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THE DEATH OF LYON.

General Nathaniel Lyon was killed in the battle of Wilson's Creek, Missouri, while in command of the Union forces, August 10, 1861. His last words were: "Come on, my brave boys! I will lead you !"]

SING, bird, on green Missouri's plain,
The saddest song of sorrow;
Drop tears, O clouds, in gentlest rain
Ye from the winds can borrow;
Breathe out, ye winds, your softest sigh,
Weep, flowers, in dewy splendor,
For him who knew well how to die,
But never to surrender.

Up rose serene the August sun
Upon that day of glory;

Up curled from musket and from gun
The war-cloud, gray and hoary;

It gathered like a funeral pall,

Now broken, and now blended,
Where rang the bugle's angry call,
And rank with rank contended.

Four thousand men, as brave and true
As e'er went forth in daring,

Upon the foe that morning threw

The strength of their despairing.

They feared not death-men bless the field

That patriot soldiers die on;

Fair Freedom's cause was sword and shield,
And at their head was Lyon.

Their leader's troubled soul looked forth
From eyes of troubled brightness;

Sad soul! the burden of the North
Had pressed out all its lightness.
He gazed upon the unequal fight,
His ranks all rent and gory,

And felt the shadows close like night
Round his career of glory.

"General, come lead us!" loud the cry
From a brave band was ringing—
"Lead us, and we will stop, or die,
That battery's awful singing!"
He spurred to where his heroes stood-
Twice wounded, no one knowing-
The fire of battle in his blood

And on his forehead glowing.

Oh! cursed for aye that traitor's hand,
And cursed that aim so deadly,
Which smote the bravest of the land,
And dyed his bosom redly!

Serene he lay, while past him pressed
The battle's furious billow,
As calmly as a babe may rest
Upon its mother's pillow.

So Lyon died; and well may flowers
His place of burial cover,

For never had this land of ours
A more devoted lover.

Living, his country was his bride;
His life he gave her, dying;
Life, fortune, love, he nought denied
To her, and to her sighing.

Rest, patriot, in thy hillside grave,
Beside her form who bore thee!
Long may the land thou diedst to save
Her bannered stars wave o'er thee!
Upon her history's brightest page,
And on fame's glowing portal,
She'll write thy grand, heroic age,
And grave thy name immortal.

ANONYMOUS,

MOVE ON THE COLUMNS!

[Autumn, 1861.]

MOVE on the columns! Why delay?
Our soldiers sicken in their camps;
The summer heats, the autumn damps,
Have sapped their vigor day by day;
And now the winter comes apace,
With death-chills in its cold embrace,
More fatal than the battle-fray.

Move on the columns!

Hesitate

No longer what to plan or do:

Our cause is good-our men are true— This fight is for the flag, the State,

The Union, and the hopes of man;

And Right will end what Wrong began, For God the right will vindicate.

Move on the columns! If the land
Is locked by winter, take the sea;
No possible barrier can be

So fatal to a rightful stand,

As wavering purpose when at bay; This way, or that "At once! to-day!" Were worth ten thousand men at hand.

Move on the columns! With the sweep
Of eagles let them strike the foe.
The hurricane lays the forest low;
Momentum wings the daring leap

That clears the chasm; the lightning stroke
Shivers the wind-defying oak;

The earthquake rocks the eternal steep.

Move on the columns! Why have sprung
Our myriad hosts from hill and plain?
Leaving the sickle in the grain-

Closing the harvest-hymn half sung—
Half-filled the granary and the mow,
Unturned the sod, untouched the plough,
Scythes rusting where they last were swung.

Move on the columns! They are here
To found anew a people's faith ;

To save from treason and from death

A nation which they all revere;
And on each manly brow is set
A purpose such as never yet

Was thwarted, when, as now, sincere.

Move on the columns! Earth contains
No guerdon for the good and free
Like that which blessed our Liberty;
And while its banner still remains
The symbol of united power,

Nor man nor fiend can tell the hour
In which its star-lit glory wanes.

Move on the columns-strong and bright!
Strike down the sacrilegious hands

That clutch and wield the battle-brands
Which menace with their Wrong our Right!
Words now are wasted: glittering steel
Alone can make this last appeal :
They've willed it so- -and we must fight.

Move on the columns! If they go

By ways they had not thought to take, To fields we had not meant to make, Or if they bring unthought-of woe,

Let that which woke the fiery wrath Fall, scorched and blackening, in its path; Not man, but God, may stay the blow: Move on the columns!

W. D. GALLAGHER.

THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD.

[October, 1861.]

ALONG a river-side, I know not where,

I walked one night in mystery of dream;

A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair,
To think what chanced me by the pallid gleam
Of a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air.

Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mist
Their halos, wavering thistledowns of light;
The loon, that seemed to mock some goblin tryst,
Laughed; and the echoes, huddling in affright,
Like Odin's hounds, fled baying down the night.

Then all was silent, till there smote my ear
A movement in the stream that checked my breath:
Was it the slow plash of a wading deer?
But something said, "This water is of Death!
The Sisters wash a shroud—ill thing to hear!”

I, looking then, beheld the ancient Three

Known to the Greek's and to the Northman's creed, That sit in shadow of the mystic tree,

Still crooning, as they weave their endless brede, One song: "Time was, Time is, and Time shall

be.'

No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed,
But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow,

To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed;

Something too high for joy, too deep for sorrow, Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed.

"Still men and nations reap as they have strawn," So sang they, working at their task the while; "The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere dawn; For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's isle? O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn?

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