GUERILLA FIGHT AT M'MINNSVILLE. KY,
MARCH 21ST, '63.
THE cannon now resounds, the hurrying drum
Loud beats to arms and tells the foemen "Come;"
Quick forms in line and marches our Brigade,
As gay as if they formed for their parade,
Upon their bayonets bright the sunbeams dance,
The skirmishers come out, spread wide, advance.
The leaders on each side exhaust their skill,
But hours wear on and they but skirmished still.
The rebel leader heads his tiger band,
And boldly seeks to meet us hand to hand;
Like beasts of prey o'er th' intervening space,
His frantic followers loudly yelling race.
Quick from our rear impetuous couriers bound,
Their rapid gallop shakes the echoing ground;
Rushing along, "Give way, give way," they cry,
Comes on their heels the horse artillery.
They sweep by, while a cloud of dust conceals
The panting horses and the whirling wheels;
Down the steep hill with headlong haste they go,
Wheel round their guns and point them at the foe.
The rebels come, the word to fire is given,
And gaping earth and quivering man are riven;
A new host rushes o'er the gory plain-
Again the cannon roars, that host is slain.
Once more the desperate charge the bravest led,
Once more the cannon roared, and all lay dead.
FIRST BOMBARDMENT OF VICKSBURG, MISS.,
MARCH 24TH, '63.
SO THE haughty satraps cried,
Storming in their godless pride;
Honor, mercy never known,
Justice on a shattered throne,
And the only chorus-" Might,
With his red arms makes the Right-
Cotton's King!"
Hark! there is another cry;
How it sweeps, a tempest, by?
See, a Nation fire-eyed stands,
Freedom's Charter in her hands!
See, the satraps storm no more,
While the guns on Vicksburg roar,
"God is King!"
"Wreaths for heroes fighting!" shout;
Fling our flag, a star, storm out;
Honor has not left the clime;
Justice sweeps the Harp of Time,
Shaking all the ransomed shore,
While the guns of Vicksburg roar,
“God is King!"
Nations, join the joyous cry !
Worlds, that shuddered in the sky
As ye looked down on the chain
Clanking over Earth and Main;
Shout, "The tyrant's reign is o'er!"
While the guns on Vicksburg roar,
"God is King!"
AFTER THE DESTRUCTION OF THE CITY OF JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA,
A WOMAN, one with untimely frost
Creeping along her hair;
And a boy whose sunny locks had lost
Small store of the gold of childhood, tossed
By a mother's kisses there.
The clouds hung thick on the mountain's brow,
And the stars were veiled in gloom,
And the gorges around were white with snow,
But below was the prowling, cruel foe,
And the light of a burning home.
"Mother, the wind is cold to-night,"
Said the boy in childhood's tone;
"But oh! I hope in the morning light
That the Union lines will come in sight,
And the storm will soon be gone.
"I am very weary, mother dear,
With the long, long walk to-day;
But the enemy cannot find us here,
And I shall slumber without a fear
"Till the night has passed away.
"So tell me now ere I sleep once more
The message that father
gave
To his comrades, for you and me before
The glorious fight on the river's shore,
That made a soldier's grave.
Then the mother told with tearless eye
The solemn words again :
"Tell her I shall see her standing by,
When the calm comes on of the time to die,
And the wounds have lost their pain.
"And teach my boy for ever to hold
In his heart all things above-
The wealth of all earth's uncounted gold,
Or life with its sweet, sad joys untold—
The worth of a patriot's love,"
As his blood at the message quicker stirred
The boy's bright arteries through-
"I will remember every word,"
He said, "And the angels who must have heard,
They will remember too."
Then clasped as a mother clasps who stands
Alone between love and death;
Unfelt were the spectral, chilly hands.
That softly tighten the soothing bands
Over the failing breath.
Mother and child as the fire burned low,
Slept on the earth's cold breast:
The night passed by, and the morning slow
Broke the veil of cloud o'er the fearful show,
But never their perfect rest,
RUMORED EVACUATION OF RICHMOND,
MARCH 29TH, '63.
In a dingy old room in a Northern State
Sat a mother alone-a woman whose fate
Was to toil with the needle for men who will say
"She has ample reward in a shilling per day!"
She sat with her head bowed low on her knee,
While the needle had ceased to work for its fee,
And her thoughts had wandered away to a son
As he marched 'mid the "Grand," to mystic Bull Run.
Slowly the shirt slid down from her clasp,
'Till it hung by the thread still firm in her grasp,
And sleep, that was sweet, had taken its sway
Where the twenty-four hours were always the day.
Her slumber was calm; anon she would start !
The muscles would twitch, and told that the heart
Was stirred to its depths by a vision of one
As he marched 'mid the "Grand," to mystic Bnll Run.
She saw in her dream that gallant array,
As weary and worn they plodded their way
To the field that was soon to picture a scene
Of horrors and death! and anguish so keen,
That the Nation has grieved in sorrow and gloom,
O'er the worthy and brave, who courting their doom,
Lay wounded and dead in the light of a sun
That shone angry and hot on the banks of Bull Run.
|