LEFT WOUNDED ON THE FIELD. AT THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON, TENN., FEBRUARY 16тн, '61. How like a mighty avalanche Our brave boys sweep upon the foe, Which lays so many heroes low! Up! up! before those iron throats, Great, fearful gaps are in their lines, Yet not a thought of turning back! God give the battle to the right! But human valor cannot stand Such awful carnage as they meet; And fearful shouts of victory, J There, on that awful battle plain, Our dead and wounded soldiers lie, With none to bind their bleeding wounds, Or hear their last words ere they die. We hear their piteous cries for drink, Born to our ears in dying tones- The cruel foe with dev'lish hate, Watch closely all who leave a trench, To minister to wounded friends, And seek their burning thirst to quench, And from their strongholds quickly send, A bullet which may fatal prove, To all who venture on the field, Upon this holy work of love! Half-way between us and the foe, To hear his agonizing cries for aid, But who could ease his dreadful woe? 'Twas certain death to venture thereAnd who will venture there to go? A man stepped forth- a martyr brave- How anxiously they on him gaze, Or sleep with them on gory beds? Of him who led them on to-day? Will he relieve the sufferer, Before his life is snatched away? Still safe he bravely pushes on He's almost there-one moment more- Our hero rises! can it be He'll safely yet return to us? Will he escape this as before? Ah! Heaven has gained one martyr more! The days passed on-we toiled away, Assured the fortress soon must fall; And how we cheered when we beheld The white flags wave along the wall. The place was ours! and victory Had perched upon our banner bright, Treason was humbled in the dust Before the all-triumphant Right! J. GORDON EMMONS, THE DYING SOLDIER. DESTRUCTION OF WINTON VILLAGE, N. C., THE grim-visaged cannon had ceased to roar, On blood-crimsoned turf, with bright eyes upturned Though sharp are the pains through him darting; And the glaze o'er his eyes, which shuts out the dead Tells that body and spirit are parting. A smile wreathes the lips that once were so sad, His father, with tottering step, he sees, Yet another vision now meets his gaze, And then, with a groan, fell back to the sand, S. H. POTTER. THE LAST MAN AT HIS GUN. AT THE BATTLE OF FORT GRAIG, NEW MEXICO. ALONE, amid his comrades slain, Upon the crimson battle field, 'Mid death and dire destruction's reignHe will not fly-he will not yield! But coolly sits, upon his gun, Now silent in the battle's roar His duty nobly, bravely done He falls the last-one martyr more! Will ever traitors perish thus, Or stand before such a foe as he, Ah! hero brave! thy noble name We'll breathe around our peaceful fires- When we are old and white-haired sires! J. GORDON EMMONS. |