The sad, slow stream, its noiseless flood
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles;
All silent now the Yankees stood,
All silent stood the Rebels.

No unresponsive soul had heard
That plaintive note's appealing,

So deeply "Home, Sweet Home" had stirred
The hidden founts of feeling.

Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees,
As by the wand of fairy,

The cottage 'neath the live oak trees,
The cabin by the prairie.

Or cold, or warm, his native skies
Bend in their beauty o'er him;
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes,
His loved ones stand before him.

As fades the iris after rain

In April's tearful weather,
The vision vanished as the strain
And daylight died together.

But Memory, waked by Music's art,
Expressed in simple numbers,
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart,
Made light the Rebel's slumbers.

And fair the form of Music shines-
That bright celestial creature—
Who still 'mid War's embattled lines
Gave this one touch of Nature.

JOHN R. THOMPSON.

"HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?"

[The U. S. Sanitary Commission was a benevolent organization, supported by contributions from the Northern States, which did most efficient work for the soldiers in field and hospital, sending its trained nurses and supplies of medicines and food wherever there was sickness or suffering.]

Down the picket-guarded lane

Rolled the comfort-laden wain,

Cheered by shouts that shook the plain,
Soldier-like and merry:

Phrases such as camps may teach,
Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech,

Such as "Bully!" "Them's the peach!"
“Wade in, Sanitary !”

Right and left the caissons drew
As the car went lumbering through,
Quick succeeding in review

Squadrons military;

Sunburnt men with beards like frieze,
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these:
'U. S. San. Com.' "That's the cheese !"
“Pass in, Sanitary !”

In such cheer it struggled on
Till the battle front was won ;
Then the car, its journey done,
Lo! was stationary;

And where bullets whistling fly
Came the sadder, fainter cry:

Help us, brothers, ere we die !—

Save us, Sanitary !"

Such the work. The phantom flies,
Wrapped in battle-clouds that rise;
But the brave-whose dying eyes,
Veiled and visionary,

See the jasper gates swung wide,
See the parted throng outside-
Hears the voice to those who ride :

66

"Pass in, Sanitary !"

BRET HARTE.

GETTYSBURG.

[July 1, 2, and 3, 1863.]

WAVE, wave your glorious battle-flags, brave soldiers of the North,

And from the field your arms have won to-day go proudly forth !

For now, O comrades dear and leal-from whom no ills could part,

Through the long years of hopes and fears, the nation's constant heart

Men who have driven so oft the foe, so oft have striven in vain,

Yet ever in the perilous hour have crossed his path again,

At last we have our heart's desire, from them we met have wrung

A victory that round the world shall long be told

and sung!

It was the memory of the past that bore us through the fray,

That gave the grand old Army strength to conquer on this day!

Oh, now forget how dark and red Virginia's rivers

flow,

The Rappahannock's tangled wilds, the glory and

the woe;

The fever-hung encampments, where our dying knew full sore

How sweet the north-wind to the cheek it soon shall cool no more;

The fields we fought, and gained, and lost; the lowland sun and rain

That wasted us, that bleached the bones of our unburied slain !

There was no lack of foes to meet, of deaths to die no lack,

And all the hawks of heaven learned to follow on our track;

But henceforth, hovering southward, their flight shall mark afar

The paths of yon retreating hosts that shun the northern star.

At night, before the closing fray, when all the front was still,

We lay in bivouac along the cannon-crested hill. Ours was the dauntless Second Corps; and many a soldier knew

How sped the fight, and sternly thought of what was yet to do.

Guarding the centre there, we lay, and talked with bated breath

Of Buford's stand beyond the town, of gallant Reynolds' death,

Of cruel retreats through pent-up streets by murderous valleys swept,—

How well the Stone, the Iron, brigades their bloody outposts kept:

'Twas for the Union, for the Flag, they perished, heroes all,

And we swore to conquer in the end, or even like them to fall.

And passed from mouth to mouth the tale of that grim day just done,

The fight by Round Top's craggy spur-of all the deadliest one;

It saved the left: but on the right they pressed us back too well,

And like a field in Spring the ground was ploughed

with shot and shell.

There was the ancient graveyard, its hummocks crushed and red,

And there, between them, side by side, the wounded and the dead:

The mangled corpses fallen above-the peaceful dead below,

Laid in their graves, to slumber here, a score of years ago;

It seemed their waking, wandering shades were asking of our slain,

What brought such hideous tumult now where they so still had lain!

Bright rose the sun of Gettysburg that morrow morning-tide,

And call of trump and roll of drum from height to height replied.

Hark! from the east already goes up the rattling din;

The Twelfth Corps, winning back their ground, right well the day begin!

They whirl fierce Ewell from their front! Now we of the Second pray,

As right and left the brunt have borne, the centre might to-day.

But all was still from hill to hill for many a breathless hour,

While for the coming battle-shock Lee gathered

in his power;

And back and forth our leaders rode, who knew not rest or fear,

And along the lines, where'er they came, went up

the ringing cheer.