Page images
[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small]



IGHTEEN hundred and sixty-two,

That is the number of wounded men
Who, if the telegraph's tale be true,

Reached Washington City but yestere’en.
And it is but a handful, the telegrams add,

To those who are coming by boats and by cars,
Weary and wounded, dying and sad;
Covered—but only in front—with scars.

Some are wounded by Minie shot,

Others are torn by the hissing shell,
As it burst upon them as fierce and as hot

As a demon spawned in a traitor's hell.

Some are pierced by the sharp bayonet,

Others are crushed by the horses' hoof, Or fell 'neath the shower of iron which met

Them as hail beats down on an open roof.

Shall I tell what they did to meet this fate?

Why was this living death their doom? Why did they fall to this piteous state

Neath the rifle's crack and the cannon's boom?

Orders arrived, and the river they crossed ;

Built the bridge in the enemy's face ; No matter how many were shot and lost,

And floated-sad corpses—away from the place.

Orders they heard, and they scaled the height,

Climbing right "into the jaws of death”; Each man grasping his rifle-piece tight,

Scarcely pausing to draw his breath.

Sudden flashed on them a sheet of flame

From hidden fence and from ambuscade ; A moment more- -(they say this is fame)

A thousand dead men on the grass were laid,



Fifteen thousand in wounded and killed,
At least, is “

our loss,” the newspapers say. This loss to our army must surely be filled

Against another great battle day.

“Our loss ! Whose loss? Let demagogues say

That the Cabinet, President, all are in wrong : What do the orphans and widows pray

? What is the burden of their sad song?

'T is their loss! but the tears in their weeping eyes

Hide Cabinet, President, Generals, -all; And they only can see a cold form that lies

On the hill-side slope, by that fatal wall.

[ocr errors]

They cannot discriminate men or means,

They only demand that this blundering cease. In their frenzied grief they would end such scenes,

Though that end be—even with traitors—peace.

Is thy face from thy people turned, O God ?

Is thy arm for the nation no longer strong ? We cry from our homes—the dead cry from the sod

How long, oh, our righteous God! how long?




[Certain politicians proposed, as a means of ending the war, that a new confederacy or union should be formed, from which the New England States should be excluded because of their implacable hostility to slavery and their consequent obnoxiousness to the South. There were many spirited replies to this proposal, the best of which is this poem.-EDITOR.]

“Who deserves greatness

Deserves your hate
Yon common cry of curs, whose breath I loathe
As reek o' the rotten fens."

“Hark! hark ! the dogs do bark,"

Nursery Rhymes


ONS of New England in the fray,

Do you hear the clamor behind your back?
Do you hear the yelping of Blanche and Tray ?

Sweetheart, and all the mongrel pack ?
Girded well with her ocean crags,
Little our mother heeds their noise ;

Treason's Last Device


Her eyes are fixed on crimson flags :

But you-do you hear it, Yankee boys?

Do you hear them say that the patriot fire

Burns on her altars too pure and bright, To the darkened heavens leaping higher,

Though drenched with the blood of every fight? That in the light of its searching flame

Treason and tyrants stand revealed, And the yielding craven is put to shame

On Capitol floor or foughten field ?

Do you hear the hissing voice which saith

That she--who bore through all the land The lyre of Freedom, the torch of Faith,

And young Invention's mystic wandShould gather her skirts and dwell apart,

With not one of her sisters to share her fate,– A Hagar, wandering sick at heart ?

A pariah bearing the nation's hate ?

Sons, who have peopled the gorgeous West,

And planted the Pilgrim arm anew, Where by a richer soil caressed,

It grows as ever its parent grew,Say, do you hear—while the very

bells Of your churches ring with her ancient voice, And the song of your children sweetly tells

How true was the land of your fathers' choice

« EelmineJätka »