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, Up rose serene the August sun Up curled from musket and from gun It gathered like a funeral pall, Now broken, and now blended, Four thousand men, as brave and true 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, Their leader's troubled soul looked forth Sad soul! the burden of the North And felt the shadows close like night "General, come lead us!" loud the cry And on his forehead glowing. Oh! cursed for aye that traitor's hand, Serene he lay, while past him pressed So Lyon died; and well may flowers For never had this land of ours Living, his country was his bride; Rest, patriot, in thy hillside grave, ANONYMOUS, MOVE ON THE COLUMNS! [Autumn, 1861.] MOVE on the columns! Why delay? 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 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 That clears the chasm; the lightning stroke The earthquake rocks the eternal steep. Move on the columns! Why have sprung Closing the harvest-hymn half sung— Move on the columns! They are here To save from treason and from death A nation which they all revere; Was thwarted, when, as now, sincere. Move on the columns! Earth contains Nor man nor fiend can tell the hour Move on the columns-strong and bright! That clutch and wield the battle-brands 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, Pale fireflies pulsed within the meadow-mist Then all was silent, till there smote my ear 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, 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? |