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While the grown-up women labor
For the soldiers night and day;

Would you have us children idle,
Minding nothing but our play?

Little hands we have, but willing;

Little hearts, but loving well
Those who languish sorely wounded,

Those who fill the prisoner's cell;
And we know the names of heroes

Who have fallen on the field
Gleam with never-dying brightness,

Blazoned on our country's shield.

We have toiled with busy fingers

Many days, to gather here
Little treasures that may tempt you

With full purses to draw near.
For they tell us that with money

Many great things may be done;
Never found it nobler uses

Since this big world was begun 1

Let the great and glorious impulse

Now astir throughout the land,
Make us welcome as we greet you,

Coming with this new demand.
Give ua then, 0 generous people!

Ready purchase of our wares,
And we'll give you children's blessings

Won from heaven by children's prayers! Metropolitan Fair, Keie- York, April, 1864.

"ONLY A PRIVATE KILLED."

BY H. L. GORDON.

"We've had a fight," a captain said,
"Much rebel blood we've spilled;
We've put the saucy foe to flight,
Our loss—but a private killed!"
"Ah! yes," said a sergeant on the spot,

As he drew a long, deep breath,
"Poor fellow, he was badly shot,
Then bayoneted to death!"

When again was hushed the martial din,

And back the foe had fled,
They brought the private's body in;

I went to see the dead.
For I could not think the rebel foe,

Though under curse and ban,
So vaunting of their chivalry,

Could kill a wounded man.

A Minie ball had broke his thigh,

A frightful, crushing wound, And then with savage bayonets

They pinned him to the ground. One stab was through the abdomen,

Another through the head; The last was through his pulseless breast,

Done after he was dead.

His hair was matted with his gore,

His hands were clenched with might,
As though he still his musket bore

So firmly in the fight:
He had grasped the foeman's bayonet,

His bosom to defend.
They raised the coat-cape from his face—

My God ! it was my friend!

Think what a shudder thrilled my heart!

'Twas but the day before We laughed together merrily,

As we talked of days of yore. "How happy we shall be," he said,

"When the war is o'er, and when, The rebels all subdued or fled,

We all go home again."

Ah! little lie thought, that soldier brave.

So near his journey's goal,
That God had sent a messenger .

To claim his Christian soul.
But he fell like a hero, fighting,

And hearts with grief are filled, And honor is his, though our chief shall say:

"Only a private killed!"

I knew him well, be was my friend;

He loved our land and laws;
And he fell a blessed martyr

To our country's holy cause.
And, soldiers, the time will come, perhaps,

When our blood will thus be spilled,
And then of us our chief will say:

"Only a private killed!"

But we fight our country's battles,

And our hopes are not forlorn,
And our death shall be a blessing

To millions yet unborn.
To our children and their children!

Then as each grave is filled,
What care we if our chief shall say:

"Only a private killed!"

BATTLE-WORN BANNERS.

(January 26, 1S64.)

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

I saw the soldiers come to-day

From battle fields afar;
No conqueror rode before their way

On his triumphal car;
But captains, like themselves, on foot,

And banners sadly torn,
All grandly eloquent though mute,

In pride and glory borne.

Those banners soiled with dust and smoke.

And rent by shot and shell,
That through the serried phalanx broke,

What terrors could they tell!
What tales of sudden pain and death

In every cannon's boom.
When even the bravest held his breath

And waited for his doom.

By hands of steel those flags were waved

Above the carnage dire,
Almost destroyed yet always saved,

• 'Mid battle-clouds and fire.
Though down at times, still up they rose

And kissed the breeze again, Dread tokens to the rebel foes

Of true and loyal men.

And here the true and loyal still

Those famous banners bear;
The bugles wind, the fifes blow shrill,

And clash the cymbals where,

With decimated ranks, they eome,
And through the crowded street

March to the beating of the drum
With firm though weary feet.

