The glimmering rays of the stars shone forth, The Jackal's loud howl, and the wolf's long bay, As the orient beams of the sun stream down, A mother is wailing a dear son's doom, "O, help us, our Father, to suffer this blow! ANONYMOUS. THE MINIATURE. AT THE BATTLE OF ST. GEORGE, VA. JULY 13TH, '61. THE moon through the rack of the driving clouds, Like a frightened creature swept, As if nerved with despair from crag to crag Of the driving scud she lept ; And the pale stars peered through the murky gloom At the flight of their queen so fair; While some in their terror dropped through the void, And stern Mars shone forth with his bloodshot eye, And the wind with its trembling fingers smote While it struck the strings of its viewless harp But there were sights and sounds more drear by far Than clouds or piping blast, For through that field of life, from dawn till dusk, The grim reaper Death had passed! His arm might be stiff and his sickle dull, From his crop of human grain, For the streams ran red and the meadow groaned With its weight of ghastly slain ! The rifle, mortar, and parrot gun Had belched like the fires of hell, And the sickle of Death mowed its living swath And the charging squadrons thundering dashed Thus from gray-eyed dawn till the dusky eve Till night, o'er the scene of carnage and woe, When the seried hosts of friend and of foe Leaving at eve ten thousand mangled dead The while thousands of wounded groaning lay And the wounded coursers plunged 'mid the dead, My blood is scorching like fire, Give me to drink from my own father's well- "Alone! alone! on the red field of fame, Dear maid, I perish afar, But still as in life, thou ever hast been, In death thou art my lone star! Dear Ella, this picture you gave ere we marched, 'Tis dyed with life's crimson gore, Ella, I kiss thee, 'mid darkness of death He ceased-the brave was no more. W. A. DEVON. "LIST OF THE KILLED." FIGHT AT BUNKER HILL, VA., MOTHERS Who sit in dumb terror and dread, Fearing to look lest you see 'mid the dead, E'en as you would had you shuddering lain, I pity you, sitting with faces so white, I know how that name will torture your sight, By the pang that has rent my desolate heart, I know how you too will shudder and start, I know you'll hush that passionate wail, With beautiful face upturned to the sky, Mothers' love triumphs. Men call women weak- I know there are tears e'en now on my cheek For the boy that's laying so low. ANONYMOUS. OUR UNKNOWN HEROES. ENGAGEMENT AT BLACKBURN FORD, VA., In the din and crash of battle, 'Mid its rush and deafening roar, There have fell ten thousand heroesThere will fall ten thousand more; And the true and loyal hearted, Whose brave feet the path have trod That leads down to death's dark river, And whose souls have gone to God, Lie in myriad numbers, countless, And the winds their vigils keep, O'er the places sad and lonely, Where our unknown heroes sleep. Men who, scorning name or station, |