MARTYRED.

AFTER THE BATTLE AT FAIRFAX COURT HOUSE, VA.,
SEPTEMBER 2D, '62.

The banners droop above the quiet camp;

Night felt, though viewless, fills the tranquil air; Each swarthy face is flushed with earnest prayer, That rises mingled with the sentry's tramp.

A fair-haired youth weeps as the solemn scene
Calls to his mind our country's better days,
Before its orbs burned pale through bloody haze,
And mildew fell upon its living green.

The briar-rose that blossomed by the church;
The clover-balm that through its windows stole,
Like incense rising from the thymy knoll;
The sombre hemlock and the fragrant birch---

Green spots upon the desert sands of thought,
With waters purling from an unseen fount,

Seen in the moonlight shed o'er Memory's mount, Bring light and bloom to hours with darkness fraught.

Soon combat blurs the sunlight with its breath;
The hostile weapon smites upon a rock,
For no less fiercely in the angry shock
His war-note hails the harvest home of death.

Like a huge camp-fire in a snowy vale,

The red moon flames thro' milky clouds, while stars Clustering 'round it, gaze through fleecy bars Where cheeks that never blanched before are pale.

Rest, martyred youth! beyond the pale of death
There's choicer music than the village psalm,
A richer incense than the clover-balm,

A sweeter perfume than the roses breath.

CLARENCE F. BUHLER.

PUT NONE BUT MEN ON GUARD TO-NIGHT.

AFTER THE ATTACK ON PLYMOUTH, N. C.,
SEPTEMBER 2Nd, '62.

Pur none but men on guard to night;
Put none but men, true men on guard;

Put none but soldiers in the fight

To guard our banner striped and starred.
Let every man act well his part-
Be honest, faithful, earnest, true;
Ho! patriots give both hand and heart-
O! 'tis your Country calls on you.
Fling out our banners!-let them wave,
And 'neath them stand, or fighting fall !
Then, up!— arouse !—your Land to save.
To arms!-ho! rally, patriots all!
Put none but men on guard to-night;
Put none but men, true men on guard;
JAMES A. C. O'connor.

Он, let us mourn-for the warriors fame
From him forever has fled,

And his noble deeds and his glorious name
Let us link them with the dead,

For he shall not die as the warrior dies,
With his frowning brow to the golden skies.

Oh, let us grieve that ambition has

Bade him to treachery bow;

That he who played once a Patriot's part

Is mingling with rebels now.

Oh, breathe it not to the winds of heaven,
Let the traitors's name from the earth be riven.

Oh, let us weep-for his gallant deeds

Are shadowed now with a cloud,
And many a heart for the warrior bleeds
That was once so stern and proud,
And eyes are now weeping to see the brave
Thus sink to a cold and dishonor'd grave,

Aye, let us mourn-for he must fall,
But not as the brave shall die;
For his traitorous deeds have blotted all
That once shone so gloriously.

For he shall not die as the warrior dies,

With his frowning brows to the glorious skies

FINLEY JOHNSON.

HE WILL NEVER COME AGAIN.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF MUNFORDSVILLE, KY.,
SEPTEMBER 14тн, '62.

THOU art watching, wife, for Willie,
For his quick and safe return
From the bloody field of battle-
And thy fervid heart doth burn
For the echo of his footstep
At the little cottage door;
But, alas, dear wife, 'tis folly,
Willie can return no more.

Thou art waiting, wife, for Willie,
But thy waiting will be long,
And thy heart will fill with sadness,,
As you watch the passing throng;
Then the tears will dim thy vision,

And thy cheek grow pale with fear,
When you learn the fall of Willie,
For the cause he held most dear.

Yes, your Willie died a hero

On the fearful battle plain, And thy love cannot recall him, Nor thy gentle voice again Bring responses from his bosom,

For his heart is hush'd and still, And you'll miss him, sadly miss him, In the cottage on the hill.

Kiss the children, wife, for Willie,
Bid them each a long farewell,

And when years shall give them wisdom,
Teach them how their father fell,
That their eyes may cease to wander
Down the little narrow lane,

For a form once so familiar,

That will never come again.

ROBERT M. HART.

THE SOLDIER'S REQUIEM.

AFTER THE BATTLE AT SOUTH MOUNTAIN, MD.,
SEPT. 14TH, 1862.

SOUTH winds blow soft where the soldier is lying,
Tread with your lightest step, whisper more low-
Oh, waft to its home this spirit undying-
Never a mission more pure shall ye know!
Ever let roses, their fragrance distilling,

Weep o'er the mound of the hallowed dead;
And, while their cups with dew-tears are filling
Let the daisies and blue-bells wave over his head.
Long be his name, his fame and his glory

Joined in our hearts, with the land of his birthAnd let his deeds live brightest in story,

Chaunted and sung by the fairest of earth! Keep bright the stars that he left to your keeping, Soil not the Banner-for aye let it wave Over the land where the hero is sleepingNever should land be so proud of a grave!

ANONYMOUS.