FREDERICKSBURG. [December 13, 1862.] THE increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, Hark! the black squadrons wheeling down to THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. KILLED AT FREDERICKSBURG. FRED MASON came beside my fire, But turned with light, familiar warning: "Sleep, though your bed be cold and damp, And I will meet you in the morning." For fraught with doubt the day had passed, We slept upon the frozen hills That shook with Burnside's cannonading. While through the gloom our long black guns The word runs low from lip to lip: "At break of day we cross the river." The long night passed; ten thousand eyes To meet the dreamless sleep before them. From bluff to bluff the batteries growled, And all day long we faced their thunder,But others, in their time, shall tell The story of that bloody blunder. When Fredericksburg was won at last, His whitened features looking Nor'ward. His fingers in the trampled soil, Convulsed and blue, were tightly clinching; His dead eyes, staring to the sky, Yet stared defiant and unflinching. Dead eyes!-when last they flashed in mine, Our hearts were lighter than a feather: Well, God forgive me! but I wish We both had fallen there together. Enough for thee, one soldier mourns A friend misfortune never altered, A lip of cheer, a soul of fire, A head and hand that never faltered. In peace, below the blood-stained height, Above thy breast the quail shall glide, Round rocky isle and laurelled banks When last we listened to its plashing. CHAUNCEY HICKOX, CHRISTMAS NIGHT OF '62. [In the Army of Northern Virginia.] Dim forms go flitting through the gloom; My sabre swinging overhead Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, While fiercely drives the blinding snow, And memory leads me to the dead. My thoughts go wandering to and fro, Vibrating 'twixt the Now and Then ; I see the low-brow'd home agen, The old hall wreathed with mistletoe. And sweetly from the far-off years My eyes are wet with tender tears. I feel agen the mother-kiss, I see agen the glad surprise That lightened up the tranquil eyes And brimmed them o'er with tears of bliss, As, rushing from the old hall-door, My sabre swinging on the bough Gleams in the watch-fire's fitful glow, While fiercely drives the blinding snow Aslant upon my sadden'd brow. Those cherished faces all are gone! Where lies the snow in drifting waves,- There's not a comrade here to-night But there are none to wish me back, W. GORDON MACCABE. BOSTON HYMN. [Read at the Emancipation Meeting in Boston, January 1, 1863.] THE word of the Lord by night To the watching Pilgrims came, And filled their hearts with flame. God said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings Think ye I made this ball A field of havoc and war, My angel, his name is Freedom,— Lo! I uncover the land Which I hid of old time in the West, I show Columbia, of the rocks I will divide my goods; Call in the wretch and slave: And none but Toil shall have. |