But memory, waked by music's art
Expressed in simplest numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines,
That bright, celestial creature,

Who still 'mid war's embattled lines

Gave this one touch of nature.

JOHN R. THOMPSON.

May 2, 1863.

BY

KEENAN'S CHARGE.

During the second day of the battle of Chancellorsville, General Pleasonton was trying to get twenty-two guns into a vital position as Stonewall Jackson made a sudden advance. Time had to be bought; so Pleasanton ordered Major Peter Keenan, commanding the Eighth Pennsylvania Cavalry (four hundred strong), to charge the advancing ten thousand of the enemy. An introduction to the poem, setting forth these facts, is omitted.

Y the shrouded gleam of the western skies,
Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes

For an instant

clear, and cool, and still;

Then, with a smile, he said: "I will."

"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.

Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,

Rose joyously, with a willing breath

Rose like a greeting hail to death.

Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed; Shouted the officers, crimson-sash'd;

Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,
In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;
And above in the air, with an instinct true,
Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,
And strong brown faces bravely pale
For fear their proud attempt shall fail,
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close
On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came
To the edge of the wood that was
Rode in and sabered and shot -

ring'd with flame; and fell;

Nor came one back his wounds to tell.

And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall

In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,

. While the circle-stroke of his saber, swung

'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. Line after line; ay, whole platoons,

Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons
By the maddened horses were onward borne
And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;
As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.
So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls? —'T is a death salute From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain: the army was saved!

Over them now year following year

Over their graves, the pine-cones fall,

And the whip-poor-will chants his specter-call;

But they stir not again: they raise no cheer:
They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,
Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.
The rush of their charge is resounding still

That saved the army at Chancellorsville.

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

May 27, 1863.

THE BLACK REGIMENT.

"The colored troops fought nobly" was a frequent phrase in war bulletins; never did they better deserve this praise than at Port Hudson.

ARK as the clouds of even,

DAR

Ranked in the western heaven,

Waiting the breath that lifts

All the dread mass, and drifts

Tempest and falling brand

Over a ruined land;

So still and orderly,

Arm to arm, knee to knee,
Waiting the great event,

Stands the black regiment.

Down the long dusky line

Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine;

And the bright bayonet,

Bristling and firmly set,

Flashed with a purpose grand,