Colonel Mosby was much elated by his good fortune, and required his prisoners to follow him supperless on his rounds to his headquarters at Paris; the private, however, while pretending to get his horse, hid himself in the hay and escaped, Mosby not daring to wait and hunt him up.

On the way to Paris, the Colonel amused himself by constantly taunting his prisoners with questions: "Were they with Major Cole when he thrashed him at Upperville?" "Were they with Major Sullivan, of the First veterans, when his men ran away and left him ?" "How did they fancy his gray nag ?-he took that from a Yankee lieutenant." Didn't the Yanks dread him and his men more than they did the regular rebel cavalry ?" "How did they (the prisoners) like his style of fighting?" and a hundred such re marks, that indicated the man as being more of a braggart than a hero.

He was, in the mean time, engaged in gathering his men with the avowed intention of attacking Captain Gere's force at daylight, and, if possible, of cutting it to pieces. His followers live in the farm-houses of Loudon, Clarke, and Jefferson counties, and are either rebel soldiers or Union citizens, as the case may require. He would ride up to a house, call Joe or Jake, and tell them that he wanted them at such an hour at the usual place; to go and tell Jim or Mose. Almost every farm turned out somebody in answer to his call, proving that these men, with the certified oath of allegiance in their pockets, and with passes allowing them to come in and go out of our lines at will, are not only in sympathy with the enemy, but are themselves perjured rebels.

When they arrived at Paris, Colonel Mosby dismounted and stepped into the house where he had his headquarters, leaving his pistols in the holsters. The Lieutenant, with drawn revolver, watched the prisoners while the Captain endeavored to find an orderly to take the horses. Corporal Simpson, who had been marking the road for future use, and had been long looking for it, saw his chance and pretended to tie his horse, but really putting his foot into the stirrup of Mosby's saddle and laying hold of one of the overlooked pistols. The Lieutenant detected the move and fired at him, when Simpson shot him through the heart with the weapon he had secured. The Captain turned round and fired, and Colonel Mosby came to the door to see "what all that -row was about," just in time to hear a bullet whiz unpleasantly close to his head, that he fired at him "just for luck" as he and his comrade left, yelling back: "Colonel Mosby, how do you like our style of fighting? We belong to the Twenty-first New-York." And away they went, leaving Colonel Mosby dismounted, and outwitted of his best horse, saddle, overcoat, pistols, two Yankee prisoners, and at least one vacancy among his commissioned officers. Corporal Simpson rode twelve miles to the camp, closely followed by the Sergeant, and gave Captain Gere such notice of the enemy's intentions that they thought best not to pitch in at the appointed time.

The captured horse is a very fine one, and with the

1

Captain Gere returned to camp at Halltown Saturday afternoon, having captured Lieutenant Wysong, of the Seventh Virginia, the successor of Captain Blackford, a noted guerrilla, who was killed by a sergeant of the First New-York.

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN GENERAL BUTLER AND A FEMININE SECESSIONIST.

LOCUSTVILLE, ACCOMAC Co., VA., March 10, 1564.

General B. F. Butler :

SIR: My school has been closed since Christmas, because, as I understood the oath required of us, I could not conscientiously take it. Having heard since then that one of your officers explains the oath as meaning simply that we consent to the acts of the United States Government, and pledge passive obedience to the same, I take the liberty of addressing this to you to ascertain if you so construe the oath. I cannot understand how a woman can support, protect, and defend the Union," except by speaking or writing in favor of the present war, which I could never do, because my sympathies are with the South. If by those words you understand merely passive submission, I am ready to take the oath, and abide by it sacredly. Very respectfully, MARY S. GRAVES.

}

HEADQUARTERS EIGHTEENTH ARMY CORPS, DEPARTMENT OF VIRGINIA AND NORTH-CAROLINA, FORTRESS MONROE, March 14, 1864. MY DEAR MADAM: I am truly sorry that any Union officer of mine has attempted to fritter away the effect of the oath of allegiance to the Government of the United States, and to inform you that it means nothing more than passive obedience to the same.

That officer is equally mistaken. The oath of allegiance means fealty, pledge of faith to, love, affection, and reverence for the Government, all comprised in the word patriotism, in its highest and truest sense, which every true American feels for his or her Government.

You say: "I cannot understand how a woman can support, protect, and defend the Union, except by speaking or writing in favor of the present war, which I could never do, because my sympathies are with the South."

That last phrase, madam, shows why you cannot understand "how a woman can support, protect, and defend the Union."

Were you loyal at heart, you would at once understand. The Southern women who are rebels understand well "how to support, protect, and defend " the Confederacy, "without either speaking or writing." Some of them act as spies, some smuggle quinine in their underclothes, some smuggle information through the lines in their dresses, some tend sick soldiers for the Confederacy, some get up subscriptions for rebel gunboats.

Perhaps it may all be comprised in the phrase: "Where there is a will there is a way."

Now, then, you could "support, protect, and defend the Union" by teaching the scholars of your school to love and reverence the Government, to be proud of their country, to glory in its flag, and to be true to its Constitution. But, as you don't understand that your self, you can't teach it to them, and, therefore, I am glad to learn from your letter that your school has

'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 sereneWith 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 goodOn some giant evil hurledThe 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.

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.

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 Bull,
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,

True to the end there can no foil be:

We war for right.

DON'T MEDDLE WITH THE YANKEES,

JOHN BULL.

BY JAMES S. WATKINS.

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,
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.

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: "O 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.

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

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!

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 af fronted 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:

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

Quick flittings 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 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;

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!