And where is the fire that lit each eye For such is the end, if you but dare To draw the first stone from the Arch of State, "Twill crumble and fall-a thing of airPrecedent, too oft, shapes human fate. Shall history's page your dishonor tell? And woe fill the land, as sin fills hell? ̧ Do you know that the eye of God is bent, As that of the world, on this spot of dust, Watching each movement with gaze intent, To pronounce and hear the verdict just? Say, will you prove true to God and State? Oh! my loved country-what is thy fate? J. HENRY HAYWARD. "ALL'S WELL."" FIRST UNION OFFENSIVE OPERATION AT SEWELL'S POINT. MAY 18TH, '61. MIDNIGHT upon the placid stream, The silver moonbeams lightly beam But hark, from yonder ship a sound "All's well!"—the lonely watchman's cry The hour is peaceful-" All's well!" "All's well!" Then rest in peace, brave crew, In port now safe at last; The fearful scenes you've battled thro' Are naught, for danger's past ! The noble ship secure doth ride Sleep on, brave crew, for "All's well!" "All's well,”—the lonely watchman's cry The hour is peaceful-" All's well!" "God of our Fathers," speed the day Soon may we hear the watchman's voice J. GORDON EMMONS. "ONLY ONE." UNION ADVANCE INTO ALEXANDRIA. MAY 24TH, '61. THE dark night is ended, the skirmish is done, No songs 'round the fire, no laughing word said; In calm slumber lying, With pure, holy light streaming o'er his young head, Death's shadows defying. That head, which so proudly was lifted this morn Now broken and bow'd'neath the weight of the storm That was over it sweeping. The battle is ended-the foe are all gone, This memorial leaving. Only one on our side," a loss counted slight; Would give years of life to stand by my side, I think somewhere 'neath those same starlit skies Never dreaming of home, or of love's tender ties, Beyond tears, and prayers, and love's winning tone, Where the voices of battle and war are unknown, And peace reigns forever. His low grave is made, and the muffled drums beat; We will bear him forth now, with slow, mournful feet, To the place of his rest, and then leave him to sleep With the sod for his pillow It is only one grave, but, alas! it is deep, And some life-path 'twill shadow. FLETTA. THE SQUADRON IS FORMING. SKIRMISH AT FAIRFAX COURT HOUSE, MAY 31ST, '61. THE Squadron is forming, the war-bugles play, No breeze shakes the blossoms, or tosses the grain; But the wind of our speed floats the galloper's mane, As he feels the bold rider's firm hand on the rein. Lo! dim in the starlight their white tents appear! Now fall on the rebel-a tempest of flame! Hurrah! sheath your swords! the carnage is done, But still on the field our brave comrade lies, Take him up gently-for his work is done, ANONYMOUS. |