THE SONG OF THE SHELL. FIVE DAYS BATTLE ON THE YAZOO RIVER, DECEMBER 27, '62 SULLEN, and strong, and thick, and tall, The glacis is smooth and the ditch is deep, From the gloomier casemates down below, But before my song they must crumble and fall— Mingled with fragments of dead men's bones, Flaunting, and boasting, and brisk, and gay, To think of surrender were deadly sin; And no guns can reach o'er the flowing tide. They can't? Through the air, with a rush and a yell, Comes the screech and the roar of the howling shell; And the populous city is all alive With the bees that are leaving the ancient hive ; And the market-places are waste and bare, And the smoke hangs thick in the poisoned air ; And ruins alone shall remain to tell Where the hymn of destruction was sung by the shell. Traitorous and bloodthirsty, mad with wrath, Insulting the stars on the dear old flag. The shell from the "Swamp Angel" flies and sings, It shrieks for the right and it crushes the wrong; Cried vengeance and wrath like the song of the shell. THE SONG OF THE RAIN. AFTER THE SECOND BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO, TENN., DECEMBER 31St, '62. Lo! the long slender spears, how they quiver and flash, When the clouds send their cavalry down; Rank and file by the million, the rain lancers dash Over mountain, river, and town; Thick the battle drops fall, but they drip not in blood; The trophy of war is the green, fresh bud; Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain ! The pastures lie baked and the furrow is bare; But a rushing of waters is heard in the air, Hark! the heavy drop's pelting the sycamore leaves, See the weaver throw wide his one swinging pane, The kind drops dance on the floor; And his wife brings her flowerpots to drink the rain, All the time on the skylight, far over his head, And away, far from men, where the mountains tower, And the bud-headed heather nods to the shower, And the pools in the hollows mimic the flight And deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain How days of clear shining will come after rain, Waving meadows and thick growing wheat! So the voice of hope sings in the heart of our fears, Of the harvest that springs from a nation's tears; Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! THE AMERICAN BOY. LOSS OF THE FIRST MONITOR, OFF CAPE HATTERAS., January 1st, '63. LOUD ring the bells from many a towerThe year is eighty-three A father by the window sits With a child upon his knee, The banner which our fathers loved, With not a single star effaced, Floats proudly to the skiesThe emblem of a nation's strength No foeman dare despise. "Dear father," now with earnest voice "My teacher told me, yesterday, "She told me with what patient hearts Our noble soldiers bore The toilsome march, the frugal fare, The greatest-so my teacher says— "I wish I had been living then, And help defend the noble flag Dear father, wouldn't you?" Upon the listening father's face And the question of his little son OURS IS A HAPPY LOT. FIRST BATTLE AT VICKSBURG, TENN., JANUARY 3D, '63. OURS is a happy lot;—we hear the story Of heavenly triumph following earthly loss. We throng the halls of sciencé and of learning, And our young hearts with proud desires are burning We lift our eyes and see our star-strewn banner O, noble hero-fathers! in like manner Would we defend our flag when danger comes. JULLIA R. M'MASTERS. |