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been closed since Christmas, and with ray consent, until you change your sentiments, and are a loyal woman in heart, it never shall be opened.

I would advise vou, madam, forthwith to go where your •' sympathies'" are. I am only doubtful whether it is not'mv duty to send you.

I have the liouor to be, very respectfully, your obedient servant, B. F. Butler,

Major-General Commanding.

To Mrs. Mart L. Grates,

Locustville, Accomac County, Virginia.

IN LIBBY PRISON"—NEW-YEAR'S EVE, 1863-4.

'Tis twelve o'clock! Within my prison dreary—
My head upon my hand—sitting so weary,
Scanning the future, musing upon the past,
Pondering the fate that here my lot has cast;
The hoarse cry of the sentry, pacing his beat,
Wakens the echoes of the silent street:
"All is well!"

Ah! is it so? My fellow-captive, sleeping
Where the barred' window strictest watch is keeping,
Dreaming of homo and wife and prattling child—
Of the sequestered vale, the mountain wild—
Tell me, when cruel morn shall break again,
Wilt thou repeat the sentinel's refrain,
"All is well "?

And thou, mv country 1 wounded, pale, and bleeding,
Thy children "deaf to a fond mother's pleading-
Stabbing with cruel hate the nurturing breast,
To which their infancy in love was pressed—
Recount thy wrongs, thy many sorrows name;
Then to the nations—if thou canst—proclaim:
"All is well!"

But through the clouds the sun is slowly breaking-
Hope from her long, deep sleep is waking:
Speed the time, Father I when the bow of peace,
Spanning the gulf, shall bid the tempest cease-
When to men* clasping each other by the hand,
Shall shout together in a united land:
"All is well!"

F. A. Bartlesojt,
Colonel One Hundredth Illinois Volunteer!.

A CONTRABAND SONG.

The following lyric Is the favorite freedom song or the Mississippi contrabands. Its character and enthusiasm are great, and it is a good specimen, of contraband ^onius:

OLD SUADY.

Oh I ya, ya! darkies, laugh with me;
For de white folks say old Sliady's free I
Don't vou sec dut dc jubilee

'is comin', comin'! Hail, mighty day!
CHORUS.

Den away, den away, for I can't stay any longer \
Hurrah, hurrah! for I am going home. [Repeal.

Massa got scared, and so did his lady!
Dis chile broke for ole Uncle Aby I
Open de gates out! here's ole Shady,

Comin', comin'! Hail, mighty dayl
Den away, den away, etc.

Good-hy, Massa Jeff! good-hy, Misses Stevens 1
Scuse dis nigger for taking his leavins;

'Spec, prettv soon, -you'll see Uncle Abram's
Comin', comin'! Hail, mighty day 1
Den away, den away, etc.

Good-hv, hard work, and never any pay—

I'm goi'n' up North, where the while folks stay;

White wheat-bread and a dollar a day.

Comin', comin'! Hail, mighty day 1
Den away, den away, etc.

I've got a wife, and she's got a baby,
Way up North in Lower Caiiudy—
Won't dey shout when dey see ole Shady

Comin', comin' 1 Hail, mighty day!
Dcu away, den away, etc.

SUSPIRIA ENSIS.

Mourn no more for our dead,

Laid in their rest serene— With the tears a land hath shed.

Their graves shall ever be green.

Ever their fair, true glory
Fondly shall fame rehearse—

Eight of legend and story,
Flower of marble and verse!

(Wilt thou forget, 0 mother!

How thy darlings, day by day, For thee, and with fearless faces,

Journeyed the darksome way— Went down to death in the war-ship,

And on the bare hill-side lay ?)

For the giver they gave their breath,
And 'tis now no time to mouru—

Lo, of their dear, brave death
A mighty Nation is born!

But a long lament for others,

Dying for darker powers!
Those that once were our brothers,

Whose children shall yet be ours.

That a people, haughty and brave,

(Warriors old and young !) Should lie in a bloody grave,

And never a dirge be sung!

We may look with woe on the dead,
We may smooth their lids, 'tis true,

For the veins of a common red,
And the mother's milk we drew.

But alas! how vainly bleeds

The breast that is bared for crime!

Who shall dare hymn the deeds
That else had been all sublime?

Were it alien steel that clashed,

They had guarded each inch of sod—

But the angry valor dashed
On the awful shield of God!

(Ah I if for some great good—
On some giant evil hurled—

The thirty millions had stood

'Gainst the might of a banded world 1)

But now, to the long, long night

They pass, as they ne'er had been—

A stranger and sadder sight
Than ever the sun hath seen.

