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warnings of the wise,

      Contemned foreclosures of surprise?

      The banners play, the bugles call,

      The air is blue and prodigal.

      No berrying party, pleasure-wooed,

      No picnic party in the May,

      Ever went less loth than they

      Into that leafy neighborhood.

      In Bacchic glee they file toward Fate,

      Moloch's uninitiate;

      Expectancy, and glad surmise

      Of battle's unknown mysteries.

      All they feel is this: 'tis glory,

      A rapture sharp, though transitory,

      Yet lasting in belaureled story.

      So they gayly go to fight,

      Chatting left and laughing right.

      But some who this blithe mood present,

      As on in lightsome files they fare,

      Shall die experienced ere three days are spent—

      Perish, enlightened by the vollied glare;

      Or shame survive, and, like to adamant,

      The throe of Second Manassas share.

Lyon.

       Table of Contents

      Battle of Springfield, Missouri.

      (August, 1861.)

      Some hearts there are of deeper sort,

      Prophetic, sad,

      Which yet for cause are trebly clad;

      Known death they fly on:

      This wizard-heart and heart-of-oak had Lyon.

      "They are more than twenty thousand strong,

      We less than five,

      Too few with such a host to strive"

      "Such counsel, fie on!

      'Tis battle, or 'tis shame;" and firm stood Lyon.

      "For help at need in van we wait—

      Retreat or fight:

      Retreat the foe would take for flight,

      And each proud scion

      Feel more elate; the end must come," said Lyon.

      By candlelight he wrote the will,

      And left his all

      To Her for whom 'twas not enough to fall;

      Loud neighed Orion

      Without the tent; drums beat; we marched with Lyon.

      The night-tramp done, we spied the Vale

      With guard-fires lit;

      Day broke, but trooping clouds made gloom of it:

      "A field to die on"

      Presaged in his unfaltering heart, brave Lyon.

      We fought on the grass, we bled in the corn—

      Fate seemed malign;

      His horse the Leader led along the line—

      Star-browed Orion;

      Bitterly fearless, he rallied us there, brave Lyon.

      There came a sound like the slitting of air

      By a swift sharp sword—

      A rush of the sound; and the sleek chest broad

      Of black Orion

      Heaved, and was fixed; the dead mane waved toward Lyon.

      "General, you're hurt—this sleet of balls!"

      He seemed half spent;

      With moody and bloody brow, he lowly bent:

      "The field to die on;

      But not—not yet; the day is long," breathed Lyon.

      For a time becharmed there fell a lull

      In the heart of the fight;

      The tree-tops nod, the slain sleep light;

      Warm noon-winds sigh on,

      And thoughts which he never spake had Lyon.

      Texans and Indians trim for a charge:

      "Stand ready, men!

      Let them come close, right up, and then

      After the lead, the iron;

      Fire, and charge back!" So strength returned to Lyon.

      The Iowa men who held the van,

      Half drilled, were new

      To battle: "Some one lead us, then we'll do"

      Said Corporal Tryon:

      "Men! I will lead," and a light glared in Lyon.

      On they came: they yelped, and fired;

      His spirit sped;

      We leveled right in, and the half-breeds fled,

      Nor stayed the iron,

      Nor captured the crimson corse of Lyon.

      This seer foresaw his soldier-doom,

      Yet willed the fight.

      He never turned; his only flight

      Was up to Zion,

      Where prophets now and armies greet brave Lyon.

Ball's Bluff.

       Table of Contents

      A Reverie.

      (October, 1861.)

      One noonday, at my window in the town,

      I saw a sight—saddest that eyes can see—

      Young soldiers marching lustily

      Unto the wars,

      With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry;

      While all the porches, walks, and doors

      Were rich with ladies cheering royally.

      They moved like Juny morning on the wave,

      Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime

      (It was the breezy summer time),

      Life throbbed so strong,

      How should they dream that Death in a rosy clime

      Would come to thin their shining throng?

      Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.

      Weeks passed; and at my window, leaving bed,

      By night I mused, of easeful sleep bereft,

      On those brave boys (Ah War! thy theft);

      Some marching feet

      Found pause at last by cliffs Potomac cleft;

      Wakeful

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