POETRY AND INCIDENTS. BULL RUN, SUNDAY, JULY 21ST. BY ALICE B. HAVEN. O God!-can I live with the horrible truth! Stabbed through as he lay, with their glittering steel; Could they look in that face, like a woman's for youth, And crush out its beauty with musket and heel, That brow I have blessed in my dead mother's place, Each morning and evening since she went unto rest; Smoothing down the fair cheek, as my own baby's face, Those eyes with her look, where my kisses were prest, For I saw hers-so tender! Curses spring to my lips! Oh, my God, send the hail His blood crieth upward! "Amiss!”—and the strife of my clamorous grief I know eyes more tender looked upward to Thee; That visage, so marred by the torturing crown— Those 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; 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, Their sleeping ashes, from below, Knit they the gentle ties which long For idle hands in sport to tearFor 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, 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 That mighty arm which none can stay- 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 the sin we dared disown, Till its "dragon teeth" were sown, By our Northern host betrayed, For Rhode Island's gallant stand- For our boys that knew not fear, By the hope that suffers long, 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; Blest dead, be ye now softly sleeping- Each grave-and we're proud 'mid our weeping, 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! Few summers have sped since she clasped thee, The pitying winds gliding past thee, "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, Such memories hallowed we'll cherish- |