For his waning beams illume

A vast and a sullen train
Going down to the gloom—

One wretched and drear refrain
The only line on their tomb—
"They died-—and they died in vain I"

Gone—ab me !—to the grave,
And never one note of song!

The Muse would weep for the brave,
But bow shall she chant the wrong?

For a wayward wench is she—

One that rather would wait With Old John Brown at the tree

Than Stonewall dying in state.

When, for the wrongs that were,
Hath she lilted a single stave '/

Know, proud hearts, that, with her,
'Tis not enough to be brave

By the injured, with loving glance,
Aye hath she lingered of old,

And eyed the evil askance,

Be it never so haughty and bold.

With Homer, alms gift in hand,

With Dante, exile and free, With Milton, blind in the Strand,

With Hugo, lono by the sea!

In the attic, with Beranger,

She could carol, how blithe and free! Of the old, worn frocks of blue,

(All threadbare with victory !*) But never of purple and gold,

Never of lily or bee!

And thus, though the traitor sword
Were the bravest that battle wields—

Though the fiery valor poured
Its life on a thousand Ik-Ids—

The sheen of its ill renown

All tarnished with guilt and blame,

No poet a deed may crown,
No lay may laurel a name.

Yet never for thee, fair song!

The fallen brave to condemn; They died for a mighty wrong—

But their demon died with them.

(Died, by field and by city !)—
Be thine on the day to dwell,

When dews of peace and of pity
Shall fall o'er the fading hell—

And the dead shall smile in heaven—•
And tears, that now may not rise,

Of love and of all forgiveness,
Shall stream from a million eyes.

'v. a N.

FLio-Snir H.iRiroKD, At Ska, January, 1964.

* "Defl habits bleus par la vlctoire us6s."

A WAR STUDY.

"Pun and rain regardless falling
On the just and the uujuat."

Methinks, all idly and too well
We love this Nature—little care
(Wlmte'cr her children brave and bear)

Were hers, though any grief befell.

With gayer sunshine still she seeks
To gild our trouble, so 'twould seem;
Through all this long, tremendous dream,

A tear hath never wet her cheeks.

And such a scene I call to mind:

The third day's thunder (fort and fleet,
And the great guns beneath our feet)

Was dying, and a warm Gulf wind

Made monotone 'mid stays and shrouds;

O'er books und men in quiet chat,

With the Great Admiral I sat.
Watching the lovely cannon-clouds.

For still, from mortar and from gun,
Or shot-fused shell that burst aloft,
Out-sprung a rose-wreath, bright and soft,

Tinged with the redly setting sun.

And I their beauty praised: but he,
The grand old Senior, strong and mild,
(Of head a sage, in heart a child,)

Sighed for the wreck that still must be.

XJ. S. N.

TO ARMS AND FIGHT.

BY J. WATTS DE FEYSTER.

Pine-clad Katahdin's peal is blending

With call from Santa Rosa's bight— Pacific cheering answer sending

To lone Mount Desert's sea-girt light— From East to West one voice ascending, From every clime the arch subtending—

To Arms and Fight!
The Rocky Mountains echo's lending,
Along the Lakes that echo's wending,
God save the right!

Flag of the Free, humiliated

By treason's crime and rebel guile.

By freemen's efforts reinstated,
Will float victorious o'er the pile

Of States redeemed and reereated-
Vast Freedom's temple, in whose aisle
Our Flags in fight,

Witness of efforts never mated,

Shall wave for ever, permeated
With glory's Tight.

When since the world had faithful story,
Have triumphs like our army's shone?

Not Egypt's sculptured tablets hoary,
Not pillars ten of Marathon,

Not Rome's tail column's circling glory,
Record such fields as they have won*
In fiercest lijht.

Earth with no honors transitory,

Such self-devotion, fierce and gory,
Can e'er requite.

No despot ever saw such forces,

High-souled, free-willed, together come;

No empire witnessed such resources
Evoked by the recruiting drum.

Resistless as our rivers' courses,
Enough to strike the Old World dumb!
Heroes in fight.

Their gathering cry a thunder hum.

Would banded Europe's legions come
To dare their might?

To foreign tyrants fearful warning,

This strife 'twixt Freedom's children stands, Once more united, meet we'd scorning

The leagued wrath of king-ruled lands;
With Freedom's flag our hosts adorning,

Upheld and fenced by Freemen's hands.
Urge on the fight!
True to ourselves, a brighter morning,
Without a cloud, is swiftly dawning
Upon our night.

