Know, then, brother, I am with thee,
In the battle's dreadful strife,
And to save thee I would gladly,
Willingly, yield up my life.

When the last dread battle's ended,
And our glorious cause is won,
To the dear home thou'st defended
Hasten, for thy work is done.

ANONYMOUS.

VOLUNTEERED.

BEFORE THE FIGHT AT FREDERICK, MO.,
OCTOBER 15TH, '61.

I KNOW the sun shines, and the lilacs are blowing,
And Summer sends kisses by beautiful May-
Oh! to see all the treasures the Spring is bestowing,
And think-my boy Willie enlisted to-day!

It seems but a day since at twilight low humming,
I rocked him to sleep with his cheek upon mine,
While Robby the four-year old watched for the coming
Of father, adown the street's indistinct line.

It is many a year since my Harry departed,
To come back no more in the twilight or dawn;
And Robby grew weary of watching, and started
Alone, on the journey his father had gone.

It is many a year-and this afternoon, sitting
At Robby's old window, I heard the band play,
And suddenly ceased dreaming over my knitting
To recollect Willie is twenty to-day;

That, standing beside him this soft May-day morning, The sun making gold of his wreathed cigar-smoke, I saw in his sweet eyes and lips a faint warning,

And choked down the tears when he eagerly spoke :

"Dear mother, you know those traitors are crowing, They trample the folds of our flag in the dust; The boys are all fire; and they wish I were going-" He stopped, but his eyes said, "Oh say if I must!” I smiled on the boy though my heart seemed breaking: My eyes filled with tears, so I turned them away, And answered him, " Willie, 'tis well you are waking, Go, act as your father would bid you, to-day!"

I sit in the window and see the flags flying,

And dreamly list to the roll of the drum,
And smother the pain in my heart that is lying,
And bid all the fears in my bosom be dumb.

I shall sit in the window when Summer is lying
Out over the fields, and the honey-bees' hum,
Lulls the rose at the porch from tremulous sighing,
And watch for the face of my darling to come.

And if he should fall-his young life he has given For Freedom's sweet sake-and for me I will pray Once more with my Harry, and Robby in Heaven, To meet the dear boy that enlisted to-day.

N. P. WILLIS.

WHEN THIS CRUEL WAR IS OVER.

RECAPTURE OF THE CITY OF LEXINGTON, MO.,
OCTOBER 16TH, '61.

DEAREST love, do you remember,
When we last did meet,

How you told me that you loved me,
Kneeling at my feet?

Oh! how proud you stood before me
In your suit of blue,

When you vow'd to me and country
Ever to be true.

When the summer breeze is sighing
Mournfully along;

Or when autumn leaves are falling,
Sadly breathes the song.
Oft in dreams I see thee lying
On the battle plain,
Lonely, wounded, even dying,
Calling, but in vain.

If amid the din of battle

Nobly you should fall,

Far away from those who love you,
None to hear you call—

Who would whisper words of comfort?

Who would soothe your pain?

Ah! the many cruel fancies

Ever in my brain.

But our country called you, darling,
Angels cheer your way;

While our nation's sons are fighting,
We can only pray.

Nobly strike for God and Freedom,

Let all nations see

How we love the starry banner,
Emblem of the free.

Weeping sad and lonely,
Hopes and fears how vain!
When this cruel war is over,

Praying that we meet again.

CHARLES C. SAWYER.

BURY HIM LOW AND DEEP.

AFTER THE ENGAGEMENT AT BOLIVAR HEIGHTS, VA., OCTOBER 16TH, '61.

BURY him low and deep,

Where the storm winds ne'er can find him,

To trouble his body's sleep,

And of his lost world remind him.

Bury him low and deep.

Nearer the promised to-morrow ;
Over his form we will weep,—
E'en soldiers may weep in sorrow.
Bury him low and deep.

A lock of his hair first sever,
His mother would like to keep
This relic of one gone forever.
Bury him low and deep!

GEORGE W. BIRDSEYE.

GOD REAPS HIS JUDGMENT.

BATTLE OF PILOT KNOB, MO.,

OCTOBER 16Tн, '61.

GOD reaps his judgment-field to-day,
And sifts the darnel from the wheat:
A whirlwind sweeps the chaff away,
And fire the refuge of deceit.

In vain a nation's bloody sweat,
The sob of myriad hearts in vain,
If the scotched snake may live to set
Its venom in our flesh again.

The lords of treason and the whip
Have called us to the dread appeal,
From the loud cannon's fevered lip,
And the wide flash of bristling steel.

If now the echo of that voice

Shake down their prison house of wrong, They have their own perfidious choice, For God is good, and Truth is strong.

Their steel draws lightning, and the bolt
But fires their own volcanic mine;

God in their vineyard of Revolt
Treads out his sacramental wine!

GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.