MOTHER IS THE BATTLE OVER?

BATTLE OF BUFFALO HILL, KY.,

OCTOBER 3D, '61.

"MOTHER, is the battle over?
Thousands have been slain, they say,
Is my father coming?-tell me,
Have our soldiers gained the day?
Is he well, or is he wounded-
Mother, do you think he's slain?
If you know, I pray you, tell me,
Will my father come again?"

"Mother, dear, you're always sighing
Since you last the paper read,
Tell me why you now are crying,
Why that cap is on your head?
Ah! I see you cannot tell me,
Father's one among the slain,
"Though he loved us very dearly,
He will ne'er come home again."

"Yes, my boy, your noble father

Is one numbered with the slain;
We no more on earth shall see him,
But in Heaven we'll meet again.
He died for the Union's glory,
Our day may not be far between,
But I hope, at the last moment,
That we all shall meet again.”

SAWYER.

"ONLY A PRIVATE KILLED."

REBEL ATTACK ON SANTA ROSA ISLAND, Fla., OCTOBER 9TH, '61.

"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 the 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,
His bosom to defend,

They raised the coat-cape from his face-
My God! it was my friend!

As, 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, tho' 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

66

To millions yet unborn."

To our children and their children!

Then as each grave is filled,

What care we if our chief shall say,

IN THE HOSPITAL.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF LEBANON, MO.,

OCTOBER 13Tн, '61.

HERE is a hospital; its every floor

Is thickly piled with dying and with dead; And still they come, and there is room for more,

To fill the place of those whom death has sped. Each comer finds the sheets already warm

With his last life breath who, a moment since, Was carried out a corpse,whose broken form Upon the yielding couch has left its prints.

Shaded by lofty trees, shut in by swamps,

A monster graveyard stretches out from here; A pestilential spot, whose poisonous damps.

Press on the brain, and chill the heart with fear. Daily it grows, and daily it claims its prey, Daily it opens wide its ravenous mouth,

A hundred men are added every day

To this new, silent City of the South.

The air is heavy with the groans and sighs

The tortur'd frames from stoutest hearts will force, O God of peace, behold the sacrifice!

Let the Peace-angel hither wing his course! All do not die. Some struggle home again, With lopped-off limbs, a piteous sight to see, And linger out a weary life of pain,

Eating the bitter bread of charity.

ANONYMOUS.

I AM WITH THEE.

CAPTURE OF LINN CREEK, MO.,

OCTOBER 14TH, '61.

BROTHER, dearest, I am with thee,
On thy marches long and drear,
And whatever fate betide thee,
Think! O, think that I am near.

For I love thee, darling brother,
With a sister's holy love;
Now we're parted from each other,
But will never part above.

Brother, life hath many changes,
Sad, and often hard to bear,
In the world much sorrow ranges,
And we each must have a share.

Once my joy thou could'st not measure,
Life had many charms for me,

Now I see the darker picture,

Which I never dreamed I'd see.

May'st thou never know the sorrow,
Never feel the pangs I've borne,
May sweet hope beam on each morrow,
And thou ne'er have cause to mourn.