Then, brothers, fearful though the toil be,
Strain every nerve to bear the weight;

Think what reward will a free soil be,
Beyond the battle's lurid strait;

Though unexampled, long, the moil be,
Joys just as vast your labors wait:
To arms and fight!

Though fierce and strong the war-whirl's boil be,

True to the end there can no foil be:
We war for right.

DON'T MEDDLE WITH THE YANKEES,
JOHN BULL.

BT JAMKS S. WATKINS.

Written while the fever ran high on recognition by England and France, during the first year or the unnatural war, and inscribed to the English secessionists of to-day.

Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,

They'll " teach you a thing, now, or two;"
Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,

Don't meddle, whatever you do!
They are ten times as strong, Johnny Bull,

And a hundred more daring to kill,
Than, when in their weakness, John Bull,

Your " hirelings " besieged Bunker Hill.

Don't meddle with the Yankee*, John Bull,

They've Freedom and Liberty's might;
Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,

Or else you may force them to fight.
And then, when in their strength, John Bull,

They cross the St. Lawrence, "mi boy,"
Look out to be served, Johnny Bull,

As you treated the captured Sepoy.

The Yankees don't boast, Johnny Bull,

They but speak out their mind as it is; Then I pray you don't meddle, John Bull,

For " the Yankees are awful when riz!" They had hoped to be friendly, John Bull,

At least to have lived that profession; But if meddled with, mark it, John Bull,

They'll serve you, as of old, with the " Hessian."

We've " a 'ost hov your 'eroes," John Bull,
Growing fat from the wealth of our land,

Who profess to be loyal, John Bull,
When, in fact, they're a treacherous band:

Vol. VIII.—Poetky 5

They despise our Republic, John Bull,
And curse the whole " Yunke.'dom race;"

But we hold, with your subjects, John Ball,
To quarrel, were a double disgrace.

Therefore, don't you meddle, John Bull,

Don't meddle with the Yankees, I pray; Or else " they may lam you," John Bull.

And that, at no far distant day. They're " a nation all mighty," John Bull,

Teaching right to the whimsical South: Therefore, I would pray you, John Bull,

Put a stop to your meddling mouth. Baltwom, Md., 1862.

THE VIRGINIA MOTHER.

BV EI1XA DEAN PROCTOR,

My home is drear and still to-night,
Where Shenandoah murmuring flows;

The Blue Ridge towers in the pale moonlight,
And balmily the south wind blows;

But my fire burns dim, while athwart the wall

Black as the pines the shadows fall;

And the only friend within my door

Is the sleeping hound on the moonlit floor.

Roll back, 0 weary years! and bring

Again the gay and cloudless morn,
When every bird was on the wing,

And my blithe summer boys were born!
My Courtney fair, my Philip bold.
With his laughing eyes and his looks of gold!
No nested bird in the valley wide
Suug as my heart that eventide.

Our laurels blush when May winds call,

Our pines shoot high through mellow showers;

So rosy flushed, so slender tall,

My boys grew up from childhood's hours.

Glad in the breeze, the sun, the rain,

They climbed the heights or they roamed the plain;

And found where the fox lay hid at noon,

And the sly fawn drank by the rising moon.

0 Storm! look up; you ne'er may hear,

When all tha dewy glades are still,
In silver windings, fine and clear,

Their whistle stealing o'er the hill;
And fly to the shade where the wild deer rest
Ere morn has reddened the mountain's crest;
Nor sit at their feet, when the chase is o'er,
And the antlers hang by the sunset door.

What drew our hunters from the hills?

They heard the stormy trumpets blow; And leapt adown like April rills

When Shenandoah roars below. One to the field where the old flag shines; And one, alas! to the traitor lines! My tears—their fond arms round me thrown— And the house was hushed and the hill-side lone.

But oh! to feel my boys were foes

Was more than loss or battle's steel! In every shifting cloud that rose

I saw their hostile squadrons wheel; And heard in the waves as they hurried by, Their hasty tread when the fight was nigh, And, deep in the wail which the night-winds bore, Their dying moan when the fight was o'er.

So time went on. The skies were blue;

Our wheat-fields yellow in the sun; When down the vale a rider flew:

"Ho! neighbors, Gettysburgh is won! Horse and foot, at the cannon's mouth We hurled them back to the hungry South; The North is safe, and the vile marauder Curses the hour he crossed the border."

