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 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. "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, They brought the private's body in ; For I could not think the rebel foe, A Minie ball had broke his thigh, 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. 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, 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. (January 26, 1864.) 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, 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 By hands of steel those flags were waved Almost destroyed yet always saved, Though down at times, still up they rose And here the true and loval still POETRY AND INCIDENTS. With decimated ranks, they come, And through the crowded street 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. 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. "FORWARD, MARCH." BY MRS. C. J. MOORE. A. A. A. On Newbern's bloody battle-ground, "Forward, my men, my comrades brave !" And, ever foremost, on he pressed; And thinned us through and through. Well done, my boys, the day is ours! Like veterans you've fought!" Another crash of musketry; The day was dearly bought: For there, upon the accursed soil, Loud rang his voice, as clarion clear As when he onward led; "Forward, my boys, the day is ours!" Then fell back with the dead. And "forward!" is our battle-cry, Which through the land shall ring, Until the Union is restored, And Liberty is king! |