IN LOUISIANA. And our dear old mother will never know That he died to-night by his brother's hand. 151 The soldiers who buried the dead away, Once a Week. IN LOUISIANA. BY J. W. DE FOREST, U. S. A. WITHOUT a hillock stretched the plain; One tangled cane-field lay before A sullen swamp along the right, Where alligators slept and crawled, Proclaimed our skirmishers at work; Our Parrotts felt the distant wood With humming, shrieking, growling shell ; When suddenly the mouth of hell Gaped fiercely for its human food. A long and low blue roll of smoke Then while the bullets whistled thick, And hidden batteries boomed and shelled, "Charge bayonets!" the colonel yelled; "Battalion forward, - double quick!" With even slopes of bayonets Advanced a dazzling, threatening crest The color-guard was at my side; The life-blood spouted from his mouth I had no malice in my mind; I only cried, "Close up. Guide right!" My single purpose in the fight Was steady march with ranks aligned. I glanced along the martial rows, And marked the soldiers' eyeballs burn; SONG OF NEW ENGLAND SPRING BIRDS. 153 Their eager faces, hot and stern, - The traitors saw; they reeled, they fled: Once more the march, the tiresome plain, With here and there plantations rolled And, rarer, half-deserted towns, With sidling gait and flouting gowns. THIBODEAUX, La., March, 1863. Harpers' Monthly. SONG OF NEW-ENGLAND SPRING BIRDS. WHEN Robin, Swallow, Thrush, and Wren, First rising from a sedgy brook, The Robin Red-breast sang his song; The Wren piped forth her tiny cry; "A little thing, I know, am I; But small, weak things, like you and me, Shall hear ME sing God speed the Right!" Then Jay, the bluebird, joined the throng, The sky o'erhead was clear and bright, THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVILLE. The rill went singing on its way, And leaves and flowers were bright and gay; The rock and wood and meadow rang, As loud and clear and sweet they sang, And every bird, it seemed to me, 155 Sang "Praise the Lord! We're free! we're free!" Commonwealth. THE WOOD OF CHANCELLORSVILLE. THE ripe red berries of the wintergreen Lure me to pause awhile In this deep, tangled wood. I stop and lean And rest me in this shade; for many a mile, Through lane and dusty street, I've walked with weary, weary feet, 'Mong ferns and mosses sweet. Here all around me blows The pale primrose. I wonder if the gentle blossom knows The feeling at my heart So whelming and so deep That it disdains relief, the solemn grief, And will not let me weep. I wonder that the woodbine thrives and grows, And is indifferent to the nation's woes. For while these mornings shine, these blossoms bloom, Impious rebellion wraps the land in gloom. Nature, thou art unkind, Unsympathizing, blind ! Yon lichen, clinging to th' o'erhanging rock, |