When the gold and the purple lie tarnished, and the light is gone out in her halls, And she sees the last slave, freed from fetters, walk out by her pitiful walls; Though late comes the signal of promise, when the horse and the rider shall reel, And slow with the hope of the ages, comes the roll of God's chariot-wheel; Yet sure as God's heaven above us, on the glittering scroll shall be read, "The days of thy kingdom are numbered," and our last armed foe shall be dead. I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; Naked walls, a stone floor, a tin tray, Iron spoon, checkered pants and clean suit. I am out of Jeff Davis's reach, I must finish my journey in stone, Never hear a big secession speechI start at the sound of my own. O solitude! strange are the fancies Of those who see charms in thy face; Better dwell in the midst of the Yankees, Than reign in this horrible place. Ye steeds that have made me your sport, Of the thefts I have practised so well. How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the work of destruction and raiding; Might laugh at the wisdom of age, Nor feel the least pang of upbraiding. Rebellion! what music untold Resides in that heavenly word! It helps me to silver and gold, And all that the earth can afford. But the sweet sound of burning and plunder Nor mocked at the Union's grand bird. How fleet is a glance of the mind Compared with the speed of my flight; But Shackelford came up behind, So I found 'twas no use to fight. The Buckeyes that gave me a race, My friends, do they now and then send But the sea-fowl is gone to her rest, The beast is laid down in his lair; Yet not like John Morgan unblest, As I to my straw bed repair. GRANT. BY GEORGE H. BOKER. As Moses stood upon the flaming hill, So, Grant, thou stand'st, amidst the trumpets shrill, CHARGE OF THE MULE BRIGADE. On the night of October twenty-eighth, 1863, when General Geary's division of the Twelfth Corps repulsed the attacking forces of Longstreet at Wauhatchie, Tenn., a number of mules, affrighted by the noise of battle, dashed into the ranks of Hampton's Legion, causing much dismay among the rebels, and compelling many of them to fall back under a supposed charge of cavalry. Captain Thomas H. Elliott, of General Geary's staff, gives the following rendition of the incident, which he gleaned from an interior contemporary. Its authorship is not known: I. Half a mile, half a mile, Half a mile onward, Right toward the Georgia troops, "Forward the Mule Brigade," Charge for the Rebs!" they neighed; II. "Forward, the Mule Brigade !" Was there a mule dismayed? Not when the long ears felt All their ropes sundered; Theirs not to make reply; Theirs not to reason why; Theirs but to make them fly. On! to the Georgia troops, Broke the two hundred. III. Mules to the right of them, Pawed, neighed, and thundered. Who, closing up breaches, Like cameras awful, Whose battle-line broke? Years from to-day, And the record shall tell you, Though my darling is sleeping I smile through my tears THE SHARPSHOOTER'S LAMENT ON THE BANKS OF THE POTOMAC. "The sun-light is yellow and pleasant, What darkens your spirit, Jem True?" "Nary shot since I left the 'peraries,' And between 'em old Jem is nigh beat, As has come to them chaps on the fleet- "And Toby, though brave as a lion, His intentions his in'ards confound, ⚫ And that bully old sinner, O'Ryan, "No, you won't," says my comrade, ole Dan'l, "The orders keep pickets from harm.' 'Well, I'll rip up them stripes of red flannel What so sarcily shine on his arm,' I pleaded, but 'No,' says old Dan'l, 'The order's keep pickets from harm.' "Sech orders my heart's disappointin', 'Twasn't sech as inveigled me in To clap my mark down to the writin' The recruiter said glories would win. Oh! when fellers is gathered for fightin', Say, why can't the scrimmage begin? "Oh! I'm sick of this lazy black river, Where for ever we're likely to stay. Why, the Capital's saved if it ever Will be-and it can't run away! Can't we leave it a spell? are we never To sport in these diggins here-say? "Must a cove as can ring up his twenty At twelve hundred yards on a 'string,' Get his hand out when varmints is plenty, Like a watch-works what hasn't no spring? Must a screamer be mum when he's sent t'ye In voice for his sweetest to sing. 'I cares not for fierce adversaries, If for fightin' we wasn't so slowO Sergeant! it's waitin' that varies The misery that hangs on me so I longs for my darlin' 'peraries,' And that's why my feelins is low." ANGLO-SAXON WHITTLING SONG. "Your Yankee is always to be found with a jack-knife, and when he has nothing else to do, is eternally whittling."