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she would enlist in their army. She had no home and no relatives; but she said she preferred to fight as a private soldier for the Stars and Stripes, rather than be honored with a commission from the rebs. About two weeks ago she was exchanged. The insurgents tried to extort from her a promise that she would go home, and not enter the service again. "Go home!" she said; "my only brother was killed at Pittsburgh Landing, and I have no home—no friends!"

Dr. Walker describes Frank as of about medium height, with dark hazel eyes, dark brown hair, rounded features, and feminine voice and appearance. Dr. W. is well versed in human nature, as well as anatomy, and she believes that justice to the young woman in question requires that she should be commissioned .a lieutenant in the army. The Doctor also argues that Congress should assign women to duty in the army, with compensation, as well as colored men, averring that patriotism has no sex. Whether the President will commission Miss Hook as a lieutenant, or Congress will draft Mrs. Walker's countrywomen into the service, we know not; but we are certain that the "Doctor" is thoroughly in earnest, and that the story of her new protegee is an Interesting one.— Washington Republican.



Abram Lincoln knows the ropes!
All our hopes

Centre now about the brave and true j
Let us help him as we can,
He's the man,

Honest for the country through and through.

Others good, perhaps, as he
There may be;

Have we tried them in the war-time's flame?
Do we know if they will stand,
Heart in hand,

Seeking for the Right in Heaven's name?

Let the Nation ask him, then,
Once again

To hold the rudder in this stormy sea;
Tell him that each sleepless night,
Dark to light,

Ushers in a morning for the Free.

Let us not forget our rude
Gratitude 1

But lend our servant the poor crown we may t
Give him four more years of toil,
Task aud moil,

Knowing God shall crown him in His day I


Mra of the North! ye are true, ye are strong 1
Give us a watchword to cheer us along;
Write on our banners, in letters of fire,
Words that shall hearten, ennoble, inspire—
Words that shall strike to the heart of the foe
Terror and trembling wherever we go;
Give us (Au watchword to hear through the fight:
"Freedom and Fatherland, God and the Right 1"

"Freedom," for all that are weak and oppressed

* Fatherland, God and the Right I" For the rest,

Leave that to us 1 With a watchword so true,
What shall be lacking that brave hearts can do?
Soon, from the Gulf to the Border, o'er moat,
O'er battlement, fortress, that banner shall float,
Blazoned all over with letters of light:
"Freedom and Fatherland, God and the Right I

Men of the North! ye are firm, ye are leal—
Firmer than granite, and truer than steel I
Loving and loyal, this only remains:
Strike from the bondsman his fetters and chains!
Then, then shall our legions go forth to the fray,
Invincible, clad in their battle-array;
And conquering angels shall lead on the fight
For Freedom and Fatherland, God and the Right I
FncuBuaon, Mass. Carounk A. Mason.




[" Here, Sergeant, take this star. It is the last of thirty-four from our old flag; the remainder are shot awnv In the eleven battle* through which I have borne It—Malvern Hill Clmntllly, SouthMountain, Antletarn, first and second Frederlcksburgh, Oettj-sburgh. Falling Waters, Brlstoiv Station, Rappahannock Station, and Mine Run. And If I am not permitted to take It to the ladle* who gave It perform the duty for me, and tell them it never left tho field disgraced !"—Color-Sergeant JirriBsos FuaTU, of the Fifty-ninth New-York volunteers, to Orderly O. S. Amu of the Sixth New-York artillery.]

All quiet now the battle clash;

No more the cannon's sound
Peals forth a requiem to the dead,

Or shakes the corpse-strewn ground;
But gentle night hath drawn her veil

O'er this sad scene of woe,
As if to hide from mortal ken ,

A sight they dare not know.

i From dawn of day till eve set in,

The fearful contest waged;
Still vict'ry perched on neither flag,

But brooded where the " tug" had raged.
Begrimed and weary, wet with gore,

The separate armies lay
Upon their arms that solemn night,

Early to start the strife next day.

Beneath a charred and shattered oak

A color-sergeant lay,
And many a wide and gaping wound

Told of his work that day.
But not alone upon the plain

Was this youthful warrior left,
To be butchered by some thieving band

Of humanity bereft.

