THE SONG OF THE SHELL.

FIVE DAYS BATTLE ON THE YAZOO RIVER,

DECEMBER 27, '62

SULLEN, and strong, and thick, and tall,
Rises the Bastion's moated wall.

The glacis is smooth and the ditch is deep,
And the weary sentry may never sleep;
Over the parapet, heavy and dun,
Peers the mouth of the barbette gun,
While lightnings flash and tempests glow

From the gloomier casemates down below,
Strong is the work and stout the wall,

But before my song they must crumble and fall—
Crumble away to a heap of stones,

Mingled with fragments of dead men's bones,
And red with the blood that flowed as they fell,
Their requiem sung by the howling shell.

Flaunting, and boasting, and brisk, and gay,
The streets of the city shine to-day.
Forts without, and army within,

To think of surrender were deadly sin;
For the foe far over the wave abide,

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,
Charleston stands in the nation's path-
Stands and flaunts a bloody rag,

Insulting the stars on the dear old flag.
But Sumter is crumbled and ground away,
And Wagner and Gregg are ours to-day,
And over the water, on furious wings,

The shell from the "Swamp Angel" flies and sings,
It sings of the death of the traitorous town,
It sings of red-handed rebellion crushed down.
Sharp are its cadences, harsh its song,

It shrieks for the right and it crushes the wrong;
And never a blast, shaking nethermost hell,

Cried vengeance and wrath like the song of the shell.
J. WARREN NEWCOMB, JR.

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;
The wells, they yawn empty and dry;

But a rushing of waters is heard in the air,
And a rainbow leaps out in the sky.

Hark! the heavy drop's pelting the sycamore leaves,
Wash the wide pavement and sweep from the eaves,
Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

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,
On the step of the half-open door;

All the time on the skylight, far over his head,
Smiles the poor cripple laid on his hospital bed;
Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

And away, far from men, where the mountains tower,
And the little green mosses rejoice,

And the bud-headed heather nods to the shower,
And the hill torrents lift up their voice;

And the pools in the hollows mimic the flight
Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in light;
Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain!

And deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain
A single thrush pipes full and sweet;

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,
And hears the gladsome notes proclaim
The birthday of the Free.

The banner which our fathers loved,
And which their sons shall prize,

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
Outspeaks the eager son,

"My teacher told me, yesterday,
What glorious deeds were done
In the war that burst upon the land
In eighteen sixty-one.

"She told me with what patient hearts Our noble soldiers bore

The toilsome march, the frugal fare,
The hardships of the war;

The greatest-so my teacher says—
That history ever saw.

"I wish I had been living then,
I'd be a soldier, too,

And help defend the noble flag
From all the rebel crew;
I'd be ashamed to stay behind,

Dear father, wouldn't you?"

Upon the listening father's face
A painful flush there came;
The patriot-soldier's meed of praise
He could in nowise claim,

And the question of his little son
Smote him with sudden shame.

OURS IS A HAPPY LOT.

FIRST BATTLE AT VICKSBURG, TENN.,

JANUARY 3D, '63.

OURS is a happy lot;—we hear the story
Of the bright star, the manger, and the cross,
Of sorrow first, and afterwards of glory,

Of heavenly triumph following earthly loss.

We throng the halls of sciencé and of learning,
We read of noble deeds of other days,

And our young hearts with proud desires are burning
To emulate the heroes that we praise.

We lift our eyes and see our star-strewn banner
Floating its folds above our sheltered homes;

O, noble hero-fathers! in like manner

Would we defend our flag when danger comes. JULLIA R. M'MASTERS.