My boys were there! I nearer pressed—

"And Philip, Courtney, what of them?" His voice dropped low: "0 madam ! rest Falls sweet when battle's tide we stem: Your Philip was first of the brave that day With his colors grasped as in death he lay: And Courtney—well, I only knew Not a man was left of his rebel crew!"

My home is drear and still to-night,
Where Shenandoah murmuring flows;

The Blue Ridge towers in the pale moonlight,
And balmily the south wind blows;

But my fire burns dim, while athwart the wall

Black as the pines the shadows fall;

And the only friend within my door

Is the sleeping hound on the moonlit floor.

Yet still in dreams my boys I own:

They chase the deer o'er dewy hills, Their hair by mountain winds is blown,

Their shout the echoing valley fills, Wafts from the woodland spring sunshine Comes as they open this door of mine; And I hear them sing by the evening blaze The songs they sang in the vanished days.

J cannot part their lives and say,

"This was the traitor, this the true;" God only knows why one should stray,

And one go pure death's portals through. They have passed from their mother's clasp and care; But my heart ascends in the yearning prayer That His large love will the two enfold— My Courtney fair and my Philip bold!

LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

For months that followed the triumph the rebels had

boasted they wrought, But which lost to them Chattanooga, thus bringing

their triumph to naught; The mountain-walled citadel city, with its outposts in

billowy crowds, Grand soarers among the lightnings, stern conquerors

of the clouds! For months, I say, had the rebels, with the eyes of

their cannon, looked down From the high-crested forehead of Lookout, the Mission's long sinuous crown; Till Grant, our invincible hero, the winner of every

fight! Who joys in the strife, like the eagle that drinks from

the storm delight I Marshalled his war-worn legions, and, pointing to them

the foe, Kindled their hearts with the tidings that now should

be stricken the blow,

The rebel to sweep from old Lookout, that cloud-post dizzily high.

Whence the taunt of his cannon and banner had affronted so long the sky.

Brave Thomas the foeman had brushed from his summit the nearest, and now

The balm of the midnight's quiet soothed Nature's agonized brow;

A midnight of murkiest darkness, and Lookout's undefined mass

Heaved grandly a frown on the welkin, a barricade nothing might puss.

Its breast was sprinkled with sparkles, its crest was dotted with gold,

Telling the camps of the rebels secure as they deemed in their hold.

Where glimmered the creek of the Lookout, it seemed the black dome of the night

Had dropped all its stars in the valley, it glittered so over with light:

There were voices and closhings of weapons, and drum-beat and bugle and tramp,

Quick Sittings athwart the broad watchfires that painted red rings through the camp:

There were figures dark edging the watchfires, and groups at the front of each tent,

And a tone like the murmur of waters all round from the valley upseut.

"D'ye see, lad, that black-looking peak?" said a sergeant, scarred over and gray,

To a boy, both in glow of a camp-tire, whence wavered their shadows away;

"Strap tightly your drum, or you'll lose it when climbing yon hill; for the word

Is to take that pricked ear of old Lookout, where Bragg's shots so often we've heard;

Our noble commander has said it, and we all should be minding our prayers,

By dawn we must plant the old flag where the rebels now shame us with theirs;

Hurrah for bold General Hooker, the leader that never knew fear,

He's to lead us! now, comrades, be ready and give at the rolls a good cheer!

I look for the time at each moment!"—just then the long-rolls swelled about,

There were tramplings of steeds and of men, there was jingle and rattle and shout;

Dark columns would glimmer and vanish, a rider flit by like a ghost—

There was movement all over the valley, the movement and din of a host.

'Twas the legion so famed of the White Star, and

led on by Geary the brave, That was chosen to gather the laurel or find on the

mountain a grave. They crossed the dim creek of the Lookout, and toiled

up the sable ascent, Till the atoms black crawling and struggling in dense

upper darkness were blent. Mists, fitful in rain, came at daydawn, they spread in

one mantle the skies, And we that were posted below stood and watched

with our hearts in our eyes; Wo watched as the mists broke and joined, the quick

flits and the blanks of the fray; There was thunder, but not of the clouds; there was

lightning, but redder in ray;

Oh! warm rose our hopes to the White Star, oh! wild

went our pleadings to heaven; We knew, aud we shuddered to know it, how fierce

oft the rebels had striven; We saw, and we shuddered to see it, the rebel flag

still in the air; Shall our boys be hurled back? God of battles! oh!

bring not such bitter despair!

