GONE TO THE WAR.

BEFORE THE BATTLE OF DAVIS CREEK, MO.

AUG. 10TH, '61.

I LOOK no more with longing eyes,
Towards the clouds in the eastern skies,
To watch the coming day;

The days have no pleasure now for me,
The beauties of earth I cannot see,
Since Charlie went away.

He gave a lock of his curling hair,
To his mother and me to wear,
The ones who loved him best;

Then marched away when the summons came,
He said, to win a soldier's fame;-
Our fears—a soldier's rest.

I see the flag now waving high;
How many for that flag will die,
While 'tis proudly flying?

I hear in dreams the cannon's sound,
I see upon the battle ground,

The form of Charlie lying.

My days are filled with anxious dread;
Lest I should hear my darling's dead.

My nights, they know no rest-
But when I see the morn is nigh,
I strive to hush the wailing cry
Which will not be repressed.

His mother's eyes are growing dim
Awaiting for the sight of him,

Her darling pride and joy.

O, Thou who ever reigns on high,
Wilt thou not hear my earnest cry,
God keep our soldier boy?

CARRIE C. HALLOCK.

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.

AT THE BATTLE OF GRAYTOWN, VA.
AUGUST 13TH, '61.

I'm wounded, Effie, and they say
I never can get well;

"Twas in the thickest of the fight
That I got hurt and fell.

It seems to me like ages, yet
It's but a month to-day
Since you promised you'd wait for me,
Though I were years away.

Do you remember-oh! how well

It all comes back to me !—
Our sitting in the bright moonlight,
Beneath the maple tree;

When first I said I loved you,

And told you we must part,

For not e'en you could keep me, when
My country had my heart.

E

I knew you did not wish it, as
Your little hand in mine,

You did not try to stay me then
By either word or sign;

But trying to keep back the tears,
Although a few would fall,

You bade me trust in God, your God,
Whatever might befall.

But all my bright ambitious hopes
Forever now are fled,

The sunlight of to-morrow morn
Will fall upon me dead;
There'll be one soldier less to fight,
One less on earth to love,

But there'll be one hand to strike

The golden harps above.

I have a mother in the skies;
I wonder if she'll know

The little baby that she left

So many years ago.

I'm weary, Effie, and can not think :

Let this your comfort be,

Your love has been the brightest thing
In all the world to me.

W.

ONLY A FEW.

THE ATTACK ON FREDRICKTOWN, MO.

AUGUST 16TH, '61.

HOW OFTEN we read in the news of the day
Accounts of a fight, or a skirmish, at most,
Where a few of our soldiers held thousands at bay,
Or scattered like chaff a whole rebel host.

And as onward we read the paragraph through,
Our hearts with deep fear and anxiety filled,
Though hotly contested an hour or two,

We find there were only a few soldiers killed.

Yes, "only a few"-yet how little we think

Of the desolate homes, bereft of their light-
Of the hearts that in sorrow and in misery sink,
Being robbed of their hope, their pride and delight.

How lonely and dreary those few homes now are,
Though gratitude honors the glorious dead.
Dimly indeed glory's bright star—

Their noble and high aspirations hath fled.

A few months ago filled with ardent desires,
They shouldered the musket, and bade a good bye;
That glory for which every soldier aspires
Nerved them to conquer or gloriously die.

But, oh! who can console those poor mothers now,
Those sisters, those wives, or those children so dear?
Though a bright laurel crown encircles each brow,
Their fame and their glory is dimmed with a tear.

ANONYMOUS.

THE LOYAL SLAIN.

FIRST BATTLE AT CHARLESTOWN, MO.,
AUGUST 18TH, '61.

AS WAR's dread tones sound fierce and loud
On high plateau or river shore,

The grey and fitful rising cloud
Of battle forms a ghastly shroud
Over dark rivulets of gore.

Where are the loyal slain?-those men
Who, with patriotic aim,

Marshaled in Freedom's column, when
Black Treason rose, and from his den
Spread terror, guilt, and crimson shame.

Upon the turf, by shot and steel

Spirit-robbed, lie these loyal dead;
As each dear heart is stilled, let's feel
A stronger love for Freedom and its weal,
And cling to Hope, but not to dread.

Yes, fondly search, and mark each grave
Of these revered and gallant forms;
And from Oblivion's precincts save
The names of all the noble brave,
As patriot recollection warms.

With prouder flaunt and grander sheen,
On tower and hill, and o'er the graves
Of our loved warrior-dead, serene,
'Neath heavenly blue, above earth's green,

Our beauteous star gemmed ensign waves!

WILLIAM J. M'CLURE