain : the bulwark stands, a living wall,

Between the foeman and that banner's fall.
Then, the dread last-0 woful, woful day!
Ah! the dimmed glory of that trophied fray!

Fling, fling our banner out,
Ah ! the fell shadow of that triumph's ray !

With loyal song and shout,

O’er every home and hill, Hurling the foeman's might back, back, at last

By each deep valley's mill,
Onward he sweeps-on, on, as sweeps the blast!

And let its heaven-lit beam
On through the keen, red, hissing air-ah! woe!
That ruthless fate should deal such cruel blow!

Round every hearth-stone gleam,

And fill the passing hour-
On, through the keen, red, hurtling air—but see
That form-it reels-it sinks ! that heart, so free

This pregnant, fateful bour

With all its stirring voices,
To dare the battle-tempest's direst might,

And the thunder of its power.
Winged with the quick, fierce lightning of the fight,
And soaring through the victory's gladdening light,

The foe is striking hard ;
Up to untroubled realms, hath passed in instant flight!

But in the castle-yard
Death, where he fell, in roses red inurned*
His form-war's hue and love's—and they were turned

Uprise fresh traitor bands

To snatch from out our hands, To laurels at the touch, and one green twine

From fortress and from sea, From them the land hath wrought to deck the hero's

This banner of the free, shrine.

To give it coward Alight, He fell in conflict's fiercest, wildest flame;

That Anarchy's dark night, And now his loved and laurelled ashes claim

With all its muttering thunders,

May swallow up its light. • Colonel Benedict fell literally on a bed of crimson roses the wild Louisiana rose.

Benedictus qui patitur. Motto of the Benedict family. VOL. VIII.-POETRY 4


Ay! when our soldiers brave,
On battle-field and wave,
Sprang forth with deadly stroke
Through battle's blazing smoke,
Our standard to uphold,
And save its every fold,

These home-born traitors cry, God grant no victory !"

Though scores of gallant heroes
Round the old flag bravely die.
Rise, then, each loyal man,
Your home-horizon scan,
And plant the nation's flag
On hill-side and on crag;
And let your swelling soul
In earnest tones outroll
That brave resolve of old,
When our fathers, true and bold,

Swore a fealty to the flag
Which never once grew cold.
The flag, the flag bends low,
For whirlwinds round it blow,
And wild, chaotic night
Is veiling it from sight;
So let us every one,
While yet the winds rage on,
Cling round the straining mast
And hold the banner fast,

Till stormy Treason's rage
Be safely overpast.

Here God has smiled_here Peace has reigned all

tongues have ułterance here ; Here Faith is free to choose her creed—no despot's

stake is near; Here reigns an empire without walls, a wonder to the

world : And shall this fabric be dissolved ? Columbia's Flag

be furled ?

Our Flag shall stay unfurled,

Our Flag shall stay unfurled !
Though Freedom's foes may plot her death,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,

Our Flag shall stay unfurled !
Float on, thou emblem of the age-defence on land

and sea! O God of hosts ! in humble faith, we trust our cause

to thee! Then traitor's plots and tyrant hordes against us may

be hurledYet shall our Flag victorious wave, the hope of all the


Our Flag shall stay unfurled,

Our Flag shall stay unfurled!
Though Freedom's foes may plot her death,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,

Our Flag shall stay unfurled !


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FEBRUARY 22, 1864. Stirring music thrilled the air, Brilliant banners fluttered there, Pealed the bells and rolled the drum, And the people cried: “They come !" On they came with measured trampHeroes proved in field and camp. Banners waved more proudly then; Cheered the children, cheered the men ; Beauty, lover of the brave, Brightened with the smiles she gave; While the sun, in golden jets, Flowed along the bayonets, As upon each laurel crown Heaven had poured a blessing down. All was stirring, grand, and gay, But the pageant passed away When, with proud and filling eye, I saw the tattered flags go by! Fancy then might faintly hear Hosts advancing, battle cheer, Sightless bullets whiz alongFit refrain for battle-song ; Cannon, with their sulphurous breath, Hurling messages of death ; Wbirring shot and screaming shell Fluttering where in wrath they fell, Opening graves-while purple rills Scar the fields and streak the hills. See the serried columns pressBold, defiant, mercilessOn the long and slender line Where the starry banners shine; With demoniac yells they come, Fiercely drive their bayonets home, And the arching heavens resoundGod! our men are giving ground ! Shouts, and cries of wild despair, Mingle in the murky air.

