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The glimmering rays of the stars shone forth,
Far over the plain from the south to the north,
Where fierce struggling armies had fought in pride,
And tents glistened while on the green hillside.
The wounded now murmured in tones of despair,
And kneeling beside the fond mother's chair,
And the plain blushed red in the moon's bright glare;
And bodies were heaped on the verdant sod,
Their souls taken flight to the realms of God.

The Jackal's loud howl, and the wolf's long bay,
Were silenced and stilled by the dawn of the day,
Camp-fires were smould'ring, the watches were done,
And the hill-side was gleaming in light of the sun.
Away from this scene in the noisy town,

As the orient beams of the sun stream down,
All active with life, and all busy with care
Not all was of joy, for stern grief had a share.

A mother is wailing a dear son's doom,
And sisters are groping in gath'ring gloom,
While hearts for loved ones are mourning the slain
Now lying so cold on the still battle plain.
Young children are weeping in hopeless despair,
And kneeling beside the fond mother's chair,
While on bended knee, in low solemn tone,
A prayer ascends unto God's great throne.

"O, help us, our Father, to suffer this blow!
O, strengthen our hearts by this pitiless woe;
For death has descended like flames blasting blight,
Our day star of hope is enshrouded in night,"
In a silence like death, in their hearts inmost fane.
A strength from their weakness, joy from their pain
Their hearts'neath the death blow rose calmly and bold
And fresh for new labor in life's dreary world,

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,
Like red burning bombs in the air.

And stern Mars shone forth with his bloodshot eye,
Through the night's black driving bars,
Presaging to earth and her countless hosts
Wild tumults and crimson wars,

And the wind with its trembling fingers smote
The leaves from the forest trees,

While it struck the strings of its viewless harp
To wild and weird melodies.

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
With grape and the bursting shell;

And the charging squadrons thundering dashed
Till they shook the moaning earth,
And heaven in pity veiled her fair face,
While hell shrieked wildly with mirth!

Thus from gray-eyed dawn till the dusky eve
The battling hosts contended,

Till night, o'er the scene of carnage and woe,
In dewy tears descended;

When the seried hosts of friend and of foe
Retired from the field of strife,

Leaving at eve ten thousand mangled dead
Who at dawn were full of life.

The while thousands of wounded groaning lay
In their pain and dark despair,

And the wounded coursers plunged 'mid the dead,
While their screams disturbed the air;
"Water, cool water, O give me to drink,

My blood is scorching like fire,

Give me to drink from my own father's well-
Drink-drink-O, God, I expire!"

"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.

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W. A. DEVON.

"LIST OF THE KILLED."

FIGHT AT BUNKER HILL, VA.,
JULY 15TH, '61.

MOTHERS Who sit in dumb terror and dread,
Holding that terrible list,

Fearing to look lest you see 'mid the dead,
The name of the boy you have kissed-
Kissed e'en as those who in anguish and pain,
Kiss precious faces of clay,

E'en as you would had you shuddering lain,
That dear one in grave-robes away-

I pity you, sitting with faces so white,
Striving to parry the blow;

I know how that name will torture your sight,
Can fathom the depth of your woe.

By the pang that has rent my desolate heart,
By this crushing weight of despair,

I know how you too will shudder and start,
Reading that dear-loved name there.

I know you'll hush that passionate wail,
Thinking of him as he lies,

With beautiful face upturned to the sky,
Death veiling the glorious eyes.

Mothers' love triumphs. Men call women weak-
Ah, well, perhaps it is so!

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.,
JULY 18TH, '61.

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,
With a purpose strong and pure,
Battle for the Right, and deemed it
Fame and honor to endure
For their country perils deadly,
Danger dire, by field and flood;
Who poured out their dearest treasures-
Life itself their heart's best blood,
Thinking, caring not, for glory—
Seeking not the world's applause-
Well content to do their duty,
Mindful only of the Cause.

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