"Squad, halt! and see who this man is."
"Friends!" the soldier yelled, "'tis 11
Color of the Fifty-ninth,
And not afraid to die!"
"Here's brandy, Jeff, 'twill do you good,
Then p'haps you'll know your friends;
But on keeping calm and quiet now,
Your recovery depends.

"Here, sergeant," said the bleeding man, "This star is all I've got That yet remains of that old flag, I've borne through battles hot.

If I Bhould die of this slight wound—
The trust is not misplaced—

Carry it back to those who gave,
And say 'twas ne'er disgraced.

"Just there we met the ' Catamounts '•

From Alabama's wild,
Who dashed upon old Fifty-nine

As if she were a child.
But soon they found us foemen good,

Who worked with might and will,
And would not give one inch of ground—

It was not in our drill 1

"My poor old flag was torn to shreds,

But still I held it high,
Determined that this tree itself

Should run as soon as I.
Wounded and faint at last I fell

Upon the recking ground,
And feeling round for my dear flag,

This, alas! is all I found.

"I crawled away to this old tree,

To lay me down and die,
And thought of you all, my comrades,

But did not think you nigh.
How good it is to meet once more

Before I go away,
To march and carry a different flag,

In the endless realms of day!

"Tell them I held—" his head bowed down,

As if nature claimed her own,
And they carried off the soldier,

Thinking life had flown.
But he recovered slowly

From wounds—a sad array—
And says he'll yet meet foemen

To fight another day.

Wntmim, April 13, 1864.


Hark to the sound of the war-charger prancing
The red gorv field of yon mighty domain;

Where kinsmen and brothers to death are advancing,
And father and son swell the rauks of the slain.

Their trumpets are sounding slave emancipation 1
What genius awoke that harmonical strain,

Or charmed it to slumber in vile degradation,
Till union extinction had kindled the flame?

Ye sons of Columbia, your rigor surrender,
The sun of vour glory descends into night;

Your grandsires, who bled for your freedom and splen-
In union combined ye—then why do ye fight?

Your maidens are sighing amidst their devotion,
For loved ones laid low in the flower of their bloom;

Hearts that responded each tender emotion
Lie silent and cold in the warrior's tomb.

The daisies may wave where the pale lips were parted,
In hateful reproach, or in anguish to pray;

• The Fourth reslraent of Alabama Infantry style themselves the " Catamounts;" and many other chivalry reciments have as»umed corresponding "hlghfalutln" names such as "Tigers," "Squirrels," "Dare-Devus," etc— Weekly Herald.

And spirits unfettered their prison deserted,
Surveyed them with horror, and fled in dismay.

Be still, little baby, your mother is weeping—
In secret she whispers the name of her dear,

Your father, so young and so noble, is sleeping—
The wail of his darling falls dead on his ear.

Oh! when shall Columbia her freedom inherit, ^4nd peace, like an angel, descend with a smile;

Or fate send a hero, with Washington's merit, To stay the red surge that o'crwhelms the soil? —Irom QUugoa (.Scotland) Petmy Pott.



"You've donned the peerless uniform

Of good old Uncle Sam "—
Around my neck her arms she threw,
And to her breast my own she drew—

With tears her fond eyes swam.

"You're dearer to me than I tnought—
Since in this steadfast hue
Your form was draped, its impress takes
A depth such as a hero's makes—
All hail, my own true blue 1

"Prouder am I to see you thus—
Though it preludes good-by—

•Than were you crowned perchance a king,
Whose name in action ne'er did ring,
Whose soul gives fame the lie.

"Your stature seems to gain in height
From your high motive's aim;
And to such eminence my heart
Is lifted, I am strong to part—
Oh! to reserve were shame 1

"Go, save our country I she is first—

Stand guard until you fall;
Or till the danger overcome
Shall respite the alarum-drum—

I will delay recall.

"Go, where along the lurid front
The Union vanguards tramp!
Do your whole duty, danger spurn,
When Freedom's laurelled, then return—
These arms shall be your camp 1

"As I would ask, so you have done—
'God shield you!' is my charm:
Should you survive, redeem this kiss,
And should you perish, one will miss
From life its sweetest balm.

"These tears attest the grief I feel-
God's aud my own true blue I

For every one speed thou a shot;

When quietus the foe has got,
Valor for love may sue."

So spoke my own brave girl, and fled,

Fearing her heart's dread pain Would traitor prove unto her will, And rising with rebellious thrill, Persuade me to remain.