What hands dare strike that hopeful Flag, for which

our fathers bled ? Who mocks the wisdom of the past, the counsels of

the Dead ? Shall Faction spoil our heritage? Nay, shout it to

the worldThe progress of our race depends—Our Flag shall stay

unfurled !

Our Flag shall stay unfurled,

Our Flag shall stay unfurled!
Though Freedom's foes may plot her death,
Yet while a patriot holds his breath,

Our Flay shall stay unfurled !

• Written in 1861. The authorities of Baltimore city had for. bidden the display of the American flag, but in many instances It was kept afloat, till torn down by the police. After several weeks of trouble and anxiety, the Union people prevailed, the rebel ensigns were secreted or destroyed, and the beautiful Flag of our Nation was flung out on the breeze from a thousand windows and spires all over the city.

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Is this the land of Washington,

For which our patriot-fathers bled, Whose mighty strides to freedom shook

The continent beneath their tread ? Is the land of Knox and Green

Of Marion, Stark, and mighty Wayne, Who hurled the despot from our shores,

And dashed to earth his galling chain ? Were these our sires-are we the sons

Of men whose fame hath filled the earth ? And have we dwarfed and dwindled thus,

To mock the majesty of birth ? Arise! ye heroes of the past !

Where mould your bones by many a steep, Behold the sons that heir your fame

Behold your progeny and weep! Were such, with old Laconia's son, * The men who fought at Bennington ?

A strong and mighty angel,

Calm, terrible, and bright,
The cross in blended red and blue

Upon his mantle white !
Two captives by him kneeling,

Each on his broken chain,
Sang praise to God who raisetb

The dead to life again!
Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,

“Wear this," the angel said ; “Take thou, O Freedom's priest ! its sign

The white, the blue, and red !" Then rose up John De Matha

In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France

The ransom of the slave.
The gates of tower and castle

Before him open flew,
The drawbridge at his coming fell,

The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand,

And paid his righteous tax; And the hearts of lord and peasant

Were in his hands as wax.

Is this the land of Washington,

That warmed the patriot's sanguine dreams, Where Liberty made bright her shield,

And nursed her eaglets in its gleams? Where Bunker Hill and Monmouth field

Shot terror to the oppressor's soul, And wrote, with many a flying pen,

Their protests on a bloody scroll ? And shall hour-born oppression spurn

These creeds to alien tyrants taught, And Freedom's beauteous limbs enthrall,

Or bind the lightning of her thought ? Shall her unwilling hands be made

To forge the insignia of her shame; Her tongue to speak, her pen to write,

A flaming falsehood on her fame? Say, ye who stood on Trenton's height, Shall thus Columbia's freemen write ?

No! never while one spark remains

Unquenched of freedom's altar-fires, Which still may shoot aloft in flaine,

Fanned by the memory of our sires ; No! not till every patriot's blood

Is poured upon the sword to rust, And Liberty, without her shield,

Trails her bright garments in the dust; Not till the mother fails to teach

Her offspring, with a zeal divine, The foeman's rights, baptized in blood,

At Bunker Hill and Brandywine;

At last, outbound from Tunis,

His bark her anchor weighed, Freighted with seven score Christian souls

Whose ransom he had paid.
But, torn by Paynim hatred,

Her sails in tatters hung;
And on the wild waves rudderless,

A shattered hulk she swung.
“God save us !" cried the captain,

“For naught can man avail :
Oh! woe betide the ship that lacks

Her rudder and her sail !
“Behind us are the Moormen;

At sea we sink or strand :
There's death upon the water,

There's death upon the land !"
Then up spake John De Matha:
“God's errands never fail !
Take thou the mantle which I wear,

And make of it a sail."
They raised the cross-wrought mantle,

The blue, the white, the red ;
And straight before the wind off shore

The ship of Freedom sped,

Laconia's Son.- In the early days of the discovery and rettlement of New Hampshire, it was called Laconia. At the famous battle, or battles, of Bennington (for two were fought on the same day and on the same field) General Stark, of NewHampshire, commanded.

