As she watches the little ones, full of their joy,
Does she think of Willie-her "brave soldier-boy?"
There, too, is my father; his summer has fled,
And the snow-flakes of winter have silvered his head;
Full many a furrow on his cheek may be seen,
Where the rude hand of sickness and sorrow has been.
To-night, ere they slumber, when all bend the knee,
And he prays for God's blessing, will he think of me?
AT THE ENGAGEMENT AT BOONVILLE, MO.,
JUNE 18TH, 1861.
Up and at them once again!
Freemen, up! the way is plain,
At the traitors once again!
Let no brief reverses daunt us;
Let no craven fears assail;
Treason's banner now may taunt us
In the fierce but fleeting gale:
But the time again will come,
When again that flag shall cower;
And the boasting voice be dumb,
Shouting now its little hour!
Up and at them, Freemen, then, the way is plain ;
At the traitors once again!
Up and at them once again!
Madmen! fierce though ye drain
War's red chalice, it is vain!
Never shall ye rend asunder
Freedom's flag of stripes and stars ;-
Freedom guards it with her thunder;
Down will smite your thing of bars;
Down your wretched counterfeit !
In her roused and sacred rage
She will tear and trample it!
Holy is the war we wage !
Up and at them, Freemen, then, the way is plain ;
At the traitors once again!
Up and at them once again, Though our blood be shed like rain,
At the traitors once again!
By our Nation's ancient story,
By the deeds of other days,
By our hope of future glory,
By the deep disdain or praise
That our action now awaits,
As we yield or dare the strife;
Let us, through all adverse fates,
Swear to guard the Nation's life!
Up and at them, Freemen, then, the way is plain; At the traitors once again!
SKIRMISH AT COLE, Mo.
JUNE 18TH, '61.
With sadly sorrowing hearts bow low the head,
The solemn dirge sounds for the noble dead,
A hero's spirit, pure unstained, has fled;
He slumbers deep,
But angels o'er his form their white wings spread
And bright watch keep.
The soul of truth, for truth he nobly fought,
Nor lived to see that revolution wrought,
That on his country's name dishonor brought;
He strove to save,
And nobly dying with his life's blood bought,
A hero's grave.
Where mouldering lies a patriot's earthly frame,
Who justly lived, and dying leaves no shame
To soil the brightness of a noble name
But graven on the spotless roll of fame,
Without a blot.
SKIRMISH AT EDWARD'S FERRY, VA.,
JUNE 18TH, '61.
As the cohorts of Pharaoh, o'erwhelmed by the wave,
All uncoffined were hurled to a fathomless grave,
So the red tide of vengeance terrific shall flow,
'Till the ranks of the Southron lie pallid below!
Tho' their warriors are marshalled with fire in each eye,
Not a stone in the future shall point where they lie,
For their bones shall ne'er know the repose of a tomb;
That they were will be known by the page of their doom
Which all dreadful shall frown in the blackness of wrath
As a warning to those who'd pursue the same path,
For 'twill tell how the children of Judas were born,
And grew up in the brightness of Liberty's morn;
But, as Satan once walked in the gardens of light,
And did homage to God, in the pure garments of white;
And bursting from power raised the standard of Hell,
And a prison of fire yawned beneath as he fell :-
So these demons of earth, whose insatiate lust,
Made them false to their God, and earth's holiest trust.
'TIS GROWING VERY DARK, MOTHER.
SKIRMISH AT PATTERSON'S CREEK, VA.,
'Tis growing very dark, mother,
I cannot see the light,
The sun behind the purple hills
Has sunk too soon to-night.
The gathering gloom falls like a veil,
I cannot see the stars,
I cannot see our floating flag,
With its white and crimson bars.
"Tis growing very dark, mother,
I cannot see your face,
Yet I know that you are kneeling
In your old familiar place;
And the low tones of your voice, mother,
Come through the dark'ning air,
As you bow beside my vacant bed,
And pray your evening prayer.
'Tis growing very dark, mother,
The night comes cold and still,
I cannot see the watch-fires gleam
On yonder tent-crown'd hill;
A mist is on the river's marge,
A haze comes o'er my sight,
I wait in vain for day to dawn,
And bless me with its light.
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