To die for her were sweeter fcr

Than loved by less to live;
Each natures wear an aspect grand,
As with an unreserving hand
They answer Duty's " give!"

0 woman! how much patriot fire Thy breath has woke to flame! How many heroes were not such But for thy consecrating touch, None less than God can name! Bui Faucuco, April 1,1SGI.


Ah ! just as long as history owns a record,
This foulest shame upon the South shall rest,

That writ, in blood and flame, the fiendish motto,
No pity, none, upon the rebel crest.

Not. for the wounded, and the sick and dying!

Not for brave prisoners craft but forced to yield! Nor women and young children! then, 0 Southron!

Go, blazon Chivalry upon your shield!

Is this the foe whose wounded we have tended?

Is this the foe whose prisoned we have fed? Whose women and whose children we have succored,

When their own soldiers robbed them of their bread?

0 the brave hearts they riddled with their bulltts!

0 the sick forms they mangled where they lay! Their murdered blood cries up to God, Avenge us 1

Cries out to you, 0 brothers! night and day.

Then grasp your muskets and belt on your sabres,
For fiercely burns the hate of desperate men;

But go not forth to murder and to pillage,
Nay, leave such bandit-deeds to such as them.

Brave hearts ne'er yet were cruel to the vanquished;

Ye will not stain the dear old flag yo bear With crimes that would disgrace the martial manhood,

That took that flag from fingers young and fair.

Let none at home prate peace and compromising,
When rebel tactics is to butcher men I

Nay, rally, freemen, in one grand uprising,
For the world wills that we should conquer them!

0 bearded faces, brown but kind and tender!

Through weary marches, our prayers march with you, And sweet lips cry from home: Dear braves, remember, As you to country, we to you arc true.

Lizzie P. Sidxet, Ohio, April 36.


"Oh! tell me, Sergeant of Battery B,
0 hero of Sugar Pine!
Some glorious deed of the battle-field,
Some wonderful feat of thine;

"Some skilful move when the fearful game
Of battle and life was played
On yon grimy field, whose broken squares
In scarlet and black are laid."

"Ah! stranger, here at my gun all day,
I fought till my final round
Was spent, and I had but powder left,
And never a shot to be found.

"So I trained my gun on a rebel piece;
So true was my range and aim,
A shot from his cannon entered mine,
And finished the load of the same 1"

"Enough! 0 Sergeant of Battery B,
0 hero of Sugar Pine!
Alas! I fear that thy cannon's throat
Can swallow much more than mine 1"


NEW TEAR, 1664.

Beside my quiet hearth to-night
A Pilgrim sits, with locks of white,
With drooping head and folded hands,
As one who dreams of far-off lands;
As one all conscious that the hour
Is bearing from him wealth and power,
And looks to sunset shores attained,
Where blessings lost may be regained.
Oh! weird and strange the old man seems,
As though I saw him in my dreams—
His garments stained with moss and dust,
His eyes like graves of buried trust,
His lips all trembling, pale, and still,
A worker he, of good or ill.

"0 Stranger I tell me whence thy flight,
To rest beside my hearth to-night;
Tell me thy hope—thy eager quest.
That I may honor thee, my Guest!"

He answers not, but turns to go,
Over his worn staff bending low.

"0 weary Pilgrim! go not forth,
The wind is shrieking from the North;
And pallid Snow, a phantom, steals,
Attendant on its chariot-wheels;
The freezing night broods o'er the street—
'Tis dark and cold for aged feet.
Wait till the morn, when, from the towers,
Deep-throated'bells, with iron powers,
Shall usher in to lands of cheer
And lands of gold, the brave New Year
Theu, when the day new promise brings,
When mirth and song the loudest rings—
When sunlight gilds the forest ways,
And strikes the hoar frosts' troubled maze,
Thou canst go onward at thy will,
Thy secret purpose to fulfil."

"Maiden, most kind, I may not see
The morn that brings such hope to thee;
But if thou canst, with pitying eye,
Look on, and see an old man die,
I will not cross again thy door,
But tarry till my work is o'er."