-GROWLING OLD TRAVELLER. In the olden time of England, the days of Norman pride, The mail-clad chieftain buckled on his broad-sword at his side, And, mounted on his trusty steed, from land to land he strayed, And ever as he wandered on, he whittled with his blade. Oh! those dreamy days of whittling! He was out in search of monsters-of giants grim and tall, He was hunting up the griffins-the dragons, great and small He broke in through the oak doors of many a castlegate, And what he whittled when within, 'tis needless to relate. Oh! those foolish days of whittling! But when the pomp of feudal pride, like a dream had passed away, And everywhere the knightly steel was rusting to decay, The common people drew their blades in quite another cause, And in the place of giants grim, they whittled up the laws. Oh! those stern old days of whittling! They whittled down the royal throne with all its ancient might, And many a tough old cavalier was whittled out of sight; They whittled off the king's head, and set it on the wall, They whittled out a commonwealth, but it could not last at all. Oh! those fiery days of whittling! There came across the stormy deep, a stern and iron band, A solemn look on every face-their hatchets in their hands; They whittled down the forest oak, the chestnut, and the pine, And planted in the wilderness the rose-tree and the vine. Oh! those fearful days of whittling! They made themselves a clearing, and housed their little freight, They put their Sunday coats on, and whittled out a They cut it round so perfectly, they whittled it so When England sent her hirelings, with cannon, gun, and blade, To break and batter down the State which these good men had made, The people seized for weapons whatever came to hand, And whittled these intruders back, and drove them from the land. Oh! heroic days of whittling! In men of Saxon blood it stays-this love of whittlingstill, And something must be whittled to pacify the will; When the old wars were over, and peace came back again, They took to whittling mountains, and filling vale and glen. Oh! those peaceful days of whittling! They whittled out the railroad path through hill, and rock, and sand, And sent their snorting engines to thunder through the land; Sails whitened all the harbors, the mountain valleys stirred, And the hum and roar of labor through all the land was heard. Oh! those busy days of whittling! But there long had dwelt among us a gaunt and hideous Wrong, Set round with ancient guarantees, with legal ramparts strong, POETRY AND INCIDENTS. With look and tone defiant, it feared not God or man, But snatched on every side for power to work its wicked plan, All ripe and dry for whittling. Of old this Wrong was humble, asking, with pious cry, The time draws nigh for whittling! "Pride goes before destruction," the wise man said of old; "Whom the gods seek to ruin they first make mad;" and bold In the frenzy of its madness, this Wrong forgot its place, Came out with noise of gongs to fright our Yankee whittling race. God gave this chance for whittling. And now, my trusty Saxons, who come from near and far, Remember who your fathers were, and set your teeth for war; "Sword of the Lord and Gideon !" be still your battlecry, And strike as Samson struck of old, smite Slavery hip and thigh. Now is your time for whittling. And when this life shall rest again from all this noise and strife, And Peace her olive-branch shall wave o'er this broad realm of life, Fair as the sun, our nation before the world shall stand, Freedom on all her banners, freedom throughout the land. Oh! these grand rewards of whittling! A SONG. BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. Hark! a bugle's echo comes, Nearer the bugle's echo comes, Near and more near the roll of drums Wakening the brave-hearted, Memories-hopes-a glorious crowd, At its call have started. Memories of our sires of old, Memories of the true and brave, Memories of many a battle-plain, Where their life-blood flowing, Made green the grass and gold the grain, Above their grave-mounds growing. Hopes-that the children of their prayers, With them in valor vying, May do as noble deeds as theirs, In living and in dying: And make, for children yet to come, For this the warrior-path we tread, And change, for field and forest-bed, No tunes of grief or sorrow; WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME. There's a happy time coming When the boys come home, There's a glorious day coming When the boys come home. When the boys come home. When the boys come home; When the boys come home. The thinned ranks will be proudest The full ranks will be shattered, When the boys come home. When the boys come home; Our love shall go to meet them HONORABLE MENTION OF A COLORED SOLDIER.-The min Franklin, and where the "bright Juniata" flows following letters were received by the Military Secre--Pennsylvania--but he rested not there; the black tary of Governor Andrew, Albert G. Browne, Esq., at man was not secure on the soil where the Declaration Port Royal: HEADQUARTERS FIFTY-FOURTH MASS. VOLS., MORRIS ISLAND, S. C., October 15, 1863. COLONEL: I have the honor to forward you the following letters, received a few days since from Sergeant W. H. Carney, company C, of this regiment. Men tion has before been made of his heroic conduct in preserving the American flag, and bearing it from the field, in the assault on Fort Wagner, on the eighteenth of July last, but that you may have the history complete, I send a simple statement of the facts, as I have obtained them from him, and an officer who was an eye-witness: of Independence was written. He went far. Then he visited the Empire State-great New-York-whose chief ambition seemed to be for commerce and gold, and with her unceasing struggle for supremacy, she heard not the slave; she only had time to spurn the man with the sable skin, and made him feel that he was an alien in his native land. At last he set his weary feet upon the sterile rocks of "Old Massachusetts." The very air he breathed put enthusiasm into his spirit. Oh! yes, he found a refuge from oppression in the Old Bay State. He selected as his dwelling-place