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So on through storm and darkness

They drove for weary hours ; And lo! the third gray morning shone

On Ostia's friendly towers. And on the walls the watchers

The ship of mercy knewThey knew far off its boly cross,

The red, the white, and blue.
And the bells in all the steeples

Rang out in glad accord,
To welcome home to Christian soil

The ransomed of the Lord.

So runs the ancient legend

By bard and painter told ; And lo! the cycle rounds again,

The new is as the old ! With rudder foully broken,

And sails by traitors torn, Our Country on a midnight sea

Is waiting for the morn.
Before her, nameless terror;

Behind, the pirate-foe;
The clouds are black above her,

The sea is white below.
The hope of all who suffer;

The dread of all who wrong ;
She drifts in darkness and in storm,

How long, O Lord ! how long ?
But courage, O my mariners !

Ye shall not suffer wreck While up to God the freedman's prayers

Are rising from your deck. Is not your sail the banner

Which God hath blest anew, The mantle that De Matha wore,

The red, the white, the blue ?
Its hues are all of heaven-

The red of sunset's dye,
The whiteness of the moon-lit cloud,

The blue of morning's sky.
Wait cheerily, then, O mariners !

For daylight and for land ;
The breath of God is in your sail,

Your rudder is his hand.
Sail on, sail on, deep-freighted

With blessings and with bopes; The saints of old, with shadowy hands,

Are pulling at your ropes. Behind ye holy martyrs

Uplift the palm and crown; Before ye unborn ages send

Their benedictions down.

All good awaits the ripened years :

Above the Present's cry and moan,

We catch the far-off undertone Of coming Time, undimmed with tears ; and more this frailer life endears

The life to nobler being grown. Though sore begirt with peril-days,

Faith shapes anew the promise-song

0f—Right shall triumph over Wrong; And Evil's subtle, darkened ways Be set in light. Yet still delays

The golden year, delaying long. While shrouded in impending gloom,

Hangs dim the nation's beacon star :

Like deepening thunders, boding far, Comes up the cannon's awful boom; Like near resounding trump of doom,

Wide bay the hungry bounds of war! Alas! but discord's clang and jar

May Freedom nurse to larger growth;

But fiercest mortal strife, in sooth, Can drive the embattled hosts afar, That, mad with maniac frenzy, bar

The gates to wider realms of truth. Yet speed the earthquake shock that cleaves

The fetters from a shackled race;

The mountain rive, from crown to base,
Of crime that all the land bereaves;
The whirlwind lightning-wing, that leaves

To Freedom broader breathing-space!
It is not all a godless strife

That sets the longing captive free;

More dread than battle-thunders be The despot's rod, the assassin's knifeThe dungeon's gloom, the death in life,

Of Peace, whose price is Liberty !


ONE more absent,

The battle done ;
One more left us,

Victory won.
One more buried

Beneath the sod;
One more standing

Before his God. Lay him low, lay him low,

Ere the morning break; Sorrow not, sorrow not,

He minds not heart-ache.

He is one, he is one

count, blazing away close to the ground, like a fire-fly Of that noble band

in the grass. Late in the waning day, the waif left Who have fought, who have died, almost alone in the whirl of the battle, a rebel Colonel For their fatherland.

dashed up, and looking down at him, ordered him to surrender : “ Surrender !” he shouted,"

you little He needs no tears;

d-d son of a - !" The words were hardly out of An angel now,

mouth, when Johnny brought his piece to “order A saintly crown

arms," and as his hand slipped down to the hammer, Upon his brow.

he pressed it back, swung up the gun to the position of We should not weep

charge bayonet,” and as the officer raised his sabre That he is gone;

to strike the piece aside, the glancing barrel lifted With us 'tis night,

into range, and the proud Colonel tumbled from his With him 'tis morn.

horse, his lips fresh-stained with the syllable of vile reproach he had Aung on a mother's grave in the hearing of her child !

