'Tis no time to falter now,

Cast aside all party strife ;
List your country's wailing cry,
Struggling for a nation's life.
Is it not enough to know
Your native land entreats you—go?

Go! revenge her grievous wrong,
Go! sustain her drooping arm,
Go! support her banner bright,

Keep her bulwarks safe from harm;
Haste, o'ercome her direst foe,
Liberty's adopted-go!

By the grave, where sleeps the brave,
By the crimson-purpled sod,
By the blood-stained river's stream,
By the truth-avenging God,
Freemen of the loyal North,

Rouse! and in your strength go forth.

Wake! ye sons of freedom's sires, Pledge your lives, your fortunes, all;

Light anew the patriot fires,

By your country stand or fall; Live or die what'er may come,

Strike! O strike! for manhood's home.

ANONYMOUS.

E PLURIBUS UNUM.

BATTLE OF HANOVER COURT HOUSE, VA.,
MAY 27TH, '62.

THE harp of the minstrel with melody sings
When muses have taught him to touch and to tune it,
But tho' it may have a full octave of strings
To both maker and minstrel the harp is a unit;
So the power that creates

Our Republic of States

Into harmony brings them at different dates
And the thirteen or thirty, the union once done
Are E Pluribus Unum, of many made one.

The science that weighs in her balance the spheres
And watched them since first the Chaldean began it,
Now and then as she counts and measures their years,
Brings into one system and names a new planet:
But the old and new stars

Venus, Neptune and Mars

As they drive around the sun their invisible cars
Whether faster or slower their races they run
Are E Pluribus Unum, of many made one.

Of that system of spheres should but one fly the track,
Or with others conspire for a general dispersion,
By the great central orb they will all be brought back,
And held each to her place by a wholesome coercion ;
Should one daughter of light
But indulged in flight,

They would all be engulphed in old chaos and night;
So must none of our States be suffered to run,
For E Pluribus Unum, we all go if one.

Let the demon of discord our melody mar,

Or treason's red hand rend our Union asunder;

Break one string from our harp or extinguish one star, The system's ablaze with its lightning and thunder: Let the discord be hushed,

Let the traitors be crushed,

Though legion their name and with victory flushed; For aye must our motto stand fronting the sun, E Pluribus Unum, though many, we're one.

JOHN PIERPONT.

OH LORD OF HOSTS.

EVACUATION OF CORINTH, MISS.,
MAY 29TH, '62.

O LORD of Hosts! Almighty King!
Behold the sacrifice we bring!
To every arm thy strength impart,
Thy spirit shed through every heart!
Wake in our breasts the living fires,
The holy faith that warmed our sires;
Thy hand hath made our Nation free;
To die for her is serving Thee.
Be thou a pillared flame to show
The midnight snare, the silent foe;
And when the battle thunders loud,
Still guide us in its moving cloud.

From treason's rent, from murder's stain,
Guard Thou its folds till Peace shall reign,
Till fort and field, till shore and sea
Join our loud anthem, PRAISE TO THEE.!

MISSING.

AT THE BATTLE OF FAIR OAKS, VA,

MAY 31TH, 1862.

THERE'S scarce, within our country's utmost length,
One home where standeth not a vacant chair;
Some son hath bowed down in his manly strength-
Some daughter in her loveliness so fair;
In every cot some picture decks the wall,

To tell of one who answered at Death's call.

Here hath the sire departed in his age;

Here hath the mother drooped beneath her cares; Brother and sister flitted from the stage;

The wife her husband's clammy couch here shares; E'en the sweet babe, whose dimpled cheeks we kissed All have departed from us-all are missed.

'Tis sad to part, to watch the fading cheek, The eye grow languid and the lip turn pale; To list the feeble accents as they speak;

To mark the tottering footsteps as they fail; Yet there is something sweet in that caressThe last fond imprint of earth's tenderness.

Yet infinitely sorrowful the throe

Which wrings the heart with bitt'rest agony, When those who from the fond home threshold go, Are called upon in distant scenes to die ;—

No kindly hand to soothe with tender care;
No gentle voice to breathe a parting prayer.

Within a cot upon a river's brink

Where gathered father, mother, and one son— The pride of their old age--the brightest link That bound them to earth's shores-the only one; And he had heard of wars, and fain must go Upon the battle-field to meet the foe.

It was a parting sad to all their hearts,

Yet hope upheld them in the darkest hour; They saw the foeman tremble 'neath his arts, And low beneath his threat'ning sabre cower; They saw him victor 'mid war's din and wrack, Then proudly hailed their valiant hero back.

But mark the contrast. On the wood's outskirt
A little picket band is widely spread;
Each eye, each ear is eager and alert,

And soft and careful is each footstep's tread; The foe are gathered in yon dark, dense wood, Watching and thirsting for the country's blood.

Mark where our hero leans against yon tree :—
His eye is languid and his cheek is pale;
Forced marches and scant rations, it may be,

Upon his frame begin to tell their tale;
Yet all this could he suffer; but the worst—
His canteen empty-is this dreadful thirst!

At break of day the pickets are withdrawn,
And each tried soldier hies him to his tent,
Hailing with joy the morning's cheerful dawn-
Proud to have done his duty, and content;
But as the sentry checks the picket list
He pauses in alarm, for one is missed!