We well venged him on the spot-
All those that fired—now or not;

No tree nor shrub o'ertops the grass

Near the place which we named The Bloody Pass. "With sullen thoughts and burning brain,

I heard the tale of my comrades slain,
And sprang from the damp unfeathered bed,
When my wounds oozed anew, afresh they bled;
The age-blood fell on my fevered hands,
Moistened, as water, the parched lands,
A torrent at last came, I could not smother,
But sobbing aloud "My brother-brother!"

"Exhausted nature sank to rest,
Again the wooden pillow pressed;
I dreamt of home and peaceful lands,
Of social, kindred, friendly bands,
Then, striving to quell a family feud,
Our hands were all with blood imbued,
Defeat or Victory were the same,
Each struggle added grief and pain."

Pardon, my story seems quite old

You've heard the same so often told
Since war has through our country rung,
And glorious deeds so oft been sung,
That pity long has ceased to reign
For wounded misery-bleeding-slain."

Friend-"Brother soldier, say not so,
Tears daily for our wounded flow,
While charity, with open hand,

Plays hostess through the suffering land;
Those dames now passing yonder way,
The hospitals have seen to-day,
And to the feverish-suffering there

Have ministered the tenderest care.
Come, courage, man, don't droop again,
The brave will die ere shrink at pain;
This carriage enter-come with me-
My home and family you shall see ;
True hospitality and rest

Be thine, my country's worthy guest."

A spacious house in street Thirteen,
With trees that placed a shade between
Received the wounded Volunteer,

Where smiles of welcome beamed to cheer.

The chamber set for guests apart,
Gave comfort to an aching heart,
And ne'er in battle's raging strife;
Contention, tried to save a life!
More earnestly than woman's care
Strove to preserve the Volunteer.
But all in vain. The Doctor came
To freshly dress his wounds again :
The feeble pulse and flighty brain,
Gave tokens true-skill was in vain.

He rallied through the live long night,
With wandering thoughts and absent sight,
Seeming to mourn his comrades slain,
And muttering, "Boys, we'll meet again
At taps." Then with a feeble air,
And moan that seemed a parting song,
He raised his dying hands in prayer
And sung,
"We're Marching On."

Small the effects and lean the store
Of those the wounded, weak and poor—
His knapsack graced the battle-field,

་

When serving for a bayonet shield;
His gun had in the river sank,
After it helped him to its bank;
A miniature all stained with gore
Upon his manly breast he bore,

But whether of mother, or loving wife,
Sister, or a betrothed in life,

We ne'er shall know-the crimson stain
Left woman only-thoughts remain,
That even now with silent tear
Some maiden mourns her volunteer.

A lock of hair on his person found,
With some withered flowers clinging 'round,
And lines from a brother now no more,
Were all the contents of his pocket's store.
The hair, if we judge from its glossy flow,
Crowned the brow of a maiden pure as snow;
The flowers contained one blooming spot,
'Twas the emblem of love, "forget-me-not."
The brother's lines-their history tell-
Both died for the land beloved so well!
If ever valor stamped repose,

If ever wounds from duty rose
If ever death a glory cast,

To lead the future-name the past,
'Twas that which heralded the bier
Of our departed Volunteer.

The family of the stranger friend
That led him home, and saw his end,
Were there and soldiers lined the grave,
Who three loud warlike vollies gave,
Then left him quietly abed

In the gorged city of the dead.

G. C. HOWARD.

TOUCH THE ELBOW.

CAPTURE OF MILFORD, MO.,

DECEMBER 18тн, '61.

Where battle-music greets our ear
Our guns are sighted at the foe,
Then nerve the hand and banish fear,
And, comrades, touch the elbow !

Home and country, patriots fire,
Kindle our souls with fervid glow,
And Southern traitors shall retire
When Northmen touch the elbow!

A cannon shot may plow our rank,
And through it strike its deadly blow;
Close

up the space the ball made blank, And, comrades, touch the elbow !

Though many brave men bite the sod,
And crimson heart's blood freely flow,
Shout, as their spirits soar to God,
On, comrades, touch the elbow!

Now, show the steel of which you're made,
The General signals march: Halloo!
Double the quickstep, First Brigade-
Charge, comrades, touch the elbow !

Touch the elbow now, my boys,
Comrades, touch the elbow ;
Double the quickstep, First Brigade-
Charge, comrades, touch the elbow!

BRIG. GEN. MARTINDALE, U. s. V.

THE SOLDIER'S SOLILOQUY.

CAPTURE OF CAMP SHAWNEE MOUND, MO.,
DECEMBER 18тн, '61.

THE heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far from love and thee, Mary.

To-morrow eve more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid;
It will not waken me, Mary.

I may not, dare not; fancy now!
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regrets must Norman know;
When bursts Clan Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,

His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught;
For if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought,

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if returned from conquered foes, How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose

To my young bride and me, Mary.