Thick the yellow mounds are lying,
Nameless, stoneless, and forgot;
With no hand to plant the willow,
Weeping lowly o'er the spot;
Where the murky waters flowing,
Clear beneath a Southern sky,
And the bosom of calm Blackburn,
With blood stains doth quiet lie.
The sweet Land of Peace they've entered
On its fair and sinless coasts

They have joined the immortal armies,
Marshaled by the Lord of Hosts.

Hail! oh brave and noble patriots,
With your purpose pure and high,
In the hearts of a glad nation,

Your great deeds shall never die,
But glad millions in the future,
Shall thy sacred memories keep,
Of the dear though unknown places,
Where our bravest heroes sleep.
And when peace shall dawn upon us,
When this carnage fierce is done,
When the last wild strife is ended,
And the final victory won,

And when brothers' hand shall be stained,

In brothers' blood no more,

And the awful tide of battle,

Shall roll back from our fair shore,

Then in history's burning pages,

Which we to the world will give,

There in never dying letters,

Shall our unknown heroes live!

THE NEWS OF A DAY.

FIRST BATTLE OF BULL RUN, VA.

JULY 21ST, '61.

"GREAT battle! Great Battle!" the news-boy cried, But it scarcely rippled the living tide

That ebbed and flowed in the noisy street,

With its throbbing heart and busy feet,

Again through the hum of the city thrilled,

"Great battle! Great battle! Ten thousand killed!"

And the little carrier hurried away

With the sorrowful news of that summer day.

To a dreary room in an attic high
Trembled the words of that small, sharp cry;
And a lonely widow bowed her head,

And murmured "Willie, my Willie, is dead.
OI feared it was not an idle dream

That led me last night to that dark, deep stream,
Where the ground was wet with a crimson rain,
And strewn all over with ghastly slain.
The stars were dim, for the night was wild,
But I threaded the gloom till I found my child.

The cold rain fell on his upturned face,
And the swift destroyer had left no trace.
Of the sudden blow, and the quick, sharp pain,
But a little wound and a purple stain.

I tried to speak, but my voice was gone,

And my soul stood there in that cool, gray dawn,
Till they rifled his body with ruthless hand,
And covered him up with the reeking sand.

"Willie, O Willie ! it seems but a day
Since thy baby head on my bosom lay;
Since I heard thy prattle, so soft and sweet,
And guided the steps of thy tottering feet,
And thou wert the fairest and last of three
That the Father in Heaven had given to me;
And the life of my heart, love, hope and joy,
Was treasured in thee, my strong, brave boy;
And the last faint words that thy father said,
Were, 'Willie will mind thee when I am dead.'
But they tore the flag from thy death-cold hand,
And covered thee up in the damp reeking sand.

She read the names of the missing and slain ;
But one she read over again and again;
And the sad, low words that her white lips said,
Were, Company C, William Warren dead.'

The world toiled on through the busy street,
With its aching hearts and unresisting feet;
The night came down to her cold hearth-stone,
And she still the words that her white lips said,
Were, 'Company C, Willlam Warren dead.'
The light of the morning chased the gloom
From the emberless hearth of that attic room,
And the city's pulse throbbed again,

But the mother's heart had forgotten its pain.

She had gone through the gates to the better land,
With that terrible list in her pale, cold hand,
With her white lips parted, as at last she said,
'Company C, William Warren dead.'

SARAH T. BOLTON.

THE SWORD AND THE PLOW.

SKIRMISH AT HARRISONVILLE, VA.

JULY 25TH, '61.

The Sword came down to the red-brown field, Where the Plow to the furrow heaved and keeled; And it looked so proud in its jingling gear,

Said the Plow to the Sword-"What brings you here?”

"Long years ago, ere I was born,

ey doubled my grandsire up one morn,

› forge a shire for you, and now

ey want him back," said the Sword to the Plow.

e red-brown field glowed a deeper red,

As the gleam of war o'er the landscape sped;
The sabres flashed, the cannons roared,

And, side by side, fought the Plow and the Sword.

ANONYMOUS.

FORWARD.

BATTLE AND OCCUPATION OF FORSYTH, MO.
JULY 26TH, '61.

WHAT, again! Does their insolence dare so much?
Again for our soil do they force us to fight,
Polluting our homes with its poisonous touch?
Does treason essay so audacious a flight?
To the front! to the front with our glorious flag!
Our banners by thousands should gladden the air,
The foe in our faces is flaunting his rag

And he comes not to sue, nor pity, nor spare.

Our friends from the borders are flying in fear,
Their wives and their little ones faint in the path;
For the foe is behind them-his horsemen are near-
The smoke of our homesteads foreshadows his wrath.
Too long have we waited, too long have delayed;
Too long has indifference palsied our hand.
The swift steps of traitors will never be stayed,
Till the last of the brood is swept out of the land.

United once more, and in earnest at last,

Let us drive them at once from the soil of the free, Nor slacken our speed when the danger is past,

But follow them on to the shores of the sea. None prate now of peace, when the foeman is near: The wrangling and clamour of faction are hushed When treason triumphantly threatens us here, What peace can we have until treason is crushed?