His very tones, so soft and low,
O'erran his lips with silvery flow,
And leave such echoes as we find
Dropped from the flying April wind;
Or lingering after summer showers
Midst swaying vines in forest bowers;
Or the low sound that sometimes springs,
Like murmurous clash of unseen wings,
Moaning from trees or vines, or both,
In the swift struggle of their growth—
A strange commingling of all tones,
Or sweet or sad, that Nature owns.
The old man rests again, and seems
To gather up anew his dreams.
From 'neath his mantle, grny and torn,
He draws a book, with pages worn,
And turning o'er its leaves so thin
With frequent seconds entered in,
He strives all eagerly to find
Some thought peculiar to his mind,
As one may take from dusty shelf
Some precious tome, as dear as self,
And turning o'er, with lingering touch,
The leaves full freighted, holding much
Of earnest thought, and won desire,
That kindle passion into fire—
Read here and there some loving rhyme;
Some echo of a far-off time;
Some thought entrapped in mystic words,
(A fowler's mesh holds struggling birds;)
And note, with acquiescent smile,
The working of the poet's wile:
So, here and there, the old man reads
Of grand endeavor, toil, and deeds;
Of purposes of high surprise—
Of visions granted to the wise—
Of struggles long, and victories won—
Of wonders wrought, and labor done—
Of men who rule the age of gold,
Possessing treasures manifold—
Of life and death—of war and peace—
Loud bursts of song in many keys,
And mournful wails of low regret—
Of graves that yawn uncovered yet—
Till we who list are fain to think
That Memory gives him gall to drink.

He reads the wooing of the Spring,
When, in the meadows wandering,
He met the maid, her work begun,
And found her fair to look upon.
He reads the flitting of the May,
That bore his maiden-bride away;
And sighs, in mem'ry of the hour
When first he trod her vacant bower,
(Its slender pillars twined across
With orange lichens and green moss,)
And found her buds, no more subdued,
Decking with bloom their solitude.
He murmurs o'er the self-same tune
He heard the south wind play in June,
And finds some lingering of the haze
That tangled in its misty maze
The falling leaves and blossoms sweet,
Beneath the Indian Summer's feet

"Oh! sweet as Love, but dearer far,"
The old man sighs, "these memories are;
But sadder still, with longing pain,
For they may never come again!
But one short June my life may know—
May see its roses blush and blow—
Its lilies whiten to the sky,
And then in conscious splendor die;
But with no dream of smiling hope,
That when, o'er yonder snowy slope,
The Summer flitteth down, that she
Will bring those blossoms back to me!"

But now he reads a darker page—

With records stained of hate and rage—

Of hosts drawn up in brave array

To fight each other's lives away!

Of clash of sword and noise of gun—

Of corpses stiffening in the sun—

Of hissing shot and booming shell,

Confusion like to that of hell!

Of men, whom mothers once wept o'er,

To devils turned—like men no more!

Of the dread silence afterward,

That steals along the trodden sward,

And settles down o'er faces white,

That never more shall greet the light;

Of passions maddened to excess—

Of blood that flowed in plenteousness—

Of all the hopes and treasures lost,

To crown the dreadful holocaust!

"0 shrine of Death!" the old man cries,
"Whose greedy flames in triumph rise,
Fed by the dread Iconoclast,
Who, heralded by trumpet blast,
Has drained our land of hopes and cheers,
And sowed its fallow ground with tears,
The bleaching bones of dead desires,
The ashes of Ambition's fires,
The royal wine of human life
Spilled over in unholy strife—
The vilest passions 'neath the sun,
Whose work of evil just begun
May never more on earth be done—
A harvest dread of blood and groans,
These are thy temple's altar-stones 1"

Again he reads—of lofty rooms
Where warm airs tremble with perfumes;
Where music answers beauty's laugh,
And red wine waits for all to quaff;
Where roses, blushing with delightk
Press closer to the carpet white
In dumb, red passion, faint and sweet,
Beneath the tread of dancing feet;
Where costly flowers, in blooming bands,
Drop fragrance on the jasper stands;
Where pictures deck the broad, high walls,
And curtains, in their silken falls,
Brush marble forms that hold, like saints,
Life's semblance in their cold restraints—
So pure, so holy, that they seem
The incarnation of a dream!

"What matters it," the old man sighs,
"If lamps Hash radiance o'er young eyes;
What matters it, if fires be warm,
And music drowns the shrieking storm,
That the cold winter night without
Waves its white, frozen wings about,
And pallid in its icy wrath
The swift snow hurries o'er the path,
And strives with eager haste to meet
Some weary, faint, and haggard feet—
That it may drain some veins of life,
And ease some aching heart of strife I"

Another page he turneth o'er,.

