Tramp! tramp! o'er the greensward
That quivers below,
Scarce held by the curb-bit

The fierce horses go!

And the grim-visaged colonel,
With ear-rending shout,
Peals forth to the squadrons
The order: "Trot out!"

One hand on the sabre,

And one on the rein, The troopers move forward In line on the plain.

As rings the word "Gallop!"

The steel scabbards clank, And each rowel is pressed To a horse's hot flank: And swift is their rush

As the wild torrent's flow, When it pours from the crag On the valley below.

Charge!" thunders the leader :

Like shaft from the bow

Each mad horse is hurled
On the wavering foe.
A thousand bright sabres
Are gleaming in air:
A thousand dark horses

Are dashed on the square.
Resistless and reckless

Of aught may betide,
Like demons, not mortals,
The wild troopers ride.
Cut right! and cut left!-
For the parry who needs?
The bayonets shiver

Like wind-scattered reeds.

Vain-vain the red volley

That bursts from the square,—

The random-shot bullets

Are wasted in air. Triumphant, remorseless, Unerring as death,No sabre that 's stainless Returns to its sheath.

The wounds that are dealt
By that murderous steel
Will never yield case

For the surgeon to heal.
Hurrah! they are broken-
Hurrah! boys, they fly!
None linger save those
Who but linger to die.

Rein up your hot horses

And call in your men,—

The trumpet sounds " Rally
To colors!" again.
Some saddles are empty,

Some comrades are slain,

And some noble horses

Lie stark on the plain; But war 's a chance game, boys, And weeping is vain.

"C

ROLL-CALL.

BY N. G. SHEPHERD.

ORPORAL Green!" the Orderly cried;

"Here!" was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of the soldier who stood near,— And "Here!" was the word the next replied.

"Cyrus Drew!"-then a silence fell:

This time no answer followed the call; Only his rear-man had seen him fall: Killed or wounded-he could not tell.

There they stood in the failing light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn where the poppies grew
Were redder stains than the poppies knew:
And crimson-dyed was the river's flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side
That day, in the face of a murderous fire
That swept them down in its terrible ire,
And their life-blood went to color the tide.

"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line,

Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"Ezra Kerr !"—and a voice answered, "Here ! " "Hiram Kerr!"-but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two; the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near.

"Ephraim Deane !"-then a soldier spoke :
“Deane carried our regiment's colors,” he said;
"Where our ensign was shot I left him dead,
Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

"Close to the road-side his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him a drink; He murmured his mother's name, I think, And Death came with it, and closed his eyes."

'T was a victory; yes, but it cost us dear,—

For that company's roll, when called at night,
Of a hundred men who went into the fight,
Numbered but twenty that answered "Here!"
[Southern.]