Scarcely had the words been spoken,
When there came a blinding flash
From a clump of swaying willows,
Moaning in the midnight blast;
And the picket with a wild cry

Fell upon the dew-wet ground,
With the red blood streaming redly
From a gory, ghastly wound.,

!

CAVALRY RAID.

TO BATON ROUGE, LA.,

AUGUST 5TH, '62.

"TO HORSE! to horse!" the trumpet's breath

Is wafted o'er wide fields of death;

A thousand horsemen mount their steed
Like tigers from the jungle freed,

A thousand sabres flash in the air-
A thousand hearts are beating there,
Whilst downward to the Gulf they move
O'er plains and hills and mighty flood.

Again the bugle sounds: and now
A gleam of light breaks on each brow,
As each his sabre freely draws
To vindicate our injured laws;
Each warrior feels that on him rest
A nation's hopes by wrongs oppressed,
And each looks forward to the hour
When victory lights on vale and bower.

No craven voice is heard to cry,
No coward with his downcast eye,
But firm resolve is pictured there,
And Freedom's banner floats in air
Above their heads like spirit bright
That wills to watch the bloody fight;
Proud gonfalon that ever flies!
Like golden cloud in summer skies.

Their tramp is like the ocean's roar
When mighty billows crowd the shore,
Or like the avalanche that glides
From mountain top adown its sides;
A rapid torrent dark and swift
That leaps in scorn the rocky cliff,
Their beating hoofs like aspen make
The earth with fearful echoes shake.

Death leads the van, and then
What piteous beings press the plain ;
What horrid shrieks apall the ear,
What startling echoes answer near;
What manly forms are overthrown,
What streams of blood in torrents run;
Traitors beneath their falchions bleed,
Or trod to death by fiery steed.

Some seek by hasty steps to hide
Them from the wasting tide,
And hurry from that fearful doom
That frightens with its horrid gloom;
Whilst others in their mad career
Fight bravely on still scorning fear,
And give and take the deadly thrust.
That drags their honors down to dust.

The sabre's edge is clogged with gore,
And yet it drinks and cries for more;
Whilst onward o'er the plains they fly
Like flocks of vultures in the sky,
Shouting and battling in their rage-
Can nought but blood their thirst assuage?
Must brother fall by brother's hands,
And fatten plains of arid sands?

Yes! 'tis the doom of traitors; on
Till darkness veils the blazing sun.
No look of sympathy to mock
With pallid lip this battle shock;
But hoof and steel and death
Breathe as of erst their angel breath,
Till each conspirator's vile form
Is served as banquet for the worm.

The bugle calls from strife; the sky
Is covered o'er with shadows nigh,
And darkness with its sombre form
Comes down and hides them from the storm;
As if to save from trampling feet

The traitors in their quick retreat,
Who fly from slaughter as the hind
In haste avoids the human kind.

How many souls in fear have fled!
How many more sleep with the dead;
How many sons of heroes slain
Lie stretched upon the bloody plain?
How many mothers, sisters mourn,
And wait and watch their safe return;
Alas! a civil war in madness walks
Along our fields, in carnage stalks.

N

And treason with its hollow eye
Lifts up its guilty head on high,
And threats with fratricidal knife;

To fill our homes with blood and strife;
The 'venging blade our country calls,
Our banners float on the outer walls,
The Stars and Stripes forever wave
To lighten up each patriot's grave.

And sabres flash from many a side
To swell this host of loyal pride,
And many a palace hall is lit
And echoes with its children's feet;
While humble roof and cottage poor
Echo the shout of volunteer !

Seizing with willing hand the knife
That ends at once this bloody strife.

!

Onward they march; above the rest
Rides the young hero with his waving crest,
With blade that flashes in the sun-
Proud signal that his victory's won!
The spires in distance pierce the blue.
And Baton Rouge breaks on the view;
Eight hundred miles they now look back
Where burning cities mark their track!

OSCAR J. WISNER.

THE DYING COLOR-BEARER.

AT THE BATTLE OF LONE JACK, MO.,
August 10th, '62.

OH! take me home to die, brother;
Oh! Take me home to die-
For I'd look on our native hills
Before I close mine eye-

Would dream again the pleasant dreams
Of happy days of yore-

Of the sweet songs that mother sang,
Which I shall hear no more,

Near where the laughing forest stream,
Leap'd its pebbly bed,

Close by the old, moss-grown churchyard,
Where rest the honor'd dead.
Thus, dying in my country's cause,

I there would long to sleep,

That in the morn, the tear-gem'd flow'rs May o'er me bow and weep.

'Mid trumpet's call, drum's dreaded roll, And cannon's fearful roar,

Bright bay'nets glance and sabres flash, Yet warm with human gore

Our men, with steady front, charged on Upon the rebel foe,

Where carnage red looked on dire deeds Of sickening, mortal woe.