THE GRAYJACKETS IN CAMP, FIELD, AND HOSPITAL.
THE ANGEL OF THE HOSPITAL.
"TWAS nightfall in the hospital. The day,
As though its eyes were dimmed with bloody rain
From the red clouds of war, had quenched its light,
And in its stead some pale, sepulchral lamps
Shed their dim lustre in the halls of pain,
And flaunted mystic shadows o'er the walls.
No more the cry of Charge! On, soldiers, on!
Stirred the thick billows of the sulphurous air;
But the deep moan of human agony,
From pale lips quivering as they strove in vain
To smother mortal pain, appalled the ear,
And made the life-blood curdle in the heart.
Nor flag, nor bayonet, nor plume, nor lance,
Nor burnished gun, nor clarion call, nor drum,
Displayed the pomp of battle; but instead
The tourniquet, the scalpel, and the draught,
The bandage, and the splint were strewn around-
Dumb symbols, telling more than tongues could speak
The awful shadows of the fiend of war.
Look! look! What gentle form with cautious step
Passes from couch to couch as silently
As yon faint shadows flickering on the walls,
And bending o'er the gasping sufferer's head,
Cools his flushed forehead with the icy bath,
From her own tender hand, or pours the cup
Whose cordial powers can quench the inward flame
That burns his heart to ashes, or with voice
As tender as a mother's to her babe,
Pours pious consolation in his ear
She came to one long used to war's rude scenes—
A soldier from his youth, grown gray in arms,
Now pierced with mortal wounds. Untutored, rough,
Though brave and true, uncared for by the world.
His life had passed without a friendly word,
Which timely spoken to his willing ear,
Had wakened godlike hopes, and filled his heart
With the unfading bloom of sacred truth.
Beside his couch she stood, and read the page
Of heavenly wisdom, and the law of love,
And bade him follow the triumphant chief
Who bears the unconquered banner of the cross.
The veteran heard with tears, and grateful smile,
Like a long frozen fount whose ice is touched
By the resistless sun, and melts away,
And fixing his last gaze on her and heaven,
Went to the Judge in penitential prayer.
She passed to one in manhood's blooming prime,
Lately the glory of the martial field,
But now sore scathed by the fierce shock of arms,
Like a tall pine shattered by the lightning's stroke.
Prostrate he lay, and felt the pangs of death,
And saw its thickening damps obscure the light
Which makes our world so beautiful. Yet these
He heeded not. His anxious thoughts had flown
O'er rivers and illimitable woods,
To his fair cottage in the Western wilds,
Where his young bride and prattling little ones— Poor hapless little ones, chafed by the wolf of war— Watched for the coming of the absent one
In utter desolation's bitterness.
O, agonizing thought! which smote his heart
With sharper anguish than the sabre's point.
The angel came with sympathetic voice,
And whispered in his ear: Our God will be
A husband to the widow, and embrace
The orphan tenderly within his arms;
For human sorrow never cries in vain
To His compassionate ear. The dying man.
Drank in her words with rapture; cheering hope
Shone like a rainbow in his tearful eyes,
And arched his cloud of sorrow, while he gave
The dearest earthly treasures of his heart,
In resignation to the care of God.
A fair man-boy of fifteen summers, tossed
His wasted limbs upon a cheerless couch.
Ah! how unlike the downy bed prepared
By his fond mother's love, whose tireless hands
No comforts for her only offspring spared,
From earliest childhood, when the sweet babe slept
Soft, nestling in her bosom all the night,
Like a half-blown lily sleeping on the heart
Of swelling summer wave, till that sad day
lle left the untold treasure of her love
To seck the rude companionship of war.
The fiery fever struck his swelling brain
With raving madness, and the big veins throbbed
A death-knell on his temples, and his breath
Was hot and quick, as is the panting deer's,
Stretched by the Indian's arrow on the plain.
"Mother! Oh, mother!" oft his faltering tongue
Shrieked to the cold bare walls, which echoed back
His wailing in the mocking of despair.
Oh! angel-nurse, what sorrow wrung thy heart
For the young sufferer's grief! She knelt beside
The dying lad, and smoothed his tangled locks
Back from his aching brow, and wept and prayed
With all a woman's tenderness and love,
That the good Shepherd would receive this lamb,
Far wandering from the dear maternal fold,
And shelter him in IIis all-circling arms,
In the green valleys of immortal rest.
And so the Angel passed from scene to scene
Of human suffering, like that blessed One,
Himself the Man of sorrows and of grief,
Who came to earth to teach the law of love,
And pour sweet balm upon the mourner's heart,
And raise the fallen and restore the lost.
Bright vision of my dreams! thy light shall shine
Through all the darkness of this weary world—
Its selfishness, its coldness, and its sin,
Pure as the holy evening star of love,
The brightest planet in the host of Heaven.
HEROISM OF SOUTHERN TROOPS.
GENERAL BRADLEY T. JOHNSTON, of Maryland, thus describes the gallantry of the North Carolina troops in the battles of Jackson's Valley campaign :—
"You know it was my fortune to fight the battle of Front Royal by myself, having only Wheat's Tigers with me—we, in all, not three thundred; they, eight hundred, and two pieces of artillery. Not a shot was fired by infantry, except my regiment and Wheat's men; and after a three hours' fight we drove the enemy, and the cavalry captured those we left. Forty escaped; the rest were killed or captured. Of course we had quite a number of congratulations; and the capture of one first Maryland regiment, by another, was considered, in our army, a capital joke. However, early Sunday morning, just at daylight, I was ordered to the front again. There 1 found Kirkland, and the twenty-first North Carolina, who had occupied a hill overlooking Winchester since midnight. He was deployed on our (Ewell's) right, as skirmishers. I was to take the same position on our left, and open cominunication with Jackson, who was approaching by the Strasburg road. The crest of hills we occupied sweeps along in a semicircle southeast of Winchester, overlooking the town, and half a mile from its suburbs. As the mist of the morning melted before the advancing light, I looked over toward the North Carolinians, who were feeling their way down the hill slowly, but with the regularity and precision of veterans. Soon they formed line-of-battle, and, with a 'huzza l' chargel in a run. I did the best I could to beat them; but just as Į got on their flank, some hundred of yards to their left, a brigade of Yankees rose from behind a stone wall, and poured into them a sheet of lead and fire which nothing
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