That head, which so proudly was lifted this morn
At the signal of danger-the note of alarm,

Now broken and bow'd'neath the weight of the storm
That was over it sweeping.

The battle is ended-the foe are all gone,
This memorial leaving.

"Only one on our side," a loss counted slight;
But I think, as I gaze on this pale brow to-night,
What kisses have pressed these lips, now so white,
What hearts wild and breaking,

Would give years of life to stand by my side,
This farewell taking.

I think somewhere 'neath those same starlit skies
There's a home that is dark for the light in these eyes;
And some sigh, mayhap, breath'd for him, while he lies
Here, so peacefully sleeping;

Never dreaming of home, or of love's tender ties,
For no glory-wreath seeking.

Beyond tears, and prayers, and love's winning tone
A deep voice has called him-he heard, and is gone,
Past sentries and guards, to that glorious Throne,
Far" over the river,"

Where the voices of battle and war are unknown, And peace reigns forever.

His low grave is made, and the muffled drums beat; We will bear him forth now, with slow, mournful feet, To the place of his rest, and then leave him to sleep With the sod for his pillow

It is only one grave, but, alas! it is deep,

And some life-path 'twill shadow.

FLETTA.

THE SQUADRON IS FORMING.

SKIRMISH AT FAIRFAX COURT HOUSE,
MAY 31ST, '61.

THE Squadron is forming, the war-bugles play,
To saddle brave comrades, stout hearts for a fray!
Our captain is mounted-strike spurs, and away!

No breeze shakes the blossoms, or tosses the grain; But the wind of our speed floats the galloper's mane, As he feels the bold rider's firm hand on the rein.

Lo! dim in the starlight their white tents appear!
Ride softly! ride slowly! the onset is near!
More slowly! more softly! the sentry may hear!

Now fall on the rebel-a tempest of flame!
Strike down the false banner whose triumph is shame!
Strike, strike for the true flag, for freedom and fame!

Hurrah! sheath your swords! the carnage is done,
All red with our valor, we welcome the sun,
Up, up with the stars! we have won! we have won!

But still on the field our brave comrade lies,
All wounded and bleeding-see now he dies!
While still for the "Union forever" he cries!

Take him up gently-for his work is done,
The debt he has paid let none of us shun!
For he hath both freedom and victory won!

ANONYMOUS.

"THE ROSS BEGINS TO BEND."

FIGHT OF THE HARRIET LANE AT PIG POINT BATTERY,
JUNE 6TH, '61.

"MIDNIGHT is past-the Cross begins to bend!"
So sings the sailor on the Southern seas,
Longing for darkness and the night to end,
And letting such old signs his fancy please!

The night-watch, that began in storm and gloom,
Wearied his soul-its dull hours dragging by—
He smiles in seeing black clouds lift and make room,
For this sweet writing of the stars, on high!

And so I think, as through all our ranks to-day, Look answers look, and friend speaks quick to friend Soldier to soldier, brother to brother, say,

"Midnight is past-the Cross begins to bend !"

Ay, ringing bells, throughout this summer air,
With all their happy tide of music, blend,
The voice and blessing-of our dead, who share
With us this joy-"The Cross begins to bend !"

ANONYMOUS.

MY HERO.

AT THE BATTLE OF BIG BETHEL,
JUNE 10TH, '61.

THE hand of fate has written out

Strange things upon my map of time, And many are the eyes that read

Its lines of mingled woe and crime.
Sometimes I draw the veil aside

That shuts me from the buried past,
And wander o'er its barren fields
At last, at last!

One picture has a ten-fold power-
'Tis graven with a mighty pen :
A plume torn from an eagle's wing,
Dipped in the warmest blood of men!
A battle-field with reeking sod,

With stars and stripes and bugle's blast,
And brave men fleeing from a foe,
At last, at last.

The meadow grass was low and green, The primrose drooped upon its stem; The sky was calm, the ground was strewn With sweet wild stars of Bethlehem.

And on that soil my hero fell,

Amid the carnage raging fast,

Those withered blossoms drank his blood, At last, at last.

They told me this, they said in death

His pale lips breathed a loved one's name,
And blessed the cause for which he died,
The cause he never brought to shame.
The words came sweeping o'er my soul
Like some mad river rushing past,
Only to drown my living dreams,
At last, at last.

They told me this at eventide,
But morning never dawned for me:
Can sunlight dance upon my brow,
And even wake one smile, when he
Is lying 'neath a starry sky,
With battle sods above him cast?
A hero in a nameless grave,
At last, at last

I whisper low when fevered winds
Beat mockingly around my cheek;
My hero! who in all the world

Will know the name I dare not speak?
None, none the veil swings slowly back,
And shuts me from the gloomy past;
I turn away and weep alone,

At last, at last,

EMMA EGGLESON.