COMRADES! HARK! THE CANNONS RATTLE.

REBEL ATTACK ON SPRINGFIELD MO.,

JANUARY 7, '63.

COMRADES! hark! the cannons rattle,
Startling night and nature lone;
While shriekingly the god of battle
Leapeth to his crimson throne!
Slip the demons of your slaughter!
Havoc deal the hated horde!

Fight for home, wife, sister, daughter-
Wave the banner, wield the sword!

Comrades! when the hot storm gathers,
Round shall crowd in unseen show,
Shrieking ghosts of butcher'd fathers
Guiding the avenging blow!

Death to those who tortures slowly
Dealt by flame, and rack, and cord!
Onward, for your cause is holy-

Wave the banner, wield the sword!

Comrades! ye life's chance who give for
Native land, her peace and fame!

If ye win you've all to live for—
If ye fall, our tears ye claim!
If you fly your curs'd in story!

Forward! then with one accord!
Let your cry be freedom! glory!——
Wave the banner, wield the sword!

JAMES BRUTON.

P

THE LITTLE HERO.

CAPTURE OF THE HARRIET LANE AT GALVESTON, TEXAS.
JANUARY 8TH, '63.

A NOBLE youth, scarce ten years old,
He stood amid the storm!
Unmoved and steadfast-truly bold-
All selfish thoughts to scorn ;
His little hand was gory red-
He sought the captors wild,
And calmly to the chieftain said,
Slay ye the little child?

He stood beside the cabin door,

Upon the bloody deck;

His heart with faith was running o'er-
He grieved the vessel's wreck;
Yet stood he bravely at his post,

And fired with steady hand;

A hero, patriot, and the boast
Of that devoted band.

His father fell-the child was spared!

He saw his bleeding sire;

His patriotic breast was bared

To meet the Traitors' fire!
And with a firm, unerring aim
He laid the Rebel low;

Though 'round him fell the lurid flame
Of desolating woe.

A. B. ANDERSON.

THE SOLDIER'S LOVE.

BEFORE THE BATTLE OF RED MOUND, TENN.,
JANUARY 9TH, '63.

"OH come with me, in my little boat,
Come forth with me my Jane;

For with the dawn I go to the war,
And may never come back again."
She went with him in his little boat,
And they glided down the stream-
'Twas a pity that war, with its bloody front,
Should sadden their love's young dream.
The lover drew close to the lady's side,
And rested his oars awhile,

And the tears were in the lady's eyes,

Though the red lips tried to smile: "Oh! dry those tears, my own, and give Thy parting blessing now!"

And tenderly he stooped to press

Her lips, and cheek, and brow. And stilly glided the graceful boat,

And back to their home they came,

And the boat then landed its loving freight,
That it never might land again.

And the lover went forth with morning dawn,
With many a comrade brave—

They went to conquer on battle-field,

Or rest in a soldier's grave.

The winds one night, tossed the foam wreaths high
From the White Lake's angry breast,

And the storm was fierce, as it swept in wrath
From the hills with their cedar crest:

And faster and faster through the night
Came the drops of plashing rain,
And wilder and wilder the tempest grew,
As it beat against the pane.

And the shuddering lady turned away,
And laid her down to rest,

And her cheek was white as the pillow's white
Which the sorrowing lady prest;

And was she awaking, or was she asleep,
Or was it all a dream-

That sad-faced figure dimly shown
By the night-lamp's waning beam.
And was she awaking, or was she asleep,
And did she hear her name,

As the outstretched arms were held to her,
With "Come to me, my Jane !"
And heard she of the battle-field,
Where the dead and dying lay?
And fainter and fainter grew the light,
While the wind-gusts rattled the pane
And still the fading figure, said,

Oh, come to me, my Jane."

When the Eastern gray had turned to red,
Then forth the Lady Jane-

Forth from her childhood's home, which she

Might never enter again.

Away from the hills with their cedar crest,

Away from each valley and stream,

From the glassy lake when its breast was white, 'Neath the moonlight's silver sheen.

And she tarried not for food or rest,

She tarried not for sleep,

Her face was calm, though at her heart
A grief lay buried deep.

And off to the bloody battle-field

The lady wended her way,

And searched for her lover, a sorrowful search,
Where the dead and dying lay.

Brave hearted men, whose hands were red,
All red with the carnage stain,

Their eyes were wet while they led the way
For the sorrowing Lady Jane

Where the crimson lay brightest upon the sod,
They pointed to him there—

And the lady knelt and kissed away
The death damps from his hair.
And tenderly, lovingly raised the head
And pillowed it on her breast,

I ween it were a fitting place
For a soldier's head to rest.

"I fought them well and hard, my love,
In the hottest and thickest fray,
And many a comrade fell with me,
And we gallantly won the day.

I thought of you 'mid the crashing shells,
'Mid the rifles deadly rain—

And I thought of you, longed for you as I fell,

And you came to me, my Jane."

Then she kissed her soldier's eye-lids down

Ere the film had gathered there,

And over his face she gathered a pall,

'Twas her own bright wavy hair.

And they marveled that long and silently,

She knelt with a drooping head,

And each cheek was blanched when found at last

That lady Jane was dead.

KATE B. TYSON.