Thus in the battle, I upheld
The flag of liberty,

And thought how sweet it were to die,
Oh! father-land, for thee-
Then as traitor's bullet sped

Toward my trobbing heart,

I cried with joy, midst shriek and groan,
I, too have done my part!

A. P. AUPER.

RALLYING ROUND THEIR STANDARD.

MASSACRE AT FORT RIPLEY, MINNESOTA,
AUGUST 20th, ’62.

"TIs heard, 'tis heard, that dreadful sound-
Stern Battle's vengeful crash;
War's angry thunders echo 'round,

While lightnings from the columns flash.

Grand woods ring out with trumpet blast,
And sharp the musketry contends;
Opposing ranks pour thick and fast,

Their murd'rous fire that horror lends.

Hostile bands in desperate fray,
Wake the air with clarion shout;

The booming cannon lowly lay,
And force the weaker to the rout.

Batteries send in bounding notes,

Their messengers of speedy death; The toesin sound with clearness floats,

The slain they strew the dewy heath.

The dying cries of suffering life,
Rise piercingly from mossy dale,
As onward peals the bitter strife,

And onward fly the leaden hail.

Warm, crimson tides flow fast from breasts
Now rent with ghastly, gaping wounds;
The victims of those wild behests

With which the will of power abounds.

The soldier falls! aye falls in blood,

Of comrades shattered, dying, dead; 'Tis on that field where strong he stood, He claims a warrior's hard death bed!

How desolate once happy bowers,

Where naught was known but home delights;
The mighty sword exerts its powers,
The conflict shows its hideous frights.

Both cot aud mansion 'neath the sway
Of these demoniac legions fall;
And seething, rise the smokes so gray,
As ruin mark 'mid forests tall.

Quick rallying 'round their standard high,
They rush defensive of their cause,
And cease when victory casts its die,
On either horde-'tis then they pause.

Oh, dearly bought, unholy prize,

At cost of human creature's doom;

Ye rulers, shun the sacrifice,

And save the many hearts from gloom!

WILLIAM J. M'CLURE.

DIRGE OF THE RAPPAHANNOCK.

AFTER THE BATTLE ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK, VA., AUGUST 21ST, '62.

Он, there are thoughts that have no form,
Deep, wide, and strong to bring them forth,
Wild as the pent-up wintry storm

That lingers in the frozen North,

Till changing skies give their dark whirlwinds birth.

Such, Rappahannock, is thy tale,

That rushes like thy tide to ocean's deepWould that some ocean-bosom might prevail

To hold the burden which each bound doth leap
To pour its onward force relentless in its sweep.

Not Israel's seat whose shadowy vale of death
Spread its unnumbered hosts before his sight,
Hail thy dark horrors steeped in dying breath,
The ever resting, gloomy mist of night,

No sun shall ever pierce with ray of cheerful light.

Ye spirits, marshal up your ranks again,

Ye knew the horrors of that day of gloom, Gather your serried hosts and let the plain Where hangs the drapery of a nation's tomb, Echo the tramp that march'd you to your doom!

No more the thought is idle as a dream,

Yet Rappahannock's flowing stream must know The mutter'd curse that hath the raven-scream,

« On all her banks let deadly nightshade grow," Nor poet's line e'er change that bitter curse of woe.

With timid fear the child shall lave his feet,
Like Egypt's bloody Nile, where rolls thy wave,
While dismal spectres ever more shall greet

To drive all joyous life from freedom's grave,
Where many thousand fell, the bravest of the brave.

Ah! 'tis a tale which shall curdle in the veins
Of youth and age for centuries to come,
And bloody horsemen tightly grasp the reins,
Pausing and shivering to list thy spectral drum,
Thy terror, which shall strike the warrior dumb.

And pulpit men, whose mission was of love,

Yet clamor'd for this fray with vulture beak, In memory led these gloomy banks shall rove Where waken'd conscience her vengeance wreak, And tell stern truths the heart alone can speak.

It hath been writ that war was once in heaven, Whose starry heights gleam'd with infernal fires, That dragon-blood hath well its fruitage given,

And hell's deep hate the human fiend inspires, That mingles in the heart where pity's voice expires.

Walk o'er these grounds, ye sordid men of gain,
Thriving as vampires, on politic strife,

On Rappahannock's ripen'd fields of grain
Feast in your thought your elements of life-
The food becomes ye well-the harvest day is rife.

The chivalry of peace changes in war,

To midnight prowl the fierce hyenas make,
Could yet not let the cover'd corpse be where

It fell in death, but stripped and naked, take
The clothes it wore, nor ashes o'er it rake.

ANONYMOUS.

MY CAPTAIN BEND LOW.

AT THE BATTLE OF CENTERVILLE, VA.,

AUGUST 28TH, '62.

My noble commander, thank God you have come;
You know the dear ones who are waiting at home,
And Oh! it were dreadful to die here alone,
No hand on my brow, and my comrades all gone.
I thought I would die many hours ago,
And those who are waiting me never could know
That here, in the faith of its happiest years,

My soul has not wandered one moment from theirs.
The dead are around; but my soul was away
With the roses that bloom 'round my cottage, to-day,
I thought that I sat where the jessamine twines,
And gathered the delicate buds from the vines.
And there-like a bird that had folded its wings,
At home 'mid the smile of all beautiful things,
With sweet words of welcome, and kisses of love-
Was one I will miss in yon heaven above.

By the light that I saw on her radiant brow

She watches, and waits there, and prays for me now.
My captain, bend low; for this poor, wounded side
Is draining my heart of its lost crimson tide.

Some day when you leave this dark place, and go free
You will meet a fair girl! she will question of me!
She has kissed the bright curl, as it lay on my head;
When it goes back alone, she will know I am dead.
And tell her the soul, when on earth was her own,
Is waiting and weeping in Heaven, alone,