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No despot ever saw such furces,
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,
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;
Black as the pines the shadows fall;
And the only friend within my door
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!
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; rance, during the first year of the unnatural war, and So rosy flushed, so slender tall, inscribed to the English secessionists of to-day.
My boys grew up from childhood's hours. Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,
Glad in the breeze, the sun, the rain, They'll “ teach you a thing, now, or two;"
They climbed the heights or they roamed the plain; Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,
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, Your “ hirelings ” besieged Bunker Hill.
In silver windings, fine and clear,
Their whistle stealing o'er the hill; Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull,
And fly to the shade where the wild deer rest They've Freedom and Liberty's might;
Ere morn has reddened the mountain's crest;
And the antlers hang by the sunset door.
What drew our hunters from the hills ?
They heard the stormy trumpets blow; As you treated the captured Sepoy.
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 !
I saw their hostile squadrons wheel;
Their hasty tread when the fight was nigh,
And, deep in the wail which the night-winds bore, When, in fact, they're a treacherous band : Their dying moan when the fight was o'er. Vol. VIII.-Poetry 5
So time went on. The skies were blue;
The rebel to sweep from old Lookout, that cloud-post Our wheat-fields yellow in the sun;
dizzily high, When down the vale a rider flew :
Whence the taunt of his cannon and banner had af. “Ho! neighbors, Gettysburgh is won !
fronted so long the sky. Horse and foot, at the cannon's mouth We hurled them back to the hungry South ;
Brave Thomas the foeman had brushed from his sumThe North is safe, and the vile marauder
mit the nearest, and now Curses the hour he crossed the border."
The balm of the midnight's quiet soothed Nature's ago
nized brow; My boys were there! I nearer pressed
A midnight of murkiest darkness, and Lookout's un" And Philip, Courtney, what of them ? "
defined mass His voice dropped low: “O madam! rest
Heaved grandly a frown on the welkin, a barricade Falls sweet when battle's tide we stem :
nothing might pass. Your Philip was first of the brave that day
Its breast was sprinkled with sparkles, its crest was With his colors grasped as in death he lay:
dotted with gold, And Courtney-well, I only knew
Telling the camps of the rebels secure as they deemed Not a man was left of his rebel crew !”
in their hold. Where glimmered the creek of the Lookout, it seemed
the black dome of the night My home is drear and still to-night,
Had dropped all its stars in the valley, it glittered so Where Shenandoah murmuring flows ;
over with light: The Blue Ridge towers in the pale moonlight, There were voices and clashings of weapons, and And balmily the south wind blows;
drum-beat and bugle and tramp, But my fire burns dim, while athwart the wall Quick fittings athwart the broad watchfires that paintBlack as the pines the shadows fall;
ed red rings through the camp: And the only friend within my door
There were figures dark edging the watchfires, and Is the sleeping hound on the moonlit floor.
groups at the front of each tent,
And a tone like the murmur of waters all round from Yet still in dreams my boys I own :
the valley upsent. They chase the deer o'er dewy hills, Their hair by mountain winds is blown,
“D'ye see, lad, that black-looking peak ?" said a serTheir shout the echoing valley fills,
geant, scarred over and gray, Wafts from the woolland spring sunshine
To a boy, both in glow of a camp-fire, whence wavered Comes as they open this door of mine ;
their shadows away; And I hear them sing by the evening blaze
“Strap tightly your drum, or you'll lose it when climbThe songs they sang in the vanished days.
ing yon hill; for the word
Is to take that pricked ear of old Lookout, where I cannot part their lives and say,
Bragg's shots so often we've heard ; “This was the traitor, this the true;"
Our noble commander has said it, and we all should God only knows why one should stray,
be minding our prayers, And one go pure death's portals through.
By dawn we must plant the old flag where the rebels They have passed from their mother's clasp and care; now shame us with theirs ; But my heart ascends in the yearning prayer
Hurrah for bold General Hooker, the leader that That His large love will the two enfold
never knew fear, My Courtney fair and my Philip bold!
