Ah! once I remember when fever wild

Burned down into heart and brain,

How he raved of home-how he laughed in glee
To meet with his loved again!

Then he whispered low of a fair-haired girl

She had promised to be his bride;

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And his smile was sweet as he murmured the name

Of the love of a "Rebel "--who died.

Then loudly he laughed in his fever wild
And a "Prisoner's Guard" from sleep,

Sprang up with a curse, and bade him "Be still !"
As I turned aside to weep-
(May God forgive him-He only can!)
While fancy still wandered wide,
He struck the boy with a savage blow,-
Poor "Rebel," that suffered,-and died!

But it matters not now. On a quiet eve
He asked me to "kiss him good-bye,"
And the spirit fled from the pallid clay
To its happier home on high.

Do you curl your lip in a quick disdain,
And scornfully turn aside?

Know this-no glory of earth I prize

Like the kiss of that friend-who died.

"One story of thousands,"-you well may say;

Aye! and type of the thousands more

Who, faint and weary in prisoner's cell,

Scorn, famine, and insult bore,

Though "Conquered !" be shouted above their tombs,

(I ask it with mournful pride-)

On Fame's bright page are there greater names
Than those of the "Rebels" who died?

LADIES' HOME.

McKendree.*

BY J. R. BARRICK.

My heart is sad-I weep for one, the bravest of the brave,

Whose battle fought whose victory won, now fills a hero's grave;

Nor I alone, but thousands more, whose hearts with grief will swell,

As they, the early loss deplore, of one they loved so

well;

Kentucky will with sorrow weep, for him her noble

son,

Who died, her olden faith to keep, that freedom might

be won:

Fond hearts will mourn his fate to hear-and silent tears be shed

When told the name of one so dear, is added to the dead.

Captain D. E. McKendree, who fell in the charge of Bate's Division, was among the first of Kentucky's sons to unsheathe the sword in defence of his native South. To his energy and zeal, more perhaps than to any other person living or dead, is the gallant Lewis indebted for his success in raising the 6th Kentucky regiment The fame of McKendree will live in the memory of the Kentucky Brigade as long as one of that noble band remains, to cherish their heroic deeds.

MC KENDREE.

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At Shiloh, through the battle-storm, his gallant band

he led,

While shot and shell assailed his form, and whizzed above his head;

There, by the deadly missile aimed, they bore him from the field,

As shouts of victory proclaimed, the foeman forced to

yield.

Then once again in Tennessee, the pride of his com

mand,

He fought as fight the brave, and fell, to gain his native land;

There, as around him thickly flew the storm of shot and shell,

Pierced by a missile, through and through, he faint and bleeding fell.

Brave soldier! I would fain thy name, a nobler tribute

pay,

And circle round thine earthly fame, the laurel and the

bay;

Thy lot to fill a stranger grave-thy home afar from

thee,

No truer heart than thine e'er gave its hopes to liberty. What balm the broken heart may heal-how dry the weeping eye,

Of loved ones that thy loss will feel, beneath thy native

sky;

Can tears of Mother's Sister's love, one pang of pain

allay,

A solace to one dearer prove-her sorrow chase away?

Friend of my manhood and my youth, the heart that knew thee best,

Alone might to thy virtue, truth-thy modest worth

attest;

A soul that justice, truth, gave birth--to right and honor wed,

Thy step seemed in the path of earth, by unseen angels

led:

Here 'neath the light of Georgian skies, thy grave will cherished be,

And stranger hearts with tearful eyes enshrine thy

memory;

And as the passing age recedes, the classic pen shall

tell

The story of heroic deeds, where brave McKENDREE fell!

The Bivouac of the Dead.

Written at the tomb of the Kentuckians who fell at Buena Vista, buried in the Cemetery at Frankfort.

BY COL. THEODORE O'HARA.*

THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat

The soldier's last tattoo!

No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few;
On Fame's eternal camping-ground

Their silent tents are spread,

This poem, apart from its intrinsic beauty, derives additional and melancholy interest from the recent death of its author. He served on the staff of Gens. Breckinridge and Bragg, in which his conduct was marked by the highest order of gallantry.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD.

And Glory guards with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind,

No troubled thought at midnight haunts,

Of loved ones left behind. No vision of to-morrow's strife

The warrior's dread alarms,

No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud-

And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow;

And the proud forms by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are past.
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,

Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce Northern hurricane

That sweeps the great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe.

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