Grieve! 'tis the voice of ignorance and vice,—
The rage of slaves who fancy they are free:
Men who would keep men slaves at any price,
Too blind their own black manacles to see.
Grieve! 'tis that grisly spectre with a torch,
Riot - that bloodies every porch,

Hurls justice down

And burns the town.

CIVIL WAR

CHARLES De Kay.

"R

IFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette;
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot

That shines on his breast like an amulet!"

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead: There's music around when my barrel's in tune!" Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch

From your victim some trinket to handsel first blood,

A button, a loop, or that luminous patch

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!"

"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,
When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette!
For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.
"But I snatched off the trinket, this locket of gold;
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array.”

"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket!-'tis she,

My brother's young bride-and the fallen dragoon Was her husband- Hush, soldier, 'twas Heaven's decree;· We must bury him there, by the light of the moon!

"But hark! the far bugles their warnings unite!
War is a virtue, weakness a sin:

There's a lurking and loping around us to-night;-
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in!"

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.

AT THE BREACH

LL over for me,

The struggle, and possible glory!
All swept past,

In the rush of my own brigade.

Will charges instead,

And fills up my place in the story;

Well,-'tis well,

By the merry old games we played.

There's a fellow asleep, the lout! in the shade of the hillock yonder; What a dog it must be, to drowse in the midst of a time like this! Why, the horses might neigh contempt at him; - what is he like, I

wonder?

If the smoke would but clear away, I have strength in me yet to hiss.

Will, comrade and friend,

We parted in hurry of battle;
All I heard

Was your sonorous "Up, my men!"
Soon conquering pæans

Shall cover the cannonade's rattle;

Then, home bells,—

Will you think of me sometimes, then?

How that rascal enjoys his snooze! Would he wake to the touch of powder ?

A reveillé of broken bones, or a prick of the sword, might do. Hi, man! the general wants you;-if I could but for once call louder! There is something infectious here, for my eyelids are drooping

too.

Will, can you recall

The time we were lost on the Bright Down?
Coming home late in the day,

As Susie was kneeling to pray,
Little blue eyes and white night-gown,
Saying, "Our Father, who art-

Art what?" so she stayed with a start.
"In Heaven," your mother said softly.
And Susie sighed, "So far away!"
'Tis nearer, Will, now to us all.

'Tis strange how that fellow sleeps! stranger still that his sleep should haunt me;

If I could but command his face, to make sure of the lesser ill! I will crawl to his side and see, for what should there be to daunt

me?

What there? what there? O Father in Heaven, not Will!

Will, dead Will!

Lying here, I could not feel you!

Will, brave Will!

Oh, alas for the noble end!

Will, dear Will!

Since no love nor remorse could heal you,

Will, good Will!

Let me die on your breast, old friend!

SARAH WILLIAMS.

T

MUSIC IN CAMP

wo armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters

Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
In meads of heavenly azure;

And each dread gun of the elements
Slept in its hid embrasure.

The breeze so softly blew, it made

No forest leaf to quiver,

And the smoke of the random cannonade
Rolled slowly from the river.

And now, where circling hills looked down
With cannon grimly planted,

O'er listless camp and silent town
The golden sunset slanted:

When on the fervid air there came
A strain- now rich, now tender;
The music seemed itself aflame

With day's departing splendor.

A Federal band, which, eve and morn,
Played measures brave and nimble.

Had just struck up, with flute and horn
And lively clash of cymbal.

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks,
Till, margined by its pebbles,

One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks,"
And one was gray with "Rebels."

Then all was still, and then the band,
With movement light and tricksy,
Made stream and forest, hill and strand,
Reverberate with 'Dixie.'

The conscious stream with burnished glow
Slipped proudly o'er its pebbles,
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow
With yelling of the Rebels.

Again a pause, and then again

The trumpets pealed sonorous,

And Yankee Doodle' was the strain
To which the shore gave chorus.

The laughing ripple shoreward flew,
To kiss the shining pebbles:

Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue
Defiance to the Rebels.

And yet once more the bugles sang

Above the stormy riot;

No shout upon the evening rang,-
There reigned a holy quiet.

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;
And silent now the Yankees stood,
And silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard

That plaintive note's appealing, So deeply Home, Sweet Home' had stirred The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,

The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold or warm, his native skies

Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain

In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished, as the strain
And daylight died together.

But memory, waked by music's art,
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines,-
That bright, celestial creature,
Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines,
Gave this one touch of Nature.

JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat

THE

The soldier's last tattoo;

No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.

On fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance

Now swells upon the wind;

No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;

No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumèd heads are bowed;

Their haughty banner trailed in dust

Is now their martial shroud.