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POETRY AND INCIDENTS.

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

Massa got scared, and so did his lady!
Dis chile broke for ole Uncle Aby!

Open de gates out! here's ole Shady,

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

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

'Spec, pretty soon, you'll see Uncle Abram's
Comin', comin'! Hail, mighty day!

Den away, den away, etc.

Good-by, hard work, and never any pay--
I'm goin' up North, where the white folks stay;
White wheat-bread and a dollar a day.

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

I've got a wife, and she's got a baby,
Way up North in Lower Canady-
Won't dey shout when dey see ole Shady
Comin', comin'! Hail, mighty day!
Den 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--
Light of legend and story,
Flower of marble and verse!

(Wilt thou forget, O 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 mourn-
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! if for some great good

On some giant evil hurled-
The thirty millions had stood

'Gainst the might of a banded world!)

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.

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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

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'They died—and they died in vain !"

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A WAR STUDY.

"Sun and rain regardless falling On the just and the unjust." Methinks, all idly and too well

We love this Nature-little care (Whate'er 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 and 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.
U. S. N.

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POETRY AND INCIDENTS.

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!

They despise our Republic, John Bull,

And curse the whole "Yankeedom 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.
BALTIMORE, MD., 1862.

THE VIRGINIA MOTHER.

BY EDNA 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, O weary years! and bring
Again the gay and cloudless morn,

Though fierce and strong the war-whirl's boil be, When every bird was on the wing,

True to the end there can no foil be:

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

Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,

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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 Yankees, 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.-POETRY 5

And my blithe summer boys were born!
My Courtney fair, my Philip bold,

With his laughing eyes and his locks of gold!
No nested bird in the valley wide
Sang 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.

O Storm! look up; you ne'er may hear,
When all the 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.

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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.

I 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

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 pass.

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:

and

There were voices and clashings of weapons,
drum-beat and bugle and tramp,
Quick flittings athwart the broad watclifires that paint-
ed 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 upsent.

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

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

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Strap tightly your drum, or you'll lose it when climb-
ing 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
That was chosen to gather the laurel or find on the
led on by Geary the brave,
mountain a grave.

They crossed the dim creek of the Lookout, and toiled
up the sable ascent,

From the high-crested forehead of Lookout, the Mis-Till sion'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!

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 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;

We

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, and 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;

She brings out the black hulk of Lookout, its outlines traced sharp in the skies,

All alive with the cans of our braves glancing down with their numberless eyes.

Ha! the darkness is roofed like an arbor with streakings of shrapnel and shell

Shall our boys be hurled back? God of battles! oh! Till it 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! oh! the joy of the view!

Hurrah! 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.

O boys! how your young blood is streaming! but falter not, drive them to rout!

From barricade, breastwork, and rifle-pit, how the scourged rebels pour out!

It is

seems like the vestibule lurid that leads to the chambers of hell;

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 !

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, O ye heroes of Lookout! O 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!

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And they will not to-day see the triumph pass by them Shall be told the proud deeds of the White Star, the the foeman to greet!

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, O ye heroes of Lookout! O brave Union

boys! have ye died!

One brief struggle more sees the banner, that blot on the sky, brushed away,

When the broad moon now basking upon us shall yield her rich lustre to-day:

cloup-treading host of the free!

The camp-fire shall blaze to the chorus, the picket

post peal it on high,

How was fought the fierce battle of Lookout-how won THE GRAND FIGHT OF THE SKY!

THE CHILDREN'S TABLE.

M. J. M. SWEAT.

While the wise men are 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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