Oh, then, a new oath let us solemnly swear, To pause not, to halt not, nor rest on the way, Let us move as one man, with the might of the free, EDWARD WILLET. AM I FORGOTTEN? AFTER THE BATTLE OF DUG SPRING, MO. AUGUST 2D '61. 'MID the clangor of arms and the clash of the battle, And tell me, when night's dusky pennon's are waving And wrapt in thy mantle thou seekest repose, Doest thou thro' the dim aisles of the Past ever wander And think of the one that's e'er thinking of thee? Dost thy spirit in dreams over other days ponder, And are thy dreams sweeter for being of me? MONROE G. CARLTON. THE PICKET FOUND MISSING.. SURRENDER OF FORT FILLMORE, TEXAS. THE news of the battle was sent thro' the land, Day after day we watched for a letter, And coupled his name with bright glory and fame, But days, weeks, and months passed swiftly away'Twas strange, very strange, yet no letter came. We heard the report of the soldiers returning, And knew by the cheers that the heroes were near; The brain 'gan to whirl, and our eyes grew dim- They said he was ordered on duty one night, Ah! he was the pride and hope of our household- FRANCIS B. MURTHA. THE RELIEF. AT MANASSAS JUNCTION, va. AUGUST 3D, '61. 'Tis Night! The Camp's in sleep profound, "Stand! Who comes there? Pass not the line!" "A Friend!" "Advance with countersign!" "The Union Flag!" "Pass, Friend! Good Night! "The Union Flag!" Pass, Friend! Good night!" 'Tis morn! the sunbeam lopes its light On glistening gun and bayonet bright; The wearied sentry treads his rounds, Till soon the welcome drum resounds! "Stand? Who comes there? Pass not line !" RETURNING SOLDIERS. RETURN OF THE THREE MONTH'S VOLUNTEERS. WARM Welcome home, ye noble northern bands; The dear survivor shall have love and fame, With flowing eyes, your country's flag shall see, PARK BENJAMIN· THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW. SKIRMISH AT POINT OF ROCKS, VA., Wo! FOR my vine clad home! That it should ever be so dark to me, With its bright threshold and its whispering wee. That it should ever come, Fearing the lonely echo of a tread, Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead! Lead on! my orphan boy! Thy home is not so desolate to thee, And the low shiver in the linden tree, May bring to thee a joy, But oh! how dark the bright home before thee, To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee! Lead on! for thou art now My sole remaining helper God hath spoken, The forehead of my upright one, and just, He will not meet thee where We blessed thee at the eventide, my son, And when the shadows of the night steal on, He will not call to prayer. The lips that melted, giving thee to God, Are in the icy keeping of the sod! |