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 LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN.
long-rolls swelled about,
There were tramplings of steeds and of men, there BY ALFRED B. STREET.
was jingle and rattle and shout;
Dark columns would glimmer and vanish, a rider flit For months that followed the triumph the rebels had by like a ghostboasted they wrought,
There was movement all over the valley, the moreBut which lost to them Chattanooga, thus bringing ment and din of a host.
their triumph to naught; The mountain-walled citadel city, with its outposts in 'Twas the legion so famed of the White Star, and billowy crowds,
led on by Geary the brave, Grand soarers among the lightnings, stern conquerors That was chosen to gather the - laurel or find on the of the clouds!
mountain a grave, For months, I say, had the rebels, with the eyes of They crossed the dim creek of the Lookout, and toiled their cannon, looked down
up the sable ascent, From the high-crested forehead of Lookout, the Mis- Till the atoms black crawling and struggling in dense sion's long sinuous crown;
upper darkness were blent. Till Grant, our invincible hero, the winner of every Mists, fitful in rain, came at daydawn, they spread in fight!
one mantle the skies, Who joys in the strife, like the eagle that drinks from And we that were posted below stood and watched the storm delight!
with our hearts in our eyes ; Marshalled his war-worn legions, and, pointing to them We watched as the mists broke and joined, the quick the foe,
flits and the blanks of the fray; Kindled their hearts with the tidings that now should There was thunder, but not of the clouds; there was be stricken the blow,
lightning, but redder in ray;
Oh! warm rose our hopes to the White Star, oh! wild She brings out the black hulk of Lookout, its outlines went our pleadings to heaven;
traced sharp in the skies, We knew, and we shuddered to know it, how fierce All alive with the cans of our braves glancing down oft the rebels had striven;
with their numberless eyes. We saw, and we shuddered to see it, the rebel flag Ha ! the darkness is roofed like an arbor with streakstill in the air;
ings of shrapnel and shell Shall our boys be hurled back ? God of battles ! oh! Till it seems like the vestibule lurid that leads to the bring not such bitter despair !
chambers of hell;
| It is cleft with the fierce shooting cannon-flame, But the battle is rolling still up, it has plunged in the sprinkled with red dots of spray; mantle о'erhead,
It is havoc's wild carnival revel bequeathed to the We hear the low hum of the volley, we see the fierce - night by the day.
bomb-burst of red; Still the rock in the forehead of Lookout through the Dawn breaks, the sky clears-ha! the shape upon rents of the windy mist shows
Lookout's tall crest that we see, The horrible flag of the Cross-bar, the counterfeit rag Is the bright beaming flag of the White Star, the of our foes:
beautiful flag of the Free! Portentous it looks through the vapor, then melts to How it waves its rich folds in the zenith, and looks in the eye, but it tells
the dawn's open eye, That the rebels still cling to their stronghold, and hope With its starred breast of pearl and of crimson, as if for the moment dispels.
with heaven's colors to vie ! But the roll of the thunder seems louder, flame Hurrah! rolls from Moccasin Point, and Hurrah! from angrier smites on the eye,
bold Cameron's Hill ! The scene from the fog is laid open-a battle-field Hurrah! peals from glad Chattanooga! bliss seems fought in the sky!
every bosom to fill ! Eye to eye, hand to hand, all are struggling-ha! Thanks, thanks, 0 ye heroes of Lookout! O brave traitors, ha! rebels, ye know
Union boys! during time Now the might in the arm of our heroes ! dare ye bide Shall stand this your column of glory, shall shine this their roused terrible blow?
your triumph sublime ! They drive them, our braves drive the rebels ! they To the deep mountain den of the panther the hunter flee, and our heroes pursue !
climbed, drove him to bay, We scale rock and trunk—from their breastworks they Then fought the fierce foe till he turned and fled, run! oh! the joy of the view !
bleeding and gnashing away!
Fled away from the scene where so late broke his Ilurrah! how they drive them ! hurrah! how they growls and he shot down his glare, drive the fierce rebels along!
