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! 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: While the grown-up women labor Little hands we have, but willing; Who have fallen on the field We have toiled with busy fingers Many days, to gather here Since this big world was begun! Let the great and glorious impulse Won from heaven by children's prayers! Metropolitan Fair, New-York, April, 1864. "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, For I could not think the rebel foe, Could kill a wounded man. A Minie ball had broke his thigh, The last was through his pulseless breast, 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, They raised the coat-cape from his face- Think what a shudder thrilled my heart! As we talked of days of yore. Ah! little he thought, that soldier brave, That God had sent a messenger To claim his Christian soul. But he fell like a hero, fighting, And hearts with grief are filled, 尊 And honor is his, though our chief shall say: "Only a private killed!" I knew him well, he was my friend; To our country's holy cause. And, soldiers, the time will come, perhaps, But we fight our country's battles, To our children and their children! BATTLE-WORN BANNERS. BY PARK BENJAMIN. I saw the soldiers come to-day No conqueror rode before their way But captains, like themselves, on foot, All grandly eloquent though mute, Those banners soiled with dust and smoke, 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 By hands of steel those flags were waved Almost destroyed yet always saved, 'Mid battle-clouds and fire. And here the true and loyal still POETRY AND INCIDENTS. With decimated ranks, they come, God bless the soldiers! cry the folk, God bless the banners, black with smoke, No grander trophies could be brought Of glorious battles nobly fought, And so, to-day, I chanced with pride Those remnants from the bloody tide OUR HERO-DEAD. BY CHARLES BOYNTON HOWELL. From their labors nobly done, Sleep their sacred patriot forms, Some passed from the realms of life Mourners, in whose every heart Sacrificing self they fought That the traitorous hordes that aim Alexander, brave and bold, 'Twas a Minie ball that struck him; it entered at the side, And they did not think it fatal till the morning that he died. So when he found that he must go, he called me to his bed, And said: "You'll not forget to write when you hear that I am dead? And you'll tell them how I loved them and bid them all good-by? Say I tried to do the best I could, and did not fear to die; And underneath my pillow there's a curl of golden I send you back his hymn-book, and the cap he used to wear, And a lock, I cut the night before, of his bright, curling hair. I send you back his Bible. The night before he died, We turned its leaves together, as I read it by his side. I've kept the belt he always wore; he told me so to do: It has a hole upon the side-'tis where the ball went through. So now I've done his bidding; there's nothing more to tell; But I shall always mourn with you the boy we loved so well. -Evangelist. STRIKE! BY EDWARD S. ELLIS. From New-England's granite mountains, Onward sweeps the arouséd nation, Deeds, not words, make men immortal Know ye not that revolutions Are the throes of struggling Right? In these national ablutions It must triumph over Might. What though but a child in learning, When the war-note onward rolls, While our country's fate is turning, 'Tis not heads we need-but souls. Some must make their names historic, Strike then for the truth eternal; Strike then, for the cause is just; Strike then at the wrong infernal, Till it bites again the dust. THE BATTLE. Give them a shell boys! give them a shell! They are coming over the hill; You can see their widening columns swell; You can hear their bugles trill. Give them a shell, boys! Aim her straight! Ready! Pull lanyard! Off she goes! Hear her skurry and scream in hate. Pouff! She's done for a dozen foes! Give them grape, boys! give them grape! And their tramp is loud and clear. Give them grape, boys! Steady! Fire! Give them lead, boys! give them lead! Up with the infantry! Load, boys, load! With columns massed in a fierce attack. Stand by your guns, boys! Drive them back! Give them steel, boys! give them steel! They fight like devils! At them again! Their charge is broken! they pause, they reel ! After them, boys, with might and main ! Give them steel, boys! See how they run! I'm hit-just here--but never mind me. Lay me down by the side of that gun, And after the rest with a three times three! Give them a cheer, boys! give them a cheer! Dig deep, boys, and do it to-night. WHAT THE BIRDS SAID. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. The birds, against the April wind, Flew Northward, singing as they flew ; They sang: "The land we leave behind Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew." "O wild-birds! flying from the South, What saw and heard ye, gazing down ?" "We saw the mortar's upturned mouth, The sickened camp, the blazing town "Beneath the bivouac's starry lamps, We saw your march-worn children die; In shrouds of moss, in cypress swamps, We saw your dead uncoffined lie. "We heard the starving prisoner's sighs; And saw, from line and trench, your sons Follow our flight with home-sick eyes Beyond the battery's smoking guns." "And heard and saw ye only wrong And pain," I cried, "O wing-worn flocks ?" "We heard," they sang, "the freedman's song, The crash of slavery's broken locks! "We saw from new, uprising States The treason-nursing mischief spurned, And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil, We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil. "And, struggling up through sounds accursed, A grateful murmur clomb the air, A whisper scarcely heard at first, It filled the listening heavens with prayer. "And sweet and far, as from a star, Replied a voice which shall not cease, So to me, in a doubtful day Of chill and slowly-greening spring, Low stooping from the cloudy gray, The wild-birds sang or seemed to sing. They vanished in the misty air, The song went with them in their flight; But lo! they left the sunset fair, And in the evening there was light. DOWN BY THE RAPIDAN. How, like a dream of childhood, the sweet May-day goes by! A golden brightness gilds the air, a rose-flush paints the sky; And the southern winds come bearing in their freights of rare perfume From the far-off country valleys, where the spring flowers are in bloom. |