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, 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, How the sun and the wind must have darkened it now! JOHN BOYD. DIED, ON THE BATTLE-FIELD, FAR from his native home he died; Slowly the spark of life went out, No gentle mother softly laid But as the glorious field was won, Around his green and hallowed grave 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. THE pale moon looked down where the hero lay dying, 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, Night's shadows were gone, the clear rosy morning LOUISE SMITH. AFTER THE BATTLE. THE VICTORY OF BEVERLY, VA. JULY 12TH, '61. HIGH up from the plain curled the wreathing smoke; |