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No despot ever saw such furces,

They despise our Republic, John Bull,
High-souled, free-willed, together come;

And curse the whole “ Yankeedom race;"
No empire witnessed such resources

But we hold, with your subjects, John Bull,
Evoked by the recruiting drum.

To quarrel, were a double disgrace.
Resistless as our rivers' courses,
Enough to strike the Old World dumb !

Therefore, don't you meddle, John Bull,

Don't meddle with the Yankees, I pray;
Heroes in fight.
Their gathering cry a thunder hum.

Or else “they may lam you,” John Bull,
Would banded Europe's legions come

And that, at no far distant day.
To dare their might?

They're “ a nation all mighty," John Bull,

Teaching right to the whimsical South :
To foreign tyrants fearful warning,

Therefore, I would pray you, John Bull,
This strife 'twixt Freedom's children stands, Put a stop to your meddling mouth.
Once more united, meet we'd scorning

BALTIMORE, MD., 1862.
The leagued wrath of king.ruled lands;
With Freedom's flag our hosts adorning,

THE VIRGINIA MOTHER.
Upheld and fenced by Freemen's hands.
Urge on the fight!

BY EDNA DEAN PROCTOR,
True to ourselves, a brighter morning,
Without a cloud, is swiftly dawning

My home is drear and still to-night,

Where Shenandoah murmuring flows;
Upon our night.

The Blue Ridge towers in the pale moonlight,
Then, brothers, fearful though the toil be,

And balmily the south wind blows;
Strain every nerve to bear the weight; But my fire burns dim, while athwart the wall
Think wbat reward will a free soil be,

Black as the pines the shadows fall;
Beyond the battle's lurid strait;

And the only friend within my door
Though unexampled, long, the moil be, Is the sleeping hound on the moonlit floor.
Joys just as vast your labors wait:

Roll back, 0 weary years! and bring
To arms and fight!
Though fierce and strong the war-whirl's boil be,

Again the gay and cloudless morn,

When every bird was on the wing,
True to the end there can no foil be:
We war for right.

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

With his laughing eyes and his locks of gold !
DON’T MEDDLE WITH THE YANKEES,

No nested bird in the valley wide
JOHN BULL.

Sang as my heart that eventide.
BY JAMES S. WATKINS.

Our laurels blush when May winds call,
Written while the fever ran high on recognition by England

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,
Don't meddle, whatever you do!

And the sly fawn drank by the rising moon.
They are ten times as strong, Johnny Bull,
And a hundred more daring to kill,

O Storm! look up; you ne'er may hear,
Than, when in their weakness, John Bull.

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;
Don't meddle with the Yankees, John Bull, Nor sit at their feet, when the chase is o'er,
Or else you may force them to fight.

And the antlers hang by the sunset door.
And then, when in their strength, John Bull,
They cross the St. Lawrence, "mi boy,”

What drew our hunters from the hills ?
Look out to be served, Johnny Bull,

They heard the stormy trumpets blow; As you treated the captured Sepoy.

And leapt adown like April rills

When Shenandoah roars below.
The Yankees don't boast, Johnny Bull,

One to the field where the old flag shines;
They but speak out their mind as it is;

And one, alas ! to the traitor lines !
Then I pray you don't meddle, John Bull,

My tears-their fond arms round me thrown-
For “the Yankees are awful when riz!”

And the house was hushed and the hill-side lone.
They had hoped to be friendly, John Bull,
At least to have lived that profession;

But oh! to feel my boys were foes
But if meddled with, mark it, John Bull,

Was more than loss or battle's steel !
They'll serve you, as of old, with the “ Hessian." In every shifting cloud that rose

I saw their hostile squadrons wheel;
We've “a 'ost hov your 'eroes,” John Bull, And heard in the waves as they hurried by,
Growing fat from the wealth of our land,

Their hasty tread when the fight was nigh,
Who profess to be loyal, John Bull,

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;
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 !
Let the great and glorious impulse

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

Coming with this new demand.
Give us then, O generous people!

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

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."
Ah! little he 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, he 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 !"

“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.

BATTLE-WORN BANNERS.

(January 26, 1864.)

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.

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,
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,

Nor did brave Leonidas-
When was stormed the bloody pass
At old-time Thermopylæ-
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.

With decimated ranks, they come,

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 could 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!

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 !
ANN ARBOR, January, 1864.

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.

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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.

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

hear.

Sacrificing self they fought
That the land, with treason fraught,
Might rise, phonix-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.

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