But the battle is rolling still up, it has plunged in the

mantle o'erhead, We hear the low hum of the volley, we see the fierce

bomb-burst of red; Still the rock in the forehead of Lookout through the

rents of the windy mist shows The horrible flag of the Cross-bar, the counterfeit rag

of our foes: Portentous it looks through the vapor, then melts to

the eye, but it tells That the rebels still cling to their stronghold, and hope

for the moment dispels. But the roll of the thunder seems louder, flame

angrier smites on the eye, The scene from the fog is laid open—a battle-field

fought in the sky! Eye to eye, hand to hand, all are struggling—ha!

traitors, ha! rebels, ye know Now the might in the arm of our heroes! dare ye bide

their roused terrible blow? They drive them, our braves drive the rebels! they

flee, and our heroes pursue! We scale rock and trunk—from their breastworks they

run 1 oh! the joy of the view!

Ilurrah! how they drive them! hurrah! how they

drive the fierce rebels along! One more cheer—still another ! each lip seems as ready

to burst into song. On, on, ye bold blue-coated heroes! thrust, strike,

pour your shots in amain! Banners fly, columns rush, seen and lost in the quick,

fitful gauzes of rain. 0 boys I how your young blood is streaming! but

falter not, drive them to rout I From barricade, breastwork, and rifle-pit, how the

scourged rebels pour out I We see the swift plunge of the caisson within the dim

background of haze, With the shreds of platoons inward scudding, and

fainter their batteries blaze; As the mist-curtain falls all is blank; as it lifts, a wild

picture out glares, A wild shifting picture of battle, and dread our warm

hopefulness shares; But never the braves of the White Star have sullied

their fame in defeat, And they will not to-day see the triumph pass by them

the focman to greet 1

No, no, for the battle is ending; the ranks on the

slope of the crest Are the true Union blue, and our banners alone catch

the gleams of the west; Though the Cross-bar still flies from the summit, we

roll out our cheering of pride! Not in vain, 0 ye heroes of Lookout! 0 brave Union

boys I have ye died I One brief struggle more sees the banner, that blot on

the sky, brushed away, When the broad moon now basking upon ua shall

yield her rich lustre to-day:

She brings out the black hulk of Lookout, its outlines

traced sharp in the sides, All alive with the ean.^.i of our braves glancing down

with their numberless eyes. Ha ! the darkness is roofed like an arbor with streak

iugs of shrapnel and shell Till it seems like the vestibule lurid that leads to the

chambers of hell; It is cleft with the fierce shooting cannon-flame,

sprinkled with red dots of spray; It is havoc's wild carnival revel bequeathed to the

night by the day.

Dawn breaks, the sky clears—ha! the shape upon

Lookout's tall crest that we see, Is the bright beaming flag of the White Star, the

beautiful flag of the Free! How it waves its rich folds in the zenith, and looks in

the dawn's open eye, With its starred breast of pearl and of crimson, as if

with heaven's colors to vie 1 Hurrah ! rolls from Moccasin Point, and Hurrah! from

bold Cameron's Hill! Hurrah! peals from glad Chattanooga! bliss seems

every bosom to fill! Thanks, thanks, 0 ye heroes of Lookout! 0 brave

Union boys! during time Shall stand this your column of glory, shall shine this

your triumph sublime! To the deep mountain den of the panther the hunter

climbed, drove him to bay, Then fought the fierce foe till he turned and fled,

bleeding and gnashing away! Fled away from the scene where so late broke hi3

growls and he shot down his glare, As he paced to and fro, for the hunter his wild craggy

cavern to dare!

Thanks, thanks, O ye heroes of Lookout I ye girded

your souls to the fight, Drew the sword, dropped the scabbard, imd went in the

full conscious strength of your might! Now climbing o'er rock and o'er tree-mound, up, up,

by the hemlock ye swung I Now plunghig through thicket and swamp, on the edge

of the hollow ye hung! One hand grasped the musket, the other clutched

ladder of root and of bough: The trunk the tornado had shivered, the landmark

pale glimmering now, And now the mad torrent's white lightning; no drum

tapped, no bugle was blown— To the words that encouraged each other, and quick

breaths, ye toiled up alone I Oh ! long as the mountains shall rise o'er the waters of

bright Tennessee, . Shall be told the proud deeds of the White Star, the

cloup-treading host of the free I The camp-fire shall blaze to the chorus, the picketpost peal it on high, How was fought the fierce battle of Lookout—how

won Tub Grand Fight or The Sky I

THE CHILDREN'S TABLE.

M. J. M. SWEAT.

While the wise men arc all seeking How to save our native land;

And the brave men are all fighting, Heart to heart and hand to hand ■

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