God bless the soldiers ! cry the folk,

Whose cheers of welcome swell; God bless the banners, black with smoke,

And torn by shot and shell! They should be hung on sacred shrines,

Baptized with grateful tears, And live embalmed in poets' lines

Through all succeeding years.

No grander trophies conld be brought

By patriot sire to son,
Of glorious battles nobly fought,

Brave deeds sublimely done.
And so, to-day, I chanced with pride

And solemn joy to see
Those remnants from the bloody tide

Of victory!

OUR HERO-DEAD.

BT. CHARLES BOVNTON HOWELL.

From their labors nobly done,
From their battles bravely won, .
'Neath the earth's cold sad they lie
Resting calmly, silently.
Sleep their sacred patriot forms,
Where war's tempests and alarms
Cannot reach them—cannot smite
Them to earth in camp or fight. •

Some passed from the realms of life
In the battle's sanguine strife,
Smitten down, in carnage, low
By the hand of dastard foe;
Who would pluck the beaming stars
From our flag, invoking Mars
To look on their deeds of blood
With the mien of gratitude.

Mourners, in whose every heart
There has entered sorrow's dart,
Sorrow for the loved ones gone
To the confines of the tomb—
Seek the graves of warriors slain
On the battle's gory plain,
Or sent to the realms of death
By disease's fatal breath.


Sacrificing self they fought
That the land, with treason fraught,
Might rise, phoenix-like, again
From her agonizing pain;
That the traitorous hordes that aim
At their country's name and fame,
Might be conquered in the fray,
And insure us triumph's day.

Alexander, brave and bold,
In the chivalrous days of old,
Did not nobler deeds perform
In the stirring battle-storm,
On Europa's bloody soil,
Than our hardy sons of toil,
Have, when so intrepidly
Battling for our liberty.

Nor did brave Leonidas—
When was stormed the bloody pass
At old-time Thermopylae—
Strike with nobler gallantry
With his dauntless Spartan band,
Fighting for their native land,
Than Columbia's sons of Mars,
Warring for the Stripes and Stars.

Honor to the hero-slain!

They who for their country's gain,

In the nation's gloomy night,

Left their homes and firesides bright,

So that this, our favored land,

May again take up her stand

In the van of nations, where

She e'er stood through peace and war.

When war's clarion blast shall cease
And the swift-winged bird of peace,
Soaring over hill and glen,
Bears the olive-branch again—
Will these slumbering warriors be,
In their country's memory,
Patriots true and heroes tried,
Who for freedom nobly died!

Axx Arbob, January, 1864.

A SOLDIER'S LETTER.

BY MART C. HOVEY.

Dear madam, I'm a soldier, and my speech is rough

and plain; I'm not much used to writing, and I hate to give you

. pain; But I promised that I'd do it—he thought it might be

. so, If it came from one who loved him, perhaps 'twould

ease the blow— By this time you must surely guess the truth I fain

would hide, And you'll pardon a rough soldier's words, while I tell

you how he died.

'Twas the night before the battle, and in our crowded tent

More than one brave boy was sobbing, and many a knee was bent;

For we knew not, when the morrow, with its bloody work, was done,

How many that were seated there, should sec its setting sun.

'Twas not so much for self they cared, a3 for the loved at home;

And it's always worse to think of than to hear the cannon boom.

'Twas then we left the crowded tent, your soldier-boy

and I, And we both breathed freer, standing underneath the

clear blue sky. I was more than ten years older, but he seemed to

take to me, And oftencr than the younger ones, he sought my

company. He seemed to want to talk of home and those he held

most dear; And though I'd none to talk of, yet I always loved to

hear.

So then he told mo, on that night, of the time he came

away, And how you sorely grieved for him, but would not

let him stay; And how his one fond hope had been, that when this

war was through, lie might go back with honor to his friends at home

and you. lie named his sisters ono by one, and then a deep flush

came, While he told me of another, but did not speak her

name.

And then he said: "Dear Robert, it mav be that I

shall fall, And will you write to them at home how I loved and

spoke of all?" So I promised, but I did not think the time would

come so soon. The fight was just three days ago—he died to-day at

noon. It seems so sad that one so loved should reach the

fatal bourn, While I should still be living here, who had no friends

to mourn.

