LEFT WOUNDED ON THE FIELD.

AT THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON, TENN.,

FEBRUARY 16тн, '61.

How like a mighty avalanche

Our brave boys sweep upon the foe,
Regardless of the fearful fire,

Which lays so many heroes low!
On! on! into the storm of death!

Up! up! before those iron throats,
Which pour destruction in their ranks,
And shake the earth with thunder notes!

Great, fearful gaps are in their lines,
The slain in heaps lie in their track,
Yet not a sign of faltering-

Yet not a thought of turning back!
On, on they press, 'till hand to hand
The soldiers struggle in the fight,
God give our men the victory,

God give the battle to the right!

But human valor cannot stand

Such awful carnage as they meet;
And then is given the command
To cease the combat, and retreat.
Amid the rebels' hideous yells,

And fearful shouts of victory,
Our shattered forces leave the field,
Where they have fought so gallantly.

J

There, on that awful battle plain,

Our dead and wounded soldiers lie, With none to bind their bleeding wounds, Or hear their last words ere they die. We hear their piteous cries for drink,

Born to our ears in dying tones-
We hear their feeble calls for help,
But cannot heed their dying groans.!

The cruel foe with dev'lish hate,

Watch closely all who leave a trench, To minister to wounded friends,

And seek their burning thirst to quench, And from their strongholds quickly send, A bullet which may fatal prove, To all who venture on the field, Upon this holy work of love!

Half-way between us and the foe,
Our leader brave, disabled laid,
And oh! 'twas truely terrible,

To hear his agonizing cries for aid,
He called for drink incessantly;

But who could ease his dreadful woe? 'Twas certain death to venture thereAnd who will venture there to go?

A man stepped forth- a martyr brave-
To give his life for noble deed;
And all his comrades gathered 'round,
To bid the noble youth God speed!
His features glowed with calm resolve,
And tears were seen in many eyes,
He grasped their hands and turned away,
Amid the soldier's sad "good byes.”

How anxiously they on him gaze,
As 'mid the fallen ones he treads;
Will he return to them again,

Or sleep with them on gory beds?
Will he succeed and gain the side

Of him who led them on to-day? Will he relieve the sufferer,

Before his life is snatched away?

Still safe he bravely pushes on
Amid a storm of leaden hail!

He's almost there-one moment more-
Will he succeed? or will he fail?
See, see, he kneels, and places now
His canteen to the soldier's lips-
God grant our leader may imbibe
New life with every drop he sips.

Our hero rises! can it be

He'll safely yet return to us?
Oh, God of battles! we now pray
That Thou wilt kindly will it thus !
Another shower of bullets fall-

Will he escape this as before?
Alas! behold him stagger-fall !

Ah! Heaven has gained one martyr more!

The days passed on-we toiled away,

Assured the fortress soon must fall; And how we cheered when we beheld The white flags wave along the wall. The place was ours! and victory

Had perched upon our banner bright, Treason was humbled in the dust

Before the all-triumphant Right!

J. GORDON EMMONS,

THE DYING SOLDIER.

DESTRUCTION OF WINTON VILLAGE, N. C.,
FEBRUARY 19TH, '62.

THE grim-visaged cannon had ceased to roar,
And hushed was the musketry's rattle;
The bright-flashing sabre, all dripping with gore,
Lay in peace on the red field of battle;
The warm golden sunlight flooded the plain;
The night-wind was mournfully sighing,
And bore on its bosom, again and again,
The groans of the wounded and dying.

On blood-crimsoned turf, with bright eyes upturned
To the smoke-hidden heavens above him,
A dying youth lay, while his manly heart yearned
For his home and the friends who had loved him ;
Yet firmly he clings to his sabre red,

Though sharp are the pains through him darting; And the glaze o'er his eyes, which shuts out the dead Tells that body and spirit are parting.

A smile wreathes the lips that once were so sad,
As he looks on the smoky cloud o'er him;
Life's shadowing twilight flits o'er his head,
And visions of home dance before him.

His father, with tottering step, he sees,
And hears the sweet voice of his mother;
And, fronting the door, the wide-spreading trees,
Where he played with his sister and brother.

Yet another vision now meets his gaze,
With joy it advances to meet him ;
The loved playmate of his youthful days
Comes forth, with her parents, to greet him.
The blood-stained sabre now falls from his hand
To his feet in triumph he started;

And then, with a groan, fell back to the sand,
While his spirit, to meet them, departed!

S. H. POTTER.

THE LAST MAN AT HIS GUN.

AT THE BATTLE OF FORT GRAIG, NEW MEXICO.

ALONE, amid his comrades slain,

Upon the crimson battle field,

'Mid death and dire destruction's reignHe will not fly-he will not yield!

But coolly sits, upon his gun,

Now silent in the battle's roar

His duty nobly, bravely done

He falls the last-one martyr more!

Will ever traitors perish thus,

Or stand before such a foe as he,
With such brave men to fight for us,
Base treason's doomed eternally!

Ah! hero brave! thy noble name

We'll breathe around our peaceful fires-
Tell childrens' children of thy fame,

When we are old and white-haired sires!

J. GORDON EMMONS.