A few swift moments ticked on by musket-shots, A BRAVE DRUMMER-Boy.—Orion P. Howe, of Wau- and the tiny gunner was swept up at a rebel swoop kegan, Illinois, drummer-boy to the Fifty-fifth volun- and borne away a prisoner. Soldiers, bigger but not teers of that State, was appointed to fill a vacancy in better, were taken with him, only to be washed back the Naval School at Newport. The following extract again by a surge of Federal troopers, and the prisoner from a letter written by Major-General Sherman to of thirty minutes was again John Clem“ of ours;" Secretary Stanton, detailing an incident which trans- and General Rosecrans made him a sergeant, and the pired during the assault upon the rehel works at stripes of rank covered him all over, like a mouse in a Vicksburgh, on May nineteenth, doubtless secured the harness; and the daughter of Mr Secretary Chase boy's promotion :

presented him a silver medal appropriately inscribed, “When the assault at Vicksburgh was at its height which he worthily wears, a royal order of honor, upon on the nineteenth of May, and I was in front near the his left breast; and all men conspire to spoil him; road which formed my line of attack, this young lad but, since few ladies can get at him here, perhaps he came up to me wounded and bleeding, with a good, may be saved. healthy boy's cry: 'General Sherman, send some cart- But what about last night? Well, like Flora Mcridges to Colonel Malmborg; the men are nearly all Flimsey, the Sergeant “ had nothing to wear ;" the out.' 'What is the matter, my boy?' "They shot clothing in the wardrobe of loyal livery was not at all me in the leg, sir, but I can go to the hospital. Send like Desdemona's handkerchief, “too little," but like the cartridges right away.' Even where we stood the the garments of the man who roomed a month over a shot fell thick, and I told him to go to the rear at baker's oven, a world too wide;" and so Miss Babonce, I would attend to the cartridges, and off he cock, of the Sanitary Commission, suggested to a resilimped. Just before he disappeared on the hill, he dent of your city, that a uniform for the little Orderly turned and called as loud as he could : Calibre 54.' would be acceptable. Mr. Waite and other gentlemen I have not seen the lad since, and his Colonel, Malm- of the “Sherman House" ordered it, Messrs. A. D. borg, on inquiry, gives me his address as above, and Titsworth & Company made it, Chaplain Raymond says he is a bright, intelligent boy, with a fair prelim- brought it, Miss Babcock presented it, and Johnny inary education.

put it on. Chaplain Raymond, of the Fifty-first Ilii. “What arrested my attention then was, and what nois—by the by, a most earnest and efficient oficerrenews my memory of the fact now is, that one so accompanied the gift with exceedingly appropriate young, car a musket-ball wound through his leg, suggestion and advice, the substance of which I send should have found his way to me on that fatal spot, you. This morning I happened at headquarters just and delivered his message, not forgetting the very im- as the belted and armed Sergeant was booted and portant part even of the calibre of his musket, 54, spurred, and ready to ride. Resplendent in his elegant which you know is an usual one.

uniform, rigged cap-a-pie, modest, frank, with a clear "I'll warrant that the boy has in him the elements eye and a manly face, he looked more like a fancyof a man, and I commend him to the Government as picture than a living thing. Said he to the Chaplain : one worthy the fostering care of some one of its na- * You captured me by surprise, yesterday.” Now, he tional institutions,"

is "going on" thirteen, as our grandmothers used to say; but he would be no monster if we called him

only nine. Think of a sixty-three pound SergeantLITTLE JOHNNY CLEM.—A pleasant little scene oc- fancy a handful of a hero, and then read the Arabian curred last evening at the headquarters of General Nights, and believe them! Long live the little OrThomas. Of course you remember the story of little derly ! Johnny Clem, the motherless atom of a drummer-boy,

aged ten,” who strayed away from Newark, Ohio; and the first we knew of him, though small enough to live in a drum, was beating the long roll for the Twenty-second Michigan. At Chickamauga, he filled the

" , , } office of “ marker,” carrying the guidon whereby they

FORT SMITH, ARK., February 17, 1964. form the lines; a duty having its counterpart in the “Special ORDERS, No. 45 : surveyor's more peaceful calling, in the flag-man who “ Miss Cecilia De Jeunne, a resident of Fort Smith, flutters the red signal along the metes and bounds. having admitted to the General Commanding that she On the Sunday of the battle, the little fellow's occu- is disloyal to the Government of the United States ; pation gone, he picked up a gun that had fallen from that she gave utterance to exclamations of joy when some dying hand, provided himself with ammunition, she heard that Major-General Blunt and all his staff and began putting in the periods quite on his own ac- were killed; that she has expressed sentiments of dis


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