It was in the morrow's battle. Fast rained the shot

and shell; ne was fighting close beside me, and I saw him when

he fell. So then I took him in my arms, and laid him on the

grass— 'Twas going against orders, but I think they'll let it

pass. 'Twas a Minie ball that struck him; it entered at the

side, And they did not thiuk it fatal till the morning that

he ujed.

So when he found that he must go, he called me io

his bed, And said: "You'll not forget to write when you hear

that I am dead? And you'll tell them how I loved them and bid them

all good-by? Say I tried to do the best I could, and did not fear to

die; And underneath my pillow there's a curl of golden

hair; There's a name upon the paper; send it to my mother's

care.

"Last night I wanted so to live; I seemed so young

to go; Last week I passed my birthday—I was but nineteen,

you know— When I thought of all I'd planned to do, it seemed so

hard to die; But then I prayed to God for grace, and my cares are

all gone by." And here his voice grew weaker, and he partly raised

his head, And whispered, " Good-by, mother !" and so your boy

was dead!

I wrapped his cloak around him, and we bore him out

to-night, And laid him by a clump of tress, where the moon

was shining bright, And we carved him out a headboard as skilful as we

could; If you should wish to find it, I can tell yon where it

stood.

I send you back his hymn-book, and the cap he used to wear,

And a lock, I cut the night before, of his bright, curling hair.

I send you back his Bible. The night before he died, We turned its leaves together, as I read it by his side. I've kept the belt he always wore ; he told me so to do: It has a hole upon the side—'tis where the ball went

through. So now I've done his bidding ; there's nothing more to

tell; But I shall always mourn with you the boy we loved

so well. —EvangtUI.

STRIKE!

BY EDWARD S. ELLIS.

From New-England's granite mountains, From the North's resounding woods,

From the far West's flashing fountains, Pour the living human floods.

Onward sweeps the aroused nation,
From the lakes and streams and sea;

Onward for their home's salvation,
And the fight for liberty.

Deeds, not words, make men immortal

In this grand, heroic age; lie who wills can ope the portal

To a name' on history's page.

Know ye not that revolutions

Are the throes of struggling Right?

In these national ablutions
It must triumph over Might

What though but a child in learning,
When the war-note onward rolls,

While our country's fate is turning,
'Tis not heads we need—but souls.

Some must make their names historic,'
Who, the future soon will tell;

Some must perform deeds heroic
And the roll of glory swell.

Strike then for the truth eternal;

Strike then, for the cause is just; Strike then at the wrong infernal,

Till it bites again the dust.

THE BATTLE.

Give them a shell boys! give them a shell I

They are coming over the hill; You can see their widening columns swell;

You can hear their bugles trill. Give them a shell, boys! Aim her straight!

Ready! Pull lanyard! Off she goes! Hear her skurry and scream in hate.

Pouff 1 She's done for a dozen foes!

Give them grape, boys ! give them grape!

They are coming a little too near. Each dusky bulk is gaining a shape,

And their tramp is loud and clear.

Give them grape, boys! Steady! Fire!

Now, boys, go to work with a will! Sight that gun a little bit higher.

Bight!—a gap that twenty can fill!

Give them lead, boys! give them lead!

Up with the infuntry! Load, boys, load! Where's Joe Lane? Poor fellow ! he's dead;

Many of us must travel his road! Give them lead, boys! On they come,

With columns massed in a fierce attack. Think of your dear ones safe at home!

Stand by your guns, boys! Drive them back!

Give them steel, boys! give them steel!

They fight like devils! At them again! Their charge is broken ! they pause, they reel!

After them, boys, with might and main! Give them Bteel, boys! See how they run!

I'm hit—just here—but never mind me. Lay me down by the side of that gun,

And after the rest with a three times three!

Give them a cheer, boys! give them a cheer!

