For he looked so like you as he lay on his back, "Ha! Rifleman, fling me the locket!—'t is she, decree; We must bury him here, by the light of the moon! "But, hark! the far bugles their warnings unite; War is a virtue-weakness a sin; There's lurking and loping around us to-night; Load again, Rifleman, keep your hand in!” CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. D "HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?" OWN the picket-guarded lane 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 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!" When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground, He rode down the length of the withering column, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound; He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of our powder,His sword waved us on and we answered the sign: Lond our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder, "There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line!" How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten In the one hand still left, and the reins in his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,-through the clearing or pine? "O, anywhere! Forward! "T is all the same, Colonel: You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line!" O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried! Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's. pride! Yet we dream that he still,-in that shadowy region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drum mer's sign, Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, P from the South at break of day And wider still those billows of war. But there is a road from Winchester town, And there through the flush of the morning lig', Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, Under his spurning feet, the road And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, The first that the General saw were the groups And striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, |