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My little Rose, there's one old friend I cherish,
You won't desert-my good old dog I mean;
He mustn't know I'm dead-for sure he'd perish
If he but thought of me the last he'd seen.
He's looking now to see me home returning,
At least a Corporal, if not something more;
Then guard him well, and keep the dog from learning
I died a private on this earthen floor.

It cuts me to the heart to think of dying

Far from the village, and from you, my Rose;
No chance to say good night to friends, or, sighing,
To press your hand before my eyelids close.
At home they'd soon my shattered bones be laying
Hard by the church-a cross above my head,
There my Rose would sometimes come, and praying,
Ask God to keep him whom she loved though dead.

Then good by, Rose, good by; and don't be weeping
Farewell, farewell! I'll see you dear, no more;
For in the company I'll soon be keeping,

They give no furloughs, though you beg them sore.
All's turning round-I feel I'm just departing,
I've got my orders and must leave you here;
Good night, good night!-One word before starting;
God bless you, Rose, and don't forget me, dear!

CHARLES LEVER.

THE TENTED FIELD.

BATTLE OF OAK GROVE, VA.,

JUNE 25TH, '62.

GRIM darkness dwells upon the tented field,
Where shadows live, and vapors from the grave,
Unfleshed, impalpable, like clouds sweep o'er
The glorious fleld of death! All sound reposes !
No deep-toned baying give the dogs of war-
Nor lightning flash, nor sob, nor groan

Break through the misty bulwark of the night!
Death frowns and plants his throne 'mid heaps of slain,
While slowly wand'ring through the crimson dead
An angel shade glides o'er the fest'ring mass,
Attentive marking every mangled corse!

But look! it pauses o'er a monument of dead—
Where hardly quenched, the smould'ring flames of war
Still faintly blaze within some patriot breast.
Above them there, o'ertopping all the slain,
As 'twere to show his soul disdained to fly

Till others less determined had succumbed to death,
Or else, perhaps, some lucky chance had smoothed
The brow of Fate that he a time might live
To rear his monument of ghastly slain-
There lay a youth, stern browed, though young-
Ghastly in death, and firm and terrible!
A very warrior-one whose soul inherits
The fires of Jove direct from heaven's self!
One hand doth clutch the silent air, the other
Still grasps a starry flag, whose glorious folds
Embrace his ragged heart, where bullet torn
It sleeps alone with glory!

Here paused the angel shadow on its way,

And raising from the dust that starry flag,

Whose hues were known in Heaven, it set the seal Of Heaven once more upon it—and turning,

On the warrior's brow it dropped a tear

That sparkled in the blackness of the night

More brightly than the stars-who from their thrones Looked down and wept!

Impotent Treason howled in rage afar,

But dared not tread the hallowed spot-
And still the angel dwelt around the corse.
Meanwhile, bright spirits of the long ago
Returning, kissed the banner that they loved,
And with the spirits of the patriot slain,
Fled to their home in Heaven!

EDWIN F. DENYSE.

330

TO THE RESCUE!

AFTER THE BATTLE OF MECHANICSVILLE, VA.,
JUNE 27TH, '62.

AROUSE! Arouse all gallant sons
And to the rescue go,
For many on the battle-field
To-day lie faint and low.

And will you see them one by one,
Like flowers of Summer, fall?
Oh no, your hearts are better far,
You'll answer to the call.

You'll answer to the call for men
To reinforce the brave,

Who valiant fought and nobly fell

And found a soldier's grave.

M. J. HIGGINS.

THE REINFORCEMENT.

AT THE BATTLE ON THE CHICKAHOMINY, VA.,
JUNE 28TH, 1862.

DARK, starless night had hushed the busy hum
Of murm❜ring voices, and the fife and drum,
And clarion bugle, now no longer swelled
Their startling notes above that fatal field.
Wearily, heavily, our tired soldiers slept
On the dank earth, as silently we crept
To danger's post, and watched the dark array
Of foeman's hosts, till wore the night away;
But ere it passed how long the moments seemed,
As gazed we o'er where countless camp-fires gleamed,
Kindled by vengeful foes. How freighted they
With thought of home and loved ones far away;
With hopes and fears, and thoughts of strife and death,
That ere another night must hush the breath
Of many a noble form aud generous heart,
Who for their country well had borne their part-
Then grasped with firmer hand our fire-locks true,
Whose touch gave courage, strength and life anew-
We watched and waited till the light of day
Should gleam o'er earth, and give us light to slay.
It came anon, and through its misty light
We saw the foeman marshalled in his might,
With gleaming steel and flashing blades, move down
As some dark cloud, that spreads o'er earth its frown

While rolling thunder-vivid flashes tell

Of the dark storm that comes o'er hill and dell.
On, on they come! Guards unsheath each sword
Hearest thou not in that tangled cedar glade
A voice that tells the battle-storm is nigh?
Heard not the deadly shell shriek flercely by?
Seest not that traitor host pour thick and fast,
Across the fields like waves on ocean vast?
Already there, where lacks a hopeful word,
His blade is seen, his cheering voice is heard,
And at their posts were others, strong and true,
Braving the storm where death-shots thickest flew.
Heroes they fought-like heroes many fell,
And crimsoned with their blood that fatal dell!
'Tis vain! 'tis vain! the heart that never quails,
'Gainst triple arms and equal valor fails!
Ah! yield we must, and leave our comrades slain
To welter there upon the gory plain !

Fly! fly! Is there no hope-no aid? Oh, say,
Must godless traitors win this bloody day?
Must noble men-thus hosts of noble slain,
Fall on this gory field, and die in vain?

No! no! it comes! the wished-for aid is near!
"Relief!-relief!" rings gladly on the ear.
Dire then the fray and fierce the carnage there,
And cannon roar pealed loudly on the air!
They yield! they yield! the Rebel tide is stayed,
Their columns faler, and fall back dismayed!

Saved! saved! the bloody day was saved-not won !
And of our bloody task not half was done!
Days came and went, still raged the battle storm,
O'er gory fields, and many a lifeless form,
Till its wild fury ebbed. The field was won-
The foe had fled-our fearful task was done!

ELSINE MAY.

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