The Union must be saved, mother,

Cost us what it will

The North, and South, and East, and West Shall be united still.

Those traitors will be curs'd, mother,

Aye, e'en beneath the sod;

For traitors to their country

Are traitors to their God.

Then weep not, mother-weep not now,
Though I now go away;
Our country is in danger, mother-
Her summons I obey.
Remember that 'tis duty calls-
There's glory to be won;
And fortune waits impatiently
To crown with fame your son.

FRANCIS B. MURTHA.

THE SOLDIER'S MOTHER'S THOUGHTS.

SKIRMISH AT BIRD'S POINT, MO.

JULY 8TH, '61.

He is twenty, I know; and boys younger than he,
In the ranks going by every day we can see;
And those stronger and prouder, by far, I have met,
But I never have seen a young soldier yet
With so gallant a mein or so lofty a brow-

How the sun and the wind must have darkened it now!
How he will be chang'd when he comes from the South
His beard shutting out the sweet smiles of his mouth!
And the tremulous beauty, the womanly grace,
Will be bronzed from the delicate lines of his face,
Where of late only childhood's soft beauty I saw,
For he seemed like a child till he went to the war!

JOHN BOYD.

DIED, ON THE BATTLE-FIELD,
SECOND ENGAGEMENT AT BUCKHANNON, VA.
JULY 10TH, '61.

FAR from his native home he died;
The clash of arms on every side,
The roar of cannon, and the tide
Of red blood flowing.

Slowly the spark of life went out,
As rang the gallant victors' shout,
Telling the foe were put to rout
By his brave comrades.

No gentle mother softly laid
On his hot brow her hand, or prayed
As his soul heavenward strayed-
Heavenward ascended.

But as the glorious field was won,
While rushed the conquering army on,
As blood-red sank the setting sun,
Gloriously he perished,

Around his green and hallowed grave
Fond friends shall sadly mourn the brave,
Saying, "He gladly died to save

His land from ruin."

Over this lowly mound of his

All that he asked or wished for is

Graved on his narrow headstone this

"DIED FOR HIS COUNTRY!"

ANONYMOUS,

D

THE HEROE'S LAST DREAM.

AFTER THE BATTLE AT RICH MOUNTAIN, VA.
JULY 11TH, '61.

THE pale moon looked down where the hero lay dying,
Thro' the thin, shad'y clouds that were ling'ring by
She alone save the wind o'er the dreary plain sighing
Could hear the last prayer, could see the brave die;
The conflict was past, and the vict'ry was ended,

And his fond dreams of glory had vanish'd away, His brow was all pale and with gore his locks blended, On the battle-field where his wound'd form lay!

He thought of his home, of the scenes of his childhood, Far down in the vale where the bright waters flowOf blissful hours spent in the deep tangled wildwood, Ere his young heart was fired with ambition's glow; He thought of a voice-of a soft, flowing cadence, And "Mother," the name from his quivering lips fell, As in fancy he gazed on her tear-drops at parting, Or felt her last kiss as she breathed a farewell,

He tho❜t of a bower, with the green woodbine clinging, A type of the love which his proud heart had won, And dark woodland path with cheerful strains ringing And soft voice combin'd with the lute's melting tone But vain the delusion-those fairy-like fingers

Will playfully twine his dark ringlets no more, Nor that voice shall he hear, tho' its music still ling'rs, And greets his lone ear on a far distant shore.

The vict'ry was won, but his life's blood was ebbingA crimson stream flow'ed o'er the once flow'ry plain; His spirit once more the bright haunts seem'd treading The homestead his dim eyes could see ne'er again, His country was free-but life's taper was waning,

And Death's turbid waters beat loud on his ear,
In the first flush of manhood life's fount was draining,
Alone, all alone, with no kindred form near.

Night's shadows were gone, the clear rosy morning
Stooped over the battle-field, crimson with gore,
Where the heart warm'd with glory's bright dawning
Was cold in the bosom to throb never more,
The young hero lay, but the warm sun was gleaming
Upon the rude spot where his pallid cheek laid,
No more that heart of Fame's proud laurels dreaming,
For his dark eye was glazed, and the hero was dead!

LOUISE SMITH.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

THE VICTORY OF BEVERLY, VA.

JULY 12TH, '61.

HIGH up from the plain curled the wreathing smoke;
The cannon's loud roar and the sabre stroke
Were hushed for awhile; and the midnight air
Was filled with the groans of the dying there.
The daylight had fled, and the battle plain
Ran deep with the blood of the noble slain ;
Above, in the sky, in her sheeny light
The silv'ry moon rode as queen of the night.