And reads, more sadly than before—

Within the shadows floating wide

From yon high palaces of pride,

Are lowly eots, all bare and black,

Gaping with many a wide-mouthed crack;

Where Poverty, Bo gaunt and worn,

Sits ever waiting and forlorn;

Where no strange perfumes fill the gloom;

Where no buds tremble into bloom;

Where no songs ring, but tears and sighs;

And little children's hungry cries

Make terrible the echoes there,

Already burdened with despair;

Where mothers, mad with woes like these,

Watch their young children starve and freeze,

And pray that Death would bear them far

To realms beyond the morning star;

Where, in the heavenly courts above,

Their voices, loud in songs of love,

By grief and woe no more controlled,

Will say no longer, "lam cold 1"

"0 wonder strange!" the old man cries,
"A riddle for the learned and wise.
That for the lack of bread and wine,
God's image, likeness so divine,
Should find on this broad earth He gave,
His only heritage—a grave 1
The sick pray loud with fast-closed palms,
For added wealth and soothing balms—
They drink rare wines from cups of gold,
And yet their neighbor dies of cold 1
Oh 1 when will Charity anointed be?
Greatest of all the blessings three!"

The old man's words are faint and low—
His failing voice is trembling so—
And mystic names and low sweet calls
Drop from his lips at intervals,
As if some long-forgotten thought
Stirred in its channels all unsought
How pale he seems—oh! very pale;
How suddenly his pulses fail I
Hut, more distinct these last words come
From lips fast growing white and dumb:
"Though death and darkness o'er me fall,
God's blessing shincth over all 1"

What ho, without! bring in your shroud and pall,

And cover up the glare of these dead eyes! Fold closely o'er the breast the meek, still hands,

And scatter incense where the pale corpse lies; And as you carry out your precious dead,

Soft let the censer o'er him swing and wave, And lay him where the flowers will soonest bloom

In fragrant beauty, o'er the Old Year's grave.

With joyful penis of melody and song,

The blessed chimes ring out, with sudden start; Alike on high and low their music falls,

And some sweet promise bear to every heart; Some precious hope they breathe of wrongs redressed,

Of sunbeams that shall lighten sorrow's glooms; Of violets that yet may blush and grow,

In modest fragrance, o'er some barren tomb.


0 New Year! radiant One!
Come with tho trembling of the morning light
Through the vast portals, glittering and white,

That open to the Sun,
And glorious in the promise of thy youth

Scatter the seeds of light and truth 1 •

Oil! let thy coming prove
A resurrection to our buried hopes,
That we may raise again on sun-barred slopes

The altars of our love,
And the quenched fires revive, though spent and cold.

With offerings manifold.

Oh! glide on, snowy ships,
Down the broad rivers reaching to the sea;
And bear a message to the bond and free:

That the long-mourned eclipse
Of peace shall with thy dawning pass away,

Ne'er to resume its sway.

A.nd as (foreshadowed fate!)
The blessed Saviour came upon the earth
To bring the promise of a second birth

To man regenerate;
So, like a bow of promise, wilt thou rise,

Within our troubled skies I

0 happy New Year! go From lands of shade to lands of sun; And count thy victory duly won

If tears have ceased to flow, And mourners shout from bloody graves that yawned:

"A better day hath dawned!"


One of the boys lies dead in his tent,

All alone. Soldier, go in, go in, And smooth back his hair, And close the dead eyes, So dreamily blue, That are staring straight through The night, toward the skies,

Where his soul has gone!

Ay, and we made a desperate charge

Through the smoke,
And the terrible roar, for the guns
That had growled all day
From the rebel right—
Rank after rank,
On our wearied flank,
Had gone down in the fight,

When those cannons spoke.

Scorching hot, from their grinning jaws,

With a shout, Came the whirling shot And tho bursting shell, And the air grew gray

With the drifting smoke, That quivered and broke And heaved and fell,

When the roar burst out.

And Death rode over the battle-field,

Through the storm,
Like the withering .breath of a curse;
And his voice rang out,
With a shrill report,

When the rifles flashed
And the bayonet gashed
The quivering heart,

And the knife struck home.

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