Ah! many a true-hearted hero and brave,

As any whom FAME'S mighty trumpet has blown, Has sunk, thus unhonored, alone in his grave,

His name and his deeds to his fellows unknown.

Green, green grows the grass o'er his cold, earthy bed! May the wild flowers of Nature the monument be Of the patriot who thus for his country has bled,

And drawn his last breath in the cause of the free!'

THE PARTING HOUR IS DARK, MOTHER.

CAPTURE OF NORFOLK, VA.,

MAY 10TH, 1862.

THE parting hour is dark, mother,
The saddest I have known-
Oh, what a crushing spell of grief
Upon my heart is thrown!

I grieve to think that I, mother,
Must wonder far from thee,
And thy sad features show that thou
Art grieving, too, for me.

Tumultuous are the thoughts, mother,
That in my bosom swell,
As now I leave my early home,
And breathe the sad farewell.
But, Oh! if I should fall mother,
Grieve not too much for me—
Remember that I fall beneath
The banner of the free.

One long last fond embrace mother,
One kiss upon my brow-

I feel it in the battle's heat,

E'en as I feel it now.

One pressure of the hand-one look-
Now broken is the spell

That holds me to thy loving breast;

My mother dear, farewell.

RICHARD H. LENT.

NEVER OR NOW.

DESTRUCTION OF THE MERRIMAC, OFF NORFOLK, VA., MAY 11TH, '62.

LISTEN, young heroes! your country is calling! Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true, Now while the foremost are fighting and falling, Fill up the ranks that have opened for you!

You whom the fathers made free and defended, Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame;

You whose fair heritage spotless descended,

Leave not your children a birth-right of shame.

Stay not for questions while Freedom stand gasping! Wait not till Honor lies wrapt in his pall!

Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hand clasping"Off for the wars" is enough for them all!

Break from the arms that would fondly caress you! Hark! 'tis the bugle blast! sabres are drawn! Mother shall pray for you, father shall bless you, Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone.

Never or now! cries the blood of a nation

Poured on the turf where the red rose shall bloom;
Now is the day and the hour of salvation;
Never or now! peals the trumpet of doom!

Never or now! roars the hoarse-throated cannon
Through the black canopy blotting the skies!
Never or now! flaps the shell-blasted pennon
O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies;

From the foul dens where our brothers are dying,
Aliens and foes in the land of their birth,
From the rank swamps were our martyrs are lying
Pleading in vain for a handful of earth;

From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered,
Furrowed and ridged with the battle-field's plow
Comes the loud summons: Too long you have slumbr'ed
Hear the last Angel-trump-NEVER OR NOW!

ANONYMOUS.

GO FORTH MY SON.

BEFORE THE CAPTURE OF NATCHEZ, MISS.,
MAY 13TH, '62.

GO FORTH, my son, your country calls
You to the tented field!

Go forth, and battle for her cause,
And only dying yield!

I much will miss your presence here,
Yet to just Heaven trust,

That you'll return, when Treason's flag
Lies humbled in the dust!

When in the dreary Southern gloom
You pace the night guards round,
When all is silent as the tomb,
And lurking foes surround,
Be stout of heart, my darling boy,
Be watchful, and be true,

A mother's prayers will guard you then,
The weary night-watch through!

And when the hour of strife arrives,
And drums to arms doth call;
When sabres flash and cannons roar,
And friend and foe doth fall!
March forward with the foremost rank-
Where danger is, there go;

For I would rather have thee die

Than fail to meet the foe!

J. HENRY HAYWARD.

THE STANDARD BEARER.

BATTLE OF FORT DARLING, VA.,

MAY 16TH, '62.

And the brave standard-bearer, blood mantled and torn With the wounds of the conflict, that strove for his prize But wrapped in the banner whose glory life-borne Now emblazons his bosom,still honored he lies.

There are eyes that are stony, blood-blotted in glare,
And the home-mem'ried tear may yet cling to the lash,
While on lips that are dumb is a death chiselled prayer
That was sealed to its fount by the last deadly crash.

Some are locked in the grapple that struggled to gain
And yet clutches for vict'ry reeking with gore,
As they fell when their powers were urged to the main,
And they sank to the sward, and the battle gave o'er.

Many smiled at the glory achieved ere they died,
Or the frown of defeat may yet mark some cold brow,
Or the grimace of agony still may abide,
While the unfettered spirit has fled from below.

The father lies stark 'neath the grim monster's heel,
And the soft cheek of youth may be covered with dew,
The brow of stern manhood lies crushed by the wheel
Of the death-belching cannon, where wild legions flew.

The most faithful commmander e'er true to his trust, With his patriot hand he still clutches the bladeThat he pledged to his country till buried in dust, And upon her fair bosom the warrior is laid.

WM. H. INGERSOLL, L. L. D.