Let them know we have won the fight! I'm dying now; you can bury me here.

Dig deep, boys, and do it to-night. There's one at home—you can give her my sword,

(You know whom I mean,) and say that I Have always been true to my plighted word—

For my country and her I am glad to die.

A. A. A.

"FORWARD, MARCH."

BY MRS. C. J. MOORE.

On Newbern's bloody battle-ground,

Bold as a crusade knight,
Our young "Lieutenant led us on,

All eager for the fight.

"Forward, my men, my comrades brave I"
His voice rang loud and clear;
And charging with our bayonets,
We followed in the rear.

And, ever foremost, on he pressed;

Our ranks held firm and true, Though volley after volley poured

And thinned us through and through.

Well done, my boys, the day is ours!

Like veterans you've fought 1" Another crash of musketry;

The day was dearly bought:

For there, upon the accursed soil,

Our young Lieutenant lay;
Too brave for even one low moan,

His life-blood ebbed away.

Loud rang his voice, as clarion clear
As when he onward led;
"Forward, my boys, the day is ours!"
Then fell back with the dead.

And " forward !" is our battle-cry,
Which through the land shall ring,

Until the Union is restored,
And Liberty is king!

WHAT THE BIRDS SAID.

BY JOHN O. WHITTIER.

The birds, against the April wind,

Flew Northward, singing as they flew;

They sang: "The land we leave behind
Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew.'

"0 wild-birds! flying from the South,

What saw and heard ye, gazing down?"

"We saw the mortar's upturned mouth, The sickened camp, the blazing town

"Beneath the bivouac's starry lamps,

We saw your march-worn children die; In shrouds of mos9, in cypress swamps, We saw your dead uncoffined lie.

"We heard the starving prisoner's sighs; And saw, from line and trench, your sons Follow our flight with home-sick eyes Beyond the battery's smoking guns."

"And heard and saw ye only wrong

And pain," I cried, " 0 wing-worn flocks?"

"We heard," they sang, " the freedman's song, The crash of slavery's broken locks!

"We saw from new, uprising States

The treason-nursing mischief spurned,
As, crowding freedom's ample gates,
The long-estranged and lost returned.

"O'er dusky faces, seamed and old,

And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil,
With hope in every rustling fold,
We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil.

"And, struggling up through sounds accursed,
A grateful murmur clomb the air,
A whisper scarcely heard at first,

It filled the listening heavens with prayer.

"And sweet and far, as from a star,

Replied a voice which shall not cease,
Till, drowning all the noise of war,
It sings the blessed songs of peace!"

So to me, in a doubtful day

Of chill and slowly-greening spring,

Low stooping from the cloudy gray,
The wild-birds sang or seemed to sing.

They vanished in the misty air,

The song went with them in their flight •

But lo! they lea the sunset fair,
And in the evening there was light.

DOWN BY THE RAPIDAN.

How, like a dream of childhood, the sweet May-day goes by! J J

A golden brightness gilds the air, a rose-flush paints the sky; r

And the southern winds come bearing in their freights o/ rare perfume 6

From the far-off country valleys, where the spring flowers are in bloom.

We sit beneath the windows and watch the evening

sun, And count the silver rain-drops, descending one by

. one. The very town seems silenced in a soft, delicious calm. How different is the scene to-night down by the Rapidan 1

Down by the rushing Rapidan, hark! how the muskets crack!

The battle-smoke rolls up so thick, the very heavens are black.

No blossom-scented winds are there, no drops of silver rain;

The air is thick with sulphurous heat, and filled with moans of pain.

Oh ! let us not forget them—our brave, unselfish boys— Who have given up their loved ones, their happy

household joys, And stand to-night in rank and file, determined to a

man, To triumph over treason, down by the Rapidan!

And let our hearts be hopeful; our faith, unwavering,

strong; Rigid must be all-victorious when battling with the

Wrong. Let us bear up our heroes' hands! Pray, every soul

that can, "God bless our boys who fight to-night down by the

Rapidan!"

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