AFTER THE BATTLE AT RICH MOUNTAIN, VA.,

JULY 11TH, '61.

THE pale moon looked down where the hero lay dying, Thro' the thin, shady clouds that were ling'ring by, She alone save the wind o'er the dreary plain sighing, Could hear the last prayer, could see the brave die; The conflict was past, and the vict'ry was ended,

And his fond dreams of glory had vanish'd away, His brow was all pale and with gore his locks blended, On the battle-field where his wounded form lay!

He thought of his home, of the scenes of his childhood, Far down in the vale where the bright waters flowOf blissful hours spent in the deep tangled wildwood, Ere his young heart was fired with ambition's glow; He thought of a voice—of a soft, flowing cadence, And "Mother," the name from his quivering lips fell, As in fancy he gazed on her tear-drops at parting, Or felt her last kiss as she breathed a farewell.

He tho't of a bower, with the green woodbine clinging, A type of the love which his proud heart had won, And dark woodland path with cheerful strains ringing And soft voice combin'd with the lute's melting tone. But vain the delusion-those fairy-like fingers

Will playfully twine his dark ringlets no more, Nor that voice shall he hear, tho' its music still lingers, And greets his lone ear on a far distant shore.

The vict'ry was won, but his life's blood was ebbingA crimson stream flowed o'er the once flow'ry plain; His spirit once more the bright haunts seem'd treading The homestead his dim eyes could see ne'er again, His country was free-but life's taper was waning,

And Death's turbid waters beat loud on his ear,
In the first flush of manhood life's fount was draining,
Alone, all alone, with no kindred form near.

Night's shadows were gone, the clear rosy morning
Stooped over the battle-field, crimson with gore,
Where the heart warm'd with glory's bright dawning
Was cold in the bosom to throb never more,
The young hero lay, but the warm sun was gleaming
Upon the rude spot where his pallid cheek laid,
No more that heart of Fame's proud laurels dreaming,
For his dark eye was glazed, and the hero was dead!

LOUISE SMITH.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

THE VICTORY OF BEVERLY, VA.,

JULY 12TH, '61.

HIGH up from the plain curled the wreathing smoke;
The cannon's loud roar and the sabre stroke
Were hushed for awhile; and the midnight air
Was filled with the groans of the dying there.
The daylight had fled, and the battle plain
Ran deep with the blood of the noble slain ;
Above, in the sky, in her sheeny light
The silv'ry moon rode as queen of the night.

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 flame's 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 serried 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.

"

W. A. DEVON.