the city of New-Bedford, where "Liberty Hall" is a sacred edifice. Like the When the Sergeant arrived to within about one hun- Temple of Diana, which covered the virgins from harm dred yards of the Fort-he was with the first battalion, in olden time, so old Liberty Hall in New-Bedford prowhich was in the advance of the storming column-he tects the oppressed slave of the nineteenth century. received the regimental colors, pressed forward to the After stopping a short time, he sent for his family, front rank, near the Colonel, who was leading the men and there they still dwell. I remained in the city over the ditch. He says, as they ascended the wall with the family, pursuing the avocation of a jobber of the Fort, the ranks were full, but as soon as they of work for stores, and at such places as I could find reached the top, they "melted away" before the ene-employment. I soon formed connection with a church my's fire "almost instantly." He received a severe under charge of the Rev. Mr. Jackson, now Chaplain wound in the thigh, but fell only upon his knees. He of the Fifty-fifth Massachusetts volunteers. planted the flag upon the parapet, lay down on the outer slope, that he might get as much shelter as possible; there he remained for over half an hour, till the Second brigade came up. He kept the colors flying until the second conflict was ended. When our forces retired, he followed, creeping on one knee, still holding up the flag. It was thus that Sergeant Carney came from the field, having held the emblem of liberty over the walls of Fort Wagner during the sanguinary conflict of the two brigades, and having received two very severe wounds, one in the thigh, and one in the head. Still he refused to give up his sacred trust until he found an officer of his regiment. When he entered the field hospital, where his wounded comrades were being brought in, they cheered him and the colors. Though nearly exhausted with the loss of blood, he said: "Boys, the old flag never touched the ground." Of him, as a man and a soldier, I can speak in the highest terms of praise. I have the honor to be, Colonel, very respectfully, your most obedient servant, M. S. LITTLEField, MORRIS ISLAND, S. C., October 13, 1863. Col. M. S. Littlefield, Commanding Fifty-fourth Mass.: DEAR SIR: Complying with your request, I send you the following history, pertaining to my birth, parentage, social and religious experience and standing; in short, a concise but brief epitome of my life, I undertake to perform in my poor way. I was born in Norfolk, Va., in 1840; my father's name was William Carney; my mother's name before her marriage was Ann Dean, and she was the property of one Major Carney; but at his death, she, with all his people, was by his will made free. In my fourteenth year, when I had no work to do, I attended a private and secret school, kept in Norfolk by a minister. In my fifteenth year I embraced the Gospel; at that time I was also engaged in the coasting trade with my father. In 1856, I left the sea for a time, and my father set out to look for a place to live in peace and freedom. He first stopped in the land of William Penn, Benja Previous to the formation of colored troops I had a strong inclination to prepare myself for the ministry; but when the country called for all persons, I could best serve my God by serving my country and my oppressed brothers. The sequel is short-I enlisted for the war. I am your humble and obedient servant, WILLIAM H. CARNEY, Sergeant Co. C, Fifty-fourth Massachusetts Volunteers. THE CANINE SPECIES SOUTH.-The Columbus Sun estimates that in the confederate States of America there are not, perhaps, less than one million of dogs, little and big. We regard this as a very moderate estimate. It is quite evident that these dogs must eat; it is evident, also, that every ounce of bread they eat diminishes the supply of food just that much; and, consequently, as the supply is decreased, the price of what remains must increase. Suppose, for instance, that each dog will consume only one half an ounce of bread per day, that is certainly a moderate estimate, but we desire to be clearly within the bounds of reason; then the million of curs would consume three million five hundred thousand ounces per week, or fifteen million one hundred and sixty-six thousand six hundred and sixty-six and two thirds pounds per annum. At present prices, the bread thus consumed by these worthless dogs would amount to a sum not less than forty-six hundred thousand dollars. This is the tribute we pay the dogs in the article of bread alone. How shall we estimate the amount of meat they will consume, the amount of eggs they suck," or the number of sheep they kill? Of how many pounds of wool, at three and a half dollars per pound, have these worthless canines deprived us? How many excellent pairs of cotton-cards have our noble women sought in vain to purchase, because the million of dog-skins have not been pulled from worthless carcasses, dressed, and turned over to the manufacturer? Does this seem a subject too small to challenge the attention of our legislators, or are our sage representatives willing to pay the tribute for luxury afforded them by a pack of mangy canines! So far as we are concerned, individually, we have well-nigh arrived at the decision to vote for no man to represent the interests of his country in legislative assemblies |