Sputters a vain resistance yet.

Small helm we gave her, our course to steer

'T was nicer work than you well would dream, With cant and sheer to keep her clear

Of the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream.

The Louisiana, hurled on high,

Mounts in thunder to meet the sky!

Then down to the depths of the turbid flood,
Fifty fathom of rebel mud!

The Mississippi comes floating down,

A mighty bonfire, from off the town
And along the river, on stocks and ways,

A half-hatched devil's brood is a-blaze
The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames,
(Hark to the roar of her tumbling frames!)
And the smaller fry that Treason would spawn,
Are lighting Algiers like an angry dawn!

From stem to stern, how the pirates burn,

Fired by the furious hands that built!

So to ashes forever turn

The suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt!

But as we neared the city,
By field and vast plantation,
(Ah, millstone of our Nation!)
With wonder and with pity

What crowds we there espied
Of dark and wistful faces,
Mute in their toiling-places,

Strangely and sadly eyed

Haply, 'mid doubt and fear,

Deeming deliverance near

(One gave the ghost of a cheer!)

And on that dolorous strand,

To greet the victor-brave

One flag did welcome wave
Raised, ah me! by a wretched hand
All outworn on our cruel Land,·

The withered hand of a slave!

But all along the Levee,

In a dark and drenching rain, (By this, 't was pouring heavy,) Stood a fierce and sullen train

A strange and a frenzied time!
There were scowling rage and pain,
Curses, howls, and hisses,

Out of hate's black abysses

Their courage and their crime

All in vain all in vain!

For from the hour that the Rebel Stream,
With the Crescent City lying abeam,
Shuddered under our keel,

Smit to the heart with self-struck sting,
Slavery died in her scorpion-ring,

And Murder fell on his steel.

Follow, as aye it ought,

When the good fight is fought,

When the true deed is done.
Aloft in heaven's pure light,
(Deep azure crossed on white)
Our fair Church-Pennant waves
O'er a thousand thankful braves,
Bareheaded in God's bright sun.

Lord of mercy and frown,
Ruling o'er sea and shore,

Send us such scene once more!

All in Line of Battle

When the black ships bear down
On tyrant fort and town,

'Mid cannon cloud and rattle

And the great guns once more
Thunder back the roar

Of the traitor walls ashore,

And the traitor flags come down!

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

May 31, 1862.

So

KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES.

that soldierly legend is still on its journey,

That story of Kearny who knew not to yield!

'T was the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and

Birney,

Against twenty thousand he rallied the field,

Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose

highest,

Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak

and pine,

Where the aim from the thicket was surest and

nighest,

No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line.

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our

ground,