Your banner now give to the wind,
Rush to the field of war,
Linger no longer here behind,
Your brothers cry from far.
Rush forward, sons of Michigan,
From workshop, field, and fold,
Fill up their ranks, let every man
The good old flag uphold.
CAPTURE OF ISLAND NO. 10, MISS.,
Ir decks the ocean's pathless blue,
And floats on every tide;
It cheers the hardy sailor's view,
Our flag, our country's pride.
It ran aloft on England's coast,
And kissed the moonlight free,
When Jones smote down proud Britain's boast
That England rules the sea."
It shone in beauty o'er the waves,
When France struck at its stars;
But they in ocean found their graves,
Swept down by our brave tars.
Decatur, 'midst the battle storm,
Its starry folds unswung,
And as the wild winds caught its form,
Triumphantly be sung.
With blushing smiles it lit the fleet,
When Lawrence led the fight;
He went the enemy to meet,
Just at the dawn of light.
He stood within his ocean nest,
And bravely fought that day;
But ere the sun had sunk to rest,
It mantled his cold clay.
It slept within a thunder cloud,
By Perry on the lake,
When with wild shouts which rung aloud,
He did his strong foe break.
It saw with pleasure o'er Champlain,
Its proud opponent flee;
And floated with the English slain,
The dwellers of the sea.
Still may it shine in grandeur far,
The emblem of the brave;
Still may it float the world's great star,
Till all sleep in the grave.
AFTER THE CAPTURE OF FORT PULASKI, S. C.,
He died-the noble volunteer-at morn,
By sickness faded-by sorrow worn;
A smile still plays on his pale lips,
But his eyes are darkened in death's eclipse;
His beautiful hair still shines like gold,
But the heart is still, and the form is cold;
For an angel hand has softly borne
The soldier away to a brighter morn.
Alas! no kind sister's arm caressed,
His cheek no tender mother pressed;
No pitying friend was by his side,
As lonely, far from home he died;
Let your tears fall gently down!
His eyes have watched in vain,
For the loved one far away,
That he ne'er could see again.
Brave comrades he has shared the fight
Upon many a well-fought field;
A braver and a nobler knight,
Never the sword did wield.
Sleep, soldier sleep! from sorrow free,
And sin and strife, 'tis well with thee;
It is well, though many a tear
Laments the fallen volunteer.
Gather roses white and red
And scatter them softly on his breast-
Now some barkspurs deeply blue
There the colors for his rest!
Days, months and years shall circle away,
The ocean of time to eternity roll,
Thou art lost to earth's loved ones, forever and aye, Soldier and brother, peace to thy soul.
FIRST BATTLE AT YORKTOWN, VA.,
APRIL 16TH, '62.
LOUD and long the battle thundered,
Clashing steel and muttering drum,
While the serried ranks, though sundered,
To the fear of death were dumb;
When our banners, dim and tattered,
Shone an emblem of our land,
And the foe were widely scattered,
Leaving us war's Contraband:
In the hush of after battle,
Came a negro old and gray,
Years of toil had lent the rattle,
And obscured his reason's ray;
Bent and feeble, proud in freedom,
Emblematic of his band,
From afar he said he "seed'em "
Battling for the Contraband.
And a woman, yes, a mother,
Wandered to our silent camp,
Shedding tears she could not smother,
Telling how she heard the tramp
Of our army drawing nearer,
Kissing oft our soldiers' hands,
For her children-woman's dearer
Blessings-too, were Contrabands.
Yet a maiden told her story,
And our hearts with grief were mute, The new empire of our glory
Did its pathos oft dispute,
And our souls were sick with seeing,
In the downcast of our land,
Virtue ravished-all for being
Color of the Contraband.
C. FRENCH RICHARDE.
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