"THE CROSS BEGINS TO BEND.”

FIGHT OF THE HARRIET LANE AT PIG POINT BATTERY.

JUNE 6TH, '61.

"MIDNIGHT is past-the Cross begins to bend !"
So sings the sailor on the Southern seas,
Longing for darkness and the night to end,
And letting such old signs his fancy please!

The night-watch, that began in storm and gloom, Wearied his soul-its dull hours dragging byHe smiles in seeing black clouds lift-make room, For this sweet writing of the stars, on high!

And so I think, as through all our ranks to-day, Look answers look, and friend speaks quick to friend Soldier to soldier, brother to brother, say,

66

• Midnight is past-the Cross begins to bend !"

Ay, ringing bells, throughout this summer air,
With all their happy tide of music, blend,
The voice and blessing-of our dead, who share
With us this joy-" The Cross begins to bend !”

ANONYMOUS.

MY HERO.

AT THE BATTLE OF BIG BETHEL,
JUNE 10TH, '61.

THE hand of fate has written out
Strange things upon my map of time,
And many are the eyes that read

Its lines of mingled woe and crime.
Sometimes I draw the veil aside

That shuts me from the buried past,
And wander o'er its barren fields
At last, at last!

One picture has a ten-fold power-
'Tis graven with a mighty pen :
A plume torn from an eagle's wing,
Dipped in the warmest blood of men!
A battle field with reeking sod,

With stars and stripes and bugle's blast,
And brave men fleeing from a foe,
At last, at last.

The meadow grass was low and green, The primrose drooped upon its stem; The sky was calm, the ground was strewn With sweet wild stars of Bethlehem.

And on that soil my hero fell.

Amid the carnage raging fast,

Those withered blossoms drank his blood, At last, at last.

They told me this, they said in death

His pale lips breathed a loved one's name, And blessed the cause for which he died, The cause he never brought to shame. The words came sweeping o'er my soul Like some mad river rushing past, Only to drown my living dreams, At last, at last.

They told me this at eventide,

But morning never dawned for me :
Can sunlight dance upon my brow,
And even wake one smile, when he
Is lying 'neath a starry sky,

With battle sods above him cast?
A hero in a nameless grave,
At last, at last

I whisper low when fevered winds
Beat mockingly around my cheek;
My hero! who in all the world

Will know the name I dare not speak?
None, none! the veil swings slowly back,
And shuts me from the gloomy past;
I turn away and weep alone,

At last, at last,

EMMA EGGLESON.

NOW FOR THE UNION.

THE ENGAGEMENT AT ROMNEY, VA.
JUNE 12TH, '61.

A CHEER now for the Union,
The shrine of liberty-
The birthplace of dear freedom,
Where all may equal be,
We'll gather 'round the altar,
Rear'd by a nation's hand,
And swear to pause nor falter, till
Nor falter, till

We save our native land.

A blow now for the Union,
No traitor shall divide;
For it we'll crush the rebels

And all the world beside.
In the fight for its salvation

Fierce death our fathers braved: Can we do less than conquer, thatThan conquer, that

The Union may be saved.

A prayer now for the Union,

From wives and sisters dearFrom children and from mothers,

Which God above may hear

A prayer while we do battle

For those who fighting fall-
A prayer now for the Union, and-
The Union, and

For freedom and for all.

J. HENRY HAYWARD.

DO THEY MISS ME?

THE RAIL ROAD ENGAGEMENT AT VIENNA, VA.,
JUNE 17TH, '61.

DO THEY miss me at home, do they miss me to-night,
When parlors are lighted and faces are bright;
While treacherous winds, ever ready for ill,
Make raids on the flowers that grow on the hill?

Do they think of the absent, while pattering rain
Beats the startling long-roll on the tall window-pane;
While the gunboats of nature are shelling the air,
Do they wish that dear Willie was home from the war?

There's Frankie, and Katie, and Belle in their glee, Playing "puss in the corner," do they think of me? Do they wish that big brother could lay down his gun, And not be a soldier-boy, "only for fun?"

Then there's sister Carrie, with dark waving hair;
With laughing blue eyes, and with features so fair;
She is old enough now, and-gracious! who knows
But what she's already a dozen of beaux?

As she sits by the window, so pensive and still,
And thinks of her lovers, does she think of "poor Will?”

And there is my mother in the old rocking-chair. Those eyes are yet sparkling, that face is still fair; Though her hair has been frosted for many a day, The youth of her heart has not faded away;