To the stroke of that giant wedge!)

Here, after all, we go ·

Heading square at the hulk,

Full on his beam we bore; But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog Lay on the tide like a log,

He vomited flame no more.

Half the fleet, in an angry ring, Closed round the hideous Thing, Hammering with solid shot,

He has but a minute to choose; Life or renown? which now

Will the Rebel Admiral lose?

Cruel, haughty, and cold,

He ever was strong and bold

Shall he shrink from a wooden stem ?

Can he strike? By heaven, 't is true!

Down comes the traitor Blue,

And up goes the captive White !

Up went the White! Ah then
The hurrahs that, once and agen,
Rang from three thousand men

All flushed and savage with fight!

Our dead lay cold and stark,

But our dying, down in the dark,
Answered as best they might -
Lifting their poor lost arms,

And cheering for God and Right!
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

Oct. 19, 1864.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

General Early surprised and routed the Union troops during General Sheridan's absence in Washington. Sheridan hastened to the front, rallied his men, and won a complete victory.

P from the South at break of day,

Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,

The affrighted air with a shudder bore,

Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town,

A good, broad highway leading down;

And there, through the flush of the morning light,

A steed as black as the steeds of night,

Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,

As if he knew the terrible need;

He stretched away with his utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth;

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,