As he paced to and fro, for the hunter his wild craggy One more cheer-still another ! each lip seems as ready cavern to dare !
to burst into song. On, on, ye bold blue-coated heroes! thrust, strike, Thanks, thanks, () ye heroes of Lookout! ye girded pour your shots in amain !
your souls to the fight, · Banners fly, columns rush, seen and lost in the quick, Drew the sword, dropped the scabbard, md went in the fitful gauzes of rain.
full conscious strength of your might! O boys! how your young blood is streaming! but Now climbing o'er rock and o'er tree-mound, up, up, falter not, drive them to rout!
by the hemlock ye swung! From barricade, breastwork, and rifle-pit, how the Now plunging through thicket and swamp, on the cdge scourged rebels pour out!
of the hollow ye hung! We see the swift plunge of the caisson within the dim One hand grasped the musket, the other clutched background of haze,
ladder of root and of bough: With the shreds of platoons inward scudding, and The trunk the tornado had shivered, the landmark fainter their batteries blaze;
pale glimmering now, As the mist-curtain falls all is blank; as it lifts, a wild And now the mad torrent's white lightning; no drum picture out glares,
tapped, no bugle was blownA wild shifting picture of battle, and dread our warm To the words that encouraged each other, and quick hopefulness shares;
breaths, ye toiled up alone! But never the braves of the White Star have sullied Oh ! long as the mountains shall rise o'er the waters of their fame in defeat,
bright Tennessee, : 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 !
cloup-treading host of the free!
The camp-fire shall blaze to the chorus, the picketNo, no, for the battle is ending; the ranks on the post peal it on high, slope of the crest
How was fought the fierce battle of Lookout-how Are the true Union blue, and our banners alone catch won the GRAND Fight OF THE SKY !
the gleams of the west; Though the Cross-bar still flies from the summit, we roll out oar cheering of pride!
THE CHILDREN'S TABLE. Not in vain, () ye heroes of Lookout! O brave Union boys! have ye died !
M. J. M. SWEAT. One brief struggle more sees the banner, that blot on While the wise men are all seeking the sky, brushed away,
How to save our native land; When the broad moon now basking upon us shall And the brave men are all fighting, yield her rich lustre to-day:
Heart to heart and hand to hand :
While the grown-up women labor
For the soldiers night and day;
Minding nothing but our play?
Little hearts, but loving well
Those who fill the prisoner's cell;
Who have fallen on the field
Blazoned on our country's shield.
Many days, to gather here
With full purses to draw near,
Many great things may be done;
Since this big world was begun !
Now astir throughout the land,
Coming with this new demand.
Ready purchase of our wares,
Won from heaven by children's prayers ! Metropolitan Fair, New York, April, 1864.
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."
So near his journey's goal,
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, he was my friend ;
He loved our land and laws;
To our country's holy cause.
When our blood will thus be spilled,
“ Only a private killed !" But we fight our country's battles,
And our hopes are not forlorn,
To millions yet unborn,
Then as each grave is filled,
“Only a private killed !"
“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!"
And back the foe had fled,
I went to see the dead.
Though under curse and ban,
Could kill a wounded man.
A frightful, crushing wound,
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.
(January 26, 1864.)
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
From battle fields afar;
On his triumphal car;
And banners sadly torn,
In pride and glory borne.
And rent by shot and shell,
What terrors could they tell !
In every cannon's boom,
And waited for his doom.
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!
By hands of steel those flags were waved
Above the carnage dire,
Mid battle-clouds and fire.
And kissed the breeze again,
Of true and loyal men.
Those famous banners bear;
And clash the cymbals where,
Nor did brave Leonidas-
With decimated ranks, they come,
And through the crowded street
With firm though weary feet.
Whose cheers of welcome swell;
And torn by shot and shell ! They should be hung on sacred shrines,
Baptized with grateful tears,
Through all succeeding years.
By patriot sire to son,
Brave deeds sublimely done.
And solemn joy to see
Honor to the hero-slain !
When war's clarion blast shall cease
Who for freedom nobly died !
OUR HERO-DEAD. BY CHARLES BOYNTON HOWELL. From their labors nobly done, From their battles bravely won, 'Neath the earth's cold sod 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
A SOLDIER'S LETTER.
BY MARY 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 see its set
ting sun. 'Twas not so much for self they cared, as 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 oftener than the younger ones, he sought my
company. He seemed to want to talk of home and those he hell
most dear; And though I'd none to talk of, yet I always loved to
Sacrificing self they fought
Alexander, brave and bold,