And thus is our Banner of Freedom,

But tints of the glories above

Of Him who has made us a nation,

And bound us with garlands of love—
Which none on the carth shall dissever,
But each on our altars renew
The oath of unshaken devotion,

And trust in the Red, White and Blue.

ROBERT M. HART.

THE ATTACK AND REPULSE.

REBEL ATTACK AT CHEAT MOUNTAIN, VA.,
SEPTEMBER 12TH, '61.

It is midnight, and a silence
Hangs about the tented camp,
Only broken in its stillness

By the watchful sentry's tramp,
By the sighing of the breezes

Through the branches of the pines,
Or the watchword, softly whispered,
As we pass along the lines.

Soldiers sleeping, sweetly dreaming,
Of their homes far, far away,
Where the loved ones, kind and gentle,
Weary wait and watchful pray-

Resting now for that to-morrow

Which may call them to the frayGath'ring strength by nature's aiding

F

Strength their brother men to slay.

Day is dawning, dimly, grayly,
In the border of the sky,
And the bugle soon will banish
Sleep from ev'ry soldier's eye.
Hark! a roaring like the tempest
When it breaks among the trees-
Like the simoon when it sweepeth
O'er the breast of India's seas!

Up and arm ye! Sound the bugle !
Not the tempest which ye hear:
"Tis the thunder of the war steeds-
'Tis the sound of foemen near!
Like the whirlwind on they're rushing!
Like them come, but come to die—
Finding foemen ever ready

For the fray, but not to fly!

Form battalions, calm and steady;
Let each aim be sure and true-

Let each "bullet find its billet".
They are many, we are few!

There they darken-fire! Now hearken
To the shriek and to the groan-
Fix your bay'nets-charge ye boldly!
Nobly done-the battle's won!

EDWARD C. JUDSON.

THE BROTHERS' LAST MEETING.

AT THE ATTACK ON BOONVILLE, MO.,

SEPTEMBER 13TH, '61..

They bore him away from his first red field
That warrior young and brave,

While the clear starlight of a Southern night
Fell still on his open grave.

In his cloak they wrapped his slumb'ring form,
Those comrades stern and grim;

Their steps were slow and their voices low!
And their eyes with tears were dim.

No mother's kiss on his brow is pressed;
No sister is weeping by;

No solemn prayer, on the evening air,
Goes up to the star-gemmed sky.

But tearless and white, in the ghastly light,
One form beside him stood:

His heart stood still, for his gleaming sword

Was bathed in a brother's blood.

Through the long, long day had the battle raged,
And when twilight's veil was drawn,

Like a peaceful dream, over hill and stream,
Still War's red tide surged on.

Two warriors met by a murmuring rill,
Now tinged with a crimson hue,
Sol's last rays show but the garb of foe,
And their words are stern and few.

"Draw and defend!" and the flashing light
Springs bright from the ringing steel.
Rise not, O moon! for thy light too soon
Will a fearful scene reveal.

The stars looked down, and a boyish form,
With his brown hair dim with blood,
'Neath their brightness lay, while fast away
Life ebbed with the crimson flood.

"Mother"the tone, with the dying moan, From his pale lips floated low

But a fount was stirred, by that voice and word, That surged to the victor's brow.

It brought the dream of his childhood back,
The dream of youth's happy day,

Of a flowery dell, where the shadows fell
On the streamlets flashing play.

He thought of one who each sport had shared,
That boy with his mother's brow,

Whose steps had strayed from the roof tree's shade,
Where, where is that wanderer now?

Sweet thoughts of home, with its softening love,
Came swift in the twilight's hush,

And he bent him low o'er the fallen foe,
To stay the life blood's gush.

But Death was there, and the pallid lips
The smile of childhood bore;

With Crime and Pain, on the battle plain.
The brothers meet once more.

He sleepeth well, in the silent dell,

By the Cumberland's blue wave,

But the brother in vain, 'mid the fiery rain,
Hath sought for a warrior's grave!

ANONYMOUS.

THE LITTLE SOLDIER.

SKIRMISH AT SHEPARDSTOWN, VA.
SEPTEMBER 14тн, '61.

"O WOULD I were a soldier,"
Cried little Bertie Lee;
"If I were only older,
How very brave I'd be :
I'd fear not any danger,

I'd flee not from the foe,
But where the strife was fiercest
There I'd be sure to go.

"I'd be the boldest picket,
Nor fear the darkest night,
Could I but see a rebel,

How bravely I would fight.
I'd nobly do my duty,

And soon promoted be—
O, would I were a soldier,"
Sighed little Bertie Lee.