WITH "VICTOR" ON HIS CREST.

AT THE BATTLE OF BLACK WALNUT CREEK, MO.,
NOVEMBER 27TH '61.

Ay! Leave the Stripes and Stars Above him, with the precious cap and sash; The mute mementos of the battle crash, And of a hero's scars.

Rest, gallant soldier, rest!

Ennobled e'en in dying; Christ's true knight
Is now a king, in royal glory bright,
With "Victor" on his crest.

And yet-God giveth sleep;
No earthly victor's laurels ever shed,
A glory like the halo round his head,
Ye loved him—should you weep?

Say ye, "His life is lost;

Our home's sweet comfort, and our crown of hope ?"
Nay, friends! His life has now a grander scope,
A living holocaust.

To God, and Truth, and Right,

It aye hath been; and if the gleaming coal
On God's own altar hath unborne the soul
In fiery chariot bright.

'Mid battle roar and strife;

If to the fearless soldier, God's release

Came swiftly with the seal of perfect peace
Upon his earthly life.

Ay, though it sorely crush

The hearts that clung to him, poor hearts that ache, With yearning sense of loss-oh, for his sake Each wail of anguish hush!

And yet, ye well may weep,

As those who mourned the holy martyr erst,
On whose glad eyes Heaven's waiting glories burst,
Before "he fell asleep."

A hero-heart is still,

And eyes are sealed; and loving lips are mute,
Which bore on earth the Spirit's golden fruit,
But peace! It was God's will.

And for our precious land

The land he loved, and died for in her need.
The blood of heroes is the country's seed,
As he stood, let us stand.

The Lord of hosts doth reign.

He crowned our soldiers," dying at their guns." Oh be the nation worthy of such sons

The noble-hearted slain,

And so we sadly lay,

Yet not so sadly, though with tearful eyes,
A little nameless flower where he lies,

And gently steal away.

M. E. LEE.

LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

AT THE FIGHT AT SALEM, MO.,

DECEMBER 3D, '61.

WHAT, was it a dream? am I all alone,

In the dreary night and the drizzling rain ? Hist!-ah, it was only the river's moan;

They have left me behind with the mangled slain.

Yes, now I remember it all too well!

We met, from the battling ranks apart; Together our weapons flashed and fell,

And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart.

In the cypress gloom where the deed was done,
It was all too dark to see his face ;
But I heard his death-groans, one by one,
And he holds me still in a cold embrace.

He spoke but once, and I could not hear
The words he said for the cannon's roar ;
But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear-
O God! I had heard that voice before!

Had heard it before, at our mother's knee,

When we lisped the words of our evening prayer!

My brother! would I had died for thee

This burden is more than my soul can bear!

I pressed my lips to his death cold cheek,

And begged him to show me, by word or sign, That he knew and forgave me; he could not speak, But he nestled his poor cold face to mine.

The blood flowed fast from my wounded side,
And then for a while I forgot my pain,
And over the lakelet we seemed to glide
In our little boat, two boys again.

And then, in my dream, we stood alone,

On a forest path where the shadows fell;
And I heard again in the tremulous tone,
And the tender words of his last farewell.

But that parting was years, long years ago,
He wandered away to a foreign land;
And our dear old mother will never know
That he died to-night by his brother's hand."

The soldiers who buried the dead next day,
Disturbed not the clasp of that last embrace,
But laid them to sleep till the Judgment day,
Heart folded to heart, and face to face.

THE PICKET-GUARD.

FIGHT AT DAM NO. 5, UPPER POTOMAC.
DECEMBER 8TH, '61.

"ALL quiet along the Potomac," they say,
"Except, now and then, a stray picket
Is shot as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing-a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost-only one of the men
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. "

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon Or the light of the watch-fire, gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard-for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed, Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls back-his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleepFor their mother-may Heaven defend her!