And his brow with the memory grew dark with a frown
That paled the red light of the morning.
For days he had followed the cowardly band;

And, when one lagged to forage or trifle,
Had seared in his forehead the deep Minié brand,
And scored a fresh notch in his rifle.

But one of the rangers had cheated his fate-
For him he would search the world over :

Such cool-plotting passion, such keenness of hate,
Ne'er saw I in woman-scorned lover.

Oh, who would have thought that beneath those dark curls

Lurked vengeance as sure as death-rattle ;

Or fancied those dreamy eyes, soft as a girl's,
Could light with the fury of battle?

To horse! pealed the bugle, while grape-shot and shell
Overhead through the forest were crashing;

A cheer for the flag-and the summer light fell
On the blades from a thousand sheaths flashing.
As mad ocean-waves to the storm-revel flock,

So on we dashed, heedless of dangers;

A moment our long line surged back at the shock,
Then swept through the ranks of the Rangers.

I looked for the ensign. Ahead of his troop,
Pressing on through the conflict infernal,

His torn flag furled round him in festoon and loop,
He spurred to the side of his colonel.

And his clear voice rang out, as I saw his bright sword Through shako and gaudy plume shiver,

66

With, This for the last of the murderous horde!"

And, "This for the home by the river!"

At evening, returned from pursuit of the foe,
By a shell-shattered caisson we found him;
And we buried him there in the sunset's red glow,
With the dear old flag knotted around him.

Yet how could we mourn, when each drum's muffled strain

Told of foemen hurled back in disorder,

When we knew the North reaped her rich harvest of

[A Union officer who was with the Eleventh Corps in the battle of Gettysburg says: During the first day's fight, an old man, in a swallow-tailed coat and battered cylinder hat, came stalking across the fields from the town, and made his appearance at Colonel Stone's position. With a musket in his hand and ammunition in his pocket, this venerable citizen asked Colonel Wister's permission to fight. Wister directed him to go over to the Iron Brigade, where he would be sheltered by the woods; but the old man insisted on going forward to the skirmish line. He was allowed to do so, and continued firing until the skirmishers retired, when he was the last

man to leave. He afterwards fought with the Iron Brigade, where he was three times wounded. This patriotic and heroic citizen was Constable John Burns of Gettysburg."-AUTHOR'S NOTE.]

H

AVE you heard the story that gossips tell

Of Burns of Gettysburg? No? Ah, well:
Brief is the glory that hero earns,

Briefer the story of poor John Burns;
He was the fellow who won renown-
The only man who did n't back down

When the rebels rode through his native town;
But held his own in the fight next day,
When all his townsfolk ran away.

That was in July, sixty-three,—

The very day that General Lee,

Flower of Southern chivalry,

Baffled and beaten, backward reeled

From a stubborn Meade and a barren field.

I might tell how, but the day before,
John Burns stood at his cottage-door,
Looking down the village street,

Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine,
He heard the low of his gathered kine,
And felt their breath with incense sweet;

Or, I might say, when the sunset burned
The old farm gable, he thought it turned
The milk that fell like a babbling flood
Into the milk-pail, red as blood;
Or, how he fancied the hum of bees
Were bullets buzzing among the trees.
But all such fanciful thoughts as these
Were strange to a practical man like Burns,
Who minded only his own concerns,

Troubled no more by fancies fine

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact,

Slow to argue, but quick to act.

That was the reason, as some folk say,
He fought so well on that terrible day.

And it was terrible. On the right
Raged for hours the heady fight,
Thundered the battery's double bass-
Difficult music for men to face;

While on the left-where now the graves
Undulate like the living waves
That all the day unceasing swept
Up to the pits the rebels kept—
Round-shot ploughed the upland glades,
Sown with bullets, reaped with blades;
Shattered fences here and there,

Tossed their splinters in the air;